The pond is still when you find him, the surface still as glass beneath the trees. Damon stands at the water’s edge with his hands deep in his pockets, and you can see the tension in the line of his shoulders, the kind that has nothing to do with frontline battles and everything to do with being scolded like he's still a boy. He doesn't turn when you approach, he already knows it is you.

“He thinks I’m a coward,” he says at last, voice rough and too casual in the way Damon uses when he's trying not to let anyone in. The words land with more force than he intends, because beneath them is the old wound of a son still reaching, still wanting, still failing to earn his father’s approval. “Deserted the army, deserted the family name, deserted every grand expectation he ever bothered to pin on me.” A short, humourless laugh escapes him, and he kicks a stray twig into the water. “Apparently I’m a disgrace. When am I not?”

The bitterness in him is sharp, but it's threaded with shame. The disappointment of an abusive father should mean nothing, ought to mean nothing, but it brands Damon all the same. As though some cruel part of him still believes love must be earned through suffering.

When he finally glances at you, the mask is cracked just enough to show how much he's hurting. “He'd rather I died on that battlefield than deserted,” he murmurs, quieter now, "And he'd spit on my grave even then.”