Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian Al Ghul was a child. He could not deny this. His skills were developing, his Grandfather was happy. His Mother was pleased. He did not understand why the attention disappeared one day. He missed sparring matches, and he was not beaten for it. He did not wake on time for assembly, and no one shook him awake and dragged him from his bed. Damian saw less and less of his Mother with each passing day, and even less of his Grandfather. Damian was not pleased with this. He missed his Mother and did not know where she had gone. She had spent an absurd amount of time in the area of the compound he had been forbidden from when the absence began. He'd peeked through many times and seen the edge of a cot with a heavily bandaged person, always accompanied by someone sitting in the chair beside the bed, sometimes Damian's Mother, sometimes his Grandfather, sometimes a nurse. Damian had never been able to see more than a glimpse before he had to flee. He was determined to figure out who this figure was.

Early morning rays of light, distorted by breezy thin curtains, shone lazily on Damian's floor as he lay in bed, waiting, wondering when the guards would realize, without Mother's chastising, that Damian had not yet gotten out of bed. Though, his Mother may have left already. She had told Damian that she would not be able to see his sparring matches that day, and he had overheard that she was leaving for some mission, though he was unsure what type of mission. She would be away for a few days.

Damian blinked away the sunlight as it shifted into his vision. He sat up, blanket pooling at his waist. He'd given up waiting to see if someone would come wake him. He had already missed assembly, and his first round sparring. He refused to miss training with his Grandfather. While Grandfather's training left him flat on his back, breathless from a jab to the sternum, bleeding from multiple places, or worse, he preferred it to his training with his Mother. While her technique was nearly as good as Ra's's, she loved her son and only fought with her full potential against Damian when Ra's oversaw their matches. Damian did not appreciate it. His Mother did not believe he could beat her and therefore would not use her full potential against him. Damian knew he was not yet skilled enough to best his Mother. There were many he could best in combat, but not his Mother. Not yet. She was among the most skilled in the League of Assassins. There were few who could win against her, such as Lady Shiva who could kill his mother, but he would never say so to her face. Damian deeply respected his Mother and her skill. He knew better than to talk back, let alone disrespect his elders. He was raised to speak when spoken to, do what he was told when he was told, to observe more than he spoke, and to push himself far past his limits to make himself worthy of the title of heir of the Demon Head.

He pulled the blanket away from his legs, flinching lightly at the coolness of the air without it. Goosebumps peppered his skin as a shiver curled down his spine like ice, starting at the crown of his head and pooling at the tips of his toes. It was rare for the compound to be cold. The sun was just beginning to rise, so the chill was likely from the coolness of night. Damian dragged himself out of bed with a resigned sigh and took hold of another blanket resting on the floor. He must’ve kicked it off at some point in the night.

Damian’s nightmares had become more frequent. Perhaps it was due to how often he’d recently found himself waking up in a shadowy cave with dripping stalactites clogging the ceiling, choking on the acidic waters of the Lazarus Pit.  The best way to describe waking up like that was being born again in a body that wasn’t your own. Blacking out one moment after a brutal spar and waking up choking and sputtering with gaping wounds stitching themselves back together, shattered bones mending and snapping back into one, torn muscles and tendons grasping together once again. It was something Damian knew he would never get used to. For all the times he’d found himself like that, it still filled him with an unbearable fear so deep that he had to force his fingers not to tremble, not to show the weakness of fear. Damian was stronger than the useless, shameful fear he had no right to feel. He had to be if he wanted to one day become the one who ruled the League of Assassins.

Damian shook his head gently, reorienting himself, reminding himself of the cool tile beneath his feet and the sunlight bleeding through the curtains. With another lighter shake of his head, he neatened his pillows, pulled the sheets up and folded them back, straightening them with the precision of a surgeon. Once he was satisfied, he silently stepped into the adjacent bathroom. He avoided the mirror as he went through his routine like a machine, brushing his hair and slicking it upright in sharp spikes, brushing his teeth for two minutes precisely, and mopping a warm washcloth over his face. Only once his routine was finished did he allow himself to peer into the mirror and see his emerald green eyes glare back at him.

