Chapter Text
The dreams had been plaguing you for weeks. Each morning you woke with the taste of ash on your tongue and a buzzing under your skin.
A boy falling in flames
A man rising to burn the world that failed him
Deep dark drowning depths
Whispers of things that should not be heard
Cold fingers clinging to warm flesh
Life where death had claimed its stake
It was difficult not to give in to the itch, the urge to let the prophecy spill from your tongue and your veins. No more blood, no more pain. Only the dry shuffle of old cards on the table and their curling edges under your fingers.
“You are not what they tried to make you,” you told the girl in the mirror. “You are different now.”
Hard to remember, sometimes. Close to impossible not to claw at your skin and let it all out. You reminded yourself of the tricks the old fortune teller had taught you. Close your eyes, feel the cards under your skin, let the itch guide you to speaking the future in a different way. Ignore the ache of the old scars, the quiet pity in strangers’ eyes when they saw what had been done to your face.
You were not the helpless instrument of so-called divine revelations. No, you refused to become that ever again.
So you went to your cards, shuffled them, closed your eyes and let destiny guide your hands.
Rumor spread of a pretty girl in Gotham Village with a scarred and blind eye and an uncanny ability to predict the future. You spread your cards for more and more people, lost yourself in the trance and let the buzz under your skin control your actions. Fortunes, not prophecies, but small enough and powerful enough to relieve the undying urge to be a speaker for destiny. If someone came to your door, you did not turn them down, spreading your cards for any person who had the money to pay you.
But you did readings for yourself, too. Since the dreams had started, they were always the same.
Hanged Man. Six of Swords. Death.
You knew the spread. You were the Hanged Man. A symbol of divination, meditation, prophecy. Six of Swords for a long journey. But Death? Your spreads were for the future, not the past. You had already traveled to the new start that Death usually signified. Maybe Death was a person or a place you would journey to, a companion. The edges of the cards were splitting apart with the amount of times you had handled them, memorized the art on their faces.
Hanged Man. Six of Swords. Death.
Icarus rising from a glowing pit, life where death had made its claim.
The buzz got worse with each passing day. It distracted from your readings, Death showing up in each one until you cleared your head and focused.
Death. Death. Death.
It plagued you, that card. Showed up in your dreams, as a man with red static for a face and a pistol in each hand. Who was he, this man who kept invading your fortunes? Had he been hired to kill you, or to take you back to the compound you had escaped? Would he lead you on this journey destiny had in mind for you, or would he be at the end of it?
Your scars itched and burned, the mass of scar tissue over what remained of your left eye hurting the worst.
The wound had been meant as a punishment, but had given you the keys to your freedom.
Hours felt like days as you waited for the future to come, for destiny to take you in hand and do as it pleased with you.
As it turned out, you did not have to wait long.
The moment he stepped through the door, hood up and hands in the pockets of his coat, the static under your skin had turned into a painful burn. He was big, this man who hid his face from you, almost a foot taller than you and covered in thick muscle. A scar was visible on his jaw, dark stubble on his tan skin and shoulders slumped with an invisible weight. You had been getting ready to prepare dinner when he came in, fingers going to the thick scars on the inside of your arms, blunt nails scraping over them.
“You came for a fortune,” you said. It was not a question. That was the only thing people came to you for.
“I did. Word has it that you’re the best in town.” His voice was deep, rasping. A shiver went down your spine.
“I just do what I do,” you answered, voice soft. “Please, sit.”
You motioned to the table you’d set up in the tiny front room. Four plush chairs that you had reupholstered yourself sat around a large, circular table. The woven tablecloth had been given to you by the old fortune teller who had lived there before. Your decks sat in the middle, fading paper calling to your tingling fingertips. The man sat, hesitating for a moment before he pulled his hood down and you got a good look at his face.
He was handsome, severe. His jaw, his cheekbones, his nose were all at sharp angles. His black hair was marred by a thick streak of white in the front that hung in his face. But it was his eyes that you found the most alluring. The color of his irises was an iridescent, unnatural green. They seemed to glow in the poorly lit space, rising to meet your own. A muscle in his jaw ticked as his gaze flicked to your bad eye, the scarring there. But he looked away just as quickly, dropped his gaze to your fingers as they scratched over your skin.
“Would you like some tea?” you blurted.
Over a year of freedom, and you still found social interaction to be terrifying and confusing.
“Sure.” He looked amused, shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the chair next to him. “Appreciate it.”
Ducking your head, you could feel his gaze on you as you scurried into the kitchen. Your movements were mechanical as you shoved a mug of water into the microwave to heat up. Fingers itching, you followed the feeling to pull out a bag of jasmine tea, set it in the hot water to steep. It felt like ants were burrowing under your skin, but you refused to give in.
“You are not what they made you,” you whispered to yourself as you carried out the tea. “You are not what they made you.”
Keeping your eyes down, you set the mug down in front of the man. If he had heard you speaking to yourself, he didn’t show any sign of it. Instead, he remained quiet as you let your hand drift to your favorite deck. The old woman had gifted it to you, the first deck you ever had. The pictures were fading, small tears at the edges of each card. But it helped you channel the best, each reading clear and precise without any guesswork on your part. Spreading the cards out in front of you, you looked up to find him watching you.
