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When Damian al Ghul gets his cutie mark, he is just five years old.
It’s a surprising occurrence to everyone, especially him, since he was not chasing after one. He knew, logically, that within the League he was to find his purpose rather sooner than later. Mother told him that the average age most ponies found their talents was twelve years old, which meant that he was expected to achieve that at a maximum of ten. Still, he was occupied with other things at the time - his training was as harsh as ever, forcing him to better his aim and strengthening him.
As he was throwing various throwing stars and blades into targets under his mother’s watchful eyes with an immense sense of joy that was not usual for any of his training activities, the world around him suddenly went white with a bright sparkle. His sides burned, skin tingling, without causing the agony of being lit on fire. When Damian’s senses returned to him, he looked around himself in a haze, only to notice something that was not there before on his rear. It was an image of a shining silver dagger pointing down to the ground, a gorgeous green emerald embedded in its hard wooden handle, contrasting against the grey of his fur. Damian was suddenly filled with amazement which he couldn’t figure out the reason for.
It was this state of fulfillment that made him so blind to an upcoming attack, as his mother used her unicorn magic to lift him up in the air and bring Damian closer to her. He was taught how to avoid being in this situation many times before, and prepared immediately to meet mother’s disappointed look. What was in her eyes instead was wonder, pure and childish, uncharacteristic for someone as cold and dangerous as Talia al Ghul. It was mother’s content sigh that got him out of his stupor.
“Mother? Did I make a mistake again?” he asked with curiosity leaking through his voice.
“No, Damian,” she replied surprisingly, with something akin to happiness in her voice. “You did great. For now, we will have to forget about your training - you are free for the day”.
Later that evening, he was led through an unfamiliar large corridor straight to his grandfather’s throne room. He’s never been allowed there before. A crowd of assassins and maids have gathered around the carpet just to watch him and his mother walk, which put him at unease. He ignored the feeling in favor of keeping his head up and posture straight, like a true al Ghul should.
Grandfather looked at him as he presented himself up close, and wasted no time looking at anything but the image marking his skin.
“So it is true, then,” grandfather allowed himself a smug smirk.
“Of course, father,” Talia addressed him with no less smugness in her voice.
Under that powerful gaze, with hundreds of ponies looking at him with silent amazement at his achievement, Damian truly felt special. It had only just now hit him - to be truly talented with weapons at such a young age is impressive to most, but nothing less is even expected from a heir to the al Ghuls.
“I am highly pleased with this, Damian,” the young boy hears the praise and almost wants to cry of happiness. That is, of course, not a thing a warrior of his level is allowed to do. “Not only with you finally finding your purpose, but also with that purpose being a useful one. You might have heard of your cousin’s, Mara’s, very special talent,” grandfather viciously grits the last part through his teeth. Damian has not, in fact, heard of Mara’s achievements. He, however, remembers seeing her one evening with a beautiful blossoming lotus on her rear. It was a rare, surprising sight. Every person in the League of Assasins, with rare exceptions, had some sort of weapon as their mark - a sword, a katana, a bow, maybe runes representing magic, like his mother’s mark. The next day Mara was sent away on her first mission, and he hasn’t seen her since. He stills as the realization slowly comes over him.
“But now that we know your worthiness, there is no need for another heir.”
Mother smiles at him, proudly. And he feels proud, too. Like he has never felt before.
—————————
Damian meets his father six years later, under circumstances that he couldn’t have imagined until the very same evening everything happened. He knows that he should be focusing on the words being exchanged between mother and this stallion, on the fact that his existence in itself has been kept a secret for all this time and what difficulties it might bear for him. But he can’t rip his eyes away from the older stallion, looking him up and down, over and over again. His sharp chin - the only shape of his face that stands out while the mask is still on. The black, sharp feathers of his wings that look more like ones of a bat than a pegasus. He snaps back to reality as Talia’s lips touch his cheek, a goodbye kiss of sorts, before the mare disappears out of sight into the darkness of the night. The Batmane only spares him a glance before silently going over to the batmobile, making him follow shortly. The way to their destination is spent in this awkward sort of silence that doesn’t end even as they both exit the car in a large cave.
