Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in the training pit was thick with the metallic tang of sweat and the faint, acrid scent of fear. It clung to the rough-hewn stone walls, seeped into the worn leather of the sparring dummies, and coated the back of Lumen’s throat like dust, a pervasive reminder of the constant struggle for survival that defined their existence. The very stones seemed to hum with a low, oppressive energy, a silent testament to generations of brutal discipline. He was small, barely five years old, a wisp of a boy whose eyes, a startling, vivid green, seemed too large for his pale face. They were eyes that had seen too much, held too much, witnessing horrors that would scar a grown man, and yet, paradoxically, still held a flicker of something stubbornly soft, something the League of Assassins had tried, and failed, to extinguish. It was a defiant spark, a quiet refusal to let the darkness consume him entirely.

Across the pit, Damian moved with a brutal, elegant precision that belied his nine years. His dark hair, already a familiar shadow, whipped around his face as he executed a flawless disarm, twisting the wooden practice blade from his opponent’s grasp before delivering a swift, precise strike to the solar plexus. The other boy, older and heavier, crumpled with a grunt, gasping for air. Damian didn’t even spare him a glance, his gaze already sweeping the pit, sharp and predatory, assessing, calculating, always seeking the next challenge. He was a weapon, forged in the chilling silence of the mountain fortress, honed by the relentless tutelage of the League, a living embodiment of their doctrine of perfection and ruthlessness. Every movement was economical, every breath controlled, a testament to the years of unforgiving training that had stripped away any childish innocence.

Cradled within the merciless embrace of the League of Assassins, children were not merely born; they were designated, their names often chosen with a chilling precision to reflect their perceived destiny or a desired trait. Damian, the elder, bore a name that, in some interpretations, meant "to tame" or "to master" – a fitting, if ironic, aspiration for the League's heir, a boy they intended to bend to their will and unleash upon the world. For the younger, the mystics, sensing a unique, resonant energy within him even in his infancy, had bestowed the name Lumen . In Latin, 'Lumen' means 'light,' specifically referring to the luminous flux, the visible light emitted by a source. This was a choice born of their initial observations: Lumen was physically smaller, less robust than other children his age, a perceived weakness in a world that valued only strength. Yet, they had sensed a strange, inner brilliance, an unusual energy signature that hinted at a non-physical power. They hoped to twist this 'light' into a tool of psychological warfare, to make him a beacon of fear. But to Lumen , and to those who might one day understand his true nature, it was a name that spoke of inner illumination, of knowledge, and of a quiet, persistent hope that could cut through the deepest shadows. It was a name that, despite its ancient roots, could, with a slight adjustment in pronunciation, subtly blend into English, perhaps even shortened to "Lou," offering a quiet camouflage for a boy destined to be anything but ordinary.

Lumen watched Damian, a knot of familiar anxiety tightening in his stomach. He wasn’t meant for this. The rigorous drills, the bone-deep aches that settled into his small frame after each session, the constant, low thrum of violence that permeated every moment of their existence – it all grated against something fundamental within him, a core of gentleness that felt alien in this harsh world. His own training sessions were a blur of clumsy movements, missed targets, and the quiet, disappointed sighs of their instructors, sighs that felt like physical blows. He was a disappointment, a weakness, a liability in the eyes of the League, a child who lacked the killer instinct they so desperately sought to cultivate.

But he had a secret. A strange, humming energy that lived beneath his skin, a warmth that radiated from his chest and sometimes, when he was afraid or deeply upset, pulsed outward in a wave he couldn’t control. It had started subtly, a vague sense of other people’s emotions, a sudden, inexplicable calm washing over a crying child in the barracks, or a flash of anger from a distant instructor that he felt as a sharp, unpleasant jab in his own chest. As he grew, it became more defined, more potent. He could feel the cold, calculating rage of their masters, a chilling presence that made his teeth ache, the simmering resentment of the older trainees, a low, constant thrum of discontent, the raw, unadulterated fear of the younger ones, a desperate, silent plea. And, most importantly, he could feel Damian.

Damian’s emotions were a tempest, a chaotic symphony of fury and pride, of a fierce, desperate need for approval from their mother and grandfather, and a deep, buried loneliness that resonated with Lumen ’s own. Lumen was the only one who could truly sense it, the only one who could sometimes, with a touch, a shared glance, or a silent projection of his own burgeoning calm, temper the storm within his brother. Their bond wasn’t just blood; it was forged in the crucible of shared suffering, strengthened by Lumen ’s unspoken empathy, and Damian’s fierce, almost possessive, protectiveness. Damian, for all his harsh exterior, had a soft spot for his younger brother, a loyalty born of their shared isolation.

“ Lumen !” The sharp voice of Instructor R’as, a stern woman with eyes like chips of obsidian that seemed to bore into his very soul, cut through the din. Her presence alone was enough to make the air crackle with tension. “Your turn. Spar with Kael.”

Kael was a year older than Lumen , a hulking boy with a cruel streak and a penchant for making his sparring partners cry. He relished in inflicting pain, both physical and emotional. Lumen ’s stomach churned, a cold dread washing over him. He could feel Kael’s anticipation, a smug, eager malice that made his skin crawl, a dark, unpleasant hum in his empathic senses. He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, to push out the fear, to project a semblance of calm, but it was a losing battle against the overwhelming wave of Kael’s aggressive intent.

Damian, who had been observing from the side, his eyes narrowed, took a step forward, his jaw tight. “Instructor, Kael is too large for Lumen . It is an unfair match.” His voice, though young, carried an undeniable authority, a legacy of his lineage.

R’as turned, her expression unyielding, a flicker of irritation in her cold eyes. “Fairness is a luxury, Damian. In battle, your opponent will not cater to your weaknesses. Lumen needs to learn to overcome.” Her gaze flickered to Lumen , a hint of something calculating, almost predatory, in her eyes. She wasn’t just seeing a weak child; she was seeing a potential, a raw, untapped power. “Unless he is too weak to try.”

The taunt was deliberate, designed to provoke, to push Lumen into a desperate, perhaps revealing, response. Lumen felt a flush creep up his neck, a hot wave of shame and indignation. He knew Damian would fight for him, would challenge the instructor, but he also knew the consequences. Disobedience was met with swift, brutal punishment, a lesson etched into the very fabric of their upbringing. He couldn’t let Damian suffer for him, not when he had already endured so much.

He met Damian’s worried gaze, a silent plea passing between them. Then, with a silent, desperate effort, he pushed. It was a subtle wave, a whisper of calm, a diluted sense of his own resolve, aimed directly at Damian. Don’t. I’ll be fine. Don’t risk it. He poured all his protective instincts into that single empathic nudge.

Damian’s shoulders, tense and coiled like a spring ready to release, relaxed almost imperceptibly. He still looked furious, his fists clenched at his sides, but the immediate impulse to intervene seemed to recede, replaced by a grudging acceptance. He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his head, and stepped back, his eyes still fixed on Lumen with a simmering intensity. Lumen felt a pang of guilt, knowing he had used his power on his brother, a subtle manipulation, but also a surge of relief. It was a small price to pay for Damian’s safety.

He stepped onto the mat, facing Kael. The older boy grinned, a flash of white teeth in a grimy face, his eyes glinting with malicious glee. “Ready to cry, little bird?” he sneered, circling Lumen like a hungry predator.

Lumen didn’t answer. He raised his practice blade, the wood feeling impossibly heavy in his small, trembling hands. Kael lunged, a clumsy but powerful attack, a wild swing designed to intimidate. Lumen parried weakly, his blade skittering off Kael’s with a jarring clang. He felt Kael’s triumphant glee, a sharp, unpleasant sensation that made his teeth clench. Kael pressed his advantage, forcing Lumen back, raining down blows with increasing ferocity. Lumen blocked, dodged, and stumbled, his small frame buffeted by the impacts, each strike sending a jolt of pain up his arms. He could feel the pain, the fear, the humiliation, all intensified by his empathic sensitivity, a cacophony of unpleasant sensations that threatened to overwhelm him. It was unbearable.

