at the edge of the green

DAMIEN

I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak

The Greenwing’s chill cuts through thick layers, but the work doesn’t pause. Damien stands near a half-felled pine, muscles straining as he signals the crew to shift their weight and brace for the final cut. The tree groans, ancient and heavy; a slow, angry sound that fills the clearing as it begins to lean, creaking and complaining against the frozen earth like it’s trying to resist death.

Around him, axes flash and saws rasp, slicing through wood and frost. Boots crunch on brittle underbrush and shattered bark, the sound sharp and dry. Smoke curls from stout tents that ring the clearcut’s edge, thick hides and canvas pulled tight against the wind. Inside, fires burn low, flickering warmth through small shuttered windows—but most faces aren’t near the flames. Damien’s got nearly all hands pressed into the work, moving with grim focus under his watchful eye.

His voice cuts through the racket. “Steady! Hold your positions. Watch your footing.” He doesn’t break his stare from the falling tree, watching the angles, the slow surrender.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, something moves on the path leading in. His jaw clamps shut, tightening. He wipes the sweat and dirt from his brow with a grimy hand, narrowing his gaze. The envoy, then. The unknown. Not a surprise. This part of the job always carries a wild card. He’s not eager to pause his work for introductions or social rituals. When the tree slams down with a heavy crash that shakes the clearing, Damien finally turns. The axe hangs from his belt, he claps the sawdust from his rough hands, and readies himself to meet whoever Torchline has sent to inspect the lumber.

His gaze sharpens, eyes narrowing just a touch as he takes in the figure before him; an unspoken measure, quick and quiet, weighing purpose and presence.

“Torchline, right? Made it through the cold all right, I hope. No time to waste,” he says, voice flat but efficient, “Come on, I’ll show you the timber.”

And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

The rhythm of hooves on frosted undergrowth announces her before her voice does, the mare’s breath misting into the pine-tinged air like a warning—or a greeting, depending on who’s asking. Flora sits tall in the saddle, her curls twisted into a thick braid over one shoulder and wrapped with a gold-threaded ribbon that glints like sunlight where there is none. A deep green cloak flares around her knees, lined with fur and pinned at her collarbone with a carved shell brooch. Beside her, Spice glides easily through the biting air, white wings catching every stray glimmer of leaf-filtered light, trailing little coils of cool where the wind bites too deep.

The scent of sawdust and sweat hits before the voice does. When it does come, her brows lift, lips parting around a slow smile that’s warmer than the air could dream of being. "Didn’t get this tan around here," she calls back, her voice smooth as poured honey with just enough drawl to make it impossible to tell if she’s teasing or not.

With a practiced swing, she dismounts, boots crunching down into frozen moss and pine needles. Her gaze flicks over the clearing—the felled pine, the half-severed trunk, the sharp-toothed axes and thick-armed men—and then settles on Damien, framed in sawdust and the sort of hush that always follows a fallen giant such that he appears cut from a different forest entirely. "I'm Flora," she offers, excluding her title. Either he knew who she was or he didn't, and if he didn't, all the better to see what his level of care was when dealing with just a random from the coast.

The Doubletake falls into step behind him, tugging her gloves a little tighter against the chill and tilting her head toward the stacked timber ahead. "Sooo, is this the part where I get splinters and pretend I know more than like, three facts at most about wood in the hopes you don't completely take advantage?"

DAMIEN

I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak

Her voice carries easily, smooth and warm against the bite of the air.

Damien quickly realizes this isn’t going to be one of those handshake-and-get-it-done jobs between two woodsmen. Whoever she is clearly operates on a different level. Which is fine, he tells himself. He’d like a better idea of what this job’s actually for anyway. So far all he’s been told is cut timber and plenty of it, and he’s been running men ragged to keep the work moving. The woman stands a little straighter than most, the kind of person who belongs anywhere she chooses to stand.

On another day, when he wasn’t two days behind and short three good workers, he might’ve connected the name Flora to the Flora. Queen of Torchline. But his brain isn’t firing on all cylinders and this woman feels a world away from the usual logging contracts he takes. The ribbon glinting through her braid, the fine green cloak pinned at her collar, the pint-sized dragon flying alongside her - none of it matches the slapdash urgency of his lumber crew.