Damian watches his father get out of costume bit by bit, making him look like a perfectly fine black pegasus again, with soft, albeit strong wings. His eye color is light blue, Damian notes, and cancels out the idea of at least looking similarly to his parents in his mind. It has plagued him for years that he looked nothing like mother, with her clay-red fur and his gray, her eyes brown and his green. He was neither unicorn nor pegasus, which couldn’t be said about either of his parents. Bruce, as he remembers the name, sighs at him while following his gaze that was now focused on the stallion’s special mark. It’s three bats placed near each other in an orderly manner - Damian doesn’t think he’s seen animals on someone’s rear before. Bruce shifts with unease, making his son look away from him, somewhere into the depths of the cave. They don’t drop a single word to one another until a butler shows up, to whom father speaks in his low voice, making him send Damian away into a spare room.
As they leave the large space of the cave and enter a relatively small library, the young boy feels more conflicted than anything.
—————————
The next day during breakfast, Damian gets to meet the members of his father’s family. He feels somewhat honored that such a big group of ponies has gathered for him, but he supposes it is a special occasion - it’s not every day that the grandson of the Demon’s Head shows up. The first one to meet him is the butler from yesterday, Alfred, a light-purple elderly unicorn. He introduces himself again in the morning and leads him into the dining area. There, he meets several of his father’s adopted sons: Grayson, a cyan pegasus with a bird for a mark, and Drake, a light-red unicorn with a… magnifier, out of all things, on his rear.
“Hey, you’re Damian, right?” asks the oldest boy in his cheerful voice.
“Yes,” he replies simply, taking a spare seat somewhere at the edge of the table. There seems to be no sitting based on hierarchy, which is good, because he doesn’t want to address the fact that he’s the lowest on it as of right now.
“Nice to meet you, drove all night here just for the occasion,” he adds after Damian gets settled. “I’m Dick, by the way.”
“…Likewise,” he says after a short pause. No one’s ever expressed their will to be there for Damian that openly.
Time passes and more and more ponies come around, leading the young foal into a light state of shock with just the number. There’s Cassandra, a black young mare with a purple mane and tail. Her mark is a white note, which seems a bit weird considering what Damian knew her for from when she was an assassin. Then there’s Stephanie, a blond mare with purple fur. She barges into the kitchen happily, flying towards Timothy with a hug even though she has no wings. She passes on a message from someone she calls Red, who says that they could make it but didn’t care enough to. Then, a unicorn by the name of Duke enters the room awkwardly, taking a seat next to the foal. His fur is yellow, brightly so, and his mark appears to be the sun. The last person to enter the room is his father, who lacks the carefree and welcoming mood everyone else seems to have. He appears to be completely serious as he takes a seat at the head of the table, looking everyone around as they quiet down.
“It’s very nice that all of you could make it,” he starts off in a sincere tone, although his glance falls on one of the empty chairs.
“Well, not all of us,” Stephanie argues softly before grabbing a pancake from the plate near her. Pancakes. Damian never had those before.
“I’m fine with that as long as you are,” father then suggests, and when no one argues further, he continues. “As you might have noticed, we have an addition to the family”.
Fathers relaxes and smirks as someone from the further end of the table follows his phrase by “not again, that’s the third one this year”.
“Now, if you read the message I sent you all, which I’m sure you did,” he looks heavily at the two mares who stare innocently back at him. “You know that Damian is my biological son. He’ll be staying with us now”.
With that, father ends his announcement, sending another wave of shock through Damian’s mind. That was it? That easily? From father’s reaction from yesterday, Damian assumed he’d have to fight for his place in the family. That he’d be met with a little more backlash, denied in his rights as a true heir. But as he continues to stare, nothing changes. These ridiculous, too-bright ponies whose talents don’t even make any sense don’t try to attack him, instead going back to chatting with one another. No one even tries to poison him, from what he can tell, which makes him even more cautious about taking the food, because he did nothing to deserve it.
The feather of father’s wing then brushes against his side out of nowhere, almost making him jump.
“Would you like to say something, Damian?” he asks. The foal shakes his head in uncertainty.
“Oh, of course, I forgot to mention. We will announce that we have you and enroll you into school in a few weeks”.
Damian’s stomach dropped. He ate his food despite the emptying terror that rose in his chest out of nowhere.
