Re: babs/dami log: in front of the manor
It was not unusual for emotions to turn to tumult in Damian's experience. It was not unusual for them to war for footing in the ventricles of his heart and the wired pathways of his mind. It was a bloody, battering thing. It was perhaps an indulgence, one Grandfather would never allow, but he let himself be taken by the undertow of it all. If he allowed the silt to settle in that mired river of his thoughts, the waters would clear, and he would come out knowing better. This, at least, was his hope.—His emotions surrounding his sister were myriad, tangled barbs he could not tease apart quite yet. After all, her inclusion changed his own understanding of his family, his place, his blood, and it would take him time to find the new edges to his personhood. He was too inexperienced in many things to fully grasp the concept of suicide at its core. It was weak, he knew that. It was desperate. But, Damian could not deny the fact that he understood the first plume of that desire to be nothing. It was not something he would ever share, as he knew it was not among the honorable deaths of warriors and men, unless it was done out of filial piety, loyalty, a subjugation of passions and attachments, in the name of austere wisdom, or to attenuate shame, as part of a strict code—seppeku, jigai, the vow of sallekhanā, प्रायोपवेशनम्, the enlightenment of sokushinbutsu. To take one's own life for that purpose itself was wasteful, selfish, and cowardly.—What that meant for his concept of Leena was not something he yet knew.
As he stared up at the beginnings of stars revealing themselves shyly this far away from the grim city, he wondered at these things. He wondered at Father, at his choice of mate in Cat; he wondered at Jason, Barbara, Greyson, at Mother. The constellations above, she could no longer see, the sand now bright under sun, but he could not help but wonder if she looked up now and again, and if they shared that vision. Perhaps interestingly, Damian did not question the tower of the night before. There was a foil of guilt in him, as he ought to have been more thorough when checking into the event and in scanning the name tag, but it was easily consumed by his other thoughts, lost to their fold as he swung his feet off the lip of the porch roof.
When he heard the whine of a car engine—one he identified as Barbara's easily, from pitch and tone, he stood to watch the sleek body of her sedan move through the lush landscape teased out of ugly, infertile soil with the help of copious amounts of money. He could not help the tug of a smile that formed on his lips, however much displeasure it would bring Mother, and he hopped down just as Barbara killed the engine.—She was his touchstone. She had become such, the redheaded girl in the waving yellow scarf. She was intelligent and strong and perhaps he thought her pretty. Too, the manor stood oft empty, and it was usually the two of them. He had grown strangely accustomed to and fond of her, an attachment he was likely not intended to ever experience. He enjoyed her company.
"I will crush anyone who tries," came his haughty (and honest) reply to Barbara's teasing, but he smiled at her. He was in the comfort of his black hoodie. Black jeans, black boots. It was all he ever wore. The hood was down, and Damian did not fish for a cigarette. He considered Barbara, briefly, before approaching her. "You're happy." His shoulder bumped hers. "Is it because of the girl?" He wondered if she wanted to speak of the League.