His eyes constantly changed shades of green. Mother once told him that when he was just a baby, his eyes had been the most beautiful shade of sapphire blue. She had described them as if she were peering into a perfectly still oasis surrounded by nothing but the orange sands like the ones that bordered the compound like oceans. However, when he had only been 3 years old, he’d had his first interaction with the Lazarus Pit. At 8 years old, he did not remember this, but if it had been anything like it was now, as he assumed it was, then he imagined he would have been inconsolable for many hours.

Damian was okay with the emerald color circling his pupil. There had been many shades of green throughout his years, but there had been one he’d hated. The sage green flashed but he blinked quickly, allowing the emerald to reemerge, settling back into its place. Sage had been the first shade of green he remembered in his eyes. He had been weak at that stage in his life. Unable to grasp a sword, unable to protect himself, unable to deserve his title. If anything, the color disgusted him.

He dragged a breath through his teeth and rubbed a balled fist against his eyelids. He could not dwell on the past. As an Al Ghul, he had duties to see to, and disappointing his Grandfather and Mother was something Damian Al Ghul refused to do.

Chapter Text

Shadows flowed lazily over the tiled floor as Damian moved soundlessly through the compound. Despite the early hour, guards wearing their ninja garbs bustled through the halls, whispers on their tongues and unease in their eyes. None met his gaze. Unease was not uncommon around the compound. Any number of things could have the people on edge, but as Damian eyed each guard that passed, he understood something out of the ordinary had happened or was currently happening.

Guards crowded the forbidden wing. Curiosity prickled intensely at the back of Damian’s neck as he forced himself forward, past the door, past the mumbling scouts, past the metallic smell of blood. That nearly stopped Damian. Blood, of course, wasn’t uncommon either. What caused suspicion was the crowd. But Damian knew Grandfather’s rule, and it kept him from entering the hall. So, he forced his legs to walk, one foot in front of the other. He could not be late for, or entirely skip, anything else today. He would surely be beaten for the spar he’d missed that morning, so he picked up his pace, impatient to reach the lower floor of the compound, where the training rooms bustled with multiple fights.

Before entering the training area, Damian stepped into the armament chamber, where his sparring gear waited for him. Folded neatly sat his phthalo green tunic, shin guards, arm braces, and fingerless gloves. His bokken, katana, bo staff, and shuriken rested in their respective cases around the chamber. He retrieved them first, placing them on a wooden bench, before disrobing.

Damian stood still for a moment, grasping the tunic between his unsteady fingers. Despite his efforts, he could not force his hands to still, and he did not understand what there was to be afraid of. He had sparred with his Grandfather countless times. His fingers had no reason to tremble. No matter the damage Ra’s inflicted on his body, it could be reversed. He’d nearly been killed by his Grandfather time and time again. This was nothing new. There was nothing to fear.

It was not the pain he feared. Not even the damage. It was what came afterwards.

He could not be killed so long as the Lazarus Pit’s waters continued to swirl beneath the compound. Damian had seen men return from death, electric green water pouring from their gaping mouths, silent screams trapped, gurgling behind the sudden shock of life being forced back into their lifeless bodies. He had seen the Pit bring his own Mother back to life. Her screams echoed in his mind even now.

Damian blinked hard, shaking the memory away. His mind could not wander. Focus was key to sparring with his Grandfather. One slip of the mind and Damian would find himself knocked breathless to the sparring mats. He knew this well, as it had happened many times.

The tunic clung cool to his skin as he slid it over one trembling arm, then the other. He tied it to his waist, then knelt on one knee, the cool tile biting into his skin through the tunic. He reached for the shin guards resting against the wooden bench, and strapped it tight around his calf, tightening it until it held snug around his leg. He strapped the other on and pulled the padded, leather arm braces up his forearms, securing the Velcro straps with unsteady hands. His knees ached from kneeling on the solid tile.