—————————
Damian’s never been to a school before. He had education, and a pretty solid one at that. He had lots of teachers showing him from the most basic to the most delicate details of science. He was taught to forge a sword by a legendary thousand-year-old magician, taught to solve mathematic’s hardest aspects he might meet by a scientist-physicist. But Damian’s never been to an actual school. The fact doesn’t bother him, though, because the evening before his first school day, Alfred tells him stories of his own youth, of Grayson’s years as Robin and explains some rules about school to make it easier to him.
That is why when he enters Gotham Academy, he isn’t scared. He comes prepared and hundreds of eyes fixated on him don’t intimidate him. It’s because of Alfred that he doesn’t feel a stranger. He doesn’t feel out of place. He doesn’t.
But when he enters his own classroom, he sees even more foals like himself and becomes even more confused. Because at the same time, they’re nothing like him. Their furs and manes are bright, green, yellow, red, purple, sometimes multiple colors at once opposed to his plain black mane and grey fur. Their cutie marks display books, art supplies, fruits, sports equipment and animals, opposed to his… his image of a weapon, which he used to kill ponies. Some of them don’t even have marks yet.
Two of his classmates approach him as sits down at a spare table, in a badly executed attempt to loom over him and intimidate him.
“Hey, you’re that rich Wayne kid, right?” one of them asks out of nowhere.
“What, like Wayne-Wayne? One of those mares Brucie tugs away at his parties finally came out the bedroom with something?” the other suggests at which they both laugh.
“Please refrain from making inappropriate commentaries about my mother,” he tries to reason even as it stings, even as he remembers his parents arguing earlier about how Talia made him without Bruce ever wanting to.
“Sweet Celestia, you talk like an old man,” the foal then replies.
“And look like one, too. What the hell even is your cutie mark?” his classmate finally points out, making Damian’s heart skip a beat.
“What did you get it for, murdering people?” the boy continues on his merciless rant. “Yes,” Damian wants to grit through his teeth. “I got my cutie mark because I’m good at killing ponies. And what are you good at?” Instead, he keeps silent as the ringing in his ears becomes louder and louder. This is wrong, his mind supplies. He shouldn’t feel that way. He’s proud of his cutie mark. It shows his talent and worthiness to the al Ghul family. Then why does he feel shame creeping up his face?
Suddenly, the bully’s rant stops at the loud scream of a young girl. She’s standing up for him, Damian realizes, and feels even more shameful about it. He doesn’t need to be stood up for. He’s perfectly fine by himself.
“Don’t listen to them!” she assures him with a sweet smile.
But it’s her that he doesn’t listen to, in the end. And if he starts wearing a coat from that day on until the end of the week, month, year, nobody asks him why.
—————————
No matter how much time passed since Damian got settled into his father’s house, things didn’t start making any more sense. He was still confused about this family dynamic, about his place in it and this city. If mother wanted to pick him back up at all, she would’ve already done it, which only means he’s not going back any time soon. Father still hasn’t talked to him much since his first day at the manor. He only appears to be smiling at his other children, not Damian himself, the foal soon comes to realize. And the stallion is too busy with Batmane and his business company, anyway, leaving Damian with no one to answer his questions.
It’s the desperation he feels, perhaps, that leads him to going to Grayson out of all people as soon as he arrives at the manor. The stallion, his brother, as his mind supports reluctantly, is somewhat surprised to see him entering the room and settling down on a nearby chair.
“What’s up, Dami?” he asks in a mockery of a greeting. If Damian had manners like that, mother would’ve cast a spell to make his mouth disappear.
“Hello, Grayson,” he replies unaffected, still.
The silence between them is thick with reluctant tension as the foal doesn’t say anything else. The pegasus’ ears twitch in curiosity. Damian only now realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever sought out a family member’s attention since he moved to Gotham. He must feel awkward, then.
“Is everything okay?” a slight concern slips with Grayson’s voice, but the foal doesn’t hurry to answer.
Grayson’s mark is a big black bird with splutters of red here and there, happy, with its wings spread in flight. A free bird, a proud bird. But also a peaceful bird, not an eagle, not a predator of some kind. It’s meaningless, if not pointless. Yet Damian feels intrigued by it. What does it say? What is the stallion’s talent?
