Damien
i'm trying to run from our pride
He let her take the lantern. The moment their fingers parted, the weight of it shifted—not just the glass and wood, but everything tied into it, the years of setting these things alight with no one beside him, the ritual of grief turned habit. He’d never let anyone touch that. Not Rane. Not friends. Not even in thought.
But Theea wasn’t anyone. She was the girl who had trailed after him once, bright and eager when he was still young enough to think he could outpace her. Years had gone by, but somehow she’d slipped back into his path, older now, tempered by gods and yearning for more from life. She was the only one who kept reaching for him, again and again, like she didn’t care how rough he’d been worn by the years. Maybe she didn’t even notice the calloused parts. Or maybe she did and held on anyway.
So he let her. Because it mattered that it was her. If she weren’t here, he’d have hung it himself. But she was, and some quiet, stubborn part of him wanted her hands apart of it—wanted her to set the light for his parents, so they could see him standing here with someone who mattered.
When she rose on her toes to hook it, his eyes followed the line of her small frame, restless and certain all at once, hair slipping loose into the lantern-glow. And for a heartbeat, he let himself think that if his parents were watching from Mort’s halls, they’d see her too.
He took the cider when she offered it, their hands brushing again. Always finding excuses, this girl. She didn’t even realize it. Or maybe she did. The drink was warmer than he expected, sharper too, heat blooming down his throat and settling in his chest. He handed it back with the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. “Not bad..”
When she led him to the table, he followed, Aria nearly tripping him as she tried to walk between his boots. The crowd thinned into something quieter in the periphery. He watched Theea lean back against the wood, both hands around the mug like it was the only thing keeping her tethered, cheeks flushed with cider and lanternlight. Her eyes caught his, bright as winter water, and he thought again about how easily she softened the air between them.
Then she was talking about the Guildhall, about Deimos arming her with steel, her mouth curling in that smirk that always asked for trouble. “Definitely kick your ass,” she said, teasing, baiting, alive. He huffed a low laugh, shaking his head.
“Haven’t been to the armory yet,” he admitted, voice low, rough around the edges but steady. “Been building. Fixing roofs, hauling lumber, patching walls. I’ve spent more time with a hammer than a blade lately.” His hand flexed unconsciously at his side, palm remembering the weight of tools.
Damien bent to scoop up Aria, his hand braced beneath her ribs as he lifted her without effort and set her on the empty barrel at his side. “Stay,” he murmured, though it came out more like habit than command. She blinked at him, bright-eyed, tail flicking once before she began to paw at the rim of the barrel as if testing its edge, clearly already scheming about how to make herself the center of attention again.
He left her to it, pouring a measure of cider into a cup for himself. The scent bit sharp in the nose; this wasn’t the weak stuff. He drank anyway, steady as if it were nothing more than water. The warmth spread fast, sinking into him, taking the edge off the night without dulling it.
“Tomorrow I’ll go and pick something,” he said at last, turning the thought over even as it left his mouth. He leaned a shoulder against the edge of the table beside her, close but not pressing. His hand brushed hers for the barest instant where they both rested against the wood. Not much—just the softest contact, a quiet answer to every time she’d reached for him tonight. His eyes slid to hers, the faintest trace of challenge there, tempered with something warmer. “Then you can try that blade on me. Unless you’re too chicken.” He lifted his cup again, the rim hiding the smirk tugging at his mouth.
But Theea wasn’t anyone. She was the girl who had trailed after him once, bright and eager when he was still young enough to think he could outpace her. Years had gone by, but somehow she’d slipped back into his path, older now, tempered by gods and yearning for more from life. She was the only one who kept reaching for him, again and again, like she didn’t care how rough he’d been worn by the years. Maybe she didn’t even notice the calloused parts. Or maybe she did and held on anyway.
So he let her. Because it mattered that it was her. If she weren’t here, he’d have hung it himself. But she was, and some quiet, stubborn part of him wanted her hands apart of it—wanted her to set the light for his parents, so they could see him standing here with someone who mattered.
When she rose on her toes to hook it, his eyes followed the line of her small frame, restless and certain all at once, hair slipping loose into the lantern-glow. And for a heartbeat, he let himself think that if his parents were watching from Mort’s halls, they’d see her too.
He took the cider when she offered it, their hands brushing again. Always finding excuses, this girl. She didn’t even realize it. Or maybe she did. The drink was warmer than he expected, sharper too, heat blooming down his throat and settling in his chest. He handed it back with the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. “Not bad..”
When she led him to the table, he followed, Aria nearly tripping him as she tried to walk between his boots. The crowd thinned into something quieter in the periphery. He watched Theea lean back against the wood, both hands around the mug like it was the only thing keeping her tethered, cheeks flushed with cider and lanternlight. Her eyes caught his, bright as winter water, and he thought again about how easily she softened the air between them.
Then she was talking about the Guildhall, about Deimos arming her with steel, her mouth curling in that smirk that always asked for trouble. “Definitely kick your ass,” she said, teasing, baiting, alive. He huffed a low laugh, shaking his head.
“Haven’t been to the armory yet,” he admitted, voice low, rough around the edges but steady. “Been building. Fixing roofs, hauling lumber, patching walls. I’ve spent more time with a hammer than a blade lately.” His hand flexed unconsciously at his side, palm remembering the weight of tools.
Damien bent to scoop up Aria, his hand braced beneath her ribs as he lifted her without effort and set her on the empty barrel at his side. “Stay,” he murmured, though it came out more like habit than command. She blinked at him, bright-eyed, tail flicking once before she began to paw at the rim of the barrel as if testing its edge, clearly already scheming about how to make herself the center of attention again.
He left her to it, pouring a measure of cider into a cup for himself. The scent bit sharp in the nose; this wasn’t the weak stuff. He drank anyway, steady as if it were nothing more than water. The warmth spread fast, sinking into him, taking the edge off the night without dulling it.
“Tomorrow I’ll go and pick something,” he said at last, turning the thought over even as it left his mouth. He leaned a shoulder against the edge of the table beside her, close but not pressing. His hand brushed hers for the barest instant where they both rested against the wood. Not much—just the softest contact, a quiet answer to every time she’d reached for him tonight. His eyes slid to hers, the faintest trace of challenge there, tempered with something warmer. “Then you can try that blade on me. Unless you’re too chicken.” He lifted his cup again, the rim hiding the smirk tugging at his mouth.
'til you set fire to my atmosphere