“What do you wish to know?” you asked.
“I have a small… problem that I’m dealing with right now. How do I solve it?”
Purposely vague. Your heart sank. You’d had men and women like him in before, ones who wanted discretion but still expected accurate prophecy. When they came, they left disappointed. If they could not be honest with you, how could they expect destiny to be fully honest with them.
Much to your surprise, you found your fingers already drifting to the cards. A five-card spread, far too detailed for such vague wording. You turned them over, your suspicions confirmed.
Death.
So, this was the man who had appeared in your dreams and your own readings.
The Devil.
A card you had rarely pulled before. Already, you could feel the fortune sitting heavy on the back of your tongue.
Eight of Wands.
Swift and decisive action. The burn under your skin dulled.
King of Swords.
Ruthless, quick to render judgement. You trembled as you turned the last card.
The Hanged Man.
Before you could stop it, the fortune was spilling from your lips, eyes closed.
“The enemy is swift in their actions, and already knows that you are aware of them. You must find them and render the ruthless judgement that they would have delivered to you. Prophecy will guide you, keep them from reclaiming what you took from them,” you breathed.
“Who is the enemy?” he asked, leaning forward.
Your hand drifted to The Devil, lifted the card to present it to him. You opened your eyes, the pressure rising once more and pressing against your bones.
“The Devil,” you whispered. “Surrounded by material pleasures, reveling in the dominance and subjugation of those around him. The pit…” A wave of pain lanced through you, teeth grinding. “Angel of the pit. Angel of enmity.”
Realization dawned on his face, but it did not stop the crawling under your skin. There was a prophecy that needed to be spoken, but the cards were not enough.
You are no longer what they made you! You are no longer what they made you!
You slammed the card down on the table, sweat beading on your temples. The man watched you, concern etched in his uncanny eyes. Each breath you took was trembling, heart beating a rapid rhythm against your ribs. Never before had you felt such pain, such urgency to spill prophecy. Meeting his eyes, you made a decision.
“I have a prophecy,” you whispered. “But it only spills forth with my blood, with pain. Are you willing to listen?”
Hesitance, discomfort. But you couldn’t wait. You laid your hand out before him, palm up.
“Your knife,” you said. “The first step on a journey waits for you. All I need is a blade, and it will be done.”
The man stared at you, stared at the thick scars that lined your arms.
How many times had they bled you? How many times had they forced the prophecy from you and claimed it as divine? How many times had you thought pain was all you were meant to know?
His hand was warm, large, calloused. The knife he pressed into your palm was small, a thin blade with a razor-sharp edge. Your smile was trembling, relieved. Fingers curling around the handle, you let the cold metal rest against the back of your hand. You looked back up at him, body trembling with need.
“When the blood spills,” you instructed him, “say these words: ‘Speak, Prophet, and I will listen.’ I cannot tell you what the prophecy will be, but I know it is urgent.”
He gave a short nod, winced as you sliced the skin. It wasn’t a deep cut, just enough to let blood well. Euphoria rushed through your veins, a soft gasp escaping your chapped lips.
“Speak, Prophet,” he said, voice close and deep and making you shudder, “and I will listen.”
As your blood spilled, so did the prophecy, terrible as it flowed from your tongue.
“Icarus, Lazarus, prodigal son, impossible miracle. Twelve shadows track you, seeking to take back the life that death had claimed. The first is here, hunts you already. In darkness is his domain, his counsel to bring about wickedness and guilt. Angel of the pit, angel of emity. He smells the blood on your hands. Only the Hanged Man, the Hanged Woman, the Prophet can guide you to keep the gift of Lazarus from being reclaimed. Heed these words and let the path of blood guide you.”
Twisting in the chair, your head rolled back, fingers clutching at the tablecloth, you moaned as the prophecy continued, molten on your tongue.
“Belial, Belial, he sits in his ivory tower. Belial, Belial, he seeks the Lazarus. Belial, Belial, so dark and so cruel, he sends the Angel of Death. The Devil, The Devil! He sees both faces and plots your demise within the week. First of twelve cuts, first of the path. Blood spills and he sees from the shadows. O Lazarus, take up your sword and strike his head from his shoulders.”
One last sigh escaped your lips before you regained control, breathing heavily. Your weak body was cradled in the man’s strong arms. At some point he must have gotten up to hold you, kept your thrashing limbs from hurting yourself. You blinked up at him, the knife forgotten on the table. There was a strange look in his eyes, his thumb smearing the blood on the back of your hand.
“What’s your name?” he asked, voice low.
“I don’t have one.” An honest answer. The old woman had tried to get you to choose one, but you had insisted on remaining nameless. Names had no use for someone like you.
You are not what they made you. You chose this cut. You took control.
“We’ll work on that.” He helped you to your feet, kept his hands on your shoulders to steady you. “My name is Jason Todd.”
When you met his gaze, the smile he offered you was dark.
“I think you’re the answer to my problem.”