"There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand."

Especially not on a day as bitter as this, as Lord Wayne buried his second son's body, lost far too soon, far too easily. Surrounded by much too many people for his - and for his lost son's - liking, their ongoing pitiful sorrows only reminding him how young his sweet son was, succumbing to harrowing injuries in his arms.

Lord Wayne - or, Bruce, for we will be dearer friends with him, won't we - lived in the oft peaceful countryside. Surrounded by beautifully green pastures, ongoing moors (as far as the eye could see) and tall, imposing manor houses, housing only the finest and best of the country. Within his own household, however, was never the cold, bitterness one could expect from such… fine people. No, Bruce lived with his two sons, Richard and Jason, their butler, Alfred (who, really, was more family than house help) and the manor staff. Rarely was there a quiet day at the Wayne's Manor, but for today's horrifically silent walls.

Jason Peter Todd had been graciously adopted into the Wayne household, just as Richard Grayson had been, forever stirring rumours of Lord Wayne and his secret lovers. He had been loved, doted on and cared for dearly, not just by Bruce, but by his dear older brother, Alfred and (for the most part) everyone who had met him.

This is not a story of joys. For had Jason Peter Todd-Wayne remained happy - or alive, for that matter - we wouldn't be here, would we? Stuck, in the Heavens' downpour, mourning the loss of a sweet little angel, returned to the stars, nestled in the arms of celestial beings. Attempting awkward small talk, as Lord Way- a father grieved the loss of his son. As a brother grieved the loss of his best friend. As a man, considered almost a grandfather to the children, mourned the loss of the one who'd tip toe, oh so quietly down to sneak treats before breakfast.

So, when Bruce lowered his son's coffin into the ground, he did not cry. He wished he had. He wished he could. But crying didn't erase the image of his sweet angel's battered, decrepit body, scarred and damaged as he lay in his father's arms, who's aching tears, nor begging and pleading with the Gods, could not bring his son back. Nor did it change how every time he closed his eyes, Jason's final breaths echoed in his mind, shallow, scared and weary.

How could such a sweet boy endure so much?

Where Bruce did not cry, Richard wept. Poor, young Richard. His best friend, his partner in crime, who'd sneak out to rooftops with him, was dead. Irreversibly dead, rotting in a wooden box, coated by piles of earth as he wept into the soil that covered him. He was inconsolable, as everyone attempted to pull him back, away from Jason's sweet soul, to let him rest. Yet he continued weeping, sorrows tremoring down his eyes, his face, hitting the already wet soil beneath him.

Even the tears of the Heavens' lessened, allowing him to mourn his loss, until Bruce pulled him up, holding him close.

Alfred, by far, was the worst. It was awfully clear how much the sweet child meant to him, given how he'd attempt to keep himself together. If not for himself then for the family, only to weep quietly in the corner, when he'd thought nobody was looking. Painful, was the word most would use, when looking at this situation, as not a single person could find the words. What does one say? 'He lived a good life' doesn't quite apply, when the mourned soul is snatched so soon from the earthly realm. Nor are comments of the weather appropriate, or memories of the deceased.

Yet it was clear the boy was loved.

It was clear, that Bruce Wayne had loved his son dearly, and it was clear he was a father in mourning first, and everything else latter.

People began to file out, quietly leaving, allowing the family their own time with their son, buried in Saint Lidwina's Church's graveyard. Gotham was quiet today, giving the family time and space, the only extra people remaining being Commissioner Gordon and the priest who had blessed the poor boy's soul, wishing peace upon him. Richard clung desperately to his father, who only absentmindedly stroked his head in return. Was he soothing himself, or his son? Or both?

A single crow, perhaps, is another guest, mournfully cawing as the winds rippled against its feathers, its screams permeating the wind, howling round and lifting bladed leaves. Nature itself had joined in the grief, as the skies only darkened more and more as time passed.

Truly then, it is a shame that not one soul had paid attention to the figure in the distance, grazing across the graves before leaving as not to arouse suspicion.

After what could have been an eternity, the Commissioner led the family away from the grave, towards their carriage, lifting Richard inside, helping Alfred seat himself, and allowing Bruce to sit. As he closed the door, Bruce reached out to his arm, tapping it softly,

"Gordon."

"Lord Way-"

"No formalities lie between us, old friend. Will you see to it, though, that my son's…"

Killer? Torturer? Murderer?

The Commissioner nodded hurriedly, the realisation that young Richard was still in their presence quickly dawning upon them as he rested his hand over Bruce's,

"I will do my utmost best, and more. That wretched fool will be found, one way or another."

Bruce nods, leaning back into the carriage as the Commissioner sat in front, choosing to drive the family back himself, unable to trust another soul with their safety. So whilst outside, all of the Heavens and Hells paused their awful battles to mourn the loss of a sweet innocent, inside the carriage, three exhausted humans' souls suffered as they ached for the fourth. Richard - who'd often play about in the carriage with Jason, teasing each other, staring out into the skies for strangely shaped clouds as their giggles and joys echoed round - now sat in silence, eyes boring out, begging the skies for some answer.

The skies often do not respond to mere mortals, for they have their own concerns and battles to fight. Today, no strange shapes appear themselves to him, and he sighs. Richard's eyes, usually filled with joy, excitement and whimsy, now dull over the clouds, dropping to the passing moors, attempting to distract himself.

Yet all he can think of, is how Jason's laugh would haunt him forever. How he'd never be able to unhear the soft giggles when he looked up at the skies, pointing up at clouds and making funny faces. How he'd never be able to unsee him, throwing his bread rolls at Richard, behind Bruce's back. He'd never rid his mind of the image of his pale, shaking form, begging to let him in at the dead of night, when the Gods' Wrath had scared him past sleep.

The journey back was long, and unkind on everyone (especially when they had no choice but to take a diversion to avoid the puddle that wasn't really a puddle anymore, and more of a deep lake, stretching across the path, mirroring their guilts and anxieties back to them), but eventually, the Manor was reached. The Commissioner escorted all three back inside, never failing to be entirely awestruck by the Manor's imposing exterior, and somehow even more intimidating interior. Externally, as they walked up, the Manor comprised of a beautiful structure, ensnaring visitors simply by how perfectly built it was. Tall glass windows, that would often glimmer back remnants of the sun into the ground, now shook hauntingly, barely trapped in their brick foundation. Speaking of, each and every wall was soaked - coated in thick layers of rain, dribbling down the brickworks and pooling below the stairs. He shuddered, and Bruce waved it off,

"Nothing out of the ordinary, James. The Manor may be old, but she still holds well."

He has no choice but to nod, following the family inside as an attempt to help them. Or was he clearing his conscience? After all, the young child had died on his watch as Commissioner. No one would blame him, paranoid in his attempt to still protect the family.

And upon entering the interior, he only felt sicker. Each wall seemed to remember him. Somehow, he could hear Jason's giggles, chased by Richard, the two tumbling down the stairs to greet him on his visits. He could practically see it, the boys, rushing forwards, chasing after a toy as Bruce gently reprimanded them. His heart ached, as he refused Alfred's offer for tea, suddenly remembering how his wife had expected him home. Naturally, the family understood, guiding the Commissioner back out, bidding him farewell.

For the first time in many a moon, the Manor was devoid of all joy, happiness and jouissance, replaced by a numbingly empty void.

Richard, for one, locked himself in Jason's chambers, refusing to speak for the day, barely allowing Alfred inside to see him, or to bring food. He spent most of the day wrapped in Jason's old blanket, sobbing uncontrollably until his own exhaustion and fatigue brought on his slumber.

Bruce was no better, retreating to his study, pulling out an old drawer of letters he had kept from both sons. Specifically, he spent the afternoon and evening, sorting through each and every letter Jason had written him. He was often out for work, away from the boys and the Manor, and would return to two stacks of letters, piled high with joys, sorrows and fears only childhood can create.

He hadn't realised, that his tears strolled down his face.

Nor that the heart ached slightly less, memories of little Jason, waddling into his room after a particularly harrowing nightmare.

Not until his tear slipped, and spilled onto the last letter. Specifically, the last part of the last letter, slightly smudging the handwriting, that he desperately attempted to save, blotting his tear off with cloth. Fortunately, he had caught it in time, just enough that Jason's final letter was still preserved. He wiped his tears off his face, his eyes trailing back over the letter, over where his tear had almost ruined the last living remnant of his son,

"I love you dearly, Father. You, Grand Alfie, and Richie." — Jason.

And if he wasn't crying before, Lord Wayne most definitely was weeping now, his head lowered to the table as he knelt in front of the desk, tears dropping over various documents.

Not that they mattered. Properties, businesses - what one would oft expect a businessman to busy himself with - no longer mattered.

Lord Bruce Wayne, of Gotham, had suffered the world's greatest loss - one that he'd truly never recover.

As the family mourned, their sweet boy's rotting corpse rested.

Or did he?

The moon did not shine her light tonight, her blessings empty over the skies as she hid pitifully, behind warring clouds and treacherous skies. Clouds circled, their winds howling as they spun, their wrath unforgiving and unrelenting. A crow - perhaps the very same from before - landed across his gravestone, as though he were awaiting something… or someone. Sharp, bladed leaves billowed round, as rumbles of thunder echoed through the ground, shattering the weak bones of old bodies. Though rainfall rarely stopped in Gotham, tonight it was particularly hellbent, as though attempting to mask some.. sort of conspiracy from occurring.

Yet all seemed to quieten, just a little bit, as a shadowy figure sauntered towards a.. newer grave.

Oh dear, Jason Peter Todd. Had the poor boy not suffered enough? Beaten, black and blue until his father barely recognised him, coated in scars and injuries few could even imagine surviving, let alone coping with, holding on long enough with faith.

This world, is cruel, and very rarely cares for the sweet innocent's wants and needs. Not even if the sweet innocent has passed, moved on, to be welcomed by heavenly bodies, can his soul rest, as the Shadow'd One dug his grave, lifting the coffin and pulling the body out from within.

A pungently rotten smell permeated the air, mixed with fresh soil, and sweet rain, infiltrating its nose, as it beckoned others towards it, holding his body out to them. The others tilt their heads, as it sighs, finally opening its mouth, revealing only a horrid set of teeth, barely visible under the darkened skies, a hoarse voice just about whispering out of its throat, the intonation incorrect - as though it had just learnt to speak,

"T..en and..uuuuhhhh….. t….eeennnnuuuuh yeeeee… aaaaarz. Lhe… ss tha… hn th'Maey… su.. ter rey… quee…. red. He weeei… ll soof… ice.." (And for those not well versed in such speak, allow me to translate - 'Ten and ten years. Less than the Master requested. He will suffice.'. Translate, I can, but meaning? Nay, I have less than you, my dear reader.)

Of the 'Others', two step forward to take the body, bundling him into cloth and wrapping him round, tying at various points with ropes. The other two help the original Shadow'd One recover the grave, throwing an old body (which, between us, we can both imagine to be some innocent soul who crossed their evil path) into the grave, and refilling with the very soil that once laid him to rest.

This, dear reader, is how Jason Peter Todd's body was immediately desecrated, robbed, in the dead of night, without a soul present to object.

Once satisfied with the state of the grave, Jason Todd's body was carried, far from his dear home, where at least he could have visitors, or rest with ease. No, now it lay in a barely put together carriage, smuggled away from Gotham.

Richard woke up screaming, his arms reaching out as he howled out, tears once again forming in his eyes as his memories haunted him.

"Richard? Richard! What happened, are you-"

"I'm fine, I'm… I'm fine.. Father, I.."

"…"

Bruce knew his childre-. Apologies - his child, well enough to know when one sought his comfort. He called for Alfred (who had been just round the corner, as it was), instructing him to prepare a gentle tea for the boy, before sitting with him, letting him curl up against him as he held him in Ja-

Jason's chambers.