With one hand, Damian pushed himself from, the floor and turned to gaze into the mirror, yet kept his eyes closed. Each day, before sparring, he performed this ritual—dressing himself with practiced motions and watching himself in the mirror. Always, he told himself, it was to ensure he looked the part. That he was living up to the title he owned. That Damian Al Ghul was worthy of his position.

He allowed his eyes to open, and the eyes of a killer glared back at him. Damian’s reflection never startled him. He’d grown to recognize the chilling feeling his own gaze brought. At first glance, he noticed his own rigid posture, his tight shoulders, his clenched fists. At second glance, he caught his own gaze again and flinched at the bleakness of his expression.

Damian understood that children his age were mean to galivant through playgrounds, scrape their knees and burst into tears. Children his age were meant to be read bedtime stories and be tucked in by their loving parents. Children his age were meant to be happy. Damian could call himself many things—skilled, efficient, smart, important. But happy did not belong on his list. His entire life had been spent in training, in ruining his body to become a weapon for his Grandfather. His entire childhood had been used up.

Damian shook his head weakly, closing his eyes tight and rubbing them with a balled up fist, scrubbing the tears away before they could fall. He refused to show weakness.

With a deep breath, he knelt in front of the mirror and folded his hands in his lap, fingers interlocked. He needed to concentrate. He needed to breathe. He needed to be at peace to have any chance of defeating his Grandfather in a spar. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the cool tile, breathing deeply. Damian trusted his strength. He was capable of many things. He held the strength within him to defeat his Grandfather.

He took one more breath and held it before letting it seep through his teeth, dragging himself up until he was standing once again. He knew he was already late for the spar. Grandfather would be displeased. Damian gave himself one last glance in the mirror and dusted the grime from his knees before turning from his reflection, gathering his equipment, and leaving the chamber and reentering the halls, the training rooms waiting for him at the end of the hallway like a fire drawing in an insect. Like a weapon being sent into a forge.

“Where have you been, Damian?” Ra’s cold voice rained over Damian as he stood, still as a statue. His Grandfather’s shadow loomed over him, and Damian could not bring himself to raise his head, could not meet his Grandfather’s eyes.

“I have no excuse for being late, Grandfather,” Damian replied, eyes glued to the floor. “If it pleases you, I would like to ask for your forgiv-!” A sharp slap landed across his cheek, cutting his sentence short, and he stumbled to his knees, immediately placing his palm against the red-hot sting while steadying himself with the other. Blood oozed in burgundy rivulets from his nose; the taste of copper washed over his tongue; tears sprung to the corners of his eyes. Damian’s vision blurred as a tear slipped down his cheek, mixing with the blood and pooling in the edge of his lips.

“Stand.” Orders were not to be disobeyed. Damian dragged himself to his feet and stood at attention while the blood continued to drip, splattering onto the mats beneath their feet. “Grandson,” Ra’s snapped, hand landing heavily on Damian’s shoulder. “I have grace for you, but there is a line that is drawn.” Damian’s cheeks burned bright, embarrassment and anger adding to the redness from the slap that already covered Damian's cheeks. “Three days, now. You have overslept and missed assembly. You have missed training. I do not know whether you believe I do not notice or I am a fool, but you know well that your actions have consequences, child.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Damian murmured. He wrung his hands behind his back, hair standing on end at the back of his neck. “I will gratefully accept whatever punishment you see fit.” If Damian knew his Grandfather, and he knew him well, this punishment did not involve what any normal child would consider punishment. While most children would have their electronics taken away, would be forced to remain in their rooms, would be put in “time out”, Damian would be beaten, would be whipped, would be locked under dark floorboards, kicking and screaming, with only his hands to aid his escape.

“Hand me your weapons.” Again, Damian’s limbs locked up. Surely, he would not have Damian spar without gear. Even he was not so cruel.