Then, a sudden, sharp jolt. Not from Kael’s blade, but from within him. A surge of pure, raw energy, like a tiny sun exploding in his chest, radiating outwards. It was the same energy he used to calm Damian, but now it was amplified, uncontrolled, fueled by his desperate need for the assault to cease. He felt a sudden, intense desire for the pain to stop, for Kael to feel what he was feeling, to understand the agony he was inflicting.

Without conscious thought, he lashed out, not with his blade, but with the energy. It wasn’t physical, not a punch or a kick. It was a wave, a silent, invisible force that slammed into Kael, a pure, concentrated dose of the fear and pain Lumen himself was experiencing.

Kael froze. His eyes widened, his face contorted in a silent scream of pure terror. He dropped his blade, clutching his head, his body writhing as if in unimaginable agony. He collapsed to the ground, whimpering, his smug malice replaced by a terror so profound it made Lumen ’s own stomach clench in sympathy, even as a strange, unsettling calm settled over him. Kael thrashed on the ground, his mind seemingly trapped in a nightmare of his own making.

The pit went silent. The other trainees, who had been watching with varying degrees of boredom and anticipation, now stared, their faces slack with shock. Instructor R’as stared, her eyes narrowed to mere slits, a flicker of intense curiosity replacing her usual sternness. Damian, too, was staring, a flicker of something akin to awe, and perhaps a touch of fear, in his intense gaze.

“What did you do, boy?” R’as’s voice was low, dangerous, but laced with an undeniable undercurrent of fascination.

Lumen swallowed, his throat dry. “I… I don’t know. He was hurting me, and I just… I wanted him to stop. I wanted him to feel it.” The last words were a whisper, barely audible.

R’as stood, her gaze piercing, dissecting him. “You felt his fear, didn’t you? You amplified it. Projected it back at him, a mirror of his own cruelty. An empathic feedback loop.” She looked at Lumen with a new intensity, no longer seeing a liability, but something else entirely. Something valuable. Something to be exploited, to be refined into a weapon unlike any they had encountered. The League had always sought to control and weaponize metahuman abilities, and Lumen ’s unique gift presented an unprecedented opportunity.

From that day forward, Lumen ’s training changed dramatically. He was no longer just a clumsy recruit, dismissed as a weak link. He was a project, a rare specimen. He was subjected to endless tests, prodded and poked by the League’s mystics, their eyes gleaming with scientific curiosity and ruthless ambition. They forced him to use his abilities on animals, then on prisoners, then on other trainees, pushing him to control it, to weaponize it, to turn his innate empathy into a tool of psychological warfare. They wanted him to break minds, to instill terror, to manipulate emotions for strategic advantage. He resisted, always, with every fiber of his being. He would project calm, not fear. He would soothe, not torment. He would shield, not attack. He would find ways to subtly subvert their commands, to lessen the impact of his forced projections. But the resistance was exhausting, a constant drain on his already limited energy, and the punishments for his failures were severe, designed to break his spirit and force his compliance. He was often left weak, trembling, but his resolve remained unbroken.

Damian was his only solace, his unwavering anchor in the swirling chaos of his new reality. In the stolen moments after lights out, when the barracks were plunged into a deceptive silence, or during their meager meals, Damian would find him, a silent presence, a comforting weight. He would share his own meager rations, tend to Lumen ’s bruises with a surprising gentleness, or simply sit beside him, a solid, unwavering anchor in the swirling chaos of the League. Lumen , in turn, would project a quiet sense of peace, a shield against the crushing despair that threatened to engulf them both. He would whisper stories of a world beyond the mountains, a world he barely remembered himself, shimmering fragments of green fields and blue skies, of laughter and warmth, a world where kindness wasn’t a weakness but a strength, a guiding principle. These stories were their secret, their shared rebellion against the League’s bleak reality.

The months crawled by, marked by the relentless rhythm of training, the constant ache of hunger, and the pervasive chill of the mountain air. Lumen grew, slowly, his small frame stretching, his features sharpening. He learned to control his powers with a precision that astonished even the mystics, though he always used them for defense or subtle influence, never for the cruelty they demanded. He was six now, his green eyes still holding that stubborn spark, but also a deeper understanding of the world’s harshness. Damian, now ten, was a formidable young warrior, his skills honed to a razor’s edge, his loyalty to Lumen an unshakeable bedrock in his otherwise ruthless personality. He was taller than Lumen now, his movements fluid and deadly, a true heir to the Al Ghul legacy. The League had molded him into a weapon, but Lumen had kept a tiny corner of his heart soft.

One night, after a particularly grueling session where the mystics had pushed Lumen’s empathic abilities to their limit, trying to force him to pry secrets from a captive, Lumen felt a strange, fragmented impression. It wasn’t a direct thought, but a flash of a stark, shadowed city, a towering, gothic mansion, and an overwhelming sense of stern, unyielding will, tied to a name: Wayne .

He stumbled back to their shared sleeping mat, his small body trembling, more from the psychic residue than physical exhaustion. Damian, ever watchful, immediately sensed his distress.

“What is it, Lumen ?” Damian’s voice was low, concerned, his hand resting on his brother’s shoulder.

“Gotham… Wayne…” Lumen whispered, shivering. “A man… very strong… feels… like us.” He struggled to articulate the vague, yet powerful, psychic impression. It was as if a piece of information had slipped through the cracks of the mystics' careful mental barriers, an echo of something they were studying, something they knew.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Wayne?” The name, though unfamiliar, held a resonance, a hint of something forbidden. “What do you mean, ‘like us’?”

“Family… I think,” Lumen murmured, his head aching. “It felt like… a secret. Something they hide.”

The next day, during a rare moment of unsupervised exploration – a consequence of the ongoing storm damage to the fortress distracting the guards – Damian acted on Lumen’s fragmented vision. Driven by a primal curiosity and an unwavering trust in Lumen’s unusual senses, he sought out the forbidden archives, a place usually under heavy guard. He knew of a hidden passage, a loose stone in a less-used corridor, a secret he had kept since he was a toddler. He slipped inside, a shadow within shadows, guided by an instinct that told him this was important, connected to Lumen’s strange premonition.

He found it, not a grand prophecy, but a smaller, intricately carved wooden box, tucked away behind dusty scrolls and obscure texts. It was sealed, but Damian’s small, strong fingers, accustomed to lock-picking and intricate traps, found the subtle mechanism. Inside lay a single, aged parchment, written in the archaic script of the League.

His eyes scanned the document, his breath catching as he deciphered the words. It wasn’t a grand revelation, but a cold, concise record. It spoke of their mother, Talia al Ghul, and then, starkly, named their progenitor. Bruce Wayne. Of Gotham. And it outlined the League’s long-term designs for his lineage, for them, the children of the Bat, born and raised by the Demon. A future where they would be turned against their biological father, against the city he protected.

Damian read it again, slowly, the implications sinking in like ice. His father. The legendary, elusive figure his mother sometimes spoke of in veiled terms, a formidable adversary, a challenge to his grandfather. This Bruce Wayne was not just a target; he was their father. Both of theirs. And the League intended to use them against him.

He returned to Lumen, his face a mask of carefully controlled emotion, but Lumen felt the tempest beneath – shock, anger, a flicker of something akin to betrayal, but also a fierce, new determination. Damian laid the parchment on their mat, smoothing it with a trembling hand.

“ Lumen ,” Damian said, his voice barely a whisper, “You were right. Our father… it’s a man named Bruce Wayne. He lives in Gotham.” He pointed to the name, his finger shaking slightly. “This is who they mean for us to fight. To destroy.”

Lumen ’s green eyes widened, tracing the words. A new surge of understanding, of recognition, washed over him, amplifying the sense of connection he had felt. Bruce Wayne. Their father. The name resonated with a strange, undeniable pull, a magnetic force drawing them towards the unknown.