He hadn't realised, that these were his chambers. His very essence, still lingering and haunting the room. Bruce looked down at Richard (and it is now a good idea to inform you, dear reader, that though Richard was of twenty four years, in his dear father's eyes, he was no more than the sweet small child he had once taken in), his shaking form as he clung to Bruce's night shirt, and carefully picked up Jason's old blanket, wrapping it around him.

"Richard… my sweet son… I.."

Yet neither father nor son could find the correct words, to console one another. There they sat, the two of them curled up in grief, as Alfred perched on the side of the bed, two cups in a tray with him,

"Now, I must implore the both of you to finish these fully, hmm? Here, Master Grayson, with your favourite biscuits, and Master Wayne, for you."

Neither one spoke, but silently took their cups, quietly sipping their teas, minds calming ever so slightly as they did. Each sip felt like a burden eased, a weight slightly lifted from their chest, and a warmth enveloping their hearts. The full weight of their burdensome grief would not lift so easily - Alfred knew that - but at the very least, the two should allow themselves rest.

Richard succumbed to sleep first, with Bruce taking his cup and returning it to the tray as the younger man lay his weary head, fatigue quickly taking over. Bruce's hand rested over his eyes, lowering his eyelids and finishing his own cup, weight yet to be eased.

He knows better than to think a cup of tea would fix him. But it's not that which he seeks. Unfortunately, he also knows that what he seeks is impossible.

Lord Bruce Wayne, of Gotham, was no stranger to loss, nor sacrifice, nor the pains and struggles of life. Common knowledge, around these parts, was his story, how he had lost his parents in a horrific struggle, at the young, precious age of eight and secluded himself to his Manor, unseen by the public. Many years had passed between his parents' passing and his returning to Gotham's social life - to the point that many had begun to suspect his own untimely passing.

So why did it hurt, still? Why did his heart pour open, bleeding across his chest as he ached and mourned? Surely a man created in grief would handle grief better than this, no?

Bruce had long forgotten that he too, was human, and to be human is to love wholly, and grieve deeply, painfully, and to allow yourself to feel.

Alfred plucked the cup from Bruce's hands, as he lay down to sleep too, exhaustion finally overcoming the man. He draped the blanket over the two, before stepping back, a sigh unknowingly releasing itself from his throat. Had it been any other day, time or year, perhaps this would've been a much sweeter moment. He shook his head, carrying the tray back down to the kitchen, and providing the staff with their final orders of the evening - final cleaning and preparation for the next morning - before retiring to bed himself.

His routine for bed was simple. To wash was first, then he'd methodically change into his nightwear, attend to his teeth, his face and finally, rest his head.

Tonight was different, as his eyes lingered over his beside table, fit with drawers. He finds himself tugging open the lower drawer, unwrapping old drawings Jason had gifted him. Portraits of him, of Bruce, Richard and Jason, various land studies from his time sat in the gardens. All sorts of different pieces, each one kept safely in his drawer. He sighs again, shaking his head as he places them back in their resting place, snuffing the candle as he lay in bed.

Sleep did not come as easy for him, not when Jason plagued his dreams.

Speaking of, the Others had finally made it to the harbour. Truly, it was the Waynes' own misfortune that they lived so close, the sea within two hours of Old Gotham. Two of the Others carried the body again, this time bundled into a chest, claiming 'precious cargo'. As they moved to board the Oceanids, hired help did very almost search their chest, were it not for the Shadow'd One slipping gold coins into each man's pockets, perhaps their precious cargo would've been lost.

For their own sakes, at least, it was a good thing that hadn't happened.

Aboard the ship, the chest was bundled into their quarters, shoved under various luggages and general items, so as to deter any wandering persons from exploring. It took around six and a bit days to reach Oslo, from Portsmouth, England, and then a further month's travel from Oslo to their Master's residence in Marstrand, given they had to travel slow, in order to raise less suspicion.

The Shadow'd One took rest first, as the Others sat still - unblinking, unmoving. If one were to walk into this scene, perhaps they'd walk right out, immediately shocked by the strangeness of their behaviours. Perhaps they'd stand confused, unsure of what to make of such a situation, before quickly returning to their own quarters and avoiding that area of the ship in its entirety for the remainder of their journey.

It was not the concern of the Shadow'd One nor the Others, what people would do upon seeing them. Their primary (and only) concern was the transport of precious cargo to their dear (terrifying) Master, who of course, would reward them well (their deaths would be prolonged, long enough to be grateful, naturally). Which was more than what could be said for most of their Master's servants.

Praise be then, to their oh, so kind Master, for graciously allowing them to live.

As for the Shadow'd One, under the pale candlelight - barely gracing their dull quarters with its presence - one could just about see its ever glowing eyes, unclosing even in slumber. 'Twas a strange creature, standing about eight feet tall, shrouded in a long cloak and layers of mystery. None dared to approach such a hulking mass, which only further helped their cause. Perhaps this creature had a tale of its own, to be told. Perhaps it was conflicted, twisted and depraved. But where one could barely see its eyes, how could one tell of its soul?

So whilst the ship slowly sailed, bobbing across the sea with a steady pace, the Others kept guard as the Shadow'd One rested. Every four hours, one of the Others rose, filling a syringe with an unpleasantly unsettling green liquid and flicking off the excess before approaching the Shadow'd One. It spreads an arm out, allowing the Other to inject it with the substance. As the Other pulls the syringe away, a small splodge of green oozes back out of the wound, simmering slightly before drying down onto patchy skin, before the Shadow'd One covers its skin again.

Clearly, the creature needed this to live. Neither the Others nor the Shadow'd One rose for food, nor did they seek out water, relying on such strange sustenance to survive. By day three, the ship's crew had gotten suspicious of the group, sending down the ship's bosun to check exactly what was happening.

The Shadow'd One awoke to three polite knocks and a voice,

"Sire? Does you require food? Drink?"

Yet it did not open the door, speaking through the boundary,

"Uhn…..ayeed…yed,… we…. buhr…ayuu…. ngggg…. aw…. uhn…"

(Translation, for you: 'Unneeded, we bring own.' Of course, we know this is not the case. Well, the unneeded is true, but how one could call such a thing… food, is beyond me.)

The bosun's face contorts, confused before he shakes his head, sighing. The chest they brought, or the various bags upon them must've carried their own food, of course,

"Understood. Tell us, if'ya needs it."

Perhaps, if those hearing the bosun's voice were noblemen travelling the seas, they'd dismiss him with a smile and wave, before returning to their chambers, throwing insults of his limited vocabulary. Instead, it returned to the makeshift bed, lying down with its eyes open once more, a harrowing glare cast upon the ceiling above it. It's a good thing the bosun merely assumes it is from some foreign land, rather than casting suspicion upon it, and walks away, returning to his duties.

The rest of the ship's journey is smooth, albeit quiet and the strange group's quarters are undisturbed, sailing quietly through day and night until the bosun arrives again on the sixth day, knocking to signal his presence,

"Sorries for the disturb'nce."

The Shadow'd One merely grunts, having not had its sustenance. The bosun takes this as a good enough response, continuing on,

"We approach Oslo, 'bout an hour left. Time is eight pm, Cap'n sends his regards."

Another grunt, and the bosun returns, leaving the group to their activites. Had he paused, merely another moment, the thick scent of rotting flesh may have hit him. Lucky bosun, leaving when he did.

The Shadow'd One gestures to the Others, instructions of gathering and preparation signed across to them. One Other approaches again, with a syringe. The liquid is more green than usual, a special preparation for the longer and more demanding travel upon land, injected into its veins.

As the ship entered harbour, the Others stood, assuming position in front of the Shadow'd One, walking as one unit, collectively, through the ship's floors until they waited patiently on deck.

The Shadow'd One readjusted its hood and cloak around it, before stepping out onto the deck, alongisde the Others. The pale moonlight shone unkindly upon them, almost threatening to spill their hidden secret. Luck, however, was on their side, as the thick smell of the sea, and old fish kept in barrels coated the air, easily masking the carcass.

The group steps off the ship in unison, stepping to the side, into an alley quietly hidden from the moon's watchful gaze. The streets are quiet tonight, with most respectable folks tucked away in their warm abodes, and those less respectable hidden into the shadows' cold embrace.

A carriage draws close, blue smoke huffing into the wind as horses come to a slow stop. A being, similar to the Others, sits in the front with the reins in its hands, signalling to the group to enter. They push the chest in first, sliding under the back seat, before seating two of themselves on the opposite seat. The two Others seat themselves with the carriage Other, and the Shadow'd One sits on the seat above the chest, protecting it.

The journey through the wilderness of Norway, avoiding civilisation where possible, across the border into Sweden, where Marstrand lay was long and dreary. The average human would fall asleep, with ease, on such a lengthy journey. They'd spend the days staring out of the windows of their carriage, taking in the beautiful scenery - the way the sun shone through the leaves, glimmering lights dancing across watery bodies. How the clouds softened the sky, one gentle shape at a time and how birds sang their sweet songs, welcoming the day and bidding all warm greetings.

The carriage, however, could not travel in the day. Cloaked figures would not be so easily accepted in the day, even if they avoided civilisation. Naturally, this had lengthened their journey, dragging out from a simple two weeks to a drained month. In between, every two days, one of the Others would inject the carcass with more of the strange green substance, keeping it from fully rotting.

In the day, they'd set up camp, secluded areas (usually hidden by the trees, greenery or old abandoned structures, where they could manage hiding as such), the Others keeping watch as the carriage Other and the Shadow'd One rested, recuperating under their careful eyes.

And so, when a long (and dreary) month finally passed, the strange group finally entered the gates of Hell - or, rather, the mortal equivalent.

Towering structures bore their spindly arms down, reaching out to the group with their sharp fingers, leaves dropping off onto the ground below. The skies did not bless the night - obscured by the fogs of Satan himself - a secular haze coating them, hiding the sins of the night from watchful celestial bodies. Two of the Others reach to the gates, their sickly hands pushing them open as they sigh and creak, moaning with the suffering of pained souls.

The carriage continued through the grounds, past the Lake of Lost Souls, reaching out as they moan for repentance, mercy and forgiveness. It's especially mournful tonight, almost as though the begging souls are aware of the sins to be committed on this very unholy night. The Manor itself impedes upon the mortal world, as though it mocked all who dared even gaze upon it. A cold, blue shadow cast itself out of the Manor, trickling around the grounds in the unholy fog, pooling round the cold earth below.

The carriage drew to a slow stop, horses shaking their heads as the Others stepped off, awaiting the Shadow'd One to join them before they took out the unsanctimonious chest. The doors of the Manor swung open with a hiss, more blue fog billowing out into the air, hitting their feet with a cold breeze. Within the Manor, a voice boomed out, calling to them,

"Well, my faithful servants return, hmm? Do you bring One of worth, or do you fail me?"

Images of the Lake of Lost Souls simmer in their minds, how failed servants would suffer beyond eternity for their failures. The Others lay down the chest in the foyer, allowing their Master to step forward, down from the stairs to inspect the chest.

He swiftly unlocks the chest, swiping it open as an Other steps forward to unravel the wrapped package, cloth and ropes coming loose, as the Corpse of Jason Peter Todd tumbles out, falling at his feet.

He huffs, nodding as the Others rebundle the remaining cloth, shunting the chest away and awaiting their Master's judgement. His eyes trail over the frail body, noting that (this time) the Others had followed his instructions well, injecting as needed. The Master gestures to the body and the Others, who lift the Corpse up, following their Master without a word of complaint. The Shadow'd One follows too, only to be stopped halfway, as a long leg steps in front of it. Its eyes trail up the leg, crossing the torso and resting upon her face, as she sighs pitifully,

"Ahhh… you thought…! You thought you could follow Father into his laboratory? Now, now, little dove, you cannot have possibly considered yourself this important, hmm? Come, Master Al Ghul has had your… chambers, prepared."

