Damien
you are the storm before the calm
and the ache after the silence
and the ache after the silence
Damien adjusted his stance, bending low to get a better angle on the crumbling foundation beneath the nearest window. Without magic, his progress was measured, slower, but no less precise. Each chipped-away fragment of rotten mortar had to be replaced with care; the new packing needed to fill every crevice, to press tight against the cold stone so that melting snow wouldn’t find a foothold next thaw. He scooped a mixture of sand, powdered stone, and water from a small satchel, pressing it into the gaps with the flat of his chisel, smoothing edges with careful taps of the hammer. It was tedious work, but it required a kind of patience that came naturally to him—a tactile meditation as the minutes crawled along.
Aria, perched high on Deimos’ shoulders, let out a low, amused trill as Belial hovered above, wings fluttering in his dramatic imitation of Zuriel. The cub’s tail lashed back and forth, eyes narrowing into playful slits. Without breaking her balance, she batted gently at the air and cub-growled indignantly. Seeming satisfied, she settled deeper against Deimos’ neck, letting out a soft purr that resonated against the Warden’s shoulder, clearly enjoying the view—and the power of her tiny supremacy.
Damien caught a brief smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, watching the interaction over his work. His hands returned to the seams of stone, tapping, packing, and pressing, every motion deliberate. He could never match the sweep of Deimos’ magic, but the foundation—these fine, exacting details—needed a patient hand.
Every completed stretch of wall beneath the window felt like a small victory, a patch of stubborn stone persuaded to hold, a crack refused passage to the frost. Occasionally his gaze flicked up, checking that Aria remained safe and that Belial wasn’t too bold; the cub, for her part, had claimed her perch as a throne, quiet but watchful, the soft blue of her eyes scanning the court of companions.
Aria, perched high on Deimos’ shoulders, let out a low, amused trill as Belial hovered above, wings fluttering in his dramatic imitation of Zuriel. The cub’s tail lashed back and forth, eyes narrowing into playful slits. Without breaking her balance, she batted gently at the air and cub-growled indignantly. Seeming satisfied, she settled deeper against Deimos’ neck, letting out a soft purr that resonated against the Warden’s shoulder, clearly enjoying the view—and the power of her tiny supremacy.
Damien caught a brief smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, watching the interaction over his work. His hands returned to the seams of stone, tapping, packing, and pressing, every motion deliberate. He could never match the sweep of Deimos’ magic, but the foundation—these fine, exacting details—needed a patient hand.
Every completed stretch of wall beneath the window felt like a small victory, a patch of stubborn stone persuaded to hold, a crack refused passage to the frost. Occasionally his gaze flicked up, checking that Aria remained safe and that Belial wasn’t too bold; the cub, for her part, had claimed her perch as a throne, quiet but watchful, the soft blue of her eyes scanning the court of companions.
