Work Text:
†††
†††
Point
†††
†††
It started before Damian’s birthday, before Grandfather left for Macao.
Mother came to Damian’s rooms. She said: “You do not belong here, Damian.”
†††
Damian, of course, knew that he did not fit in.
He had known this all his life, he supposed. He was not meant to fit in.
No one truly belonged here, in fairness, except Grandfather.
Some of the soldiers appeared to find peace. Purpose. But Damian—Damian was the heir to Nanda Parbat. The Bloodson of Batman. Heir to the Demon. His purpose had been found for him, long before he had been born.
He was not supposed to be like others. He was not commonplace.
Fitting in—the concept had not bothered him, as a child. He’d learned, and pleased his tutors, and pleased Grandfather, from time to time. And pleased Mother, with his progress, although—sometimes—he would catch her observing his katas, his fights, with an expression that… did not seem… pleased.
He did not know what her expression was.
He was familiar with anger, and cold, and judgment: when he’d been seven, he’d misjudged a handspring in the middle of a fight, and his teacher’s blade had gone deep into the meat of his calf. He’d received stitches and Grandfather’s disgust, and needed recovery time, and so, yes, Damian knew what disappointment looked like. Not even killing that teacher, later, had erased the shame.
But his mother’s face, sometimes—
Regardless. He was older, now. He was nine. He had progressed well, and Grandfather was cordial. He was a worthy heir, to the Demon and to the Bat. He was justifiably proud.
It had never occurred to him that not belonging would be a drawback. He blinked at his mother.
He said, “I do not understand.”
The strange expression reappeared on her face, and was gone. “No,” she said. “I imagine not.”
“Mother—” he began, which was wrong; that was demanding and it was not his place to demand—
“You may understand, later.” Another strange expression flickered, her lips moving jerkily. “When I was in Greece, I hired a new teacher for you. An acrobat.”
The handspring, then, was not forgotten.
“Thank you, Mother,” said Damian, still confused, and pushing down on his dishonor. To wallow in the memory of his disgrace would be as shameful as the disgrace itself.
He was in need of more instruction.
Fine.
She looked fiercely at him and lowered her voice. “You will do everything he tells you. Even if you doubt its value. Even if—” They were alone; she had come to Damian’s rooms. She did not need to look around so furtively. No one would dare spy on the prince of Nanda Parbat.
And Grandfather had sensors, for electronics.
Yet Mother was not overly paranoid, not as a rule—what did she fear?
“Whatever he tells you, Damian,” she said, and he straightened. Mother did not, habitually, use his name. “Whatever he tells you, you will do it?”
“Mother?”
“Even if he tells you—it is crucial, Damian, that you obey him.”
Damian did not understand: Damian obeyed all his teachers. Eventually, he surpassed them, and they died on his blade or another’s—or, occasionally, they survived and dissolved into the web of this place, becoming soldiers like the rest, perhaps prized above the others—or, even more occasionally, they left rewarded, in the Demon’s favor—but Damian had never disobeyed.
Did she—did Mother think that the handspring, that he had intended to fail—that he would refuse to listen to this teacher, deliberately disobey, and shame himself again? “Mother,” he said, “I assure you, I esteem my teachers highly and I will not disappoint—”
This time, he recognized her expression easily. This time, it was anger.
But then the anger was gone, again, as fast as it had come.
“Damian,” she said quietly. “He will arrive in three days. You will train for—perhaps a week, perhaps two. I do not know and I cannot know.” She bit her lip. “At some point, he will—” She looked around again, and dropped her voice still further. “At some point he will take you away from here.”
Damian’s heart stalled.
“And you must go with him,” she said. “You must obey. You—you do not belong here, my son.”
Damian could not speak.
“You will—it will be difficult for you, there, I imagine. But they will be… kind. You will learn to… to fit in.”
Damian had been born for a purpose. Not to melt into some lesser milieu, forgotten and forgettable. He was the Demon’s heir.
He said, “Mother,” tightly, not knowing how he meant to go on.
“Promise me,” she said, and she had never asked for a promise before, nor given one—an oath, he could understand: fealty, loyalty, honour. But a promise—
He had a sense, somehow, though it had never been articulated, that a promise was something different. That it would matter more than all the oaths he had ever given, than all those ever made in his name.
That in making this promise, in keeping it—in leaving Nanda Parbat, in leaving Grandfather—Damian would forswear himself. Betray all other oaths.
He would become outcast, oath-breaker, other and unwelcome. Manbudh.
He would know, then, what it was to not belong.
And Mother was asking him for that.
“Damian,” she said. Not warith, heir; not his purpose, but his name—
He said, “I promise, Mother.”
†††
†††
Counterpoint
†††
†††
Mother had been correct; Damian did not fit in here. Bloodson of Batman he might be, but Batman was not what he had anticipated and—Bruce Wayne was…
Yet his promise had been kept. Damian had betrayed his purpose, and left Nanda Parbat without protest when Haviland had instructed it, when Grandfather was returning—
Haviland, whom Damian had—
Damian did not, typically, like his lessons.
Before the Promise (he thought of it like that, with a capital letter, in English), before the Promise, it had not mattered whether Damian liked a lesson or not. He would not even have thought the thought. But after the Promise? After he had broken faith, even if only he and Mother knew—
He could admit, then, that he did not always enjoy his lessons. But he had liked Haviland. He had felt…
Haviland ruffled his hair on his tenth birthday, which Damian thought was an attack. Haviland laughed and did it again, and called him Dami and taught him to control a front-handspring-front-pike.
And Haviland took Damian into the mountains, on a climbing trip, four days before Grandfather’s return from Macao, and a car met them. And they did not go back.
And Haviland had been a lie; Haviland was Richard and a son of Batman, older and fiercer and smarter and—and Damian’s only claim was blood and Batman, it seemed, did not care about blood—
And it didn’t matter anyway, because they arrived safely in Gotham with, perhaps, hours to spare before Grandfather would begin to wonder where the heir had gone. And in Gotham, there was a cave, and in the cave there were others, smarter and older and bigger and all fitting in together, and Haviland—Richard—had yelled things, and everyone had yelled things, and Haviland had said, “I know, B; I’m not saying I trust Talia, but she cared. She meant it—and I swear to god, if he’s not your son, he’s your clone—and, what? I was supposed to leave him there? With Ra’s?”
And then there had been more yelling, and Richard—Grayson—had left in haste because some other lie had fallen apart in his absence—
He’d said, “I’ll be back, Dami; I won’t be far, I won’t be gone long, I—I just need to get this—” and he ruffled Damian’s hair. And Damian felt…
But Batman stared at Damian, and Damian stared back.
He had promised to obey Haviland. But Haviland was gone, and Damian’s word meant nothing now. Now he was oath-breaker, now he had abandoned his purpose, now Haviland—now Damian was alone—
Damian had not been like the others in Nanda Parbat. He was not like the others here. Mother had said he would learn to fit in. Mother had said they would be kind.
The Bat looked at him, and removed his cowl, and went down on one knee, his cape bunching up on the cave floor. He said, “Hello, Damian,” and nothing more.
Damian looked from Bruce Wayne to the Red Hood and Robin, both cloaked and stiff behind Gotham’s prince.
Damian had never been meant to fit in. He had been meant to stand out. He had not been meant to…
He was the son of the Bat. He was, still, by birthright if nothing else, the heir to the Demon. He was not meant to belong, not anywhere.
†††
He wanted to.
†††
†††