It huffs, but follows her swaying hips and sage'd eyes through the corridors, winding and confusing, down through the old tunnels until they once again, were at its personal Hell. She turned to it, sighing as she inspected her nails. Two Others, stronger than those sent with it before, grabbed it by the arms and dragging it along the ground through thick, old, musty blood. The liquid seeps into its clothing, past the boundaries and layers into its skin, sinking over its still unhealed wounds as the Others shackle it to the wall once more, bound and tied for its Master's bidding. The woman keeps watch, amusement trickling over her face as she gestures to the Others, ensuring they shackle all of its limbs against the wall,

"Good job, little dove. Master has more plans for you, and you will comply, won't you?"

It grunts out in agreement - past experience has taught it better. For to deny Lady Talia Al Ghul, daughter of the reclusive and fabled Lord Ra's Al Ghul, was to beg for her mercy and to pray she'd kill you sooner than later. The old marks and scars only serve as reminders, and it knows better than that.

"Good. Perhaps you will be more useful than we thought."

Meanwhile, Lord Al Ghul (or, the Master, as we shall continue referring to him as) led the two Others, and the body in their arms, towards the laboratory. A room filled with books, tables covered in research, shelves stocked with each and every alchemical substance any mad doctor would dream of. Candelabras swung, somewhat feverishly, but provided just enough light for even the most maddened of men to know what they were doing.

The two Others strapped the Corpse to a table, as the Master prepared his surgical tools, breathing in the sickly sweet, pungently rancid smell - letting it infiltrate and permeate his nose, his airways, his lungs as he hummed blissfully.

This time, he was bound for success.

Chapter 2: "High on a Throne of Royal State, which far Outshon the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand Showrs on her Kings Barbaric Pearl and Gold, Satan exalted sat, by merit rais'd"

Chapter Text

Lord Al Ghul was no mere man, meekly kneeling at the altar with begging knees and open palms. Nay, Lord Al Ghul, was one of mystery, one shrouded by forces few seek out. His tale was one of legend - few had seen him, yet he bore such an uncanny resemblance to his forefathers. Rumours had long spread of a 'secret pit', rejuvenating the man and allowing him to live on centuries beyond the standard human. Though, these of course were just rumours.

Not exactly, dear reader.

Yes, it's true. Ra's Al Ghul had cheated death, for many, many centuries. Reclusing oneself from society and devoting oneself to the study of the fine lines which lay between life and death, peering over ancient texts and alchemical formulas had its own benefits.

Earlier that day, Lord Al Ghul had gone through his bi-annual ritual, submerging himself as always in the Pit.

The Pit - or, by its full name, The Lazarus Pit - was contained at a sub zero level, far beneath the Manor, its laboratories and the dungeons. To even approach the Pit was a worthy feat in and of itself, given how far a journey it was, oft requiring him to take… resources, in the form of his servants. Those who survived the journey with him would attend to him, ensuring his time in the Pit was well optimised. And those who didn't became the resources for said journey.

Once one approaches The Lazarus Pit - named after Lazarus, whom Christ had resurrected from death - the sheer stench of the Pit becomes nigh unbearable, thick chemicals burning through your nose, lungs and piercing every pore on the body.

This, of course, only worsens upon entering the Pit. A dark, barely lit room, cold and unwelcoming. Each wall houses many arches, shadows disappearing in cold crevices. On the very far side of the room, a series of old statues accompanied by eternal flames sit with their eyes trailing each and every move - as though they commanded justice of the Pit.

And of the Pit itself - a deceptive body of liquid, appearing much shallower than it is. The very same green liquid as that of the Shadow'd One's veins, and that injected into poor Jason, fills this pool. The Pit's primary function, and what it should be used for, is to heal injuries. However, as dear Ra's Al Ghul here had found over many many uses, prolonged use had granted him immortality - or, rather, what could only be considered man's closest attempt to wrangling the Gods' power.

Alas, this was not enough for his corrupted soul.

Ra's was far less the man he had begun this journey upon, having become something else entirely. It was not enough to live forever, nor was it enough to live in the manner he had. No, no, he needed more. And the only way to have more, was to experiment.

Who better, than the sweet young Jason, who'd barely known life on Earth?

The boy's cold body lay on his table, strapped down by thick blocks of leather, unkindly tight and cutting. Ra's approached with a tray of tools, setting them on the smaller table besides that which held the body down. Scalpels, dissecting scissors, forceps, probes, dissectors, the horrifically disturbed bone saw, retractors and pins all carefully laid out in their rightful place as he lowered his goggles over his eyes. The goggles came with their own attachable extra lens, thus removing the need for magnifiable glasses.

Before beginning to inspect the body, he steps back to admire his specimen, sketching down a quick map for reference in an leatherbound notebook, bound to be aeons older than even you or I. He labelled where he'd cut, where he'd inspect and assess the nature of the body, what he could push and pull from it.

The goal of his.. endeavours, was to somehow simultaneously cheat life and create the perfect human life form.

He picked up the scalpel, making the faintest marks of which incisions were needed where. Two, along either side of the lungs. One, at the very base of the neck, to assess the stability of the specimen's spine. One on either side of the head, just behind the ear.

Naturally, once he was done with the specimen, he'd have to graft on new skin - the old wounds inflicted upon the body would not heal so kindly. Luckily for him, he had an endless supply of choices, and this was not an issue he was particularly concerned with. Nay, the issue at hand was how the body would react to life once more. Would it attack its creator? Its reanimator, its Master?

Or would it submit willingly, bending to his will as he needed?

Past experiments required.. a level of coercion, that he was less keen on applying. Perhaps this body would remember the injuries and torture impacting it, and that would not bode well for his needs. Ra's Al Ghul needed something compliant. Something which followed his needs, his will.

Thus, even in its death, Ra's was ever so careful as he applied only the lightest touch when inspecting the nature of the corpse. Of course this didn't stop him using all his tools, prying the body open, through layers of skin, fat and muscle down to the bone, closely inspecting the nature of each structure and its condition.

Several hours passed with ease, before he slowly sutured each cut up, unkind marks left across the body. When satisfied, he pulled a needle, a syringe and vials, drawing blood from the body. Truly, the green liquid had worked its wonders, managing to maintain a normal weight and thickness to the sanguine fluid as it poured into the vials. Four vials were collected and sealed, set aside for another.. experiment as he mused quietly to himself,

"Hmm… it'll do for now. Tst! Take the body back, inject it and keep observation."

Two Others approached him, unrestraining the body and lifting it with ease, yet trudging back slowly as though it suddenly weighed them down. Meanwhile, he finished his notes, annotating the diagram he had created himself earlier. Surely now, with all the evidence and experiments he had conducted, he was the closest he'd ever get to his goal.

Centuries of work had finally come together, as he transported the vials to a safe, cool place. A box, almost as cold as the Pit itself, with other labelled vials of blood and.. more of the green fluid. He labelled the vials (Subject JPT-1) before placing them inside.

The day's work (for Lord Al Ghul) had finished. He was on time in his predictions, and the night still summoned him.

Whilst Jason's body lay yet again strapped to a new table, Ra's finally left this laboratory, each lock checked twice before he walks away, candle in one hand and notebook tucked safely under the other. The stairs back are never kind to anyone. He grits his teeth as the cold of the corridor and cobbled stones hit his bones, the chill stuttering through his veins and hitting his forehead as it spreads across his body. Yet still he trudged back, his candle never fading, never dimming nor weakening.

The candle's sweet light was perhaps the only remnant of hope left in this place, that God himself had long forsook.

At the very end of his journey, she stood tall, cloak hanging around her shoulders as she carried the confidence of a heavy legacy across them.

"Talia, dearest."

"Father."

"Good job with.. it. It has proven useful, and therefore.. I suppose, it has proven its worth."

"…"

"Yet, still, I see it requires taming, hmm? That will not do, my dear. Nay, it is not.. sufficient."

"Of course, Father."

He sighed, nodding as he led the two of them away through the old corridor. To the untrained eye, the corridor was filled with paintings of the Al Ghul dynasty, a corridor of legacy and bloodlines, stretching on. Yet, neither Ra's nor his dear daughter Talia were fools - each painting was merely a reminder of the many lives Lord Al Ghul had seen, the years that he had lived across, travelled and existed within. Attached to each piece was an alias used by the Lord in that era, only cementing the notion of legacy.

"Talia. The night calls."

"Yes, Father. She does."

"Good."

Two of the Others greeted the father and daughter at the end of the corridor, opening the door outside and following them, past the Lake of Lost Souls, howling awfully on this wretched night. As always, the Lake's sweet moans of suffering danced across the breeze, tingling his ears as the Lord merely chuckled, approaching the Lake. Talia could only follow, as did the Others, subservient to their Master as he breathed in the wretched torment of the souls, sweet rotten flesh coursing through his lungs.

"…She will be pleased."

"Of course, Father."

"Shall we?"

She nodded, turning as he did, away from the tortured Lake. The two Others briefly lingered (for it was considered more than rude to follow the Master and his daughter so closely. And as we have seen, dear reader, the Master does not take kindly to those who defy his wishes). As always, the Lake calls out to them, as their fellow brethren's cold embrace begs for sweet mercy.

They know better.

"Tell me, dear Talia, of your advancements. Have you reached any conclusions? Are there more… complications?"

Talia, oh sweet Talia, sucked in a breath, exhaling sharply as she thought through her answer. For to answer too quickly was to be a fool, and no daughter of Ra's Al Ghul was a fool. No, she took her time, thinking through her observations, her experiments and her findings,

"To start with - the subject is still far too obvious. It.. It is too unrealistic. Yet, using the cover of the night appears to work - but this is inefficient, and does not help our cause,"

She paused, if only to take a breath (and to see his reaction to the knowledge. Unfortunately for her, he provided her no comfort, nor validation in her findings) before continuing,

"..and secondly, It.. obeys with the usual methods. This too, is inefficient. After all, it begs the question - what happens if It disobeys orders far from our watchful eyes? This, Father, is a complication we must overcome. Perhaps having some sort of Watcher for It could mitigate this factor. Still, there is more to be tested, and one hopes to learn more as research continues."

For three minutes, he does not respond. This is not unusual, for Lord Al Ghul much prefers to allow information to settle. Knowledge, much like wine, should sit and mature before being acknowledged. This does little to ease Talia's nerves of course, but eventually he does turn to her to respond.

As he does, the cold of the Moon washes over him, casting a dim blue glow, only harshening his features. His hair blows in the wind, having picked up quickly from a breeze to a howl, only carrying the suffering around them. The Lord's cape flows behind him, creating a shadow few would dare to seek refuge within. Perhaps as a child, Talia would flock to her father, begging his forgiveness as he berated her. Yet today, she stands tall, and he sees within her his own reflection, a smile forming on his face,

"Someday, dear daughter of mine, You will follow in Mine footsteps. Your observations are well founded, yet You still have work to do. Come, She waits."

Through the ever thickening fog, he leads them further into the woods, branches trembling with anticipation of his arrival. It's almost as though all life shrivels into subservience with his existence.

The two Others still linger, their steps widening as they move round to flank their Master, preparing to welcome him to Her Abode. This leaves only Talia behind her Father, as she follows each and every footstep he creates, never daring to step outside his planned patterns.

After what may have been an eternity of sorts, the four arrive outside their destination, welcomed by a smattering of angelic tears - almost begging them to return from whence they came.

Ra's Al Ghul bowed to no Angel, nor Gods above, huffing as he moved forwards, eager as always. The two Others moved round, the wretched gates hissing as they pulled upon the chains of Hell itself, tugging them open.

The Cold of the Night stings One's bones as floorboards hiss, groaning out frustrations as feet press against them. Pillars, coated in layers of moss and age, barely stand as Time truly defeats all. On either side of these Ruins, Shadowed archways haunt, achingly calling out to be seen once more. Yet upon closer inspection, cobwebs dredged in dust only deter visitors, as eight legged guards hiss, their horrid eyes boring into One's Soul. And in the very middle, She stands still, under the Pale Moonlight. Tall, covered in the glimmering starlight of Despair and Misery, She awaits her dear visitors. The floor around her is almost covered with eternally burning flames, their deveotion never dimmed by the Winds and their burning jealousy.