He knows from the League that asking one about a mark is not a thing you do until you become very close. A mark is usually gotten through pain, tears, through moments of weakness and rage. Damian knows that he should keep his curiosity at bay, but… maybe with how open his classmates were about asking him the question, he has a chance to get his answer.
“How did you get your cutie mark?” slips past his lips completely unnoticed by him, and his heart stops for a second, his body realizing what he’s just done. Grayson’s eyes grow comically larger with shock. The foal prepares himself for a harsh scolding immediately, regret flooding his mind, forcing all the previous curiosity away.
“Oh. Why do you wanna know?” Grayson says instead. Though he doesn’t appear mad, he may be attempting to be polite, or just keeping composed. Yes, keeping your anger at bay - that’s what an associate of Batmane should know how to do, Damian decides.
“I apologize for my lack of manners, I didn’t mean to pry,” he backs down. If the stallion lets him go unpunished after such a slip up, he’ll be more than grateful for his luck, so he doesn’t even dare hope for father to not learn about this.
“Ah, no,” but Grayson hurries to correct him immediately, and cold dread sets down his guts. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just surprised you’re curious, that’s all.” He then smiles innocently and sweetly at Damian, confusing him further.
“Well, it happened when I was ten. My mom always used to call me her little robin, and I never knew why. So I finally asked her - and she told me the way I fly on the stage always reminded her of a free bird. Later that day, during a performance, I tried to imagine what it would be like, to be a bird. And it was amazing, my favorite performance I’ve ever done. That’s how I got the mark. For my gymnastics. That’s my talent!”
After Grayson’s done with his speech, he stares at Damian’s shocked face silently, the sweet smile returning to his face anew. The foal barely has time to compose himself, before gulping loudly.
“I… see,” he concludes shakily. He’s… never heard of a mark story like this before. It was incredible. It was impossible. It was just… too good to be true.
“That answered my questions. Goodbye, Grayson,” he excuses himself before quickly rushing out of the room, not taking a look back at the pegasus’ now shocked face.
—————————
When he looks at himself at the mirror, a shadow answers back, making him want to stumble his way back and hide. Dark gray fur, black inky hair - none of that is unusual for him. He’s always been like that, was born that way. It was his natural benefit, to be able to blend into the shadows so perfectly, to be one of them. The only bright details of his look were his eyes - vibrant, emerald, resembling the leaves of a young tree, the sweet body of a rose flower in places where it wasn’t littered by sharp thorns, resembling the horror of bathing the dead in green to make them alive again, and so much more - and, as of moderately recent, his mark. Not the entirety of it, of course. The steel dagger was no more bright than himself, painting a different shade of gray on his already gray body. The wooden handle didn’t stand out either, and when it did, it didn’t compliment him. Brown and gray were two ugly colors, he decided, which did not go well with each other. Instead, the part of his mark that did stand out, which was bright and colorful and beautiful, was the gem. The emerald embedded into the body of the knife, a shiny little thing that had no place on a weapon that was to be thrown away, yet it was there.
There was nothing wrong with his mark, of course. He earned it in cold blood and pain, he sweated and cried for it and was lucky enough to be destined to be useful, unlike most ponies. He was proud of his talent, and his mother was proud of his talent, the al Ghuls were, and even if father despised the rear mark, judging by the disgusted look on his face, he didn’t care. His mark belonged here, and he was proud of it, and there was nothing wrong with it. It’s just that… some days, he wished the emerald gem was the only part of it. Some days, he wishes to send the cursed dagger to the abyss, disregard it as the most useless part of the symbol. It’s just that some days, he wishes he was someone else.
—————————
Damian al Ghul-Wayne does not feel lonely, or invalidated, or disconnected from his family. He does not feel himself floating farther and farther away from his father because of their different ideals. He is not in any way different from his so called siblings, or even any other kids simply because his talent isn’t as regular as he previously might have thought. He perfectly understands the people surrounding him, despite the sudden change in culture and circumstances. Which is why he doesn’t care that today is the only day of the month on which Todd is finally present at the manor, and, knowing that the stallion will be in the library, likely, all day, it’s only a coincidence that he decides to go explore that part of the house as well.
Jason Todd, better known to him by the alias Red Hood, is an enigma. While he interacts with other members of the family rather civilly, even easily showing his affection for a certain purple-haired mare, he just cannot possibly stand Damian’s company. From not showing up to meet him after his arrival, to completely ignoring him once the foal got more or less situated in the city - surely, he must have somehow wronged the stallion.