“Flora,” he says, voice even, as if repeating the name will file it somewhere useful in his brain, “I’m Damien Ulfsen, foreman—sometimes. Felix’ll see to your horse.”

He flicks a hand toward the boy lingering nearby. Felix can’t be older than eighteen and is staring at Flora with wide-eyed fascination, but he stumbles into motion quickly enough to take the reins. Damien doesn’t bother with whatever’s gotten into him; he’s already nodding toward the largest tent at the edge of the clearcut.

The storage tent is built broad and tall because it has to be. Rows of treated timber fill most of its length, along with stacks of tools and bundled tarps. A few long tables run the center: most littered with wood samples, measuring calipers, and half-drawn plans, but one or two are clear enough to serve as dining space when the crew’s off shift. It’s not impressive, but it’s a lot warmer than the cutting fields thanks to the wood-burning stove.

He starts toward the tent, trusting she’ll follow. Halfway there, Flora makes her comment about splinters and wood. Damien glances back over his shoulder, a spark of humor flickering in his eyes and tugging at one corner of his mouth.

When they reach the tent, he pulls the door flap aside and holds it open for her. “Let’s see if I can't teach you a fourth,” he says, the joke dry and understated.

Inside, the warmth hits immediately, smelling of pine resin, sawdust, and stale coffee. Damien knocks the snow off his boots, gestures toward the racks of spruce and pine lining the walls, thick cuts stacked and sealed for transport. Evergreen staples that’ll last decades if they’re worked right.

“I can tell you anything you want to know,” he offers, voice grounded and steady as stone as he continues, “and I’m not in the business of taking advantage of anyone. No one told me much about the project, just that it’s going to be big. We’re a little behind, but that works in your favor. Still time for changes if you’re not happy with the quality.”

Finally, he takes a proper moment to look at her—there's a breath of quiet now that the wind and noise are behind them. She carries herself like someone used to command, but she’s also traveled far to be here. She doesn’t look worn, but Damien's pretty damn sure she's had a long journey. That earns her a sliver more of his respect, and consideration.

“You want something to drink?” he asks, moving toward the stove, “don’t have much, but I make a decent pot of coffee. Or there’s whiskey, if you need something stronger.”

And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora’s grin tilts as she passes the reins to Felix, the boy’s wide-eyed stare only making her amusement bloom brighter. "Thanks, handsome," she says, tossing him a wink that leaves him fumbling the leather like it’s suddenly made of fire. The sound that escapes her next is part snort, part laughter—unbothered, warm. Damien’s understated joke earns him a hum of mock challenge, her braid sliding forward over her shoulder as she follows. "Let’s see if you can," she drawls, her words trailing behind like the scent of hibiscus on salt wind.

The moment they step inside, Flora lets out a sigh of almost theatrical relief, the change in temperature washing over her like a wave she didn’t know she was waiting for. The sharp edge of pine and resin in the air mixes with the faint smokiness of the stove, and instead of looking at the impressive racks of spruce and pine, her eyes stay fixed on the man holding the flap, her brow quirking as if in appraisal. "Is that so?" she asks, voice lilting with curiosity before she shrugs lightly. "Most men who take advantage don’t really advertise it right off the top. Bad for business, if I had to guess."

She unclasps her cloak with a flourish, tossing it over the back of a chair without ceremony. Beneath, her cream sweater hugs her frame just enough to make the dark, curve-skimming pants and dagger-lined belt look deliberate, even stylish, as if this were a winter fashion show rather than a lumber camp. She drifts closer to the stove like a moth drawn to a warm flame, tugging her gloves off and tucking them beneath one arm to let her gold-ringed fingers bask in the heat. "Whiskey," she says instantly, her smile curling in gratitude. "My mother used to live in Halo, but I never got used to the cold no matter how often I'd visit. It's like the chill just sort of...lives in your bones, no matter how many layers you put on." So it was for a girl who'd grown up in a magical woodland and then moved to a tropical paradise, anyway.