A new, potent resolve solidified in them both. Escape was no longer just about survival; it was about seeking answers, about confronting a destiny they refused to accept. Gotham was not just a distant city; it was their origin, their destination, a place where their true identity lay hidden, waiting to be claimed. Their lineage was a weapon the League intended to wield, but for Damian and Lumen , it became a reason to flee, a beacon guiding them towards a freedom they hadn't truly comprehended until now.

“We will escape,” Damian vowed again that night, his voice fiercer, more resolute than ever, imbued with a new, burning purpose. “Both of us. We will leave this place. And we will find him. Our father.”

Lumen nodded, his own heart pounding with a mixture of fear and burgeoning hope. The vague memories of a different life, a different name – Harry – seemed to coalesce around this new, profound truth. He was Lumen, but he was also connected to this 'Bruce Wayne', a hidden piece of a puzzle.

The opportunity came during a rare, violent storm that battered the mountain fortress. The wind howled like a banshee, rattling the ancient stones, and the rain fell in sheets, turning the treacherous mountain paths into raging torrents. A section of the outer wall was damaged, the guards distracted by the emergency, their attention fractured. Damian, ever alert, ever watchful, saw it, a sliver of hope in the heart of the tempest.

“Now!” he hissed, his eyes gleaming with fierce determination, pulling Lumen from their bunk. “This is our chance! We must move!”

They moved through the darkened corridors, two small shadows, guided by Damian’s innate stealth, a skill honed by years of silent observation, and Lumen ’s heightened senses, which picked up the distant shouts of guards, the creak of stressed stone under the storm’s assault, the frantic pulse of the storm outside, a chaotic symphony of wind and rain. They reached the damaged section of the wall, a gaping maw in the stone, wind and rain lashing through it, a terrifying but exhilarating portal to the outside world.

But there were guards. Two of them, trying to secure the breach, their faces grim and focused. And more coming, their heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor. Every second was a lifetime. The wind shrieked, a siren call of freedom, but also a warning of the dangers that lay beyond the walls and the rapidly closing window of opportunity.

Damian tensed, ready to strike, his small body coiled for violence. But Lumen knew. He could feel the cold, hard certainty of their recapture, the brutal, agonizing punishment that awaited them if they failed. He could feel the guards’ rising awareness, their confusion shifting to alarm. The window was closing. He had to act.

His mind raced, processing the myriad emotional currents around him, calculating the odds. He had to get Damian out. Damian was stronger, more resilient, more capable of surviving in the outside world. He had a father, a real father, somewhere out there, a lifeline Lumen could only dream of. Lumen had only vague, shimmering memories of a different life, a different world, a different name – Harry. He was Harry, but he was also Lumen , and in this life, he was a weakness, a burden that would slow Damian down. He also knew the League would never truly let them both go, not with the knowledge they now possessed.

No. He wasn’t a weakness. He was a shield. He was a sacrifice. The decision, though agonizing, was clear. One of them had to be truly free, truly untainted by the League's grasp, to find their father.

“Damian,” Lumen whispered, his voice barely audible above the storm’s roar, raw with desperation and resolve. He grabbed his brother’s arm, his small fingers surprisingly strong, clutching Damian’s sleeve with a desperate grip. “Listen to me. There isn’t time for both of us. You have to go. Alone .”

Damian turned, his eyes wide with urgency and a flicker of confusion, a nascent protest forming on his lips. “What is it? What are you saying? We have to go! Together! I won’t leave you! We have to find him, together!” His voice was sharp, laced with a familiar, fierce protectiveness, now fueled by the shared secret of their father.

Lumen looked at him, truly looked at him, imprinting every detail of his fierce, determined face onto his soul. This was his brother. His only family. And he would save him, even if it meant losing him forever. He saw the future, a bleak, inescapable tableau of their recapture if he didn’t act now . The guards were almost upon them, their shadows flickering in the storm-lashed corridor.

He took a deep breath, gathering every ounce of his power, every lesson learned, every ounce of his inherent kindness. It surged through him, a white-hot current, tingling beneath his skin, radiating outward. He focused, not on fear, not on pain, but on a single, clear intention: absolute freedom for Damian to find Bruce Wayne . And, to ensure that freedom, the complete erasure of Lumen from Damian's mind, coupled with an overwhelming surge of pure, primal urgency to escape.

He projected a massive, overwhelming wave of pure, unadulterated emotional chaos. It wasn’t directed at the guards, not yet. It was a raw, psychic scream, an echo of the storm outside, amplified a thousand-fold, a maelstrom of fear, confusion, and primal panic. It slammed into the minds of the approaching guards, making them stumble, clutch their heads, their minds reeling from the sudden, inexplicable terror and disorientation. They forgot their posts, their orders, everything but the primal urge to escape the unseen torment. Some dropped their weapons, others simply collapsed, whimpering, their faces contorted in silent agony. This was the diversion, the precious seconds he needed.

“Go!” Lumen yelled, his voice strained, pushing Damian towards the breach with all his remaining strength, his small body trembling with the effort. “Now! Don’t look back!”

Damian hesitated, his eyes fixed on Lumen , a flicker of confusion crossing his face, a nascent question forming on his lips. “What are you doing? Come on! We don’t leave anyone behind!” He tried to pull Lumen with him, but Lumen resisted, pushing him harder, simultaneously flooding Damian’s mind with an almost unbearable, instinctive drive to flee .

Lumen knew he had only precious, fleeting seconds before the psychic wave dissipated or before more guards, unaffected by the initial blast, arrived. He reached out, placing both hands on Damian’s temples, his small palms pressing against the hard bone. Damian flinched, a sharp intake of breath, but Lumen held him firm, pouring his power into the connection. He visualized it: a blank slate, a protective void where his own image, his name, their shared memories, their entire history together, including the recent discovery of their father, had once been. He meticulously, agonizingly, erased every trace of himself, every touch, every word, every shared moment. He wrapped this void in a cocoon of warmth, of safety, of a desperate, loving farewell, sealing it away behind an impenetrable barrier, a wall against the past that would protect Damian from the pain of their separation and the danger of remembering this place. And he layered over it, thick and undeniable, the raw, unthinking instinct to run , coupled with a vague, compelling pull towards Gotham.

Forget me. Forget this place. Be free. Live. Run. Find him. Our father.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done, a wrenching, agonizing act of self-erasure, tearing a piece of his own soul away. He felt Damian’s mind resist, a faint, desperate struggle against the invasion, a primal instinct fighting against the forced void and the overwhelming urge to escape, but Lumen pushed harder, his own strength fading with every pulse of power. He felt the memories recede, like sand slipping through his fingers, replaced by a smooth, unblemished surface. He felt the protective warmth solidify around the void, making it impenetrable, a wall against the past. The raw, desperate need to flee settled deep into Damian’s core, now subtly directed towards Gotham.

Damian’s eyes glazed over for a moment, wide and unfocused, then cleared. He looked at Lumen , a blank, unrecognizing stare, as if seeing a stranger. “Who… who are you? What are you doing?” His voice was confused, disoriented, but the overwhelming, primal urgency to escape, the instinct for survival that Lumen had carefully preserved and amplified within him, was now the dominant force, overriding all else, subtly guiding him towards the city of his forgotten father.

“Go!” Lumen repeated, his voice hoarse, a desperate rasp, pushing him again, harder this time. “Run! Don’t look back! Don’t ever look back!”

The guards were starting to recover, shaking their heads, their confusion slowly giving way to renewed purpose, their eyes refocusing on the breach. Their shouts echoed, closer now, filled with a renewed, furious intent.

Damian, driven by the pure, unadulterated instinct for survival that Lumen had carefully preserved and amplified within him, turned and plunged through the breach in the wall, disappearing into the torrential rain and the howling wind, a small, dark figure swallowed by the storm and the vast, unknown world beyond, drawn instinctively towards Gotham.