Still, the similarity between the two felt odd, almost eerily so. From not being visibly too fond of the family, to being considered odd amongst them, different, not belonging anywhere but their long cast shadow, to having a wide experience with ending many ponies’ lives on their assassin missions. And, even if Damian himself preferred to not admit so, both of them had experienced the freezing embrace of death and the acidic awakening afterwards. Failure, is the word Damian calls that unflattering situation.
But still, sitting across the table from Todd, Damian cannot help but wonder. Red Hood is an enigma. He always wears his armor above his fur, and when not, fabric in one way or another always covers his body from prying eyes. It’s only natural of him to wonder, to hope. Surely, Todd must have a mark similar to his. Surely, with the talents he exhibits as a vigilante, his mark is somehow related to fighting. Maybe a weapon, like his own. Perhaps, a gun - an experience with which he could have earned while living on the streets of Gotham. Or maybe a knife, any street child could have grown fond of a weapon they used to protect themselves. But try as he might, he could never know for sure…
Maybe it wasn’t such a wise idea to sit across the stallion after all. That, however, only occurred to Damian when said stallion caught his staring gaze and sighed audibly, making the blood in the foal’s veins, once again, run cold and unmoving.
“Well, kid, what do you want?” he asks rather annoyedly, removing the attention from his book for the first time in a while. Damian suddenly feels nervous, for no reason, and words get stuck in his throat as he tries to make up his mind. Unexpectedly, Todd does not go back to his book, or shoo him away for wasting precious time. Instead, he waits patiently.
“How… did you get your mark?” the foal finally asks, coloring the air in the room with thick tension.
Subverting his expectations once again, Todd laughs. He doesn’t seem offended, nor is he shocked, and it doesn’t make any sense. In the League, to ask one, especially a stranger, such a question is insulting. Here, it should at least be out of the norm, something to bat your eyes at, and yet. And yet. Todd laughs and snickers and sharpened breaths leave his mouth like it’s no one’s business.
“Why do you wanna know, short stack?” the stallion finally calms himself enough to reply. But before Damian can so much as insert a word, he continues. “I mean, hell, have you even seen it?”
The foal shakes his head immediately. That is one thing he doesn’t want to be suspected of.
“Well, then…” Todd pauses in this thought. Then, moments later, which seem like an eternity to Damian, he slowly lifts his coat up, to reveal… a book, on his rear. An old one, with a brown, leather cover and old, yellow pages, eaten through by the stream of time.
Damian’s world crumbles from under him.
“Yeah, I know,” he considers something smugly for a moment. “So, long story short, I went to the library when I was a kid, and that nice librarian lady taught me to read. Liked it. She was sweet and all, but who was I to not steal the book?” Todd snickers by the end of it, seemingly unaware of the damage his every word deals to the pony before him. Good.
For manners like this, Damian should be punished. He would be, if he was in the League. That doesn’t stop him from standing up, muttering a silent farewell, and removing himself from the room as soon as possible without consideration of taking his book back to its place.
This shouldn’t be so surprising, really. This should change nothing. What other ponies’ talents are has no relevance to him. Yet somehow, knowing that even monsters, assassins and killers like Todd don’t wear a mark of murder on their rear…
Makes him somehow all the more wrong.
—————————
As a son of a billionaire celebrity, Damian, of course, has to be used to fame and what it brings with itself. While the short months of living in Gotham had made him used to paparazzi, attempted interviews and awe-filled stares, this is not something he’s prepared for. It’s like a family tradition, he’s told by Grayson. Every new kid in the family has to go through their first gala one day, and the others are always there to have their back. Except… he’s not like every other ‘new kid’ in this family. He hasn’t been raised as a poor peasant or regular pony. He has attended luxurious parties and dinners, either as part of his assassination missions, or as a representative of the League of Assassins to make contracts and deals. But this, somehow, is completely different. Furthermore, no one is here to have his back. Cassandra, Thomas, Brown - neither of them are going to the gala. Of the two siblings that are going to be there with him, being Drake and Grayson, only one of them he can entrust his back. The other’s only way of having his back is likely stabbing him, although he hasn’t figured out why Timothy despises him that much yet. Surely the other foal must understand that it’s only natural for him to fight for the role of Robin. There is a place for rivalry between the two, of course, but aren’t they supposed to be family? Regardless, Grayson will probably be too busy fighting off lovestruck mares the entire evening. That leaves him all by himself - which does not make him nervous.