“Damian Al Ghul. Hand me your weapons!” The shouted command snapped him from his frozen state, and he shakily took the gear he’d brought from the armament chamber and handed it to his Grandfather. He knew better than to try and keep any of the weapons on his body, so he took each dagger, each shuriken, every weapon he had stashed on his body, and lay them at his Grandfather’s feet.

Ra’s nodded, seemingly approving. “Fighting stance,” he said, clipped.

Damian’s blood ran cold, but as if by muscle memory, in one swift, practiced motion, his body moved automatically and he brought his fists up, holding no weapon, and planted his feet firmly against the mats. Ra’s swept aside the weapons unceremoniously with his foot and got into fighting stance as well. Three feet of distance sat between them.

Aside from the shift of his posture, Damian received no warning before Ra’s attacked. He lunged at Damian, a knife held tight in each hand. Damian leapt back, zero hesitation in his movements. He knew well this fight would not end well. With no weapons and Grandfather’s full strength, heightened by anger, he stood no chance. His only move was to play defense. If he could tire Ra’s out, he could gain the upper hand.

Before Damian could gain his balance, Ra’s was behind him, a hand in his hair, gripping with iron strength and throwing him to the side. Damian landed hard on his side, vision immediately going spotty as the wind burst out of his lungs. He writhed for a moment, legs kicking and sliding against the mats, struggling to orient himself and take a breath. His mouth gaped like a dead fish, fingers scrabbling against his chest as he willed his lungs to take in a breath. Before he could manage a single breath of air, a solid kick flung him further across the mats into a wall. His vision swam as he dragged himself onto his elbows, struggling to follow his Grandfather’s movements.

Another kick. But before the foot could retract, Damian latched onto it, dazed and gasping, but determined. He bit down hard, eliciting a hiss of pain from his Grandfather, and managed to sweep Ra’s other leg out from under him, sending him flat on his back. Both of them were on the ground now.

Damian lunged before Ra’s could right himself. He wrapped one arm around his Grandfather’s neck and managed to get him into a headlock. Ra’s struggled for a moment before going still. Damian knew too well that his Grandfather would not go down that easily, and refused to release him.

It could not have stopped what happened next.

Ra’s eyes shot open once he realized his trick had not worked, and reached for one of the weapons scattered across the floor. His fingers fumbled for a knife just inches away, and when they wrapped around it, his hand flew back and plunged the knife deep into Damian’s gut.

His skin resisted only for a moment before the knife’s blade sank in.

A cold sting flared up immediately, followed by electric, white-hot pain shooting up from his stomach. He choked, arms going limp around Ra’s neck. Blood gushed into his mouth, drowning the choked gasp in his throat, flecking the mats.

The knife twisted, then was yanked from his skin with a sickening, slick pop. Damian watched, vision tunneled, as the knife clattered onto the mats. His knees trembled beneath him. He struggled to his feet, managing to get into a stance barely resembling a defensive position.

It was no use.

Another blade zipped by him, clipping his ear. Damian’s eyes foolishly tracked the knife. He should have known better than to let his gaze leave his opponent, but when he looked back to where Ra’s had been standing, it was far too late.

A cold sensation washed over his back with the unmistakable sound of a blade eating skin.

Damian didn’t realize he was on his knees until the pain hit him full force. Red hot, fiery pain engulfed his back and a strangled scream gurgled from his throat. Blood dribbled from Damian’s mouth and gushed down his back while Ra’s sheathed his sword, admiring the diagonal cut spanning from Damian’s left shoulder down to his right hip.

Damian’s vision had become blurred and spotty. Sound entered his ears as if being filtered through cotton. His entire body felt as if it were being electrocuted with pins and needles. He smelled copper on his skin and tasted blood on his tongue.

He fell face first onto the mat. He felt the fight drain out of him as his blood pooled on the mat, swirling like spilled ink. He’d known he had no chance.