Leaning lightly against the table nearest the stove, she glances at the lumber again, though her tone is conversational rather than technical. "As for the project...I’m no architect so I don't know what else to call it othet than a big house," she says with a vague flick of her fingers, a little grin tugging at her mouth like she knows how woefully inadequate the description sounds. "Beachfront, which means it’s going to take a beating from storms and salt. I hear Halovian wood doesn’t just last, it doesn’t rot easy. That’s what I need."

Her gaze dips briefly, lashes lowering as though her thoughts have slipped somewhere else. It’s almost an afterthought, the next words slipping out like a secret she didn’t mean to share. "A lot of things I’ve built lately have fallen apart," she murmurs, the tone quiet but not self-pitying. Then her eyes lift, bright and unflinching as they find Damien’s. "Hence the headache of importing this much lumber from Halo."

DAMIEN

I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak

Inside, he lets the flap fall closed behind them and moves straight to the stove, tugging off his gloves and coat as he goes. The heavy leather is still dusted in sawdust, snowdust, and flecks of pine sap, the same dark work jacket he’s worn for seasons. Beneath it, a thick wool shirt clings damp to his shoulders, sleeves shoved up past scarred forearms. He unhooks the axe from his belt and sets it neatly against the wall—close enough to grab if needed, but out of the way—before stepping toward the nearest table.

A few mismatched cups are stacked on a shelf by the stove. He grabs two and sets them down, pushing aside a scatter of scrap notes and a half-used block of chalk to clear space near where Flora’s settled.

“Whiskey it is,” he says, pouring a measure into one of the cups before sliding it across to her. He fills the other with black coffee for himself. “And, between the two of us,” he says, a dry edge softening the words, “you’re probably the one to watch out for.”

His gaze lifts just enough to meet hers, brows tipping upward by a hair. Then he nods toward the racks of timber lining the wall.

Beachfront, storms, salt… “You’re right, Halo wood will hold up. But a house that size?” His eyes narrow slightly, not unkind, just calculating. “You’ll need foundation work done right the first time, or the best timber in Caido won’t save it. Who’s handling the building end of things?”

He leans a hip against the edge of the table, pausing to take a long drink of his coffee. The whiskey cuts through the air, blending with the sharper edge of pine and resin. When Flora’s quieter words hit —'a lot of things I’ve built lately have fallen apart'— Damien’s hand stills briefly on his cup. He’s not a man for long silences, but he doesn’t rush to fill this one either. She’s not saying it for sympathy, and he can tell.

His brow furrows slightly as he studies her across the table. No pity shows, only a narrowing of the eyes, as if her words are another piece in a puzzle he hadn’t realized he was working on. He knows what it’s like to have work undone, to put effort into something only to watch it crack apart at the seams. But her tone isn’t about a house or a project. It’s heavier than that.

“Then we’ll make sure this doesn’t,” he says simply. It’s not a promise, exactly, but the steady way he says it gives it weight.

He sets his cup down, the sound soft against the marred table.

“Why don’t you walk me through what you’re picturing,” he continues, practical as ever. “Size, layout, anything you’re set on. That way I know what else to cut before we load this all up for the trip back.”

And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora doesn’t seem to notice the sawdust, or if she does, she treats it like glitter; just another rustic charm clinging to the edges of something warm. She hums her thanks as she accepts the whiskey, fingertips brushing the side of the cup before lifting it in a lazy, appreciative toast to no one in particular. The first sip earns a quiet exhale, the kind that flutters just behind her teeth as the burn settles into her throat.

"As much as it pains me to admit it," she murmurs, rolling the cup gently between her palms, "nothing quite stands up to Halovian whiskey. Sharp enough to hurt, smooth enough to forgive you after." Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to just throw it back in one go.

At Damien’s dry comment, she laughs properly, the sound bright and curling like steam off the rim of her cup. "I am called the Doubletake for a reason," she says, flashing a grin over the rim before taking another, longer sip.

But the grin softens as the talk shifts to foundations—both literal and not. Her shoulders dip with a sigh and she nods. "I’ve got some contractors back in Torchline lined up to take it on," she says. "But I’m also going to visit Safrin. See if she’ll...help. Torchline used to get ripped apart by monsoons, but she changed that. One little house should be doable for her."

While Flora doesn’t usually mind being looked at—it’s part of the game, part of the armour—something about Damien’s gaze makes her fingers twitch, like they want to fidget with the edge of her braid or the hem of her sweater. Instead, she hides behind her cup again, the amber liquid a good enough excuse not to meet his eyes for a beat or two longer than usual.