He shrugs off his cape, and from one pocket pulls a small vial, syringe and needle. With practiced ease, he pushes the needle in, piercing slowly as he pulled and drew blood from himself, filling the vial. The reasonable man would bleed more, spilling sanguine over the horrid floor below. But the most definitely enhanced Ra's healed almost as soon as the needle left his skin, a small green mark left behind.

Talia pulls a vial from her own pocket, green liquid (from what one can only assume to have been the Pit) swirling with her own blood as he took it into his own hands. In a decanter (surely not intended for such use), he pours the fluids, mixing them vigorously as the green smoothly took over, a reddened hue glimmering across both the liquid and the room as he did.

The two Others remained at their post, stable and still as ever.

He beckoned her nearer, two fingers gesturing she kneel at the unholy altar of lies, deceit, despair and sheer misery. She daren't disobey, kneeling as always as splinters once again welcome her knees. She clenches her fists, nails piercing her skin and grinds her teeth, but Talia Al Ghul daren't disobey.

Not when She watches over them, nor when he graciously offers her sweet sacrament, pouring the profane concoction over her forehead, allowing it to drop across her face onto the floorboards. It seeps quickly into the wood, which only seems to gorge on the unsanctimonious creation, and Talia rises to her feet again, her robes stained and ruined.

Yet her eyes lingered on the statue ahead, as sweet cardinally crimson tears fell from her eyes.

True, genuine awe filled both father and daughter as they could not tear their eyes from the beauty which stood so tall in front of them. Not even the two Others were immune, finding themselves entranced by her graceful tears.

As quickly as it had begun, it ended too. The moon shielded herself once more as fearsome clouds simmered around her. Her tears stopped falling, their streams finally finishing their paths as they form a pattern of sorts below the statue. If you or I were there, we may condemn such a pattern, or shiver at just the thought of it.

Ra's turned his back to the statue, collecting his items and nodding to the two Others, signalling their leave. Talia lingered a little longer - just long enough to let her eyes trail over the scene in front of her, before tailing after her Father once more.

Gotham recovered quickly. Or, rather, the people of Gotham recovered quickly. Gotham itself oft mourned for years on end, despite the suffering of sweet souls not being a particularly new concept to her. So whilst the family of young Todd remained stuck, unable to move on without the memories of him haunting them, the world around them could truly care less.

Bruce, for a start, was unbearable at first. Inconsolable as he mourned so heavily. Somehow, each and every thing reminded him of Jason. How he'd pull a face when Bruce would ruffle his hand through his hair. How he'd roll his eyes behind the back's of guests, forcing a stern look onto Bruce's face as Richard stifled giggles in the corner. How he'd slowly become a fine young man over the years, and how close he was to finally beginning life.

The first week was the worst. He barely ate and slept, let alone attempt normalcy again. he cursed the moon, and how brightly she shone in his son's death. He stood in unkind rain showers, as they berated him, their harsh punishment only seeming right for having lost so much so soon.

It had gotten to the point that even Richard and Alfred worried for him, standing in the main hall's windows as Bruce screamed into the rain, his head lowered onto the wet grass below him. He wouldn't come inside that night, not until Richard and Alfred tugged him back in and even then he was barely willing, his arms and legs dragging down as the pair trudged back inside with him.

Then came Richard. Poor Richard, who spent most nights curled up wondering what went wrong. The godawful night's happenings played through his mind most nights, as he wondered what he could've done better. If he had given himself time and grace, he'd know it wasn't his fault. Yet that fateful evening's argument kept playing on repeat.

Perhaps if he hadn't argued with Jason that night, he wouldn't have left in such anger.

Maybe he'd be in his room, fast asleep.

Probably, he would've still argued with Richard. But they could've worked it out in the morning.

Almost definitely, though, he would've lived.

He wouldn't have been kidnapped, known for his ties back to Bruce as his ward, nor would he have been horrifically tortured almost beyond recognition. He wouldn't have suffered, under the hands of a crazed lunatic, who cared for nothing but pain, sorrow and anger. He wouldn't be six feet under, slumbering in the arms of an angel as everyone else mourned. (Though, we of course know he isn't quite six feet under. Oh, poor Richard! To not know that your own dear brother's corpse has been desecrated as such… truly, the Waynes' suffering knows no bounds..)

Alfred, finally, was the family's saving grace. To say he hadn't been impacted by Jason's passing would be inaccurate. No, he was quite distressed at the loss himself, finding himself stuck in loops of wishing he had taught Jason more, or that Jason would not succumb to his anger so easily. But, a butler's job is not to concern himself so deeply with such issues. Nay, Alfred kept the family together, maintaining a sense of normalcy across a harrowing situation.

So on one desolate day, where Bruce had finally sat back at the table (eyes dragged by heavy bags lowering down his face as he slumped in his chair - very much unbecoming of the Lord Wayne most had come to know) and Richard sat timidly by his father (face filled with concern and fear - for who knew what Bruce could do in such a state?), as Alfred had the house help finish laying out the family's breakfast, the door's soft bell rang through the walls of the Manor.

All three heads looked up towards the main door, outside which an aged cough alerted them to reality.

Alfred moved towards the door, opening with the very same grace and etiquette one belonging to the Manor had always presented. And outside, holding his hat sorrowfully in his hands, face and eyes lowered with… regret? Guilt, perhaps, even, was-

"..Commissioner Gordon. Welcome, the family have just begun breakfast - would you care for some, good sire?"

"I… Yes, Alfred, I should."

"Pardon my intrusion, Commissioner, but are you well? You seem pale, and somewhat perturbed. Should we call for the Doctor, or would you require any further assistance?"

"Just breakfast, Alfred. I.. I should talk with Lord Wayne, if that would be welcomed."

"Of course."

The Commissioner's heavy footsteps followed Alfred's lighter ones, as Alfred took his coat to hang behind him. Alfred led him to the breakfast table, where both Lord Wayne and young Master Grayson looked up towards him, a quiet nod in his direction acknowledging his presence.

Any other affair, and both father and son's behaviour should be considered haughty, and awfully disrespectful. Yet the Commissioner brushed past, more pressing matters on the mind,

"Commissioner."

"Lord Wayne. Young Master Grayson."

Richard did not respond, merely nodding again in his direction as he attempted to eat without tears choking down his throat.

"I trust you come with reason, James?"

"Of course. I have.. We have found developments. Not kind, I fear."

"What exactly do you mean, Commissioner?"

"Perhaps we should wait for after breakfast?"

"James."

"Please.."

"Spit it out. Now, or leave. The choice is very much yours, Commissioner, but I do feel you and I know each other well enough to be able to speak without fear, no?"

The Commissioner took in one very deep breath, sighing as he thought over how exactly to break the news to the family. He pinched the bridge of his nose, easing some stress as he exhaled deeply, nodding,

"It is my unfortunate, yet required, duty to inform you that your son's dead body has been stolen. We.. are doing our best to recover him, and to find exactly who did this."

Chapter 3: "Meanwhile, ere thus we sinn’d and judg’d on earth, Within the gates of hell sat Sin and Death, In counterview within the gates, that now Stood open wide, belching outrageous flame Far into Chaos, since the fiend pass’d through,"

Chapter Text

Bruce's face dropped. Genuinely, from the expected mild numbness of a grieving father to pure, sheer shock as he slumped back into his chair, entirely confused. Commissioner Gordon sat shaking his head, unable to form the words to continue. An uncomfortable silence echoed around the room, suffocating the air as it choked around the men. Richard broke the silence, standing up in anger and slamming his fists on the table as tears spilled over and dribbled down his face,

"You tell me, you lost… My brother's.. body?"

The Commissioner spat and spluttered across his words, shaking his head furiously as he placed down a cup of tea, his hands gesturing wildly in an attempt to resolve the situation. For it does not look good (especially on him) that such an act occurred under his supervision,

"No, no, no, we-"

"You lost him!"

"Now, now, we didn't lose hi-"

"Really? My sweet, innocent brother's body cannot even rest in death?"

"I can assure you, we will be-"

"You will be taking accountability, is what you will be doing, Commissioner!"

"Please, just listen to m-"

But it was Bruce's voice that cut through the air, piercing with a rage unbridled, stopping both men in their tracks as it rang around their heads,

"You lost Jason's body, Commissioner."

What was he supposed to say in response? For legally, the body came under his jurisdiction too. Especially given recent attacks of grave robbing, which should have led to stricter patrols round the cemetary. Instead, his force had been… stretched thin, across dinner parties with Lord Dent and Lady Kyle. No, this did not look good on the Commissioner. Not when he sat in Lord Wayne's presence.

So when Bruce's words hit him, stabbing with a knife (that, quite frankly, he had deserved) and twisting with such rage and disappointment, Commissioner Gordon had no choice but to lower his head even further as the wave of shame hit him.

"You sit, at my table. You drink our tea, eat our food and sit here, telling me you've lost my son's body."

"Well, when you put it like that-"

"Put it like what? The truth, Commissioner?"

Once again, Commissioner Gordon sat quietly, at a loss for words. If he could, he would be burying himself beneath the floorboards, in an attempt to become even smaller under the weight of Bruce Wayne's pain filled stare.

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get. Out. Have I not been clear? Forgive me - Alfred? See to it that Commissioner Gordon is escorted out of the premises, would you?"

Alfred merely nods, before gesturing to the man to leave the table. The Commissioner looks around the table, before sighing and following the butler. Once finally led outside, he gives the Commissioner a final thought to take home with him,

"And, Commissioner? Forgive me for speaking out of line here, but I'd suggest perhaps focusing more on your job than dinner parties. We wouldn't want the rest of Gotham knowing what you've done now, would we?"

"N-no- Wait, Alfr-"

"And here's your carriage. Good day, Commissioner. Give our greetings to your dear wife and family."

"Erm, yes.. Good day, Alfred.."

With that, the Commissioner turns and steps into the carriage. He attempts to gain one last look at the manor - hoping he could maybe tug on the butler's heartstrings with a sorrowful look - but is only met with the coldness of the door, as it slams back in his face.

The message was clear: Wayne Manor was not willing to open itself to him.

Harsh, but necessary. Inside, once the father and son are sure the Fool has left their grounds, both end up collapsing into the table in front of them. For a while, neither speak, unable to address what exactly plagued them. The only sound that rings through is the clock's chiming at the turn of the hour.

For how was a father to comfort his sweet son, for the loss of his dear brother?

And how was a son to comfort the very father he oft looked up to, deteriorating and crumbling in front of his own eyes?

'Tis a shame that neither one could ease the others' grief and sorrow, as the World's eyes lay upon them.

Another shame, dear reader, is how sweet Jason's soul could not rest. For as soon as the sweet boy had entered the glimmering gates of Heav'n itself, hands outstretched towards sweet angels - it was ripped back away, hurtling through the airs of the World once more as its aching soul slammed back into its own body.

Its own body… yet it did not feel so.

Each inch of skin suddenly felt new. New and unrecognisable, itching away at him as his soul screamed behind locked stitches. Each organ felt anew, a renewed energy coursing through his veins. Yet the energy that filled his body had clearly cursed him too. Every attempt made to move, speak, breathe - to live - was denied.

His soul had been trapped. And there was nothing he could do to free it.

Worse still was how he felt everything. Each and every time his body was moved. Even the smallest movement, barely prodded by curious fingers sent signals through his body. Screaming synapses as energy coursed - only briefly, until his body failed him again, flopping limp against the floor. For how long he endured this torment, he had no idea.

Hours? Days? Months?

Hell's be damned - he may as well have been here for years! What was the world like now? Had it changed much, in his absence?

And of his dearest father, his sweet brother - what of them? Had they survived, thrived? Held on to his memory 'till its rotting nature encapsulated and haunted the grounds, a sickly sweet grief that'd seep through the walls?

Did they remember him?

Hell's, did they live?

Perhaps all that remained of him would be the sorrows and grief. The thought of that alone was enough to send his soul into another spiral.

Shame, truly.

