Theea
cause every night i lie in bed
the brightest colors fill my head
the brightest colors fill my head
The curve of his smile sends a thrill through me. It isn’t only the little victory of coaxing it out of him (though it definitely is); it’s the steady warmth of a fire flickering to life. And when I think of his laugh when we sparred, that felt like a blaze—brief and bright and impossible to look away from.
He flicks those quiet ember-dark eyes down to his lantern, the glow finding them before anything else. Lanternlight along the path catches faint on his mouth, a pale edge of gold, before he looks up again. I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted it to be private. I don’t know if anyone has ever hung it with him—if Rane ever had quiet, tender moments with the orphan he raised.
It’s strange to think of strong, steadfast Damien as an orphan, and the thought hits hard, sudden and clean. Loneliness has a shape, and I feel the outline of it when I remember what he's had to shoulder.
He speaks softly—rough in that way he gets—and accepts my offer. If the drink wasn’t already warming me, his trust does. It’s something deeply personal, especially for someone as guarded as Damien, and it lands in me like heat that lingers.
As we walk, the party narrows around us into something hushed and intimate, even with a gaggle of children racing past in painted masks. I smile after them. I wonder if Damien ever got to play like that. I rarely did, but sometimes. Melita’s words drift back to me, and I think maybe there are childish games in his future whether he plans for them or not.
At his nod to my drink, my brows rise. I lift it gently toward him and say, "Try it," with a lopsided smile. "Stronger than it tastes, I think, but it’s warm."
Then he holds out the lantern as I hold out the drink, and I realize he means for me to hang it. I glance from it to him, light glimmering in my eyes with something I can’t quite name. Gratitude for his trust, maybe—something I don’t think he gives easily.
I take the lantern from him; our fingers graze and linger a heartbeat before he lets me have it. The weight is both feather-light and immensely heavy at once. I smile softly at the glass—pine trees, snowflakes—and hope his parents are watching from Mort’s halls, hearing every time their son honors them without a word. I rise onto the balls of my feet to reach the line. It takes only a moment to hook it and settle back onto my heels, but my hand lingers at the lantern’s base, a quiet touch and a smaller smile.
I look back to Damien, taking my drink back if he had taken it from me, and tip my head toward one of the drink tables at the edge of the festivities. I lead. There, I sweep a hand toward the metal barrel set over a low flame and the empty mugs. Pretending I’m not as much a lightweight as my mom, I finish off the drink and pour another, leaning back against the table with both hands cupped around the warmth.
I choose not to bring up my reunited family—another night for that. I take a generous drink, feel heat bloom in my chest and across my cheeks. "Deimos gave me a shortsword when I went to the Guildhall," I start instead. "Told him I’d definitely kick your ass with it." My smile curls into a smirk, eyes tipping up to him in playful challenge. "Have you picked a weapon from the armory yet?"
He flicks those quiet ember-dark eyes down to his lantern, the glow finding them before anything else. Lanternlight along the path catches faint on his mouth, a pale edge of gold, before he looks up again. I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted it to be private. I don’t know if anyone has ever hung it with him—if Rane ever had quiet, tender moments with the orphan he raised.
It’s strange to think of strong, steadfast Damien as an orphan, and the thought hits hard, sudden and clean. Loneliness has a shape, and I feel the outline of it when I remember what he's had to shoulder.
He speaks softly—rough in that way he gets—and accepts my offer. If the drink wasn’t already warming me, his trust does. It’s something deeply personal, especially for someone as guarded as Damien, and it lands in me like heat that lingers.
As we walk, the party narrows around us into something hushed and intimate, even with a gaggle of children racing past in painted masks. I smile after them. I wonder if Damien ever got to play like that. I rarely did, but sometimes. Melita’s words drift back to me, and I think maybe there are childish games in his future whether he plans for them or not.
At his nod to my drink, my brows rise. I lift it gently toward him and say, "Try it," with a lopsided smile. "Stronger than it tastes, I think, but it’s warm."
Then he holds out the lantern as I hold out the drink, and I realize he means for me to hang it. I glance from it to him, light glimmering in my eyes with something I can’t quite name. Gratitude for his trust, maybe—something I don’t think he gives easily.
I take the lantern from him; our fingers graze and linger a heartbeat before he lets me have it. The weight is both feather-light and immensely heavy at once. I smile softly at the glass—pine trees, snowflakes—and hope his parents are watching from Mort’s halls, hearing every time their son honors them without a word. I rise onto the balls of my feet to reach the line. It takes only a moment to hook it and settle back onto my heels, but my hand lingers at the lantern’s base, a quiet touch and a smaller smile.
I look back to Damien, taking my drink back if he had taken it from me, and tip my head toward one of the drink tables at the edge of the festivities. I lead. There, I sweep a hand toward the metal barrel set over a low flame and the empty mugs. Pretending I’m not as much a lightweight as my mom, I finish off the drink and pour another, leaning back against the table with both hands cupped around the warmth.
I choose not to bring up my reunited family—another night for that. I take a generous drink, feel heat bloom in my chest and across my cheeks. "Deimos gave me a shortsword when I went to the Guildhall," I start instead. "Told him I’d definitely kick your ass with it." My smile curls into a smirk, eyes tipping up to him in playful challenge. "Have you picked a weapon from the armory yet?"
a million dreams are keeping me awake
