raysofromildaâ:
The firelight flickers and flares, shadows dancing across his face - soft edges becoming wickedly sharp, the dark depths of his pupils nearly indistinguishable from that of his irises. Yet, still, all she could see is the immortal man she had grown so fond of, who pulled laughter from her like a bard pulls tales from the air, like how they pluck notes from frayed strings. Still, she can taste the sun that had shined upon her face, the sweetness of the air with its gentle sting as they rode through the forest together, chasing one another as Baldur chases his wolves, and his wolves chase Baldur in turn - reveling in the freedom and giddiness that they were so sparingly allowed. And within those moments, kinship had been forged, a matchless understanding that only ever exists between two souls that Fate itself determines as destined. Werenât they, though? Was it not the only explanation for why she clung to him as she did? Or, perhaps it was merely that she had yet to find any other whose loneliness harkened to her own so clearly.Â
She knew, in the very marrow of her bones, what the answer was - to deny it would be to turn her face from the sun.
He says their name - and even if he had spat it like it was a rot upon his tongue, they would have considered such an utterance a gift. Then he reaches between them, fingers encircling her wrist carefully; had there ever been a touch so sweet as this? The leather of his gloves presses into her skin and though she is deprived of the press of his fingers, still she finds herself warming as surely as if flames themselves were biting at her rough skin. So enraptured is she with studying the planes of his face - determined to read him as faithfully as one reads holy tomes - that she forgets the sting of her palms until her nails relinquish their bite, the blood glinting from the light of the flames. They ought to pull their hand away, to be ashamed of such emotion on display, but any such remorse would have been a farce.  Had they not made a vow to themselves to give him nothing less than the unfettered truth? Romilda had broken this oath once, but never again. Never again.Â
The silence sits between them, growing heavier with each moment, each breath that passes between them. Though immortal he may be, did his heart not beat within his chest? Did he not need to breathe as she did? Then, it is shattered - cruelly so - by his claim. It seems your own request has already been fulfilled, he says, as hurtful as a knife sliding against her skin, its point digging into the delicate nerves. âHow entitled you are,â Romilda marvels, eyes searching his. âTo think that you can claim my self-inflicted wounds  as your own.â A disbelieving scoff ushers past her lips, studiously ignoring how the loss of his touch caused far more of an ache than the words that were meant to scorn.Â
As though possessed, their hand lifts to hold his face, to keep his eyes trained on her still, only to pause and carefully tuck it against her chest. To be denied by him once more was masochism that she did not care to indulge in, yet.Â
The gentleness of his touch devastated her enough.
It would be far easier to bear the weight of her failures if he raised his hand against her - the only reparation that seemed comparable to the wounds that she had left him with. Slowly, she shook her head, lips pressing together determinedly. âNo,â she says, her voice hard. âWe are not done here because I -â And, just like that, any explanation dies upon her tongue.
There was no other reason that she could offer, save for the fact that she refused to let him go - to relinquish him again. Their mouth opens and closes as they struggle to utter the words that sit within their mouth. Begging was never something that they had difficulty with - time and time again they had prostrated themselves before the feet of their father to beseech forgiveness for any shortcomings. But Damien deserved far more than even that. Nervously, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, readying herself for his rejection, for the lashing against her heart. She would have to endure a thousand more, would she not? If she were to truly make reparations.Â
âLet me practice my abilities on you,â she blurts out, âI could heal you if ever the need arose.â Romilda holds a finger aloft before he can give voice to his protests. âAnd simply because nothing can hurt you now doesnât mean itâs an impossibility I - I could be an asset to you. Let me help.â
Entitled, Damien echoes in his mind. Fate has placed much before him, from the dark, quiet forests of his youth to the yawning mouth of hell, to the blood of Lucifer himself, splashed scarlet across Damienâs skin and dripped down into the depths of hell in the very last moments of its existence. He is a being of blood and birthright, born to eat the world, to cloak it in his shadow.Â
And here is Romilda Altier, brave-hearted and fire-lit before him, calling him entitled.Â
Were this any of their other meetings in the woods, the strange, easy camaraderie flickering between them like the firelight, he might have smiled. Maybe even laughed. Instead, all he can do is swallow hard, watch the way their face changes, and do all he can to be sure that his does not. âAnd yet,â he asks, silently hoping he doesnât sound as hollow to their ears as he does to his own, âwould they be there if not for my presence?âÂ
Fate has placed her before him, as a joke or a misstep or another of its strange machinations. If a prophecy had been told at Romildaâs birth, it could only have been of brilliant light, perhaps even of vanquishing Damienâs own darkness. The chasm that has ripped open between them is only a natural consequence. Here, now, does she defy fate by attempting to reach across it for whatever purpose possesses her, or is this too, simply another falling domino? If destiny has wrapped its thousand arms around Romilda and whispered to her its machinations, it could only be to stand in his path. For a moment, they seem to reach for him, and then their hand withdraws. He thinks, for a moment, that it might be over then.Â
But Romilda - as he ought to expect - refuses him once more. Another trick of fate, or perhaps in defiance of it, she says no. They seem to have no explanation, silence - save for the crackling of fire and wind in the trees - fills the air between them. Damien could still turn away, bring this conversation to an end and refuse any further, give them both as clean a wound as either could still hope for. He could, but for reasons heâs not sure he could name, he doesnât. He doesnât move a muscle. Whatever explanation Romilda has to offer, he waits for it.Â
What comes next, however, catches him truly off guard. Romilda does not offer companionship, or a return to the hunt, or an appeal to the emotions he is failing to leave buried and forgotten. Instead, they offer a deal, one beneficial to them both. A chance to practice their abilities for them, another layer of defence for him. It might be foolish to accept... and yet the point is made.Â
Perhaps a clean break was always too much to hope for. The wound is already jagged and messy. There will be no clean, neat stitches here. Perhaps all that is left to do is twist the knife, and see what happens next.Â
âFine,â he says, after what was surely far too long a silence. âI accept your terms.â