Lumen watched him go, a single tear tracing a path down his grimy cheek, lost amidst the rain. He felt the profound emptiness where Damian’s presence had been, the chilling silence of a bond severed, a piece of his soul torn away. He had saved him. At what cost, he didn’t know, but the echo of Damian’s fading presence was a cold comfort.

He turned, the last of his strength draining away, his body trembling with exhaustion, and faced the recovering guards. They were closing in, their faces grim, their confusion replaced by cold fury. He offered no resistance, no fight. He had done what he needed to do. His purpose was fulfilled.

As the rough hands seized him, dragging him back into the cold, stone heart of the fortress, Lumen closed his eyes. He imagined Damian, running free, under a sky that wasn’t perpetually grey, breathing air that didn’t smell of fear or stale stone. He imagined him finding a home, a true home, far away from this place, a place where he could finally be safe, a place with a man named Bruce Wayne.

And he held onto the faint, flickering hope that one day, perhaps, the echo of kindness he had left behind in Damian’s heart would find its way back to him, a forgotten melody in a silent song. The pain of recapture was sharp, the rough hands bruising, but the quiet satisfaction of his sacrifice was a dull, persistent ache beneath it, a reminder that he had chosen, even in this life, to be kind. Even when it broke him.

The League’s response to Lumen ’s unprecedented actions was swift and brutal. The mystics, fascinated and enraged by the unprecedented display of his meta-ability – the sheer scale of the empathic disruption, the precise, targeted memory alteration – subjected him to even more intense experimentation. They saw him not just as a powerful asset, but as a key to unlocking new levels of psychological warfare. He was confined to a solitary cell, a sterile, cold chamber designed to isolate him from all external stimuli, to break his will and force his cooperation. They wanted to understand the full scope of his power, to replicate it, to weaponize it for their own ends, to turn his inherent empathy into a tool of control.

Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. Lumen lost track of time, the monotonous routine blurring into an endless cycle of tests and confinement. His only companions were the endless tests, the probing questions, the attempts to crack his mental defenses, to force him to yield. They tried to force him to project fear, to inflict pain, to manipulate the minds of their captives, to become the monster they envisioned. But Lumen , despite the gnawing hunger, the pervasive cold that seeped into his bones, the constant exhaustion that blurred the edges of his consciousness, held firm. He would retreat into himself, into the quiet, green space of his own mind, a sanctuary where he could still feel the phantom warmth of Damian’s hand, the echo of a forgotten world, a world where he had once been Harry, and now, the faint, compelling pull of Gotham and a man named Bruce Wayne.

He learned to refine his shield, to make it impenetrable, even to the League’s most skilled psychics and mental probes. He learned to project a blankness, an emotional void that frustrated his captors, making their efforts futile. He became a stone, unyielding, outwardly compliant but inwardly defiant, a silent fortress of his own making. He would not become what they wanted him to be. He would not use his power for cruelty. He would not break.

One day, after what felt like an eternity, but was likely just over a year and a half, Lumen felt a shift. He was nearly eight now, his body leaner, stronger, his mind sharper than ever. During a particularly invasive session, where the mystics were attempting to force a powerful negative emotional projection, a new surge of energy coursed through him. It wasn’t the raw, chaotic burst from before, but something refined, controlled, a subtle expansion of his abilities. It was a sense of connection , a vast, shimmering web of consciousness. He felt the faint, distant hum of other minds, not just in the fortress, but beyond, far beyond the mountain walls. He felt the vast, sprawling network of emotions that was the outside world, a living, breathing entity. He felt the city .

Gotham.

It was a dark, chaotic symphony of emotions – fear, anger, despair, the grinding weight of poverty and crime, but also resilience, hope, and a fierce, stubborn determination. It was overwhelming, a cacophony of human experience, but also… beckoning, a vibrant, complex tapestry that called to him. It was a world that needed kindness, a world he could touch. And within that tapestry, he felt a faint, familiar echo – a powerful, paternal presence that he instinctively knew was his father, Bruce Wayne, drawing him towards it.

He realized then that his power had grown, amplified by the very attempts to suppress it. The isolation, the constant pressure, the relentless push against his mental barriers, had forced it to evolve, to adapt, to strengthen. He was no longer just an empath; he was a conduit, a receiver, and a projector on a scale he hadn’t imagined. And he could use this. He could use it to escape, and then to help.

He began to plan. Slowly, meticulously, he absorbed information from the minds around him – the guards’ routines, the layout of the facility, the shifting of the storm outside, the subtle anxieties of the mystics. He projected subtle suggestions, whispers of distraction, tiny seeds of doubt and weariness into the minds of his captors. He didn’t force them; he merely nudged, influenced, guiding their thoughts down paths of complacency and exhaustion.

It took time. Weeks, perhaps, of patient, subtle manipulation. But one night, when the moon was a sliver of silver in the ink-black sky, and the guards were particularly drowsy from a collective, inexplicable sense of fatigue that Lumen had carefully cultivated, Lumen acted.

He didn’t fight. He didn’t cause a riot. He didn’t resort to violence, even though he had been trained in it. He simply walked out.

He used his shield to make himself invisible to their notice, a blank space in their perception, a shadow that wasn’t there. He used his calming aura to lull the few guards he encountered into a deeper state of complacency, their eyes glazing over as he passed. He moved like a ghost through the fortress, a silent, emerald-eyed shadow, until he reached the outer perimeter, the same breach through which Damian had escaped so long ago.

The mountain air was cold, sharp, and exhilarating, biting at his exposed skin but filling his lungs with the taste of freedom. He breathed it in, deeply, feeling the sting in his lungs, the rush of pure, unadulterated liberty. He looked back at the imposing fortress, a dark, jagged silhouette against the night sky, a monument to his past. He had escaped. Twice. And this time, he was truly free.

He didn’t know where Damian was, or even if he was safe. The memory wipe had been absolute, a necessary evil, a clean break. But he felt a faint pull, a distant echo of a familiar presence, somewhere in the vast, chaotic tapestry of Gotham. He would find him, one day. Or perhaps, Damian would find him. The universe had a strange way of bringing people together, especially two sons searching for their forgotten father.

For now, Lumen walked. He walked away from the League, away from the violence, away from the darkness that had defined his young life. He walked towards the distant glow of Gotham, a city that promised both danger and opportunity, a city where he could finally choose his own path, where his kindness could be a force, not a weakness.

He would be kind. He would help. He would be the echo of light in a world that so often chose darkness. He was Harry, he was Lumen , and he was free. He would learn to navigate this new world, a world of caped crusaders and masked villains, of scientific marvels and meta-human anomalies. He would find his place, not as a weapon, but as a balm, a quiet force for good. And he would wait for the day when the brother he had saved would remember the sacrifice that had set them both free, and perhaps, they would finally meet their father.

Chapter Text

The chill of the mountain air still clung to Damian’s clothes, a ghost of the fortress he had left behind, even as the warm, humid air of Gotham enveloped him. He stood stiffly on the polished marble of Wayne Manor’s grand foyer, a stark contrast to the rough-hewn stone and utilitarian coldness of his former home. His posture, even at ten years old, was rigid, a testament to years of unwavering discipline. His dark eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over the ornate ceilings, the gleaming suits of armor, the vast, echoing space that felt less like a home and more like a museum. It was opulent, certainly, but lacked the brutal efficiency he was accustomed to.

He remembered the storm, the breach in the wall, the overwhelming, primal urge to run that had seized him, propelling him through the torrential rain and howling wind. He remembered little else of the journey, a blur of instinct and desperate flight, until he found himself at the gates of this sprawling estate, drawn by an inexplicable, deep-seated compulsion. He had been found by a silent, watchful figure – Alfred Pennyworth – who, without question or alarm, had simply led him inside.

