Damien
my fire is starved of oxygen
a flicker in the howling wind
a flicker in the howling wind
Damien’s eyes didn’t leave Frey’s form, even as the aurora-light shimmered across skin that seemed almost unreal in its calm, unyielding presence. The world felt both too large and too small all at once: the wind in the streets, the pelt rising, the cub cradled in those impossible hands. It was awe, yes—but tempered. He had no place for overt awe. He had a cub to care for, a bond to earn, and the lessons of survival etched deep in him.
He drew in a measured breath, his gaze sweeping back to Aria before settling again on Frey. “I understand,” he said finally, low and steady, “That is the way it should be."
He moved forward with deliberate slowness, careful not to jostle the cub. His hands rose to take Aria, careful, certain—his weight and strength measured. The warmth of her tiny body pressed against him, and he felt a flicker of the responsibility, the promise, settle deep in his chest.
“I’ll see it done,” he added, voice even, almost a murmur, but carrying the weight of what he meant. “Every step. Every night. Every moment she needs me. I’ll earn this bond.”
He didn’t reach for thanks. He didn’t seek approval. What he felt was a quiet recognition of what the path required and what he had already begun to understand about the world: that some things—life, trust, protection—were not granted, not borrowed, not taken. They were carried, moment by moment, until they became part of you.
Aria stirred against him, blinking up with those bright, unguarded eyes. He allowed a small exhale, not relief, not pride, just acknowledgment. He’d begun. And that was enough.
He glanced at Theea briefly, meeting her gaze with the faintest nod.
Then he looked back at Frey, voice steady, carrying the weight of both promise and respect: “I’ll not waste what’s been offered. I’ll see it through.”
And without more, he adjusted the blanket, cradled Aria more firmly, and stepped back a pace, giving space as he always did: respect in motion, patience in posture, readiness in stillness. The work was ahead, not behind. That was the only truth he needed to hold onto.
He drew in a measured breath, his gaze sweeping back to Aria before settling again on Frey. “I understand,” he said finally, low and steady, “That is the way it should be."
He moved forward with deliberate slowness, careful not to jostle the cub. His hands rose to take Aria, careful, certain—his weight and strength measured. The warmth of her tiny body pressed against him, and he felt a flicker of the responsibility, the promise, settle deep in his chest.
“I’ll see it done,” he added, voice even, almost a murmur, but carrying the weight of what he meant. “Every step. Every night. Every moment she needs me. I’ll earn this bond.”
He didn’t reach for thanks. He didn’t seek approval. What he felt was a quiet recognition of what the path required and what he had already begun to understand about the world: that some things—life, trust, protection—were not granted, not borrowed, not taken. They were carried, moment by moment, until they became part of you.
Aria stirred against him, blinking up with those bright, unguarded eyes. He allowed a small exhale, not relief, not pride, just acknowledgment. He’d begun. And that was enough.
He glanced at Theea briefly, meeting her gaze with the faintest nod.
Then he looked back at Frey, voice steady, carrying the weight of both promise and respect: “I’ll not waste what’s been offered. I’ll see it through.”
And without more, he adjusted the blanket, cradled Aria more firmly, and stepped back a pace, giving space as he always did: respect in motion, patience in posture, readiness in stillness. The work was ahead, not behind. That was the only truth he needed to hold onto.
beware the night is closing in
and if i fall asleep, the shadows win
and if i fall asleep, the shadows win
