#talia al ghul headanon

english was a rather strange language to learn, damian thought. grammatical rules were guidelines at most, there weren’t any declensions, and the language was constantly growing, constantly shifting, constantly changing. it left damian feeling small, malleable—as if the world could change him.

monachopsis: the subtle yet persistent feeling of being out of place.

it wasn’t as though pennyworth’s cooking was bad. far from it, damian remembers in the gold-tinged memories of perching proudly beside his mother at a grand dining table, watching her twine her words around the neck of anyone foolish enough to speak up as he dined on europe’s finest delicacies. but those were—those were special occasions. damian grew up on rice and halwa and eggplant, but he can barely remember the last time he’s had them. lasagna makes him nauseous, black beans make him pick at his food, cheese makes him want to spit out his food (then near-beg for forgiveness afterwards). but everybody else in the house? they love it, they love the stuff. and alfred’s pleasure in cooking, all clementine pith and flannel warmth, was undeniable. so damian eats his pasta and he eats his scrambled eggs and he endures the teasing for the amount of spicy sauce he pours on top. he does not think to ask for different food.

aulasy: the sadness that there’s no way to convey a powerful memory to people who weren’t there at the time

more and more, damian has realized his family thinks of his mother as an enemy. and if not an enemy, then an adversary, a contingency to plan for, burnt wax and blood and fruit gone rotten. damian’s tried to explain it to them—the slow walks he used to take with her in the gardens of nanda parbat, her acetone-tipped nails tracing the stems of flowers through the air, her warm hands on damian’s as she gently let him pet one of the al ghul family’s many rescue animals. she was steeped in death, damian knew that, but she also longed for life. she reveled in the great sweep of trees, and she poured her fierce desire protect others, animals or plants or even people, into damian’s very soul. we used to walk in the garden, damian struggled to say, but when father frowned and offered to take him through wayne manor’s grounds, damian shook his head and batted him off. after all, it wasn’t the gardens he was missing.

exulansis: the tendancy to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it

rumors of brown’s skill with people were greatly exaggerated. at least, that’s the conclusion damian had come to after spending enough time in her presence to make an adequate judgement. out of all of them, she was supposed to be the one most grounded in reality, a foot in both vigilante and civilian worlds, a lighthouse in gotham’s storm. and yet, every time damian attempted to talk to her, she fundamentally misunderstood everything he was trying to say. oh, brown cared, she cared the way ugly callouses thumb the familiar grip of a weapon, she was always willing to listen. but she never quite grasped that grandfather was the one behind most of the plots of the leauge, grandfather was the one who stripped every member down to their bones, grandfather shipped him off to america with nothing but a name and the skills drilled into him. the world was under his thumb, and he couldn’t ever feel free with him still alive, something which brown refused to understand.

liberosis: the desire to care less

there came nights when, without fail, damian would stumble over to a bus station with his monthly ticket gripped tight and take the fourty-five minute ride over to bludhaven. there came nights when, despite his bleary eyes and bruised sides, richard would open his door and pull damian in without a word, holding him tight and pressing a kiss to the top of damian’s head, (exactly the way mother used to do when he would pretend to be asleep and she would pretend to believe him). with every visit, richard had to bend over less and less to do so. she loved me, damian would whisper into richard’s shoulder, wrapped up in blankets with a mug of hot chocolate in his hands. she loved you, richard would reply. but she left me, damian would say, and she did it because it was best for me, but she left me. those were the times when damian felt quite naked, furious splotches on his cheeks and his walls dangerously close to crumbling. because mother had trained him into something deadly and instilled lessons so deep they wouldn’t ever go away and sent him to his father when he wanted her most, but she also wiped away his tears and bandaged his knuckles, brought him sweets from every corner of the world, picked him up and hugged him like he was the light of her life.

(richard, damian would think, understands. richard, damian can imagine, remembers a time when father would laugh with ease and play with his child and throw around the world love like it was infinite. richard has also contemplated, with clench-jawed heartbreak, leaving father behind forever.)

richard would always tug damian a little closer after he had spilled out his soul, leaving nothing but star-speckled milk at the bottom of a cup, and tell him we want to care less, don’t we? it’s easier that way, isn’t it? well, maybe. but it’s so much more painful, so much better to care.

–

only 3 more finals left everyone wish me luck

tag list: @woahajimes@birdy-bat-writes@subtleappreciation@catxsnow@pricetagofficial@screennamealreadyused@clamityganon @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump@xatanna-troy@red-hood-redemption@capricorn-stark@batshit-birds@buticaaba@comics-observer@newsical@queenofbooknerds@queen-of-ice494