It was here, in the quiet, unnerving opulence of the manor, that he had first encountered Bruce Wayne. The name had resonated with a strange familiarity, a recent, startling revelation from the ancient parchment he had discovered in the League archives. His father . The man who now stood before him was a towering figure, broad-shouldered and imposing, yet his eyes, though shadowed, held a flicker of something Damian couldn't quite decipher – a weariness, perhaps, or a guarded curiosity. He was not the Demon’s Head, nor was he the cold, unyielding instructors of the League. He was… different. Unpredictable.

Talia al Ghul, his mother, arrived later, a cool, elegant presence that filled the vast space with a familiar, unsettling authority. She wore a tailored suit, impeccable and uncreased, her expression serene, almost detached. She surveyed Damian, then Bruce, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on her lips.

“Life rarely follows one’s exact visions, Beloved,” Talia’s voice was smooth, devoid of overt emotion, a silken blade. “The outcome, however, often remains the same.” Her gaze briefly met Damian’s, a fleeting, almost imperceptible nod. It is still somewhat according to plan, her unspoken message resonated, a cold, strategic reassurance that only Damian could interpret. He was a piece on a grand chessboard, and this was merely a new move. He was not abandoned; he was deployed. His self-initiated flight, fueled by an unknown force, had merely accelerated the timetable, a minor deviation in a grand design that still led him to this very doorstep, to this very man.

With a final, dismissive gesture, Talia turned and departed, her footsteps echoing softly as she vanished into the Gotham night, leaving Damian standing alone with this stranger, this 'father,' in a house that felt too large, too quiet, and utterly alien. The silence that descended after her departure was heavier than any he had known in the League, a vast, empty space that offered no familiar sounds of distant training or the low hum of the fortress.

The initial days at Wayne Manor were a study in jarring contrasts, a constant assault on Damian’s ingrained perceptions. He had expected a new form of rigorous training, a different kind of mission. Instead, he found an unsettling abundance. Clothes that were soft against his skin, a stark difference from the coarse League uniforms. Food that was plentiful and varied, a culinary landscape far removed from the bland, nutritious pastes he was accustomed to. A room that was his alone, with a bed that was impossibly plush, a softness that felt like a trap. He viewed it all with suspicion, a luxury that bred weakness, a comfort designed to dull his senses. He was a warrior, not a pampered pet. He slept on the floor beside the bed for the first week, the unfamiliar softness a source of profound discomfort, his senses alert to every unfamiliar creak and groan of the old mansion.

Alfred Pennyworth, the ancient, dignified butler, was another enigma. He moved with a quiet grace, his voice a calm, steady balm that, paradoxically, grated on Damian’s nerves. Alfred spoke of manners, of politeness, of things Damian considered utterly irrelevant to the art of combat and survival. He offered tea, a warm blanket, a sympathetic glance – gestures Damian interpreted as attempts to soften him, to make him vulnerable. Alfred’s unwavering patience was a puzzle, a tactic Damian couldn't immediately decipher. Damian responded with curt nods, dismissive glares, and an unwavering adherence to the League’s rigid protocols. He ate his meals in silence, observed his surroundings with a hawk-like intensity, and waited. Waited for the true training to begin, for the mission to be revealed, for the facade to drop.

Bruce Wayne, however, was the most perplexing. He was not the ruthless leader Damian expected. He was quiet, often lost in thought, his presence a heavy, brooding cloud that seemed to fill every room he entered. When he did speak, it was not of strategy or combat, but of trivialities – school, hobbies, things Damian had never considered. He tried to engage Damian, to connect, to bridge the vast chasm between them, but Damian met his overtures with a wall of League-trained stoicism. He saw weakness in Bruce’s attempts at gentleness, a lack of the necessary ruthlessness, a dangerous sentimentality. He saw a man burdened by a code he considered archaic and inefficient, a man who chose to fight with one hand tied behind his back.

Their first true clash came during a training session in the sprawling, underground cave beneath the manor – the Batcave. Damian, having discovered it with a mixture of disdain for its lack of mountain austerity and grudging respect for its technological efficiency, immediately sought to prove his worth. He moved through the training simulations with lethal precision, disarming virtual opponents with brutal efficiency, his every instinct geared towards neutralization, towards the quickest, most decisive end.

“No, Damian,” Bruce’s voice cut through the simulation’s whirring, sharp and clear. “You disarmed him. Why the additional strike?”

Damian turned, his face a mask of indignation, his jaw tight. “To ensure he was incapacitated, Father. To prevent him from being a threat. To ensure the mission’s success.”

“We do not kill,” Bruce stated, his voice firm, unwavering, echoing off the cavern walls. “We do not maim unnecessarily. Our goal is to stop them, not to end them.”

Damian scoffed, a sound of pure contempt, a sound he had perfected in the League. “That is inefficient. Weak. The League teaches that a threat neutralized is a threat eliminated. Permanently.”

“The League teaches you to be a killer, Damian,” Bruce countered, his voice hardening, a rare flash of anger in his shadowed eyes. “I will teach you to be a protector. There is a difference. A profound one.”

The argument spiraled, a clash of ideologies that echoed the chasm between their upbringing. Damian argued for efficiency, for the cold logic of the kill, for the ultimate solution. Bruce argued for restraint, for the sanctity of life, for a moral code that Damian found utterly baffling, a self-imposed handicap. He saw Bruce’s methods as a weakness that would ultimately lead to failure, a sentimental attachment to those who would only rise again. He saw the other members of this strange ‘Bat-family’ – the older, more jovial ones who sometimes visited, Dick Grayson with his easy smile, Tim Drake with his quiet intellect, Jason Todd with his volatile temper – as equally soft, their banter and camaraderie a bizarre distraction from the serious business of fighting crime. They were a family, a concept Damian found utterly alien and, frankly, inefficient. He saw them as obstacles, not allies.

He found solace in solitude, retreating to his room, or to the quiet corners of the Batcave when Bruce wasn't there. He practiced his katas, honing his movements, his mind replaying the lessons of the League, the whispers of his grandfather. He was a diamond, hard and unyielding, and he would not be softened by this strange, gentle world. He would not become weak.

Yet, there were moments. Fleeting, unsettling moments when a strange void would flicker in his mind. It wasn’t a memory, not precisely. It was the absence of one. A blank space where something should have been, a phantom limb of his past, a missing piece in the meticulously ordered puzzle of his life. It usually occurred when he was alone, when his mind wasn't occupied by training or observation, when the constant noise of his new life quieted, leaving him vulnerable to introspection. He would be performing a kata, or reading one of the archaic texts from the League’s archives that Bruce had allowed him access to, and a sudden, inexplicable feeling would wash over him. A profound sense of loss, a chilling echo of a presence that was no longer there, a warmth that had vanished, a whisper of a shared secret.

He remembered the escape, of course. The storm, the damaged wall, the frantic dash through the corridors. He remembered the guards, their faces contorted in confusion and terror, stumbling and falling as if struck by an unseen, overwhelming force. He remembered the overwhelming, primal urge to run , to escape, a desperate, undeniable command that had propelled him forward, a feeling so potent it still made his heart pound. But there was a gap. A crucial blankness in the sequence of events. He remembered being pushed, a small hand on his back, urging him forward, but the face, the voice, the identity of the person who had given him that final, desperate shove… it was gone. Erased. A blank. A frustrating, irritating blank that defied his logical mind. He would try to reconstruct it, to fill the void, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. He had a vague, unsettling impression of someone, a small figure, but it was as if his mind refused to acknowledge their existence, a protective mechanism against a truth too painful or too dangerous to recall.

He would sometimes wake in the dead of night, a cold sweat on his brow, haunted by the sensation of a profound absence. A quiet voice, a gentle touch, a shared whispered story in the darkness – fleeting impressions that vanished like smoke when he tried to grasp them, leaving only a lingering ache. He would dismiss it as the lingering trauma of the League, the psychological scars of his brutal upbringing. He was Damian Wayne, the heir, a warrior. Such sentimentality was weakness. He would push it down, bury it beneath layers of discipline and logic, forcing himself to focus on the tangible, the present, the mission. He had been taught that emotions were liabilities, and this persistent, illogical feeling was a direct threat to his carefully constructed self.

