milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There's a tarot card in a chair. She's comfortable there, playing Cat's Cradle with sparkly purple string.

She's playing it by herself, and she's doing rather well.

Her bare feet bop to a song only she hears, and her bright eyes are very intent on the string, her fingers rearranging it until it form a pretty pattern.

Well, it's pretty to her.

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She doesn't.

Not one bit.

"It is. The sound of life and choices and chance."

He steps out with her, sighing softly at the feel of the dirt and grass on his feet. Not all of it is soft, but all the sensations are appreciated.

"Does it reassure you when the hard choices come?"

"All choices are hard."

She watches him as they walk.

"Every choice is weighed and fretted over, even if you don't realize it's happening."

Damian thinks on that. Some choices seem very easy to him, but it might just be his perception. He is seeing from his place tangled in the strings, which Moon is on the outside, seeing the pattern before it is fully formed. Maybe that's the difference.

"So true spontaneity doesn't exist? I would think some choices are unweighed. Some choices come naturally and without thought to some people."

"Would you? Such as?" she asks, curious.

It always interests her how the sentients view choice.

Damian hums thoughtfully. "Routine. What is routine if not a series of choices you make without much thought? Routine can be broken by circumstance or conscious choice, but habit takes care of the little choices, consolidating them into a more broad choice of following the routine as usual or not."

It's an interesting thing to think about. There are choices in his past that he made without much thought. "She Who Made Me took pleasure in breaking and forming habits and routines. Training... conditioning... They make choices into reflexes, something visceral that takes no conscious thought. You learn not to hesitate on the battlefield. You can be taught not to argue. You can be conditioned to do precisely what another tells you, because you start believing there isn't a choice to make, so it is made without being weighed."

Moon looks up at him, pausing in their walk.

"Then you choose not to choose, Damian. You give that up to the other people."

"And that in itself is a choice... the choice that trumps the others."

He doesn't like that thought. It causes a small frown to bloom on his face.

"You made that choice several times, giving up the right to decide things over and over."

She tilts her head.

"Much like the kitten does."

Damian looks out into the forest.

"We are much alike, despite our differences," he agrees. It might be part of the reason they share a certain kinship.

They both had protected themselves by giving up the choice to others. He doesn't like the thought that he and Nathaniel had dug their own figurative graves and caused their own suffering, but there is truth to it, nonetheless. The choice had been there. It was just that the alternative had been too terrible, too much for the mind to handle.

Did it make him weak? Did it make Nathaniel weak? How did the choices of others figure in to it all? Did that change anything?

His head begins to hurt.

Moon's fingers move over Damian's brow.

"It is not weak to survive," she murmurs.

Green eyes meet.

"Is that the choice we both made?"

"To survive."

It is the most basic of choices, made by the most primal of parts within the heart of a sentient.

A knot tightens in his throat, memories too close to the surface for comfort. He nods, the answer making him feel better and worse, all at the same time.

They had chosen to survive... and they had.

Moon's fingers move down his brow, over his cheek, and to his lips.

"But it all brought you here. Now. Together. Happiness just a choice away, and when that choice comes... you will know what you want. What you will take. What matters most."

Another riddle that will only be solved when the time comes. He accepts it, though, trusting her words because there is no reason not to. She knows his path better than he does, and he knows she doesn't lie.

He trusts Moon.

Now, if only he could trust himself...

The thought finally brings a smile to his face, sad though it may be, and he squeezes Moon's hand. "Here and now isn't too bad."

"No, it isn't. It's better than what is was, but less than what it will be."

Moon cups his face gently, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"You just need to have more faith in yourself."

Damian releases a slow breath. Faith has never been his strong suit.

"I'll try," he promises her, knowing that it will be quite an endeavour.

She steps back, taking his hand again, smiling.

"I know."

They walk in silence for a few minutes, and, oddly enough, it is Damian that breaks the silence.

"How is it you manage to be demanding without being demanding?" he asks with a hint of exasperated amusement.

"It's a talent," she says with a giggle. "To be overly dominating or demanding only chases people away. They resist. Besides, I don't have to be overbearingly demanding. I just... give a gentle push."

And this vampire 'gently' pushes back, giving her a small shove. It's in his nature as a warrior, after all. Or, at least, that's the excuse he'll give if she challenges it.

Moon laughs, nuzzling Damian's shoulder.

"Silly vampire."

She dances ahead of him, her feet sinking into the soft, cool sand around the lake's edge.

Damian follows more slowly, watching her appreciatively and enjoying the night that surrounds them. His thoughts flit here and there, but whenever something threatens to steal him away from the moment, Moon is there to gently pull him back to the present.

Walking or dancing, following her or simply standing still, he was given a choice tonight, and he is glad that he took it and made it his own.

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