His reply—calm, grounded, without fanfare—lands with more weight than he probably intends. It’s the kind of steady confidence most people feign but rarely manage, and Flora finds herself smiling, quiet and genuine, before she can stop it. Not because he’s promising to save her like so many others, but because he’s not pretending he can, and fuck if that isn't a welcome change.

She steps away from the stove, warmed through now, and lets herself drop into one of the chairs with a graceful sprawl, one leg crossed over the other, whiskey still in hand. "So," she begins, a touch of laughter already threading into her words. "It’s a house. But not just a house." She lifts her brows as if to brace him for what’s coming. "It needs a solarium. And a conservatory. And a basement big enough for a workshop-slash-possibly-a-wine-cellar. Oh, and the foundation has to be strong enough to hold an elevator. Not like, fancy elevator, but pulley-based or something." She waves vaguely, as if pulley systems were just another accessory like earrings.

"Also," she adds, holding up a hand as if ticking things off helps ground the dream, "multiple bedrooms, obviously. A pool outside. Several secret rooms, uhhh..." By now, she’s well aware of how ridiculous it sounds especially to a man like Damien who strikes the queen as being pragmatic, potentially to a fault. She shrugs, not apologetic, just honest. "I know it sounds like a fever dream. But it’s supposed to be a place for everyone I love to come stay, if they want to. No matter where they’re coming from or what they need. So it has to be...a little bit of everything, so they all feel like it was made just for them." Her voice dips, brushing the edge of something tender.

She glances back at him, chin lifted like a challenge, but her eyes are soft with the weight of it all. "Think the Greenwing has enough wood for all of that?"

DAMIEN

I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak

Damien decides to pour a finger of whiskey into his own cup as Flora toasts no one in particular, the corners of his mouth quirking.  “Could be worse,” he agrees, low and wry, watching her sip. “You could’ve brought Torchline rum.”

Her laugh rings out soft and bright, and something about the way it cuts through the warm cabin air makes him glance over. Doubletake, she says. The name sticks. He doesn’t recognize it, not in the way she clearly expects him to. But something in her posture changes after she says it. Like the weight of being known just tilted in the room. 

He doesn’t ask. Just files it away, tucking the moment behind his eyes.

But when she brings up Safrin, that gets a small, low exhale out of him—relieved, maybe, or at least resigned. “If one of the gods is backing your foundation,” he mutters, lifting his cup to her in a loose salute, “you probably won’t need me there.”

Still, he listens as she lays out the whole impossible dream. Solarium. Elevator. Secret rooms. Her voice dipping into something more honest near the end. And he doesn’t laugh at her, not even close. He just leans back against the edge of the counter again, letting the whiskey and coffee sit warm behind his ribs as he folds his hands loosely over his chest, and studies her with that slightly narrowed gaze, like she’s a blueprint he’s half-deciphered but still puzzling through.

He huffs quietly at the end, something low and close to amused, and turns back toward the stacks of split pine.

"Greenwing’s got enough wood," he assures, "If it doesn’t, I’ll find more."

Simple as that. No scoffing at the scale, no questioning the practicality. Just the same calm steadiness as before, shaped now with a quiet kind of respect.

The next words come a little slower, not careful exactly, but considered. "I’ve seen a lot of people build for what they think they need. A roof. A wall. Something to keep the cold out or the rain off. Never met many who build for other people. Fewer still who admit they’re doing it."

His voice is steady, as practical as always, but the look he gives her carries more weight than the words; measured and a little quiet, the way someone might regard something beautiful they hadn’t expected to find up here in the cold.

"You want something made to hold that much…you’ll need more than wood and nails. But you already know that."

Damien clears his throat then, like he’s said more than he meant to.

“I’ll start sorting timber after the snow eases. You’ll have your first load in three days, maybe two if it stays clear. You planning to be around for delivery, or should I leave it at the site?”

He gives her a glance over the rim of his cup, tone still even, matter-of-fact. “Crew’ll be eating in a bit. You’re welcome to stay if you’re not in a rush.”