But the void remained. A subtle, unsettling hum beneath the surface of his consciousness. It wasn’t a wound, not yet. It was a question, unanswered and unacknowledged, a silent echo in the stone heart he had built around himself. He was a master of observation, of deduction, of finding the missing pieces. But this was a piece he couldn't even identify, a puzzle with a shape he didn't recognize. He would simply push it away, focus on the mission, on his training, on proving his superiority. The unknown was a distraction. And Damian Wayne did not tolerate distractions.

He had a new life now, a new mission, a new father. He would adapt. He would conquer. He would prove himself worthy of the Al Ghul legacy, even if it meant clashing with the strange, soft rules of the Bat. The phantom memory, the unsettling void, would eventually fade, he told himself. It had to. He was Damian Wayne, and he was whole. Or so he desperately tried to believe, even as the quiet ache of absence persisted, a tiny, persistent crack in his formidable facade.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months. Damian’s integration was slow, painful, marked by constant friction. He chafed under Bruce’s rules, rebelled against Alfred’s gentle guidance, and viewed the other members of the Bat-family – Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Jason Todd – with thinly veiled disdain. They were soft, sentimental, too reliant on emotion. He was logic, precision, efficiency. He was the future.

Yet, in the quiet moments, when the manor was silent and even the city outside seemed to hold its breath, the void would return. A whisper of green eyes, a feeling of profound, unwavering kindness, a sense of being protected. He would clench his fists, frustrated by the intrusion, by this inexplicable emotional resonance that had no logical source. He would train harder, push himself further, trying to outrun the phantom. But it was always there, a subtle echo, a reminder of something lost, something he couldn't name. It was the unseen thread, waiting for the right catalyst to pull it taut.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne stood in the Batcave, the vast, echoing space feeling heavier than usual, not with the weight of Gotham’s crime, but with the presence of his youngest son. Damian. The name felt foreign on his tongue, even after months of its utterance. Ten years old, yet a lifetime of brutal conditioning separated them. Bruce watched him now, a small, dark silhouette moving through a complex combat simulation, every strike precise, every movement lethal. Damian was a masterpiece of destructive efficiency, a living weapon forged in the fires of the League of Assassins, and Bruce felt a cold dread coil in his gut. This was his son, and he was a stranger.

His heart ached with a profound guilt. He hadn't known. Talia, ever the manipulator, had kept Damian’s existence a secret, cultivating him in the shadows, genetically perfected, raised to be the ultimate heir, the ultimate weapon against him. And now, here he was, dropped into Bruce’s life like a bomb, a living embodiment of Talia’s grand, twisted design. The revelation from the ancient parchment Damian had brought, detailing Talia’s long-term plans for him and his lineage, had been a bitter pill to swallow. It confirmed the cold, calculating nature of her actions, and the depth of the chasm between their worlds.

The daily clashes were exhausting. Every conversation felt like a negotiation, every lesson a battle of wills. Damian’s utter contempt for human life, his casual disregard for the ‘no kill’ rule, grated against every fiber of Bruce’s being. He saw the world in stark black and white, a predator-prey dynamic instilled by years of League doctrine. Bruce saw shades of grey, the potential for redemption, the sanctity of every life. He tried to teach patience, empathy, restraint. Damian responded with logic, efficiency, and a chilling detachment.

“You hesitate, Father,” Damian had stated during a recent patrol, his voice a sharp, critical whisper over the comms. “That hesitation could cost lives.” He was referring to Bruce’s decision to disarm a low-level thug rather than incapacitate him with a more forceful, potentially bone-breaking strike.

“Hesitation saves lives, Damian,” Bruce had retorted, his voice tight with frustration. “It allows for a different outcome. A better one.”

He knew Damian saw his code as a weakness, a sentimental burden. And perhaps, in the cold, brutal calculus of the League, it was. But Bruce refused to compromise. He would not allow his son to become another monster in Gotham’s rogues gallery. He would break the cycle, even if it broke him in the process. He watched Damian now, a flicker of something almost wistful in his gaze. He saw the potential, the fierce loyalty, the sharp intellect. If only he could reach the boy beneath the conditioning. He sometimes caught Damian staring into space, a blankness in his eyes, a momentary stillness that was unsettling. Bruce attributed it to the trauma of his upbringing, a coping mechanism for the horrors he had witnessed. He hoped, with time, it would fade.

Alfred Pennyworth moved through the manor with his usual quiet dignity, a silent sentinel observing the latest, most volatile addition to his unusual family. He had seen many children pass through these halls, each with their own scars, their own burdens. But Damian… Damian was different. He was a tightly coiled spring, a miniature assassin, and Alfred felt a deep, profound concern for the boy’s soul.

He observed Damian’s rigid adherence to routine, his meticulous cleanliness, his almost feral self-sufficiency. He saw the way Damian bristled at even the gentlest touch, the way his eyes, so like Bruce’s, held a chilling lack of warmth. Yet, Alfred also saw the subtle vulnerabilities. The way Damian would sometimes linger near the kitchen, drawn by the scent of freshly baked bread, even if he never asked for a piece. The way his gaze would occasionally soften, almost imperceptibly, when he thought no one was looking, usually directed at the manor’s stray cat, Alfred’s own beloved companion, Titus.

Alfred made it his quiet mission to introduce civility, warmth, and a semblance of normalcy. He would leave books on Damian’s bedside table – not martial arts manuals, but classic literature, tales of heroism and compassion. He would insist on proper table manners, on polite conversation, on the small rituals that defined a civilized life. Damian often scoffed, but Alfred noticed the subtle shifts – a slightly less curt response, a lingering glance at a book before dismissing it.

He had also noticed the moments of strange disconnect. Damian would sometimes pause mid-sentence, his eyes distant, unfocused, as if grappling with an unseen force. A flicker of disorientation, a brief tremor in his hands. Alfred, with his keen eye for detail and his vast experience with the human psyche, knew it wasn't mere distraction. It was a void, a blankness that seemed to swallow a piece of Damian’s present. He had once seen Damian in the Batcave, staring at a blank screen, his face contorted in a silent struggle, a faint tremor running through his small frame. When Alfred had approached, Damian had snapped back to attention, his usual guarded demeanor firmly in place, dismissing it as nothing. Alfred filed it away, a piece of a puzzle he didn’t yet understand, but knew was significant. There was more to Damian’s past than even Bruce knew, a deeper wound than mere League conditioning.

Dick Grayson, ever the optimist, found himself constantly exasperated by Damian. The boy was a miniature tyrant, arrogant, condescending, and utterly convinced of his own superiority. He was a constant source of friction, challenging Bruce’s authority, insulting Tim’s intelligence, and generally making everyone’s lives more difficult. Dick, who had always tried to be the bridge, the emotional anchor of the Bat-family, found his patience tested daily.

“He’s a menace, Bruce,” Dick had complained after Damian had sabotaged one of Tim’s meticulously organized research projects, claiming it was ‘inefficient.’ “He’s going to dismantle everything you’ve built.”

Bruce had merely sighed, rubbing his temples. “He’s a child, Dick. A damaged child. He needs guidance.”

Dick tried. He really did. He attempted to engage Damian in sparring matches, hoping to channel his aggression, to teach him the art of controlled combat, the joy of movement without the intent to kill. Damian, to his credit, was a formidable opponent, his skills undeniable. But his ruthlessness, his unwavering focus on the opponent’s weakness, was unsettling. Dick tried to introduce humor, to lighten the mood, but Damian met his jokes with blank stares or sharp, cutting remarks.