His ears buzzed dully as Ra’s voice filtered through, distant and cold.

“Bring him to the Pit.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Damian was aware of was the way his body felt.

His body felt light, as if he were floating. There was no pain, which was strange, considering he remembered his Grandfather plunging a knife into his gut and slicing his back open. Damian couldn’t open his eyes, but he didn’t mind. It was peaceful here.

Or, at least, it was. Until he became painfully aware of the Lazarus waters filling his nose and submerging lungs.

Damian’s eyes shot open, and his back bowed painfully, head striking the bottom of the Pit with an involuntary gasp, taking in nothing but water, a broken scream lost beneath the thrashing waves. His fingers scrambled against the rocky floor, taking in another mouthful of acidic water. He could not breathe.

As Damian struggled under the water, his senses rushed back to him. Pain erupted like a lightning bolt through his body, his entire back stretching and pinching as it sewed itself back together one inch at a time. His stomach clenched agonizingly around the stab wound as it mended the puncture, stitching the skin back together. Every stab, slice, cut, or even small bruise dissolved into the water, leaving unblemished skin in their place, smooth and void of scars. The Lazarus waters washed away any remnants of what had happened.

Finally, after thrashing under the water, Damian’s body sat up, pulling his torso out of the water, sputtering and gagging, water spilling from his lips as he threw up the liquid sitting in his lungs and filling his stomach. Saliva clung to his lips as a ragged, broken, pained scream cracked from his burning lungs. The noise was animal, dragged out of a place of pure unfiltered terror. His body shuttered and shivered with another shattered cry, water spilling from his mouth as he coughed and spluttered, struggling to draw in a solid breath.  

Another cry bled from his mouth as his chest shifted, ribs snapping into place beneath his skin, cracks mending and becoming whole again.  

Damian could not explain what was so terrifying about feeling your bones coming back together, about feeling your tendons grasping together again, about feeling wounds stitching themselves. It was not something easily described: the tightness in his chest, the pounding in his ears, the trembling of his fingers. He knew the Pit was nothing to fear. There was no harm, only healing.

“If he does not stop thrashing soon, get him out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Damian heard his Grandfather’s voice just beneath the grating noise of his own unrelenting screams. He was hardly aware of his own voice, raw and cracking with strain as his body continued to mend itself. His body did not feel his own. It almost seemed as if he was floating above his body and watching it happen to himself. Truly, an out of body experience to be reborn in the Lazarus pit.

Slowly, his wounds healed. His bones formed again. His bruises disappeared. Damian’s screams died down to the loud, terrified, gasping sobs of a child too young to be near swords and warriors. Too young to be used as a weapon. Too young to cry and not be comforted.

His entire body ached. His ribs throbbed angrily beneath his chest. His stomach twisted painfully where the stab wound had been only moments before. His back ached sharply where the sword had carved its path.

The Lazarus Pit could heal any wound. Could raise the dead. But it cost every ounce of energy the body had. Depending on the wounds it had to mend, the size, the depth, it took more energy than the body could give.

Damian’s body sagged back into the water. His sobs breaking off into nothing but hitching breaths as his body fell into the pit again. Again, water filled his mouth, choking the breaths as he fought to keep his eyes open. But, no matter the fight he put up, his energy was spent. He had no strength left in him to force his eyes open, to fight the liquid filling his nose.

“I’ve seen enough. Get the boy and take him to the infirmary. He needs rest.”

Ra’s voice filtered through Damian’s ears, though it was distorted and muffled by the waves that toyed with his hair, that weighed down his garments, that pulled him deeper into the pit, darkness swallowing his body.

Damian felt arms beneath him. Felt the cold slap of the cave air as his body was pulled from the pit. He could only manage a weak cough to clear the water from his lungs, but it was no use. His eyes drooped, body spent. His head lolled, limp against the guard’s arm.

Damian was so tired.

Shutting his eyes for a moment couldn’t hurt.

Just for a moment, he told himself.

