Damien
you are the storm before the calm
and the ache after the silence
and the ache after the silence
Damien climbed the way a man did who’d done it too many times to count: slow, steady, every grip tested before he gave it his weight. The rope went up with him, hook clamped in his teeth until he found a seam of stone and drove it home. The clang rang thin and sharp in the frozen dark, then dulled as he hammered it in deeper with the heel of his hand. He tested the line with his weight once, twice. It held. Halo didn’t forgive mistakes, and he wasn’t about to gamble hers on half measures.
He crouched at the ridge, braced, rope wound his fist. “Your turn!” he whisper-yelled down, just loud enough to reach her. She started climbing. He tracked her progress the way he’d track a stag’s path through snow—eyes sharp, body taut, not missing a single move.
Then it happened. The scrape of her boot on a bad hold, snow peeling loose, the thin gasp that carried his name. For a heartbeat his insides dropped clean out of him.
But his expression didn’t falter. He moved. Rope wrapped tight in one hand, he threw himself flat, chest hard against the rim of the ledge, arm shooting down. His palm found hers, smaller, shaking, but strong in the clutch. He didn’t bother with words. Just locked on and hauled.
Muscle and grit did the rest. He rose from his crouch into a stand, dragging her up hand over hand until the weight shifted and she was over. Then, he pulled her flush against him, the both of them stumbling back a step before he planted his feet.
He held there, chest heaving once, twice. Steady as stone. The faintest line of light was splitting the horizon now, a ghost of dawn painting silver across the peaks. Not much, but enough to scrape the edge off the black. He kept her close until he felt her breathing start to match his, until the tremor in her arms dulled down. Only then did he ease his grip, though he didn’t push her away.
“You’re alright,” he rumbled, voice low, rough from the cold and the effort.
And still he kept his hand on her back, steady as an anchor against the endless dark of the drop behind her.
He crouched at the ridge, braced, rope wound his fist. “Your turn!” he whisper-yelled down, just loud enough to reach her. She started climbing. He tracked her progress the way he’d track a stag’s path through snow—eyes sharp, body taut, not missing a single move.
Then it happened. The scrape of her boot on a bad hold, snow peeling loose, the thin gasp that carried his name. For a heartbeat his insides dropped clean out of him.
But his expression didn’t falter. He moved. Rope wrapped tight in one hand, he threw himself flat, chest hard against the rim of the ledge, arm shooting down. His palm found hers, smaller, shaking, but strong in the clutch. He didn’t bother with words. Just locked on and hauled.
Muscle and grit did the rest. He rose from his crouch into a stand, dragging her up hand over hand until the weight shifted and she was over. Then, he pulled her flush against him, the both of them stumbling back a step before he planted his feet.
He held there, chest heaving once, twice. Steady as stone. The faintest line of light was splitting the horizon now, a ghost of dawn painting silver across the peaks. Not much, but enough to scrape the edge off the black. He kept her close until he felt her breathing start to match his, until the tremor in her arms dulled down. Only then did he ease his grip, though he didn’t push her away.
“You’re alright,” he rumbled, voice low, rough from the cold and the effort.
And still he kept his hand on her back, steady as an anchor against the endless dark of the drop behind her.