Yet, Dick, with his inherent empathy, also saw glimpses of the boy beneath the League’s veneer. He saw the loneliness in Damian’s eyes when he thought no one was watching, the subtle flinch when a loud noise startled him, the way he sometimes clutched a small, worn wooden bird carving—a relic from the League, perhaps—when he was deep in thought. He also noticed the odd moments of dissociation, the way Damian’s gaze would sometimes unfocus, his body stiffening for a second, as if grappling with an internal struggle. It was fleeting, but noticeable. Dick, ever the big brother, felt a strange, unfamiliar tug of concern. This wasn't just arrogance; it was something deeper, something broken. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it felt like a missing piece, a silent chord in Damian's otherwise discordant symphony.

Tim Drake, the analytical mind of the Bat-family, viewed Damian with a mixture of intellectual curiosity and deep suspicion. He saw the boy as a direct threat, a living embodiment of Talia’s insidious influence, a ticking time bomb designed to destabilize Bruce and everything he stood for. Tim, who had painstakingly earned his place by Bruce’s side, resented Damian’s sudden, unearned arrival and his immediate assumption of superiority.

He spent hours in the Batcave, poring over League of Assassins intel, trying to find any information on Damian’s upbringing, anything that could explain the boy’s chilling efficiency and his utter lack of empathy. He ran simulations, analyzed Damian’s combat style, and cross-referenced every piece of data he could find. He saw a pattern of perfection, of ruthless training, but also a strange anomaly.

“He’s too good, Bruce,” Tim had stated one night, his voice tight with frustration, pointing at a holographic projection of Damian’s combat data. “Even for the League. There’s something… off. Something that doesn’t quite add up.”

Bruce had merely grunted, lost in his own thoughts.

Tim had noticed the void too. Damian would sometimes freeze, mid-stride, mid-thought, a brief flicker of disorientation in his eyes. It was like a momentary system crash, a glitch in his otherwise flawless programming. Tim, ever the detective, had tried to find a pattern, a trigger, but it seemed random, fleeting. He suspected it was a psychological defense mechanism, a manifestation of deep-seated trauma. But there was something about the emptiness of it, the sheer lack of any discernible emotion during those moments, that puzzled him. It wasn't just pain; it was nothing . He couldn't shake the feeling that there was a piece of Damian’s history that was completely missing, a blank slate where there should have been memories, and he wondered if Talia had a hand in it. He began to subtly, discreetly, search for any League records that might mention a second child, a younger brother, but found nothing. The League’s records were notoriously incomplete, often deliberately so.

As the months stretched on, Damian continued his difficult integration. He still clashed with Bruce, still sneered at his brothers, still sought to prove his superiority through force. But the manor, with its strange comforts and its even stranger inhabitants, was slowly, imperceptibly, beginning to chip away at the stone heart he had built around himself. The void, however, remained, a silent, unsettling mystery, an echo of a kindness he could not recall, a sacrifice he was unaware he had demanded. It was a testament to Lumen’s power, a hidden truth waiting for the right moment to surface, to shatter Damian’s carefully constructed reality and bring the unseen thread of his past taut.

Chapter Text

The mountain wind, sharp and biting, had been a cruel companion during Lumen ’s second escape. It had whipped at his thin clothes, stinging his exposed skin, but it was a pain he welcomed, a tangible sign of his freedom. The journey down the treacherous slopes, through dense forests and across rocky terrain, was a blur of instinct and sheer will. He moved like a phantom, using his refined empathic shield to render himself almost invisible to the few scattered patrols, projecting a sense of empty space, of nothingness, into their minds. It was exhausting, each step a drain on his reserves, but the distant glow of Gotham, a pulsating, chaotic beacon on the horizon, pulled him forward.

When he finally stumbled into the outskirts of the city, the sheer scale of it was overwhelming. The mountain fortress had been vast, but contained. Gotham was an endless, sprawling beast of concrete and steel, a symphony of jarring emotions. Fear was a pervasive hum, a constant undertone to the city’s rhythm. Anger flared like sudden sparks, despair clung to the shadows of the alleyways, and beneath it all, a frantic, desperate hope pulsed, a resilient beat that surprised him. The cold, sterile air of the League was replaced by the gritty, exhaust-fumed breath of a metropolis.

He was nearly eight, but his small stature and gaunt frame made him appear younger. He had no money, no possessions, no one. Survival became an immediate, brutal lesson. He learned to scavenge from dumpsters, to find shelter in abandoned buildings, to move through the crowded streets like a ghost, avoiding eye contact, blending into the ebb and flow of the city’s forgotten. The League had taught him to fight, to endure physical pain, but it had not prepared him for the gnawing ache of hunger or the chilling loneliness of true anonymity.

Yet, even in this harsh new reality, Lumen ’s core kindness remained stubbornly intact. He saw the suffering, felt the raw emotions of the city’s inhabitants – the homeless shivering in doorways, the desperate parents struggling to feed their children, the quiet despair of those who felt unseen. And he found himself compelled to act, not with violence, but with the subtle power that hummed within him.

His first conscious act of anonymous help was almost accidental. He was huddled in a grimy alley, trying to ignore the gnawing emptiness in his stomach, when he overheard a heated argument. A young woman, her face streaked with tears, was being yelled at by a burly man, her fear a sharp, unpleasant spike in the air. The man’s anger was a hot, oppressive wave, threatening to engulf her. Instinctively, Lumen reached out, not physically, but with his empathy. He projected a wave of calm, a gentle, soothing presence aimed at the man, subtly nudging his fury towards frustration, then towards a grudging weariness. He didn’t force the man to change his mind, merely softened the edges of his rage. The man, unexpectedly, sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and muttered something about it not being worth it before stomping away. The woman, still trembling, looked around, a bewildered expression on her face, sensing a sudden, inexplicable shift in the atmosphere. Lumen watched her walk away, a faint, unfamiliar warmth spreading through his own chest – a sense of quiet satisfaction.

This became his new purpose. He couldn’t fight the gangs, couldn’t stop the muggings, but he could offer small, unseen acts of kindness. He became the ghost in the alleyways, the silent whisper of peace in a city constantly on the brink of chaos. He would subtly de-escalate petty arguments, ease the panic attacks of those overwhelmed by the city’s noise, or project a faint sense of hope into the minds of the truly despairing. He learned to be precise, to be subtle, to leave no trace of his intervention. He became adept at reading the emotional landscape of Gotham, discerning the subtle currents of fear, anger, and sorrow that flowed beneath the surface.

His powers continued to grow, fueled by his constant, if subtle, use. He found he could not only sense and influence emotions, but also perceive faint, distinct energy signatures from other meta-humans in the city. It was like a faint static on a radio, a unique frequency for each individual. He learned to filter them out, to focus on the general emotional hum, but sometimes, a particularly strong or unusual signature would catch his attention, a bright, discordant note in the city’s symphony. He didn’t know what they were, these other ‘meta-humans,’ but he knew they were like him, touched by something beyond the ordinary. He sensed powerful, almost overwhelming presences, like distant thunder, that he instinctively avoided, recognizing their potential for both immense good and immense destruction. He also felt smaller, more erratic bursts, like fireflies in the night, often accompanied by strong, uncontrolled emotions.

He was always careful, always vigilant. The League was still a shadow in his mind, a constant, low-level hum of danger. He knew they would be searching for him, eager to reclaim their lost asset, to understand the full extent of the power he had unleashed during Damian’s escape. He practiced his shields constantly, making his own emotional signature as blank and unremarkable as possible, a quiet hum that blended into the background noise of the city. He was a ghost, and he intended to remain one.

Despite his solitary existence, a persistent, unidentifiable yearning gnawed at him. It was a feeling of something missing, a piece of his past that had been torn away. He didn't remember Damian, not consciously. The memory wipe had been absolute, a perfect void. But the bond remained, a phantom limb of his soul. Sometimes, when he was particularly lonely, or when he felt a distant echo of a fierce, protective emotion from somewhere far across the city, a strange, inexplicable sadness would settle over him. He would dismiss it as a consequence of his powers, an empathic echo of the city’s collective sorrow. But deep down, a part of him, the part that was still Harry, still remembered a brother, a shared darkness, and a desperate, loving sacrifice. It was an unseen thread, subtly pulling him through the city’s labyrinth, guiding him, unknowingly, closer to the past he had erased. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew he was searching. He was a whisper in the storm, a flicker of light in the darkness, and the city, in its vast, chaotic indifference, was slowly becoming his home.