Somewhere on the other side of the Manor, dithering candlelights blush against the backdrop of the cool Moon. Her light flushes through the chambers, rippling across the floor as it pools around the room. Bedsheets thrown around - in a rush, it seems - as scrumpled sheets of paper litter the ground around him.

Lord Al Ghul sat at his desk, in the dead of night. Surrounded by sheets of paper, chemical vials and candle wax - dripping as it melts. An outsider looking in would see naught but his green eyes, glimmering as his hand danced across paper. Scrawled across paper would be more accurate.

Scratchlings of ink prance across pages, stained with the various burns and remains of experiments as he still - after all these years - cannot put it all together for the life of him.

Life.

Now isn't that a thing?

Life, everywhere. In each breath taken in and exhaled out across the world's spinning days. In every leaf that crinkles under one's feet. In the way the winds fly through the days and nights, as the sun and moon play their romantic tragedies.

Ra's Al Ghul, however, was plagued by Life.

After all, Life should have finished for him long ago. Yet he had cheated Life so long. So long, and so well. Each time he had bested Life's End and found himself once more returned to the land of the living cost him something.

Each time, he had lost a part of his soul. Though easy enough to do the first few times, he had now been getting to a point where the idea of losing another part of his soul… well, it hurt, quite frankly. And to be entirely honest - there had to be a way of doing it without sacrificing anything. Which of course, is what led to the experiments. The bodies, and bodies - all turned into horrifically scarred beings. Ruined corpses and souls, in an attempt to play God.

Outside, owls hoot an ominous tune, haunting the night as Ra's grits his teeth. They serve as a forever reminder to… Them. He shakes his head (an attempt at removing their haunting melodies from his mind) as his hands trickle around the map once more - lines drawn around as he connects each one. Once his newly revised map is done, he steps back.

His eyes trail over each line drawn, connecting ley lines all across the World. A small smile wrestles across his face, muscles straining as he fights to keep it off. Finally… finally, he has found the perfect configuration. All he must do is dig upon the connections, in her name, and surely that should find more of his viridescent elixir. He, shall be the one. Yes, yes, he can see it! He shall create it…

The oh, so fabled, Well of Sin!

Yes, yes, yes… Lord Ra's Al Ghul will surpass those who came before him. It is a feat that only he can attend to. None but he could-

"Ha… ha… ha… Oh, our dear Lord Al Ghul! How do you fare this fine evening?"

"…How is it, my friend, you always find us at such awfully convenient times?"

The Stranger barely moves - yet it is just enough that when Ra's does turn around, the Stranger's teeth are all he sees. He knows the rest of the Stranger is there (of course he is! No amount of late night lack of sleep could convince him that… well… is he all there?), yet all he can see is the teeth. Bright, sharp, glimmering teeth - pulled into a wide smile. It's entirely unnatural, and sets him off each and every time.

"We see you have made.. progress. How is the Boy?"

"Progress, yes. We have made geographical progress, which if you recall, is necessary for our work."

"The Boy, Al Ghul."

"He.. we are yet to experiment upon him. He has reacted well to smaller doses, which we had begun on the journey itself."

"But he is not awake?"

"No. For good reason too-"

"You know our agreement. Proof, Al Ghul. Proof of the experiment working."

"And there will be proof. Soon, Lord White. You must be patient, lest we have another… incident again."

It would not be remiss of us, dear reader, to assume the 'incident' Lord Al Ghul refers to here is that which created the Shadow'd One. 'Lord White' (whoever that is) huffs before stepping back into the shadows and snapping his fingers, surrounding the supposed area where he stood with a glimmer of fire and ashes, before disappearing.

The only proof of his ever being there is the playing card left in the ashes.

The Joker.

Talia pulled a face.

She did that often. Usually, when one of her father's irritating henchmen went against her wishes, or when her father made her feel lesser than. Most recently, her father proposed the idea of marriage to her.

Marriage?

She scoffed and threw her cold cup of tea in his face, before storming off.

Which had led her here. After aggressively pacing her bedroom for the last few hours, she finally found herself crouched outside her father's chambers. All these years, and she still felt like a child stood outside. Somehow, the door felt larger, still looming over her as it did all those years before, when she'd beg him to let her in after a horrible nightmare.

She wondered - would he still let her in? Soothe and cajole her to sleep as she cried into his arms? Where was that man she once knew, where had he gone? A tear strolled down her cheek, and she hurriedly brushed it aside, before hearing voices in her father's chambers.

Voices?

No, no - that wouldn't make sense.

After all, Lord Al Ghul did not conduct business in the late of night. Not like this, at least. And she knew her father hadn't taken a lover since her dear mother's passing. It was probably the last shred of humanity that remained in his decrepit soul.

Yet a man's voice wrapped around his chambers, whispering around as she strained to listen. It is almost unfortunate that she doesn't quite realise the presence she has attracted. Not until a finger taps on her shoulder, and an oh, so sultry voice drips into her ear,

"I'd say eavesdroppin' is bad… but I'm not much better here, am I?"

"You tell me - at least I eavesdrop within my own home. You, little kitten, are far from it."

She spins around - finding herself face to face with the voice's owner. Her visage is covered by a mask fashioned in the look of a black feline, sharp and angular - only accentuating the blue eyes that lie behind it. Talia only tuts and shakes her head, pushing the other woman backwards. She hits the floor with an-

"-oof! Ow, Talia - that hurt!"

"Keep it down!"

"I thought you preferred to hear me louder, my Lady~"

Talia cannot help the way her eyebrows furrow over as she stands back up to her full height. The other woman cannot help the smirk that graces her face as she looks back up at Talia, who only sighs, before turning and walking away.

Swaying her hips intentionally as she does.

The other woman watches intently, before rising up too. She dips around a corner, making a sneaky exit as guards make their usual rotations around the Manor. She has the information she needed, anyway.

Gods know how time passes for Jason's soul. Over days, he slowly regains new functions. Though his body has not quite learnt how to move again (yet), his eyes move. When the Lord conducts minor experiments, he can respond by moving his eyes. This brings the Lord joy, but sweet Jason, sorrow.

He should be dead.

He should be roaming the Heav'ns, playing with sweet lambs and not back in the realm of mortals. He should not be here, he should not have lived. And every moment his body is sentient enough to acknowledge this has his brain tumbling in spirals.

Until one day, when he remembers one very, very specific memory.

The memory is still somewhat hazy to him, but one day, Ra's conducts his routine checks and tests on Jason. The moon's light trickles into the laboratory, the only celestial body acknowledging the… actions conducted here. Small, diluted doses of the elixir, measured and controlled, flow slowly through his body, once again binding his soul to his body. His first few moments are always painful. He gasps out as he greedily consumes air, blood rushing through to each organ. His eyes run over his body, which now has a slight green tinge to its paleness (though… that might be his sight. The pit, and its chemical nature, have been known to impact one's sight. This fact is of course known to us, and not to sweet Jason. Apologies.). He visually traces over each stitch he can see, and disgust fills his chest.

Until Ra's closes Jason's eyes for him, gently pushing his body back down to the table as he whispers quietly,

"Now, my child. I wish for you to remember a sweeter memory. One which perhaps soothes you. We must… understand your intellect."

A sweeter memory? What sweeter memory could he think of?

He should think of his brother. Or his father, or of Alfred.

Instead, his brain finds you.

(Yes! You! You finally make your appearance! In… a memory… Beggars can't be choosers, my dear.)

The baker's daughter, dressed in your finest as you attended the market with your father. The day he remembers is sweet, both in that he bought many a sweetened pastry, but also in that it had been his first day meeting you.

Jason would not have usually found himself at the baker's stall - Alfred's treats often sufficed. Yet when his eyes found yours, he could not help but to trail over towards you. Eyes blinking as his feet moved far before his brain did. Of course, you greeted him as any other customer at first, attempting to ignore just how… incredibly attractive he was.

You were here to help your father, after all.

Until he came back the next week (and his soul ensures to thank his brain, for allowing him to remember that memory too). And he remembers how pretty you looked, in that dress as he listened eagerly to your words, explaining each and every delicacy.

Well… he did try to listen. Who could blame him? The issues of love were not the kind that existed to make sense. And the third week, when he bought you flowers, and a small hairpin. He recalls the light pink dress you wore to market that day, and how pretty it looked under the sun.

The final memory his brain allows him is the fourth week, where you wore the hairpin. A subtle acknowledgement of him and his advancements. He remembers (briefly) how quickly he'd found himself confessing his love to you, and how you'd accepted him so sweetly.

You'd never love him now.

Broken, stitched up and ugly. Dead. Despite it all, despite the renewal of his soul, he had been dead.

And it did not matter how sweet, loving and kind you were - no honourable lady would take a man who had seen the gates themselves.

His heart immediately ached, strings tugging in separate directions as tears began to prick away at his eyes. Ra's was quick to notice, tutting as he slowed the dosage, allowing Jason to fall back into his painless slumber. Physically painless slumber. His final thoughts as his eyes closed were you.

One way or another, he'd find you. If nothing else, he would owe you closure.

He vowed it, with the moon as his witness.

Chapter 4: "Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell; And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven."

Chapter Text

The call of the Morning Father - his awakening, with his Sun's glimmering rays echoing through the window, was never easy. No matter how much you tried to become more and more used to it, you would still find yourself jolted awake by the call of your father-

"Up! Up, I tell ya! Come, come, we have work to do."

Ahhh, work. Once again, you must bake, and bake until your hands ached, before helping sell your baked goods for coin. There was a time you would skip down to the kitchen with ease, with fun and with joy. Though, that time revolved around a certain young man who'd find himself at your stall, listening to your ramblings about each delicacy you had made.

You were sure he had not really listened, and that he would never appear again.

Until he did appear. Every week, on Wednesday mornings. He would linger around the stall for the first few weeks, barely making conversation. Then, he would slowly start conversations with you, before finding himself helping you - carrying baskets and items for you. Soon enough, he takes you for small picnics and walks, and you know his name.

Jaso-

No.

You cannot do that to yourself.

You had already suffered enough, allowing yourself to fall for a man so very unattainable that it hurt. Because now, you could barely continue. What had once slowly became a love so sweet that it had become the very reason you awoke in the mornings, had now become a love that hurt so much. It hurt, so very much - and you had none to tell. Who would you tell? With him gone, you had none remaining. None to call your own.

You were there. When they lowered his coffin into the grave. When the Waynes suffered and howled, and sorrow'd and wailed. You saw how the butler (Alfred, you recall him telling you) wept quietly. How his brother (Richard, from the tales he would recount) was simply inconsolable, throughout the service. The way his father (Bruce. It would be… a shock, if you did not know his name. His fame much preceeded him.) grieved the loss of his son. And you realised - you had no place grieving a man you had barely known. A man who may have brought you joy, but you did not know.

So, instead of grieving in the manner that both Master's Wayne and their household had done, you resigned yourself to continue living. For as much as it had pained you, wrenched you and strangled each and every joy you had ever dreamt of having - you could not give up. At least for your father.

Who currently, was waiting upon you to arrive and assist him. The mares that haunted your every night must wait, for the trials and tribulations of the day must be dealt with first.

Lord Wayne found himself wandering the grounds more and more. Rather, he would not quite remember how he had found himself in places that he had not seen in many years. It had almost been as though he would. Alfred would watch from the windows of the Manor as Lord Wayne would wander aimlessly.

Yet even in his grief he imposed restrictions upon his only remaining son. For losing one was painful enough, but losing both? Nay, losing both was not something he could quite risk.

"You must not leave the grounds - not alone. Each and every time you even consider leaving, you must inform me. You will not leave without the permission that I must give you - do you listen, my son? I cannot risk another son…"

"Two f'tuppence! Two t'matoes f'tuppence! Get your needs here! Come, Sir, you'd not let a sweet child starve now would'ya? Oh please, Mister! Please?"

Young Jason enjoyed the markets greatly.

Well - he did when he lived. Yet now of course, he was not quite in a position to be enjoying such… frivolities. No, instead, young Master Grayson went in his stead now. As though living the joys his dearest brother once had would heal the gaping wound that had remained within his aching heart. That part of Master Grayson's universe had hollowed out - been carved and removed from him - and the firmament was now everlastingly dark.

And so here he trudged, through the market. Through each and every stall, tossing coins where he could (though of course, never too many. It would be foolish of him to rouse suspicion as such, and Master Grayson did not wish for Lord Wayne to restrict his activity even further). Every Wodens'day he would find himself here. Aching, paining and grieving for the loss he would never recompense.

He had hoped that by doing so.. by following in his dear brother's footsteps he would perhaps find some clue, as to what had happened. Or answers, to questions gone unspoken (for the fear of what would reveal itself was much, much more petrifying than the thought of the answers that may reveal themselves). Or clarity, as the markets often would grace upon such restrained individuals, who had resigned themselves from the life that caused their suffering.

Or perhaps he sought the solace of a repetitive pattern. Perhaps he saw the bumbling joys and bustling crowds that Jason once did, hiding amongst the masses of people - not the son of the great Lord Wayne, but a mere man that traversed along th-

"Oi! Watch it! Fuckin' prick…"

Perhaps not.

Still, there was a… strange comfort that dear Richard received from following the pattern.

And as one mourning brother felt the scatterings of… not hope, but perhaps comfort, from the repetitions he lived within… another agonised day after day within the repetitions he had suffered to.

Not once had sweet Jason been able to move of his own accord. Nor had he seen the sweet, Heavenly light of the Sun, or the kindness of soft blue skies upon his face. No, he had been resigned to the dreary whims and scientifically deranged madnesses of a man so very obsessed with death that he could not see the Promethean nature of his own terrible deeds.

Today - gold, silver, mercury, copper, lead, iron and tin all sit scattered across the Master's cluttered, ratchety mess of a laboratory. Any good, self respecting alchemist should recognise these materials, dear reader. For they exhibit the very perfection of all matter on any level. Including those of mind, spirit and soul.

Of course, the Lord Master was an abomination of what one could even consider to be an alchemist.

Each and every day he poked, cut and sutured up poor Jason's body. Every layer carefully peeled apart and held open with cold, uncaring, metal apparatus. Every thread of tissue gently exposed to air as thrums of energy rushed through with careful doses administered. Drip by drip. As though he was not ever human, but a mere subject to be toyed with. Played with and mindlessly experimented to.

All as his soul begged and prayed for sweet mercy. For the Gods of the very highest of Heavens above, or the Demons that clamoured amongst the Hells below to save him from this enduring torture. There would be times where he would.. well, not dream, per se. A dream would imply he had consciousness at times, but consciousness was not a privilege dear Jason was privy to. No, Jason was plagued by visions and pains that anguished his innocent soul more than one so sweet should endure.

In particular, a creature inhabited these visions.

A blisteringly bright, yet dreadful creature. One that should have brought him comfort, but instead only brought him suffering. It stood tall, clad robes that bled crimson across his supposed sight. And surrounding the infernal being that once must have echoed sweet hymns of the Heavens, were the fires of below. Warping around the creature as agonizing screams echo around the poor boy's torn soul.

No matter what his soul did, he could not escape it. It followed him, everywhere. It's suffering only ripped further through his own, blood soaked tears rippling down him as he wept of wretched torment.

But who would ease the suffering of a tormented soul, tugged from its mortal abode?

So here our dearest Jason lay on the unkind table. Pulled apart as Lord Al Ghul continued to conduct his misanthropically immoral deeds.The misdeeds of each day scrawled across sheets of paper - strewn across. Scattered, even, upon the floors in piles of unruly clutter.

Lord Al Ghul was painfully aware of the consequences of rushing his experiments. For the Shadow'd One served as his everlasting reminder of his ego driven failures. To rush is to be rash, and to be rash is to be a fool.

Ra's Al Ghul was anything but, a fool.

Unlike his past failures, he slowed entirely. The Others were not to touch, nor were they to ever find themselves within the proximity of his experiment. For should a mistake occur, this loss would be far too great. Far too dear to the Lord's own heart and soul.

The perfectly clinical conditions within which the Lord conducted his careful experiments caused Jason's soul a dolour beyond belief.

"…the subject responds in manners one cannot quite comprehend… it is as though it.. senses something. How very quaint… Previous experiments did not react to stimuli in such a manner, yet one can only presume this results from the slower manner of administration… Nota bene - individual organs appear to interact with each other in sufficient action upon slower administration. Perhaps the quickened administration of the past was not the correct approach."

Lord Al Ghul pauses, only to ink his pen once more, before reflecting more aptly upon his past experiences,

"For one to be a… successful man of alchemy, one must reflect upon his past mistakes. The Shadow'd One. Now assigned to my dear daughter, who must educate herself upon the practices that sustain future benefits over the quicker gratification of myopic victories, the Shadow'd One was once my own creation."

One of the Others moves forwards as he pauses, raising two fingers high for them to see. It brings a sanguine liquid, and pours out into a glass until the Lord raises his fingers once more, tutting and dismissing the pitiful thing. As the Other moves away, the Lord inspects his wine. Leisurely, even as his body lies with each layer pulled apart upon the table.

"The Shadow'd One was a dreadful, sore mistake that haunts me. An oversight, a failure. My ego and own myopic sight hindered me - I must work this out of Talia. She must not be hindered as such. But by becoming held back as I was, I had failed. The Shadow'd One is arrogant, and much too driven by the very same ego. This creature must not be the same. One hopes that through the slower administration, this mistake shall be avoided."

The pale moon casts its watchful gaze upon him, and he frowns as he finds himself concealing his soul from it. Yet it cannot be avoided. Somewhere in the distance, a lonely owl hoots. A message, conveyed to few as Lord Al Ghul appears to be subject to the judgement of celestial beings.

Only for a brief moment, for it too is fleeting in his presence. Upon the moon's shift, the Lord smiles once more - lowering his cup as he continues his reflections.

"The Shadow'd One was a mistake, never to be repeated."

How foolish of him then, was it to curse his past creation as it stood at his door, listening so intently?

Chapter 5: "Horror and doubt distract his troubled thoughts and from the bottom stir The Hell within him, for within him Hell, He brings and round about him, nor from Hell, One step no more than from himself can fly by change of place."

Summary:

I locked in. Like.. proper locked in.

Chapter Text

"The Shadow'd One was a mistake, never to be repeated."

Unkind was one word that could be used to describe the nature of this statement. As the Mistake itself stood at his door, quietly listening as the good Lord continued rattling off scientific findings and hypotheses - as the others took down notes from his various ramblings. Though pieced together from the sloppily butchered remains of various beings, the Shadow'd One could not help but feel pangs shoot across its chest.

Now - the Shadow'd One had felt emotions before. Only recently, and usually its mind had been clouded with thoughts of sorrow above all else. This sorrow had encased its mind in such a way that it had never really been able to move past it, nor had it been able to comprehend other emotion.

This was different.

This was not the usual pitiul sorrow it tangled itself within. No, no, something bubbled under its skin - trembling through its veins as it sank to the floor.

"…a mistake, never to be repeated."

It knew what it was. This was no new idea to it. But the very words being spoken into truth by its maker only drove the stake further into its scarred chest as it sat there, ruined hands covering its face.

It is…shocking, how long the Shadow'd One remained out of confinement. The Lord Master is known (as I am very sure you are aware of, dear reader) for running his household as clean and tight as possible. Every living creation (well, living is a questionable term to use for such beings. Is it living? Truly?) is assigned two of the Others as guards, and the higher risk creations (for example, the Shadow'd One) are routinely checked upon by those Ra's trusts most - his own family.

The Demon's Head was not pleased then, when he heard from within his laboratory, sounds of the Others trampling down various corridors - clearly searching for something. In fact - he was even more irate upon hearing his sweet daughter's voice echo through the walls,

"Find it! It must be found, lest you wish to chance a visit to the Lake of Lost Souls! Oh, you Fools! Gods damn you all, and find it before Father does!"

He could feel a heat bloom under his skin - and not the kind most humans would welcome with ease. Rather, the kind that usually came with inconveniences and anguishes that would only hamper him. Surely his daughter knew how to handle situations, without having to trouble him, no?

And so, as much as the Lord Master Ra's Al Ghul; Demon Head would have felt more confident if he himself had left to go find whatever had happened and enforce his cruel consequences - perhaps it was time he allowed the girl to take responsibility. Instead of doing as he would have wanted then, the Lord Master turns towards his current obsession - our young, sweet Jason. Ah, the Gods truly are unkind, are they not?

"Continue writing as I speak! Do not be distracted, you fools! Oh, how pathetic! Begin this section once more - oh, whatever is it now?"

One of the Others assigned to scribing for the Lord Master fearfully lowers itself, rising with a quill that had dropped from its hand onto the floor. The other Other continues to stare down into its parchment - for who would dare to even consider looking their Lord in his eyes? Only a Fool would do as such, and these Others were not such frivolous fools!

All as Ra's pinched his nose, sighing as he attempted to loosen strands of stress from his skin with each movement,

"The subject is to be slowly raised back. Slow increments of 0.05% of the liquid are to be administered, with times of five days in between. In those five days, the subject will receive a stable, same amount of treatment, and only upon the fifth day will the subject be administered more. We must take into account the times of day we administer the liquid - it is at its most potent in the hour of the -"

Hoot. Hoot..

The Lord Master finds himself interrupted by an… intentional creature, as a set of dark eyes watch closely from the window of the laboratory. He tuts and tsks, walking over to inspect the bird that has clearly been sent as a message of sorts.

Attached then, to this owl's scrawling foot, is a rolled and sealed parchment. Aha! The Lord Master recognises that seal, and whatever little life remained in his skin quickly drained itself from him. As though a mere parchment could defeat the Lord Master!

(Oh, how I wish this were true. Forgive me, reader - I am not… supposed to insert such a grievous comment.)

"Go! Begone, Others. Assist Talia and the other Others in their pitiful attempts at recovery from whatever has happened, and then return upon my calling. Do not think to approach this area before being summoned - is that understood?"

They do not speak, of course.

Instead, they nod once before being dismissed by Ra's hand.

Ever paranoid, is our good Lord Master Al Ghul (paranoid, derives itself from the Ancient Greek παράνοια, (paránoia, “madness”), from παράνοος (paránoos, “demented”), from παρά (pará, “beyond, beside”) and from νόος (nóos, “mind, spirit”). We would not be remiss in applying such a word to the Lord Master, given his various occurences.), who waits a lengthy seven minutes (for in accordance to his beliefs, seven is a perfect number) before actually opening the parchment he had been cursed with.

And our Lord Master was well within his rights to act in such a manner. Given especially how the contents of the parchment are lost to history, we have no way of knowing exactly what was involved. That being said - it was awfully strange that such a bird be used to carry messages.

Ravens, pigeons, doves - these are expected birds. But owls…

Ra's did not have the time to comprehend the nature of the parchment, nor who had sent it. For as soon as his eyes had graced the letters that danced across his sights, another… incident chanced itself upon him,

"My good Lord Ra's."

"…"

To say that Ra's remained silent because he was not scared would be to lie, of course. A voice that identifies him before he can identify it, appearing within the dark depths of the laboratory is not easy upon one's spirit.

Still.

"Surely you remember my, my good friend, hmm?"

"Ah, of course. My good Lord Sionis.. how could I ever forget you?"

Truthfully, Ra's wanted nothing more than to be able to forget him.

"I had begun to wonder if you had… still, I am not here for such small matters today. You will forgive me for not sending notice of my arrival, but Lord White wished for us to see you.. well, as he says, 'in your prime element!'. Of course, the only way to ensure this is to appear to you in surprise - you do not take offence, my Lord, do you?"

How could he take offence? Now, of course he takes personal offence. Of which he will likely write of in his journal late at night, and then vent his frustrations in the ruins, before taking any and all anger out upon the Others. (Upon speaking to some of the Others - no, I cannot tell you how. My sources are sealed, and are private, reader. Apologies - upon speaking to some of the Others, I have learned that this was quite common. You see - Lord 'White' and Lord Sionis had become Lord Al Ghul's investors over the last fifteen years or so. Long enough that they wished for some return on their investment, of course. And whilst Lord Al Ghul's very capable forces assisted in their own.. businesses, it was not enough for the sheer numbers that they had invested in his experiments. And so, both Lord 'White' and Lord Sionis conducted secret, surprise visits.

None of which, of course, pleased Lord Al Ghul.)

"Ah, my Lord - you fret unneedingly! One does not take offence to such things, for a true scientist is always willing to be observed, no?"

Lord Sionis did not need to remove the cloth that he donned upon his face for Ra's to feel the smirk that had plastered itself across his face. Whilst internally, Ra's grit his teeth and screamed, externally he kept his composure smooth and safe.

These were his investors, after all.

"Speaking of, Lord Sionis - I must ask. How is our good Lord White? How does he fare?"

"Last you saw him was a few moons past, was it not?"

"Yes. Then, of course, he seemed well."

"Hmm. He is well, he is well. He.. is busy, Lord Al Ghul. Surely you did not expect him to always be available to you, hmm?"

"No! No, of course not. A man of his stature would be busy, of course."

"Exactly, my Lord."

"…"

"Please just continue as you were, my Lord. Consider me just.. as though I were one of the Others."

Now.. that would be funny. Could you imagine? The Lord Al Ghul, instructing and commanding Lord Roman Sionis? As though he were just a pawn, a mere peasant in his eyes? Ah - I have not introduced this man to you properly! Roman Sionis was born into power. The only son of a wealthy family, dabbling in new world pharmaceuticals across the country, he had little to miss from his childhood.

Yet he could not look past the masks his parents wore, faked smiles, sweetened lies and hidden deceits behind each and every poison dripped word that slipped from their mouths.

Which is how Lord Sionis chanced upon Lord White. Unfortunately - we do not have much information on Lord White. He is… somewhat elusive, if you recall how Lord Al Ghul's prior encounter with the man turned out.

"…of course, my Lord. I shall summon the Others to assist in my scribing, of course. Is there anything my Lord will take? Food, drink?"

~~Perhaps a long vacation far, far away from him?~~

"No need - please just continue as you were."

"Very well."

Which is how Lord Al Ghul found himself summoning the Others once more, and conducting his regular experiments. He peered over ~~Jason~~ the Subject and muttered out thoughts and ideas, spindling around the room as the Others scrambled to write each and every word down. He started adjusting the needles and threads which held the poor boy open - testing for new reactions, all whilst checking for any changes,

"Ah! There is a new change to be recorded - ensure this is written in full, is that understood? The Subject's skin remains pale and grey - though that is to be expected. However, underneath the skin, within the musculoskeletal system there are wonderful improvements already, within mere months of beginning the course of treatment! Muscles have improved and are at a strength that the body previously did not have, bones have restrengthened themselves - as though the body never suffered trauma to begin with. The joints remain to be tested, but that cannot be done whilst the Subject sleeps. We shall wait for the Subject to complete its full course of administration before testing its joints…"

Lord Sionis remains silent throughout the whole ordeal, quietly listening and taking his own notes where he finds necessary. However when he finds an opportunity, he pauses Lord Al Ghul's rambling - a hand on his shoulder to ensure he has the floor to speak freely - and asks him a question that only makes him feel a pure dread like no other. The type of dread Prometheus most likely felt upon thieving the fires and taming such unholy, unwise elements for mere humans. The type of dread one feels when they know that what acts they have done will most certainly bar them from the gates of Heaven.

"If it does not trouble you, good Lord, would a demonstration be available today? One understands the importance of patience, of course - always. However, Lord White does wish to see exactly what progress has been made, if possible.."

His words trailed off, but the weight behind them remained. It lasted and carrieditself around the room. As though it were parading a flag in front of Lord Al Ghul, mocking him. He could only shake his head sadly in response,

"Forgive me, my Lord. But to awaken our Subject before the course is fully administered would be to repeat prior mistakes! Surely to avoid past mistakes, we should practice caution, no?"

Lord Sionis tsked, but nodded too, understanding. He may be cruel, but he was not so foolish as to not be understanding,

"Of course. I shall relay your message to Lord White."

"Many gratitudes upon thee, Lord Sionis."

"Until next time, Lord Al Ghul."

Bruce sat in his chambers.

Well, he didn't really sit. Not properly, at least. Slumped up against a wall, clutching his son's old letters in one hand and his head in the other as tears flew from his eyes wasn't exactly what a man of his status would refer to as sitting.

Still, we must describe it as something, and so for brevity's sake, sitting shall do,

Bruce Wayne sat in his chambers, grieving.

Many moons had passed since his sweet son's passing, yet with each day he could not help but to curse himself. Of all who should have been taken, it should have been him! He, who had lived. Who had loved and lost and suffered, but also had experienced all that life should have given him. Not his sweet, innocent son, who had barely embarked upon the journey that is adulthood. No, he should have been grieved, and Jason should have survived.

Alfred, ever loyal, stands in the doorway for a few minutes before approaching the man. He sits beside him (just as he would when Lord Wayne was a mere child, weeping over some nightmare that plagued his sleepless nights. The only difference, of course, is that instead of some fictitious nightmare that Alfred could cajole the sweet boy back into bed from, this was very much real. He could not comfort the man by disproving the hellish nightmare he awoke to every morning). Lord Wayne no more, Bruce rests his head upon Alfred's shoulder - tears stumbling out as he stutters and stammers through his rambling thoughts.

Throughout it all, Alfred does not speak. He allows his Lord Master to grieve and to love in his grief - offering comfort without ever overstepping.

By the end of his spiel, Bruce finds himself incredibly tired,

"Alf..red.. it should have been me… oh, my sweet boy..! My sweet, poor boy! To live as my son lies in his gra- Ah but he is not even at rest in his grave. Oh, Alfred what should I do? His soul cannot rest like this, it cannot move on if his body has been stolen as it has. Even in death my sweet son suffers.."

He does not know when sleep claimed him, only that he awakens many hours later to a blanket wrapped around him, and a note upon his bedside table,

Lord Wayne,

You should be kinder to yourself, sir. You have loved, you have lost.

There is not much else this world can ask one to do.

"Alfred? Alfred? Hey, Father, Alfred's go-"

"Gone. I know, Richard."

"You know…?"

"I know, son."

Richard stood in the doorway, sweat dripping down (it could be assumed that he had rushed around the Manor, searching for Alfred before finding Bruce) his face as he caught his breath. Bruce patted the area beside him on the bedspread, and Richard joined him - a small frown on his face. For a moment, Bruce reminded himself that this was Richard, not Jason.

"He will return soon, I am sure."

Already across the country, Alfred Pennyworth donned plain clothes as he exited the woods.

Just ahead of him was the decrepit, worn down monastery. To outsiders, this was naught more than a mere old building - uncared for, and therefore ruined by the lack of care assigned to it. The masses of vines and growths upon it only added to this tall tale, keeping locals and visitors to the village far from entering as myths surrounded the old building.

Alfred knew better, of course.

He also knew better than to enter through the front door - as though he were some simple guest, knocking upon the gates of Hell itself.

Ah, now would be a good time to delve briefly into the history of our beloved butler. Butler now, of course, Alfred was not always in this profession. Prior to butlering for the Waynes, Mr Pennyworth had risen to the heights of intelligence (intelligence in this context of course does not refer to one's intellect, but rather the collection of information that holds either military or political value) in his youth, which had somehow coincidentally allowed him to meet the legends that were our Lord Wayne's parents.

I cannot tell with much detail exactly how Alfred chanced upon the Waynes, but I can tell you that he left with them, employed within their service as their butler and unofficially as a caregiver for the (then young) Bruce Wayne. Unfortunately, they passed soon after this, leaving Bruce in the care of Alfred Pennyworth.

It just so happened then, that Alfred still kept connections to his.. prior profession. Which is exactly how he finds himself tip-toeing around the old monastery's grounds, finding the old vent system that had been shut down for many years by now. Shockingly enough, he could still fit himself into it, squeezing through the system to the Archives Room. He pushes through the grate above him, carefully lowering his body into the room and dropping down onto the desk, before rolling onto the floor. He checks all around himself - ensuring he is all alone in the room - before standing to his full height and beginning his search through the old records.

If nothing else, he would surely find some kind of solace in that he had tried his very best to find young Jason's body, that had been so clandestinely torn from its young grave.

'I swear it, young Master Jason… Master Bruce and Master Richard,' he thought, as he continued to sift through the League's records to find anything or anyone, 'I will not rest, not like this.'

His eyes finally caught glimpse of a Strange name, one that he recognised from his own past.

Perhaps he would be of some help, somehow.

Spindly creatures lowered their accusatory limbs, pointing at him as Bruce waded carefully through muddied waters. Muddied waters…? Ah, of course - he must have fallen in, right? He cannot find it in himself to think about the strange nature of what surrounded him, though, not as the creatures that towered over him pointed so definitively. He cowered under each and every sharpened appendage, tears brimming his eyes as he cried out for help, for anyone to-

"-FIND ME! PLEASE! HELP ME! PLEASE!"

Yet none came, not for Lord Bruce Wayne. Not as he continued to wade through the every murkier waters. It was endless - or at least it seemed to be endless. In the very distance, after Bruce had finally reckoned with the idea that no one would come save him from this horrific torment, appeared to be an island of types - floating through the waters.

Despite it not being a very efficient method of travel through water, he attempted to run - his hands waving water behind him so as to part the lake in which he found himself. And aftter an agonisingly long time of wearing himself out, Bruce found himself at the edge of the sandy land. He dragged his body up and over the edge - pulling himself onto the land that brought him little comfort so long ago.

And there he lay.

Jason.

Or rather, Jason's rotting, dead body. Bruce's hands flung to his face, his chest - wrapping around himself as he tried to hold back wails and screams at the terrifying sight of his sweet son. Oh, poor Jason! And how his skin slowly peeled off in layers, blood seeping out as it stained the coarse sand below him,

"Oh, my sweet son… my dear Jason…"

A hand - or what remained of the hand - rested upon one of Bruce's. When he looked to the hand, all he saw was dripping flesh - melting from the bones of the small arm that led back to Jason, who's small mouth began to slowly open up,

"Yo…u…. let…. thi….s… happ….en…."

You let this happen.

Bruce Wayne… or what was left of Bruce's spirit shattered into a million pieces as he screamed out-

"JASON!"

"Father?"

Bruce shot up in bed once more, arms grasping out as though Jason was truly there, and that his endless flailing around would bring him back to life. Instead, he found Richard once again by his side, looking at him with that pitifully concerned look that he hated seeing.

"Father…?"

"Yes.. erm.. I had a.. bad dream is all. I am fine, Richard. Do not fret for me."

"Oh, of course. I.. I.."

"Return to your chambers, my son. Sleep well."

"Very well. Good night, Father."

"And you, Son."

"Unfortunately, my Lord, our good friend is not quite ready to provide for us a demonstration of the work which we have funded.."

"Then you make him willing, Sionis!"

"It is not so easy, White."

"Is it not?"

"..He harbours fears that the experiment may fail.. again. He requests we wait patiently, so the body receives the full course of treatme-"

"Ah, once again, you find excuses. How long will you hide behind such weary excuses, hmm?"

"If you remember, Lord White, when we rushed the demonstration the last experiment did fail. Now it is a strange puppet, which Lord Al Ghul seems to use for its bidding. Yet it seems to do its own bidding when it chooses. Surely this is not a risk which we wish to take?"

"…"

"The body we provided the Lord with is more than enough for us to want to be cautious, Lord White. He was well bred, well raised and it would not be wise of us to let such a good vessel go to waste so soon."

"…"

"Whilst we're here, Lord White - if that even is your name - I have a question for you."

"…"

"Who on Earth are yo-"

"Do not ask questions you do not want the answers of, young Sionis. Inform Lord Al Ghul he may have all the time he wishes - only that this time we require perfection, of course. And now I bid you adieu, Roman."

"But-"

"Adieu."

Lord White takes his leave - once again disappearing into that cloud of purple smoke. Lord Sionis sighs and shakes his head. And as Roman Sionis takes in the cool night air, letting it simmer across his skin, he begins to wonder to himself…

…Was any of this a good idea? Trul-

CRUNCH!

"What was that? Who goes there? Show yourself, coward!"

Nothing. Silence, as Roman spins around in all directions - checking behind each and every corner that the noise could have come from. Yet he does not find anything, and his heart does not still itself from the anxieties that plague it. As he walks away, he does not notice the young girl cloaked in her father's night cloak. Eyes wide as she prays to any and every being that exists out there, that he will not find her upon the roof of the mausoleum in the abandoned graveyard.

You watch as he walks away, pipe in one hand and cane in another. Fearful, you wait a long while (only three minutes, to be honest. However in such moments of fear, three minutes can suddenly become an eternity, no?) before carefully slipping back down from the structure you hid upon, and slowly making your way back home.

As you slip back into your bed, you cannot help the tears that cloud your eyes. You try your best, but sleep does not find you on this night. Not as you replay the conversation that plagues your mind.

And all you wanted to do was lay flowers at his grave…

Chapter 6: "[H]orror and doubt distract His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir The hell within him; for within him hell He brings, and round about him, nor from hell One step, no more than from himself, can fly By change of place."

Chapter Text

"Lady Kyle."

"Lord Sionis."

"I trust you have been well, hmm?"

"Oh, very much so. In fact, my Lord, I have not been so well since… well… since you last came to visit. Tell me - what can I do for my good Lord?"

"Enough with the false formalities - your pretences are not lost upon me!"

"…very well. You summoned me, Sionis. What exactly for?"

Roman finishes filling his pipe, lighting it and raising it to his mouth. He takes one long, slow drag out - puffing out a thick cloud of smoke into the pale moonlight. As it wafts away, a lonesome crow hops along cobblestone - following the patterns designed by the moon above. Selina drops from her place on the rooftop near the alley he smokes in, settling next to him and waiting patiently.

One minutes passes.

Two minutes pass.

Three almost pass, but Selina is impatient and unimpressed, furrowing her eyebrows,

"Look here, Sio-"

"Keep an eye on them. Lord Al Ghul, Lady Talia - I know you visit her in the late hours of night. Keep an eye on what they do, and report to me, yes? I know you provide information for a high cost, and you know I will pay well."

"That much is true.."

"I have never not paid, hmm? After all - were you not the one who helped us find your dear friends' dead son's body?"

"…"

"Good. Provide me updates, hmm?"

"Of course."

Unlike her other employer, Roman Sionis was not so charismatic, nor was he so kind and well paying. He paid… enough. Just enough. Naturally, her Stranger employer received more information then, and Sionis?

Well, he would have to settle for what she would give him, wouldn't he?

Meanwhile, somewhere in the East Midlands - along old shires filled with dim lights under the cold moon - Alfred Pennyworth finally chanced upon the abandoned laboratory he once knew so, so well. How very deceiving it was! Upon appearance, it seemed to be nothing more than some old, failed building. The kind of place people stared at and shook their heads, reminiscing the 'old times'. The truth, of course, was much more sinister. He slips in through the old, broken window - ensuring his feet never touch the broken glass below, for that was an old trap concocted by the League themselves - and quietly travels across the corridors, finding his… old acquaintance. And there he stood. In a long coat, with glasses that only masked his cold, clinical nature.

Well. Not entirely. The pair of spectacles that sat on his face only enhanced the frigid air tht radiated off of him.

There he stood, another one of his cruel experiments lying cold on the table in front of him as he smiled up at the other man. Waving and beckoning the man over as though this was an entirely normal, regular situation to chance upon,

"Ah, the butler!"

"Well, if it isn't the Doctor, hmm? What a Strange coincidence.."

"Come, come, Pennyworth! I do not bite."

Yet he still bared his teeth at the man, who cautiously entered the moss covered room - careful not to touch nor irritate any of the tall structures that wobbled oh, so precariously around him. Another trap, set by the Doctor this time.

"Doctor, I must ask you of a favour.."

"Well, go on..?"

Alfred's eyes settled on the Doctor's face - unable to look down to the morbid carcass that lay on the table. He breathed through his mouth, for the stench of death, torture and chemical abominations was much too strong for him to handle,

"I require information, Strange. Information that I am well aware you would have, or at the very least have ties to collecting for me. I am willing to pay - you know tha-"

"-I know the information you seek."

"Oh?"

"Unfortunately…"

This was the outcome Pennyworth dreaded most. Somehow, somewhere, of course Doctor Hugo Strange would be involved in some way or the other in this horrendous tragedy. For everyone knew the Doctor would never pass on such an opportunity!

"…"

"…unfortunately, Pennyworth, the information you seek is not to be collected by myself. One cannot… implicate oneself - you of all people understand, yes?"

"…"

"Forgive me, Pennyworth. You may wish to travel though. I hear Sweden is entirely spectacular this time of the year."

"…"

"Farewell, Pennyworth."

"Farewell, Doctor."

As Pennyworth left, the Doctor sighed, resigning himself to his work once more. Well, not really his work. The body that lay in front of him was not one he procured - obviously. His work was not so sloppy! But he had to say, there was a… fascination he had developed over the last few months. The bodies that had quietly piled across the shire - with various crude messages attached to them. On first look, the… 'dolls' (which was how said messages referred to them), appeared to just have their faces mutiliated. Eyes sewn over, mouths silenced. Surgically altered in inhumane manners that troubled all faiths of the world. Sections of the body had been scarred, damaged and sewn together with so little care for the impact it created, but it still looked like the haphazard work of some fool.

The truth was much worse.

Between the stitches, the victims still had some visibility. And it appeared that somehow, they seemed to be chemically altered. The victims could not refuse. In fact, from Strange's findings, the victims had nothing more than mindless obediance to their captor.

The victims suffered long before their deaths. This much was clear.

Now, a regular person of regular disposition (barring the occasional oddness one is plagued with, of course) would be absolutely horrified! Perhaps one would seek comfort in the arms of another, or repress and ignore the situation entirely.

Doctor Hugo Strange was not a man of regular disposition. In fact, if one were to apply the Wednesbury reasonableness test… well, he would fail it quite spectacularly! With honours, one may say.

And so, as he made these… observations, from the various bodies and victims the local police sent him (disgruntled, mind you. For no local police would be so keen to give the bodies and victims of such horrors to a man so strange) - the Doctor made a realisation.

Perhaps his goals could be found in another manner.

The Doctor looked to the most recent message attached to this body, a smile gracing his face as he read. This was someone the Doctor could keep his eye on…

Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday,

Christened on Tuesday,

Married on Wednesday,

Took ill on Thursday,

Grew worse on Friday,

Died on Saturday,

Buried on Sunday.

That was how the rhyme went, was it not? Oh, Solomon Grundy. How few knew your true tale. Tonight - on the coldest night of the pale Winter - a man stood hunched over, cloaked in tattered robes as he dragged himself through lonesome alleys. His skin burned blue in the dreaded moonlight, as he hissed and covered himself tighter. A hulking mass, that moved so slowly through the night as rats scurried off to sides. Avoiding him.

One rat was not so lucky, finding itself in the war path the man had set upon long ago.

As it squealed for mercy, for patience - stubby fingers reached out, grasping it by its tail and dangling it up in the air. And as many rats prepared for the horrible massacre that they were to be witness to, cracked and yellow teeth bore themselves to the moonlight. Opening wide and slow, before clamping through the poor rat.

Crimson rain befell the poor rats below as they mourned the loss of their brother, guts and brain spread across cobblestone pavements. As if to add further insult, the man only crushed and pushed the deceased's remains into the cold stone below, before continuing on his path.

Now, reader. In case one has not pieced together the pieces that lie in front of you, allow me to… assist thee. The man, cloaked in such horrifically ruined tatters, was in fact the Solomon Grundy people sang of.

His story was not so… simple, actually.

You see, Solomon Grundy was not even the name this man lived by. Not initially, at least. Solomon Grundy began life as young Master Cyrus Gold. Cyrus lived a life of pure wealth - every single want and need catered to, exactly when he requested it. And so, when young Cyrus was murdered in his youth - over two hundred years ago, mind you - his decaying body was disposed of in a swamp awfully close to the very place this whole thing began.

Gotham.

The swamp preserved his body perfectly, allowing a certain Lord who had evaded Death's cruel clutches so very long to be able to easily retrieve the body and conduct his awful experiments upon it.

Now, I myself am unfortunately unsure as to how exactly this information was retrieved. In my very little time spent with The Others, I had managed to learn small morsels of information here and there to return to you, of course! One particular piece was how on the night Solomon Grundy's corpse was retrieved from the swamp, the air thickened with a rotten stench for at least fifty miles outwards - in all directions. The moon hid her face - ashamed of what she could possible have been witness to that very night - as the body was bundled onto a carriage (that quite frankly, resembled a hearse). The clouds that night were unkind, swirling above in angry forms as they cursed the work of the man below.

Apparantly, some wretched soul had witnessed the whole debacle occur - watching silently as it perched up on a tree. Whatever soul this was had somehow spread the tale of Solomon Grundy, which is how sweet innocent children came to repeat this less than sweet rhyme.

Yet (supposedly) good Lord Al Ghul cared little for the Heav'ns' approval, nor did he care to ease the situations of those whom he had inconvenienced for his needs.

The body would return with him, one way or another.

Many days later, the body lay on his table (just as our dear Jason does, right now!). Solomon Grundy - and the legend that often foretold his doom - had been created from the parts of the deceased, bound together in an unholy union.

It is said, by The Others, that Solomon Grundy proceeded to turn against his creator. He supposedly attempted to commit crimes of violence, grievous bodily harm and murder against him, only to fail and resign himself to hiding from his former creator. Which is how Solomon Grundy found himself cursed to roam this Earthly plane.

Unable to live as a man, nor is he able to die as one. Solomon Grundy is truly cursed.

Jason lay now where Solomon Grundy once had. Part of him still willed he would rise from the dead, fight his way back home.

The other part of him was painfully aware that his soul shouting at his body had no real effect.

It was.. strange. Seeing himself lying there. Cold and detached from himself. His body lay weirdly on the table, pulled apart with various cold, metal tools holding him open. Threads tugged his skin, muscles and tissue in various different directions - all strange and confusing. He wanted nothing more than to be part of his body again, to live his life.

Or at the very least, be allowed to come to terms with his death.

His soul watched as Ra's administered the usual green liquid - an increased dose this time - and it finally occurred to him (after months of watching)…

…there really was nothing he could do.

Jason's soul slumped in defeat, crystalline tears dripping down his face as his head hung low. Until he heard the voice of the Master puncture through his sadness,

"…Subject JPT-1 appears to be releasing lacrimal fluid from the tear ducts. How very strange? Does this mean that the Subject is responding well to the treatment I have administered? Perhaps… perhaps this time… No, I may not jinx such findings. Not this time."

He looked up in the direction of his face. It was awfully strange, seeing himself cry as if he was watching himself in a mirror. A strange mirror, that showed his grey corpse, held together by stitches. Crying as he was. A brief glimmer of hope shot through him.

Perhaps his soul had more sway than he truly thought…

Somewhere in the distance, a certain person repeats to himself, bringing the cleaver down with force upon each pause in his repetitions,

"Pyg.. will fix thee… yes, yes, yes! Pyg will… yes.. Pyg's…"

The cleaver swings through meat and bone, blood splattering around as his voice echoes around the (presumably) small room - barely lit by the window that allows just a sliver of moonlight to peak through. It appears that despite her shyness, the moon wishes for us to bare witness to something tonight. Following the moonlight allows us (for we are enduring this together, dear reader!) to see…

Oh dear..!

Dear Gods above!

"Pyg's dolls…!"

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