Alfred, the helpful butler that he is, which Damian grows to appreciate more and more by the second, instructs him what he should do at the event as he applies make up. The rules seem fairly simple, be polite, behave, make a good impression, be confident and don’t let anyone’s nasty words get to you. He’s mesmerized as he watches Pennyworth cover up father’s mark of three bats, instead replacing it with a simple pile of coins. If wealth plays that much of a role in Bruce Wayne’s public persona, no surprise everyone mistakes him for being nothing but empty smiles and money. Damian watches his father’s true self disappear while something from the depths of his soul screams at him darkly, and he has to stop himself from begging to be made into a brand new person, too. He leaves, drowning himself in the big tuxedo suit instead, and when he makes sure his rear is properly hidden, he almost feels like someone else, too.
When time comes, Damian realizes that as much as Pennyworth might try, his explanations will never prepare him for the real thing. His predictions come true, of course. Grayson is immediately surrounded by all sorts of mares, one of which may be an alicorn, but whatever, not that Richard isn’t deserving of such. Drake nonchalantly moves himself to the opposite corner of the room from Damian quickly enough, too. This should be easy, really. It’s tame. The crowd isn’t as loud as one would be at a regular party, and behaves much more civilly either. And yet. All the rules installed into him by Alfred’s hard work start falling apart as soon as he’s approached by the first people who want to talk to him.
They’re three ponies, one elderly pegasus mare, and two youthful unicorns, mare and stallion respectively. It starts off okay. They say nice greetings and exchange polite questions. They compliment each other with wicked lies and pretend that that’s how people actually speak to one another. But it’s okay, and Damian’s actually managing, and for the first time that evening, he starts believing that he can do it. That’s when the dam breaks.
“I’ve heard from your schoolmates, your mark’s quite extravagant. Is that true?” words ring in Damian’s ears like a rogue bullet shot. As much as he wants to, he can’t just not answer.
“Yes, I suppose you could say so…” he trails off, trying to keep it tame. To keep it simple.
“Well, if those rumors are true, I must say, I’ve never seen someone being talented with knifes. Where does such appreciation come from, young mr. Wayne?” the pegasus lady shrieks and Damian wants her to shut up, shut up, shut up!
“I am quite fond of… cooking, that’s all,” he lies. He lies and he knows they know he lied. He’s an assassin. He’s a master of deceit. How could one thing that he has the talent for be failing him now?!
“Oh, I see!” Another chimes in. “Well, in that case, mr. Wayne, you are a person of talents! I mean, you’d kill anyone who has the heart to say otherwise, right?” At that, they laugh. Their terrible screeching overwhelms Damian’s hearing and he cannot hear anything else.
“No! No, of course not!” He’s quick to reassure someone, maybe them. Maybe himself. If him from a few months ago stood there, he would be covered in blood. His hooves would shine a violent red and his father would sigh in horror and disappointment. But he stands here now, with hooves that are too weak to run, with ears that are too broken to hear. With eyes that are too weak to cry. With a heart so open it can be broken.
He stands there, and wishes he was someone else.
—————————
He finds Cassandra in the music room, next to a piano, spread out on the floor near the giant window as she basks in the rays of sun with the most peaceful and relaxed look he’s ever seen on a mare. On a pony. It should be impossible for someone like her to be like… like this. To be so relaxed. To be so vulnerable. To be so happy. Yet it doesn’t stop her from smiling contently and rolling onto her back, and then back into her first pose, and so over, making sure that all of her fur gets exposed to the warmth of the sun.
Cain is so much like him, he thinks. He’s known her since they were children, and back then, you couldn’t tell them apart in their black capes and mission outfits. She’s done so much of what he’s done, seen so much of what he’s seen. She’s killed people as much as him, probably even more. She’s a stealth master, one who blends into shadows as one of their own, and yet manages to surface into the light as she pleases. She’s not much of liar, never needed to be when the truth hurts so much more. Still, he knows what it’s like to be her. To do what she does. He understands her.