Chapter Text

The rhythm of Gotham was a harsh, insistent drumbeat, but Lumen had learned to dance to its tune. Months had passed since his second escape, stretching into a year of anonymous existence. He was a shadow among shadows, a whisper in the cacophony, his small frame (now almost eight) moving with a practiced nimbleness through the city’s forgotten corners. His senses, sharpened by constant use and the raw need for survival, absorbed the city’s emotional tapestry: the pervasive fear of the night, the simmering anger of the dispossessed, the fleeting sparks of joy in unexpected places. He continued his quiet work, a ghost of kindness, subtly influencing, calming, and offering unseen solace wherever he could. He was a balm, not a blade, in a city that bled.

One particularly cold night, the air thick with the promise of snow, Lumen found himself near the grimy docks, drawn by a sharp spike of despair emanating from a group of huddled figures. They were dockworkers, their faces etched with exhaustion, arguing heatedly with a trio of burly men who radiated aggressive greed. A loan shark operation, Lumen deduced, feeling the workers’ desperation and the thugs’ callous indifference. He began to subtly project a wave of weariness, a desire for resolution, towards the loan sharks, hoping to diffuse the tension.

Suddenly, a new presence slammed into his empathic senses – vast, dark, and overwhelmingly powerful. It wasn’t a chaotic burst of emotion, but a tightly controlled, almost suffocating wave of grim determination, laced with a deep, ancient sorrow. It was like a thunderclap in the quiet hum of the night. Lumen flinched, instinctively pulling his own shields tighter, making himself as emotionally inert as possible. This was different. This was more .

A shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows of the warehouse roof. Batman.

Lumen had seen him before, a fleeting glimpse on a distant rooftop, a dark legend whispered among the city’s terrified criminals and desperate citizens. But to feel his presence, raw and unfiltered, was something else entirely. It was a force of nature, a living embodiment of Gotham’s vengeful spirit. And yet, beneath the intimidating aura, Lumen felt something profoundly familiar, a resonance that plucked at the forgotten strings of his soul. A paternal presence, strong and unyielding, yet burdened by an immense, almost crippling grief. Bruce Wayne , his mind whispered, an echo of the name from the parchment. This was his father.

Batman moved with silent grace, dropping into the midst of the confrontation. The loan sharks, for all their bravado, visibly recoiled, their anger replaced by a sudden, primal fear that Lumen felt as a sickening lurch. Batman’s presence alone was enough to send ripples of terror through them. He spoke, his voice a low growl, and Lumen felt the absolute authority in it, the unwavering commitment to justice.

Lumen watched from his hidden alcove, fascinated and terrified. He felt the fear of the thugs, the relief of the dockworkers, and the immense, almost suffocating weight of responsibility that emanated from Batman. He wanted to help, to soothe the fear, to amplify the relief, but he was frozen, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of Batman’s emotional landscape and the strange, undeniable familiarity that pulsed from him. It was like looking at a distorted reflection of himself, a darker, more powerful version of his own protective instincts.

As Batman swiftly and efficiently dealt with the thugs, Lumen felt a flicker of something else, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in Batman’s emotional field. A brief, almost imperceptible pull in his direction, as if Batman’s senses, too, had brushed against something unusual. Lumen knew he had to disappear. He wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. He melted back into the deeper shadows, his empathic shield screaming for him to be gone , to be unseen . He fled, the image of the dark, imposing figure and the unsettling familiarity of his presence burned into his mind.

Days later, the encounter still haunted him. He found himself subconsciously drawn to areas Batman frequented, a moth to a dangerous flame. He would feel the distant rumble of the Batmobile, the fleeting presence of that powerful, grieving aura, and his own internal compass would subtly shift. He never sought direct contact, merely observed, trying to understand the man who was both a terrifying force of nature and, impossibly, his father.

One afternoon, while scavenging for food in a quieter district, Lumen felt a new, distinct emotional signature. It was younger, sharper than Batman’s, a blend of restless intellect, simmering frustration, and a deep-seated loyalty. It was a familiar pattern, one he had felt before, albeit rarely and from a distance, usually accompanying Batman. This was one of the ‘Bat-family’ members, he realized, one of the others Bruce sometimes worked with.

He ducked behind a overflowing dumpster, trying to make himself small. A young man, barely a teenager, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a slightly rumpled appearance, was meticulously examining a discarded piece of technology. Tim Drake, Lumen vaguely recalled from the fleeting psychic impressions he sometimes picked up from the city’s general consciousness. Tim’s frustration was palpable, a low thrum of irritation as he struggled with the device.

Instinctively, Lumen reached out, a gentle, almost imperceptible nudge of clarity, a subtle suggestion of a solution to the problem. It was a small, almost unconscious act of kindness, a habit he had cultivated. Tim’s brow furrowed, then cleared. A spark of understanding lit his eyes. He tried a different approach with the device, and with a soft click, it whirred to life.

Tim smiled, a genuine, relieved expression that sent a faint, pleasant ripple through Lumen ’s empathic senses. He looked around, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze, as if sensing something, but his eyes passed over Lumen ’s hiding spot without lingering.

Lumen was about to slip away when another, sharper emotional signature flared, much closer than before. It was intense, volatile, a mix of barely contained aggression, fierce pride, and a deep, unacknowledged loneliness. It was a presence that felt like a raw nerve, a constant hum of barely suppressed violence. And with it, a sudden, jarring void . A cold, blank space in the emotional landscape, a missing piece that resonated with the phantom ache in Lumen ’s own soul.

Damian.

The name, though unremembered consciously, resonated with a profound, instinctual recognition. This was the presence he had felt, the one connected to the deepest, most unsettling void within him. This was the brother he had saved, the one he had erased.

Lumen froze, his heart pounding in his chest, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He felt Damian’s approach, swift and silent, a predator’s grace. He was close. Too close. The void in Damian’s mind, the absence of Lumen himself, felt like a physical barrier, a wall he had erected. To be seen now, to risk shattering that carefully constructed amnesia, was unthinkable. It would expose Damian to the pain of the past, to the raw truth of the League’s cruelty, and to the knowledge of Lumen ’s sacrifice. It might even jeopardize Damian’s new life with Bruce Wayne.

He couldn’t. Not yet.

With a desperate surge of his remaining energy, Lumen pulled his shields tighter, making himself as small, as insignificant, as emotionally blank as possible. He pressed himself against the cold, grimy brick, willing himself to disappear. He felt Damian’s presence sweep past, a cold gust of wind, a fleeting shadow. Damian paused, a subtle shift in his emotional signature, a faint flicker of irritation, as if he had sensed something out of place, but couldn't pinpoint it. His gaze swept the alley, sharp and discerning, but found nothing. He continued on, his volatile presence fading into the city’s endless hum.

Lumen remained frozen for a long moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The encounter had left him shaken, drained. He had been so close, so terrifyingly close to the brother he had sacrificed everything for. The void in Damian’s mind was a stark reminder of the cost of his kindness, the price of his freedom. But it also reaffirmed his purpose. Damian was here, in Gotham, with their father. He was safe, or at least, safer than he had been.

He pushed himself away from the wall, his limbs heavy. The city felt different now, imbued with a new layer of complexity, a new sense of urgency. He was no longer just a ghost; he was a guardian, watching from the shadows, waiting for the day when the unseen thread would finally pull taut, when the echoes of the past would finally break through the void, and his brother would remember. Until then, he would continue to be the quiet light, the unseen hand, the anonymous kindness in Gotham’s dark heart.