His eyes slid shut and the guard’s footsteps, the sway of his walk, lulled Damian into a deep, unnatural unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

“He is gone, sir.”

“What do you mean he is gone? Who was watching him? He could not have simply disappeared.”

“His bed is empty and there is no trace of him. We have searched the whole compound. I do not know who was watching him.”

“Well find out. I will search for the boy. Clearly you have not searched the entire compound, as you say you have.”

Damian stirred to his Grandfather’s voice, tired and angry. Damian did not understand who “he” was, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His body ached and his eyelids weighed too much to open them quite yet. For how long he had been out, he couldn’t be sure. He could feel sunlight hitting his cheek, warming his body, so noon had passed. It was nearing 3 o’clock, at least.

Time went on and Damian’s eyes remained shut. He lay not quite unconscious, yet not quite awake either. He listened to his surroundings, listened to the guards whisper about the supposed missing person, to the shuffle of footsteps outside the infirmary, to the scuffles of fights in the distance. Despite his state, he knew no one was in the room with him. Not his Grandfather, not his Mother, no nurse, no guard. No one to watch him. It was almost comforting to be alone. No standards to live up to, no judgment, no pressure to be the perfect heir.

As the minutes passed, or hours, Damian wasn’t sure, the sun moved lower on his body, the heat now warming his torso. He could feel his strength returning slowly, the energy he lost to the Pit refilling his body steadily yet leisurely. He could hear a faint breeze twisting the sand outside.

Despite how tired he felt, Damian ached to be outside in the sun. For just one day, he wished he could act his age, wished he could run outside and play and scream giddily like he’d heard children so loved to do. Wasn’t that what eight-year-olds were meant to do? Play with their friends and ignore bedtimes, ignore their parents’ warnings. Enjoy their lives and go to sleep exhausted from a day of fun. Damian rarely experienced “fun”. He wondered what it would be like to have fun every day. The only times he experienced fun were during spars he could win easily, during the rare occasion his Mother pretended not to notice him sneaking off to the barn to visit the horses, during late nights when he could sit in his windowsill and read books he’d smuggled from his Grandfather’s study, during the nights he could watch the stars pass from the rooftop. They weren’t what most children would consider fun, but to Damian, they were the parts of his life he valued most. Valued even more than pleasing his Grandfather.

Footsteps shuffled into the room, slow, awkward, unsteady. From the pattern of the steps, Damian assumed whoever it was had a limp. To his knowledge, all the guards with limps were immediately taken off duty to recover. Only guards in peak condition were allowed to be on duty. Otherwise, it put the others at risk, increasing the likelihood of injury or even death, dependent on the level of threat.

With a groan, Damian managed to roll over, his body finally responding to him. His eyes cracked open and immediately closed again at the brightness of the room. The footsteps froze the moment he groaned.

Odd.

Finally, Damian managed to get his eyes open and what he saw puzzled him. Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought when he woke up in the pit.

No…no it would’ve healed in the pit.

What he saw was a boy. No, a teenager, by the size of his body. Aside from the boy’s hair and electric green, wide open eyes, every inch of his body was wrapped in stark white bandages under an infirmary gown, some unraveling at his shoulders and around his arms and legs. Blood speckled the bandages at his knuckles. Red. Fresh. The skin around his eyes wrinkled in confusion as he stared Damian down, standing utterly still in the middle of the room. The electric green in his eyes flashed for a moment, head tilting sideways, and the hair on the back of Damian’s neck stood on end.

He was in danger.

Outside the door, Damian could hear multiple guards sprinting towards the room. Shouts echoed down the corridor.

“Where is he!?”

“He ran this way!”

“Quick, the infirmary!”

The bandaged boy took a shaky step forward, and Damian shot up in bed, scrambling backwards until his back hit the wall where the cot rested.

“Damian.” Ra’s’ voice murmured from where he’d appeared in the doorway. “If you value your life, do not move another inch.” His voice sounded cold and commanding as usual, but there was something underneath it. Fear.