At the same time, she’s so different. He can’t tell if it’s some sort of envy or twisted jealousy that plays in him as he looks at her, living a life he never dreamt of. He looks at her mark, a simple note, and wonders what it’s like, to not be destined to be a weapon, to pull through all odds and fight your very nature and emerge as a winner. He wonders what it’s like, to know what you really want, to fight for your cause and reject something you know immediately is wrong, instead of stalling for years at a time. He wants to know what it’s really like, to forgive yourself and love yourself and not want to be somebody, anybody else.
“Cain,” he calls out to her, even though she probably already knows he’s here, and it’s not necessary.
“No.” is her reply, and rejection feels bittersweet in his mouth.
“Call me Cass. Cassandra,” she adds then, and with her, it’s always a bit like back home (But at the same time, it’s not).
“Cassandra,” he begins again, and when the answer is a quiet affirmative hum, he takes his time to truly look at his sister, her fur and hair, the mark on her rear decorating her as if she wasn’t beautiful enough already. It’s a gift, to be someone so free, so loving and happy, and strong all the same. He wishes he was like this. He wishes, but his wishes never come true.
“How did you get your mark?” he finds himself asking without much of a hesitation. He’s already tasted rejection, one more would not be more sour.
Instead, Cassandra picks herself up and stands high on her hooves. Then, she motions him over, and only averts her gaze as he’s sitting right next to her on the floor.
“Was twelve,” she starts, and the quiet jealousy in Damian’s mind screams louder.
“Was on street. Saw… musician?” she struggles to explain, but neither her nor the foal are in a hurry. “Played music. Looked at me. Let me join,” she smiles at him, writing on the dusty glass “g e n e r o u s” with the tip of her hoof. “Liked it a lot. Peaceful. Nice,” Cassandra describes with a dreamy look on her face, and Damian thinks that it’s weird, how other people matter so much for everyone. How somehow, there’s always someone who helped, who supported them when they discovered their talent. He hears all about these meaningful moments, when he himself never even wanted a mark.
“You?”
Damian is taken aback by the mare’s sudden question, and all he can do is stare back at her confusedly. No one’s ever asked him like that, without mockery or fear. Not grandfather. If mother wasn’t there, she might have not, too.
“How did you get your mark?” this time Cassandra makes effort to spell it out, twitching her ear curiously. It would only be fair to tell her, now that she’s shared.
“I was only five years old,” he stops as the mare gasps in surprise. “It was during my usual training. I was throwing knifes at targets. It just appeared. Nothing special happened. I just continued training,” he admits honestly, and Cassandra’s smile quickly turns into a pout.
“Sad!” she exclaims. “Need to celebrate!”
At that, he finds himself the one surprised.
“What? No, Cassandra, that is not something worthy of celebration,” he assures her, but mostly, this time, himself.
“Why?” she asks in genuine confusion. “Got your mark. Talent is worth celebrating,” the mare argues.
“Yes, I did get my mark,” Damian confirms. “But it’s nothing special. It says nothing about me but that I’m an assassin since birth.”
At that, Cassandra jumps up, startling the both of them.
“Who says?!” she seems genuinely angered by the thought. Damian gulps.
“Well, all of you have such unique talents,” he pauses as his sister continues to stare at him madly. “Grayson is a gymnast. Todd likes reading. You’re a musician. Me? I’m just a killer with a talent for it.”
But whatever attempt that was at calming the mare, it only appears to anger her farther, her breathing becoming heavy.
“No! Lies! Stupid!” she denies all the same, and really, this shouldn’t be this hard. How can’t she see? He’s just a weapon. Just a tool. There’s nothing good about this.
“B-but everyone thinks so! At school, they say I’m a murderer!” he can’t help the hiccup that escapes his mouth with the words. “And father, he… he hates my mark! He can’t look at it without disgust!”
Next thing he knows, the mare’s hooves surround him in an embrace, and he’s tucked close to her chest.
“Not true,” she whispers gently to his ear. “You’re special. You’re not a murderer. You appreciate weapons. Your blades are most beautiful. That is special,” when she finishes, he can’t help but hiccup into her fur and mutter another disagreement.
“My music is most beautiful. Your blades are most beautiful. Nothing bad about it. We are all special.”