And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora gasps, hand flying to her chest with mock horror. "Maligning Torchline’s rum in my presence?" she says, scandalised. “"First off, the rum fountain by the docks is literally like drinking luck. And secondly—" she leans forward, brandishing her cup like a weapon, "—as someone who used to own a bar, I can’t let that kind of slander slide." Her grin is casual, teasing, but there’s a note of challenge tucked beneath the sugar. "Next time you’re in Torchline, come find me. I’m sure I can change your mind."

She eases back into her seat, amusement still lingering as she lifts the cup for another sip. At the mention of Safrin, she shrugs, more thoughtful. "Haven’t asked her yet," she admits. Then, with a little flick of her fingers, adds, "But she’s never turned me down for anything before." Such was the benefit of not only being an Accepted, but coming from the family she did.

As Flora explains, it’s the way Damien doesn’t interrupt her that begins to unwind something in her spine. Most people, when she speaks like that—with her heart showing through the shine—either fall over themselves to reassure her or scramble to pick a side. But he just...listens. Like the silence around her isn’t something to be solved. Like she doesn’t need to sell him the dream in order to make it real. And gods, is that disarming.

The almost-compliment, when it comes, slips under her defences like a low tide brushing the shore. Flora’s smile softens, though her shoulder lifts in a shrug more used to brushing off praise than wearing it. "I’ve had some practice doing things for other people," she says, voice quiet but steady. "Most recently getting myself kicked out of my own city to keep my people safe and then being torn up to ribbons by an alien." It's casually enough said, as if out here in Halo the trials and tribulations that Flora had endured for Torchline simply didn't carry the same weight.

The mention of needing more than wood and nails draws a glint in her eye, such that she nods solemnly, before letting her smile curve crookedly. "Obviously. I’ll need doorknobs, too." She sips her whiskey again, savouring the warmth down her throat, before shifting her weight and lifting a brow at him. "I’ll be around for delivery," she says. Then, almost lazily she asks, "Are you doing it yourself, or..do you have people for that?"

As for the offer of staying, Flora shakes her head, braid brushing over her shoulder. "I appreciate it, but I did say I'd make my rounds while I was in Halo since I come this way so infrequently." She rises smoothly, collecting her gloves from the seat and tucking them beneath her arm. Though her words are breezy, her gaze lingers on him a moment longer—curious, unreadable, but quietly appreciative. Something about the steadiness of this place. Of him. It sticks.

"Thanks for the drink. And the wood. I’ll see you in a few days."

DAMIEN

I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak

Damien lets a faint smirk twitch at her rum jab but doesn’t bother with a comeback. He just nods, letting the teasing fade into the background.

When she asks about the delivery, voice casual but curious, Damien nods. “It's a team effort, really. But I oversee, make sure it’s done right.” (conveniently all the NPCs Damien knows are somehow endeared to him and good with tools!)

Damien watches as she rises, the smooth way she moves betraying the quiet authority she carries; something at odds with the ease she wears like a cloak. Her gaze lingers on him just a moment longer, curious and unreadable, but there’s a flicker there, a kind of quiet appreciation that catches him off guard. He feels the weight of it, steadier than the wind pressing against the canvas walls.

It’s not warm, exactly, but it’s not cold either. It’s something in the space she holds and leaves open.

His voice breaks the silence then, calm and steady as always but carrying an edge of something he rarely lets surface. “You’re welcome,” he says, voice low but clear. “We’ll have everything ready when you need it.”

He meets her eyes, letting the moment settle a little longer before he adds, “Safe travels until then. And… if there’s anything else you need while you’re here, don’t hesitate to say so.”

The flap snaps shut behind her, and the warmth of the tent seems to fold around the quiet she left behind. Damien exhales slowly, running a hand over his face as the pieces begin to slot together—the “Doubletake,” the way she referred to Torchline as her city, that casual mention of Safrin, and the weight she carried without needing to show it off.

His eyes drift to the spot she’d just vacated, and the truth settles in with a slow, sinking weight.

Felix bursts in then, eyes wide and barely containing his excitement. “Foreman! How'd it go with the Queen of Torchline?”

Damien blinks, then lets out a humorless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he mutters, “I think I’m an idiot.”

[FIN]

And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek