Chapter Text
I talk to God but the Sky is empty
The first time Damian kills a man he’s three years old. The man was one of the cooks at the family residence. He probably had a wife, children, maybe a life he returned to at the end of the day with money born of blood staining his pockets. Damian didn’t know. He hadn’t known what family meant back then. The few conversations he must have had with the man were long forgotten. The man, in his mind, was just that.
“Mashallah!” his grandfather had said immediately after. It was a force of habit, his grandfather couldn’t let go after centuries of life. He was not a believer of god, no man who had done the things Ras Al Ghul had could be. Yet, the words— just for a tiny passage of time—sounded holy to Damian.
In translation, Mashallah would mean what God has willed has happened. When Damian thinks of it, he thinks Grandfather must be speaking about himself. He is the god. And he had willed for Damian to become a murderer. And so it had happened.
Although, that is not all what the child felt Mashallah had meant. He had heard it from too many mouths, too many old ladies who’d help him dress and then look at him with fondness in their eyes and say “Mashallah”; used here the word had a principled function— Look at this wonderful thing God has done. It was an expression of joy. Damian knew he’d never be allowed to feel joy again.
As the weeping drowned and the body became cold, Damian— with three years of age and having exchanged less than three words with grandfather— felt vicious. He had known that something was done to him. Something had been done by his hands. Look at this awful thing your god has done to you. Mashallah.
The first time Damian meets him is a few days after Timothy’s reveal. He’s a new student. He has strawberry blonde hair and eyes which scan the entire room until they zero in on Damian. For a few seconds, the endless chatter of his classmates, the sound of Colin’s pen dragging across the paper and the entire world had come to a standstill. There had been a collision. The river flowing forward had suddenly changed its course.
“Everyone, this is our new transfer student, Cassian Hampton. He’ll be joining us for the rest of the year.” Their English teacher paused “Cassian, go sit next to Damian. He’s quite ahead of the class-“ Some kids at the back snickered and Maps responded with a fierce glare. “He’ll be able to help you. Colin, would you mind moving?”
“Hey.” The boy said, smiling lightly, nudging Damian’s shoulder with his. “I guess you’re like my guide now.”
Damian rolled his eyes, Cassian reminded him of another.. bright eyed, soft hearted friend he’d had. Another in the long list of people Damian had disappointed
“You’re named after a traitor.” Damian replied, some force of nature compelled him to keep talking. The boy looked startled. “Gauis Cassius. The man who assassinated Julius Caesar. Your parents were not subtle.”
”Traiter? Huh, not many would call him that.”
”What else do you call the man who killed his own king?
“Killed a king that deserved to be murdered. He broke the social contract, he was becoming a dictator. Someone had to think about the people— justice.” Cassian said, as a matter of fact, there was something a bit more unkind this time in his eyes. Damian could see himself in the reflection.
“You believe people deserved to be murdered for being bad at their job? And who was Cassius to decide? Who gave one man the right to play god?” Damian felt himself become angrier. “No one. No one deserves to be killed. Do you think otherwise, Cassian?
The Damian from six years ago would scoff and laugh. He’d judge his future self for going soft, for losing strength and becoming another one of father’s puppets. But now, all these years later, all this pain later. Isn’t it all his fault? As long as someone like him was allowed to live, how can he question the right of anyone else to do so as well?
Cassian looked at Damian as if he was absolving him. He looked at Damian in a way no one else had before. He paused. He smiled. All teeth. “You’re right. Of course. Do all your conversations revolve around Roman philosophy or am I just special?”
“Only with people that are insolent idi-“ Damian’s retort, that he had planned not to say, was cut short.
“Boys, is there anything you’d like to say to the class?”
Damian stayed quiet, having learnt more than enough over his years at this school, knowing that the teachers wouldn’t take lightly to the rebellious kid talking back.
Cassian, though, didn’t seem to have the same sentiments, “Damian was helping me understand the chapter,” He smiled at Damian. “He’s been very helpful.”
In the future, perhaps, Damian will regret this. For now, for all he knows, it was the kindest thing someone had done for him. Stood in a room full of people, stood beside Damian, and defended him when it was not needed. It wasn’t even a proper defense and perhaps had he known kinder people, it would’ve felt like nothing at all. But to the fifteen year old, the whole world felt like it brightened.
The butterflies in his stomach warned him.
Despite himself, Damian smiled back.
Why is there a reservoir of grief inside him?
If it was anyone but him there that day, would Alfred even have died?
Things at the penthouse only ever get worse. The dining table is an obituary being whispered by the standstill air that flows between them. It’s louder than Damian and his father. When it’s the whole family, there’s love inside words. When it’s Damian and Bruce Wayne. It is just them. Two people cut from the same cloth and buried under the same debris.
“We’re reading Frankenstein in school.” Damian interrupts the mourning. Desperate for something. Anything.
The dinner at the table is pasta that Damian made. It wasn’t unusual for him to cool now. Although they had hired a cleaning lady, Damian cooked often because that meant father wouldn’t have an excuse for not eating with him.
Bruce nodded. “It’s a good novel.” He didn’t look up from his phone.
There isn’t much else from his father. Damian knew his father wasn't particularly interested in him and neither was Damian. Yet, there is a pang in Damian’s chest as he remembers how the only civil conversations his father and Todd have are about books and how they all manage to last for hours. Perhaps a part of Damian was copying tactics.
“I’m going to paint the monster.” Damian diverts the conversation, suddenly ashamed of his own thoughts.
Bruce looks at him, offering a dry smile. His eyes are so cold. “That’s good Damian.”
Damian and never son.
Damian frowned and coughed. The awkwardness seemed to tighten in the air. He can’t help but think Alfred would’ve had something more interesting to say. But Alfred wasn’t here and it was his fault
“You’re planning to draw the creature?” Bruce asks sensing his discomfort
“No.” Damian replies “I’m thinking of drawing Frankenstein.”
Bruce flinches just a little bit and turns to say something until his phone buzzes. “Sorry Damian, I need to take this.”
Damian sighs. It always ends this way. There’s no other way this could’ve gone. He looks outside the window, the moon is out and Batman must be too. He’s eating alone today. Again.
The next words his father says are not shocking, but they hurt just enough. “There’s an issue with a few criminals. Jason needs backup. Let’s talk tomorrow morning.”
“You have the board meeting.”
Bruce winces. “We can have dinner together?”
He knows his father doesn’t want to.
“You have an engagement with Kyle.”
If Damian hadn’t gotten so used to this, he’d want to cry. Out of all the people his father had time for, Damian had never been one of them.
“The day after tomorrow then.” With conviction and no guilt on his conscious his father leaves.
Damian nods.
He was alone again.
Damian remembers the second person he killed even less. It was an assassin this time. A woman in her late teens, perhaps a few years older than Damian is now. Her body died for a long time after he stabbed her. It was a painful demise, watching flies slowly start to unravel the flesh before it rots. It was also a painful watch. Perhaps that’s why Damian was made to see every second.
Grandfather had left. A few minutes later, so had all the servants. Then, it had been Damian and body yet to die. He was not permitted to take the knife out, league trailers were meant to be punished. This girl had dared to attempt leaving. Treason. The worst sin.
She is the criminal and Damian the executioner.
She, the dying little girl and Damian, the boy who held her hand till her dying breath.
There’s a saying that when you are to die, you experience all of your life again. You experience joy. You experience sorrow. You get a chance to live right as you die. Perhaps it’s a mercy from God, letting you be a child again. Or it’s a curse, forcing you to leave it all behind.
The assassin had looked at Damian, with fog inside her eyes and squeezed his hand with all the strength of death, “Anta nour ayni.” The woman whispered— You are the light of my life— and Damian had known even then, at the age of four, that she was not talking to him.
You are the light of my life
Still, when entrapped under the weight of all his guilt and the non ending flashbacks inside his heart. He thinks of all the people he killed. He thinks of the nameless assassin and he imagines she said it to him.
You are the light of my life
It could have the kindest thing anyone ever said to him. But it was not.
It’s Richard that Damian calls right after. It’s their own version of song and dance— Father disappoints him and Damian goes running to his oldest brother— it’s their story. It’s as old as time.
It takes three rings for the phone to connect. Damian wonders if Richard is waiting for him to cut the call, the wait feels too long and Damian feels as if he’s been thrown away. There was a time when Richard would pick up on the first ring. And before that there was a time that Richard would always call first. And long before that, there was a time when no calls had to be made because Richard would always be there at home. Their home.
Richard sounded out of breath. There was age in his voice now. His brother was a good year from thirty yet in moments like these it felt like he had already lived two lifetimes.
“Hey, Damian.”
It was never ‘Little D’ anymore. As though Richard was ashamed to associate himself as a version of Damian. As if someone like him would never be so wretched as Damian. It was true. Damian was wrong.
“…Hello.” He answered. The shame weighed on his heart.
There was a moment where neither of them spoke.
Richard must have sighed on the other side. “You haven’t called in a while. Is everything good?”
Damian wonders if Richard hated him too now. If the most patient man Damian ever knew had realised that a monster can’t be fixed. Had he too given up on Damian? When the only thing Damian had ever had faith in was Richard?
His eyes burn. Richard hadn’t called him either. Not once in the past year.
“Of course it is. Even if it wasn't— would I really expect you to help?” Bitter. Damian is a bitter thing. Not much of a person left inside him.
Another silence. Damian hoped it hurt.
“Then why’d you call?” Richard asked; resigned.
Never had Damian needed a reason to call before. But time had passed. Six years of living with heroes and he was an assassin at heart. Unfortunately, Damian knew Richard still loved him. That if possible Richard would still give him time. And Damian would need him all the same. Why else would the older man still give him so much time? Damian might be his father’s son but in every way which counted he was also Richard’s.
Sometimes, Damian thinks he hates just as he loves
And sometimes he hated Richard.
Damian looked down at his hands.“I was wondering when it would be my turn.”
When Damian first came to the manor and had been called to eat breakfast for the first time. He had quietly asked his father for permission. He had been so afraid of accidentally doing the wrong thing and ending up punished that he did not dare to bring the bite of rice near his mouth until Alfred had assured him. He was ten. And he was terrified.
Damian is asking his older brother to let him come to his place. Something he did almost regularly before— before that happened. He is fifteen. And he is terrified.
Dick stuttered a little. “Your turn?”
Before Alfred's death their ritual had been to meet every month at least once. A few days Damian spent with his older brother. In the past year, he had not been invited over a single time. The dead might die but the living are the ones which cut ties.
Sometimes they watched films. Sometimes Richard cooked. Sometimes they simply sat in the same room doing different things. There had never been a reason to stop. They were together and they were a family. And now they’re nothing.
“To… come over?” Damian asked, so small, so uncertain. He pushed himself into his bed. He wanted his big brother so much. All he wanted was for his oldest brother to hug him. It had been so long.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Richard sounded reserved but joy lit up inside Damian’s heart. In less than a second his tears dried.
“You have?”
The excitement was in his voice. He couldn’t believe it. Finally, he’d be able to feel like he was home again. He lived in his strange penthouse with a strange man replacing what his father used to be. He was adept at strangeness and now there would be home. Richard had always been his home
“Yeah.”
Damian smiled. He loved Richard. He’d never say it but Richard was the first person he came to respect. True, natural, respect. Maybe he should pack a bag already or at least tell his father he’d be leaving. If Richard wanted him for more than just the weekend— perhaps he should take a few days off from school? There was the test on Friday but Damian could skip it.
Richard was a good brother. And Damian had missed him so much. Damian also wanted to apologise about the whole titans thing and maybe talk about Jonathan since Richard was mentoring him now. There was so much to do. His brother still wanted him. Someone still wanted him.
“But I’ve just had a lot going on.”
Damian paused.
There’s a moment in a person’s life which determines its course. A letter from college admissions. The result of a job interview. A doctor’s report. A loved one’s diagnosis. In all these moments, the few seconds leading up to the reveal is the person building themselves up.
Then inevitably, when life runs its course and the worst situation happens. The tower of hopes a person had stood upon crumbled and they were left on the ground with nothing.
It’s a fall from grace. It’s the burial of dreams.
As Damian’s eyes welled up again, that’s exactly what he felt.
“With Kori. With the foundation and managing all of Alfred’s things— even the original titans are reforming and I’m glad to be working with them. But that while being with the JL? You know how it’s been.”
Damian recoiled from the sheer pain that rang in his ear. One year of not letting him into his house, Richard still didn’t want him. Why didn’t anyone ever want him?
“And honestly now that I share a space with Kori, I can’t invite you without some notice right? Eh you get it right?” Richard dismissed. There was some guilt in his voice.
Richard had never worried about something like that. Richard was only ever firm with him if required but never dismissive. And even the calm was calculatedly kind, never without acknowledging how hard something would be for Damian. Damian was treated like his own child that he had spoiled so willingly. How does someone lose all that love?
No. Damian is overthinking this. Richard obviously still loves him.
“I understand.”
Dick must have smiled on the other side. “I knew you would.”
That somehow made Damian feel worse.
But If he smiled he must still love Damian.
He couldn’t have lost the bonds he had with Richard. That love was the tight bonds of family and all that love must still exist with everyone. Even Todd and Drake. Even Cain and Brown. They care for him somewhat. Right? They have to, right?
Damian already lost Alfred. Was the price of his sins losing his whole family too?
He had become so understanding that people no longer felt guilty for disappointing him.
“I’ll look at my calendar tonight.”
Damian perked up. Richard still loved Damian. He was already planning something else. He was already thinking.
“I’ve got a League meeting this weekend—” He trailed off. “Then next week’s meeting with the Pennyworth Foundation.”
Another pause.“…After that Kory and I are—”
Richard stopped. There was no point continuing. Every sentence sounded like another excuse. But Damian, the child that he was, was perfectly fine with pretending that it wasn’t. If dreams were the only place Damian was allowed love, then he’d dream with his whole heart.
“I’m sorry.” Richard said. With some genuine guilt. “There’s no empty spot on the calendar but next month.. we can make it happen?”
Damian looked out the bedroom window. The city looked the same as always. A tiny speck in the massive world. Barely visible from their house. If the city of Gotham was so small, Damian wondered how tiny he was. How small all of them looked from afar. If Richard looked at the sky right now, would him and Damian even be under it together?
“Next month is acceptable.”
It’s not. But does that matter? When does anything Damian feels even matter anymore?
“I’ll make time.” Richard promises him. It’s a lie. Damian believes him completely.
“I believe you want to.” Damian replied because he did. He had only ever thought the best of his brother
Although, if his chest tightened and the first little tear rolled down his eyes, then whose to know? Like all his thoughts, this too would be a secret him and Gotham will have to bear.
Someone called Dick’s name from inside the office. There was some shuffling and Richard must have said something as a reply. “They’re waiting for me.”
Damian stayed silent. Next month. Next month. Next month. He repeated it in his head like a mantra.
“I’ll call you tonight.”
Damian bit his lip.. He wouldn’t. But it was okay, however much Richard still loved Damian, it wasn’t something Damian truly deserved.
“Goodbye, Richard.”
The line went dead.
Damian stared at the phone for ten minutes after that. He doesn’t know why but he expected an immediate call back. As if to apologise for the brazen cruelty displayed in the call.
There was no call though. No looking back. No one would ever turn back to look at Damian. Just like his mother had once walked away from him, when he had waited for her to turn back and take him home. Richard had in a way walked away. Not all children are made of love. Some are only made of grief.
Damian sat there with bleary eyes swimming with tears as he tucked himself in his blanket. He clamped a hand down over his mouth, a resurgence of tears threatening to break like a wave of ocean water and the sound of his cries echoes the so silent penthouse.
Next month
Next month
Next month
Richard loved him.
(Although, Damian would never find out, Dick had never opened his calendar to check.)
The eighth person Damian kills is when he stops counting. At this point all the stages of death have been considered. When they laugh at the small child threatening to kill them. When they tell him he won’t be able to do it, that it’s too much for a little boy. When they try to convince him desperately to let them go. When Damian is sword deep in their chest and they look at him and mouth— Ghoul
Demon
It’s somebody this time. It’s always somebody. But Damian doesn’t remember their face or their name or the colour of their eyes. All the details have blurred into each other. All that remains is the orchestral sound of their voice, the words twisting, cursing, purging through each other to get to Damian. The blood curdling scream. The faces— Man, woman, neither— all screaming. Screaming so much. Loud. It’s always so loud. They’re all one. They’re all a hundred. He counts them on his fingertips and then he runs out of fingers. He counts them all again and there’s only one.
He remembers nothing of the eighth person he killed. He thinks the most about them.
Most people dream of love but Damian only ever dreams of guilt. All his grief has only ever been guilt.
Loneliness isn’t strange to Damian but the loneliness of murder is a prison of its own kind. No one talks about it. And he’s locked inside it— his mind— and he’s alone. How much longer will he have to be alone?
Does a person stop aging when their heart stops? Damian’s heart had stopped at age five, the last time he remembered who he killed, does that mean he’s still just five? Sometimes, Damian feels like a child.
The first time Damian had killed a man, it had left him bed ridden for a week. He had wondered then if there was something inherent in people— a kindness that they all are born with— that makes them care for life before they are taught how to? No had taught him value in life but he had known nonetheless
The eighth time, Damian walks away from the scene. The charring pain of his whipped back slowing his every step. He washes the blood off his hands and lets the rest of it dry. He sits in the fields for two hours. He feels nothing at all.
Demon
In the voice of his victims. Assassins and innocent people. His grandfather with pride. His siblings with judgement. Himself with conviction. A demon.
There is a text on his phone from an unknown number.
Unknown
“Hey!! Cassian here, would you mind explaining the Frankenstein lectures? I’m kinda behind and you seem to be pretty good at the whole lit scene”
“Js call me. Thnx!”
Damian doesn’t call him instantly. Damian doesn’t reply for a long time. He’s never been required to text someone other than his friends and usually they know he’s not very good at those. This is.. new. A person who is so far away from the tragedy of Damian’s life.
Damian sighed. His face reddens with shame as he opens the messages again and types in a response
You
“Hello Cassian”
“I shall explain it tomorrow after class.”
Unknown
“You don’t have to call me that, my friends just call me Cas.”
Friends.. huh.
Mashallah.
Look at this wonderful thing God has done.