Whatever words get stuck on the edge of Damian’s tongue, he doesn’t think he wants to say them anymore, as he drifts off in peace, and maybe, just this once, it’s okay to just be him.
—————————
When he wakes up the next morning, he’s not on the wooden floor of a sunlit room, or in Cassandra’s embrace. Instead, he’s under the covers of a soft blanket, lying on a warm bed. He forced his eyes open, and while it feels like he should be leaving the bed soon, he really doesn’t want to. He pulls himself up and sits, stretching and yawning. Maybe he’ll be late to school, if he doesn’t get up. So get up he does. As he attempts to find his way into the dining room, his father finds him fist.
“Damian,” he says, and it’s the first time in a while he’s heard his name in the stallion’s voice. He turns to face him immediately.
“Yes, father?” he waits patiently for whatever task he has to complete.
“Please come with me to my office.”
And that’s… a strange request. He’s been to father’s office before, when he got bad grades, or when he got into fights with other foals. But right now, he can’t recall anything, any single thing that he might’ve done wrong. Maybe he overslept school today? That would be unfortunate.
When they both sit, father at his desk, and Damian across of him, the stallion coughs awkwardly.
“Would you like to know how I got my mark?” he suddenly asks, and everything in the foal’s head stops. His heart skips a beat.
“Yes, if you would like to tell me,” he keeps it simple. He always does.
Father hesitates before getting up and looking out the window.
“When I was ten, I fell into one of the caves in the Batcave’s system. It was full of bats, they terrified me and all I could do was wait for help. Then, suddenly, the bats cleared out and flew deeper into the cave. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried following them. They led me to the current Batcave, where I found an opening and snuck into the manor. Without these bats, I might have not been here right now.”
Whatever Damian expected, that was not it. It was uncharacteristic of his father, to speak so openly and truthfully. To be afraid. But before he can come up with anything to say, Bruce interrupts him once more.
“Cassandra told me yesterday that you think I hate your mark and talent,” his words seem heavy as he forces them out of his throat with a troubled look. “I’m sorry that I made you feel this way,” he finishes with an apology.
“That is alright, father. After all, it’s not wrong to hate a murderer,” he, again, replies simply, because it’s not his father’s fault. It’s no one’s but his own.
“No, Damian, you are not a murderer,” Bruce’s words are loud and clear. Why doesn’t anybody understand? “You are my son. You’re a talented foal who is indeed very special. No one here hates your mark, and whoever who does doesn’t deserve your attention,” he calms, and it doesn’t taste sweet, like lies, when it should. Damian looks down at the floor, his hair casting a shadow upon his face, and thinks. Fathers hums above him before… before…
“Damian, do you hate your mark?” It’s so simple, and yet so complicated, so hard, why does it have to be? He has to be stronger than this, the tears gathering on the edge of his eyes are not allowed, but they’re here and he can’t stop them.
“My mark is no more than visual proof that I’m a skilled assassin since birth. There’s nothing special about it or me,” he finished with his voice going a tone higher than he wants it to.
“Of course there is! How could you say that?” his father, sister, brother, everyone seems so confused when he says that. The truth is supposed to be painful, hurtful, but not confusing. What is he saying wrong?
“Wouldn’t it be better if I was someone else? If your son was someone else, someone who’s less… me,” he’s unable to finish the thought as sour tears stream down his face, so much like rain, except they’re salty and dirty and while rain is natural, his aren’t supposed to be there at all.
“No, never,” the stallion continues to deny.
“Why?” Is really all Damian can mutter before more tears fall down his face, which is quickly pressed against the other pony’s chest. Deja vu.
“Because I love you the way you are. Because you’re special and talented. You’ve changed since you came here, a lot. You’re kind, and polite, and care about others a lot. You want to be Robin to help people, even if I don’t let you yet. And you’re my son. That’s why.”
The words are drowned out by the foal’s hiccups and cries.
“I just want to be normal,” he says at last. “I just don’t know where to start.”
Tears are then swiftly cleaned off his face.
“Well, how about we go get ice cream tomorrow with your siblings?” father offers with one of these smiles of his that Damian didn’t know he was craving. It feels warm. It feels fine. It feels like being himself isn’t a sin anymore.
“Okay!”
And then, he smiles.