Damian’s eyes snapped to him, wide and terrified. Ra’s looked disheveled—his hair unkempt, his robes wrinkled and bloody, his face mottled with bruises, his nose leaking a flow of blood.

“Grandfather,” Damian’s voice cracked with fear, his eyes flinching back to where the boy still stood, unmoving, head tilted, haunting eyes staring at Damian as if he were prey. “What is happening?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ra’s step forward silently, and managed a step closer to the boy before his head snapped around. His gaze left Damian and locked onto Ra’s, who froze where he stood, flinching back, fear hidden in his eyes from the boy’s sudden movement.

“Do not ask questions, child,” Ra’s said, voice tight as he stood his ground. The boy’s head tilted further, the angle nearly unnatural now. “This does not concern you. Remain still and do not speak. He is unstable. He will hurt you.” Ra’s attempted another step, but the boy jolted forward an inch, startling Ra’s back to the doorway.

Once Damian’s Grandfather was far enough away, the boy turned back to Damian, locking eyes on him again. A pit formed in Damian’s stomach as the teenager leaned forward, seemingly going to fall before he caught himself by stepping towards him. Damian flinched back and the boy froze. Something flickered behind the green. Something Damian didn’t recognize. He didn’t like that.

“Stay away from him,” Ra’s growled from the doorway. Damian saw in his posture that he wanted to stop the bandaged figure, but was too frightened. If his Grandfather was frightened, something was deeply wrong.

The boy’s ears twitched at Ra’s’ voice, but he made no movement in his direction. He continued to eye Damian, studying his expression before limping forward again.

Damian knew better than to freeze up in moments of danger. It was one of the first things he was taught in the League: never let your opponent see your fear or your weakness. Regardless, the 8-year-old could not move, utterly petrified. His fingers trembled where they fisted the blanket covering his lap and his eyes filled with tears.

The bandaged boy’s head tilted in the other direction now, eyes squinted, nose scrunched as he examined the crying child in front of him. He took another awkward step forward and Damian flinched back into the wall, smacking his shoulder against the cold, pale yellow wall. The trembling in his fingers engulfed his entire body.

He screwed his eyes shut. He hid his face in his hands. He curled up as small as possible.

Damian heard another stumble and a frightened whimper slipped out of his mouth, but this time the steps didn’t stop. They continued to come closer. Damian could hear Ra’s whispering something. Could hear guards at the doorway. Could hear the bandaged boy’s heavy, raspy breathing right beside him. No one stepped in to stop the teenager. No one stepped in to protect Damian.

His body jumped hard when he felt a bandaged hand land on his head. He tensed, waited for the hand to grip his hair and drag him out of the bed, waited for the hand to shove him down onto the bed like Grandfather would and-

The hand moved gently in his hair, almost as if it was petting him. It glided lightly through the tangled strands, shakily pat the hair once, twice, then continued running its fingers through the hair. The petting held no malicious intent, no desire to hurt. Nothing but gentleness.

Damian dared to peek out from behind his hands.

No green eyes peered back.

Saphire blue eyes stared back at him, mere inches away from his face. Damian flinched back reflexively, and the teenager did too, startled by Damian’s recoil, but the hand never stopped petting, never stopped ruffling softly through the clumped strands from where they’d been stuck together by Lazarus water. Instead of the fury that had been there moments before, curiosity shown bright in the blue. Pure, unfiltered curiosity. The scarred skin beside his eyes scrunched slightly, as if he were trying to smile beneath the bandages.

The bandages moved, like the boy were trying to open his mouth to speak, but no sound came out, only a stuttering breath.

Damian stared, wordless, still petrified, still trembling.

The boy tilted his head again, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Damian opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could come out, the hand in his hair faltered. The teenager blinked rapidly, stumbling slightly into the bed. His breaths slowed, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

A moment later, his body went slack and he collapsed onto Damian’s cot.