Chapter Text
Dick, despite how much he wants to, is not allowed to join the meeting.
Father explained why he wouldn't be allowed, his eyes sad and mouth pinched as he tried to hide his disquiet from his children, and it was only that look on the man's face that kept Dick from arguing.
So instead, Dick sits with his brothers in the library and tries to keep his mind off everything, tries to pretend like he isn't glancing towards the door every five seconds to see if Father has returned yet.
It takes hours. Hours of clutching an unread book in his hands, acting like nothing is bothering him so that his siblings don't get affected and begin to share his anxiety.
Jason knows, though. Tim and Damian might be young enough that none of this has really been impacting them—past being aware of Father's absence, whenever he was away to fight, and missing his presence—but Jason has always been so smart, and old enough and observant enough to understand just how badly things have been going recently.
They've been losing the war. Father has been frowning more and more, has been away for longer, has been having hushed conversations with various generals when he thinks Dick isn't watching. And then suddenly he returned home with what looked like the weight of the world on his shoulders before informing them that they were going on a trip to the capital.
Tim had been excited, thinking it meant he would get to see Prince Conner, a boy who had become his friend. Dick and Jason had shared a wary look, but when they broached the subject with Father, their questions were brushed off.
And now here they are, in a place that usually would have them excited but now only fills them with dread. Because they aren't the only ones here—Dick's been taught the sigils of the various houses in his lessons, and the carriages carrying the flags of their enemies were clear as day as soon as they arrived.
There's only one reason Father and the king would be meeting with Luthor's ilk, and given the way the war's been going, Dick doubts it's to accept Luthor's surrender.
He's trying not to think of what this will mean for their family. If a treaty is being discussed, then it is unlikely that killing Father is on the table, but there's still always the possibility. It's well known that Father is a close friend of the king—striking him down would be a blow to them all, and a strong deterrent to those who think of still taking up their swords.
And King Clark himself...
No, Dick doesn't think he'll survive this, if he isn't dead already.
In hour four of waiting, Dick finally becomes far too restless to continue to sit idly, and gets to his feet, setting his book down. Jason looks up at him, something far older than his eight years in his eyes, and says nothing as Dick turns himself on his hands, walking through the library on them in an effort to distract himself.
It's useless, though. It doesn't take enough of his concentration to do this, and his mind strays all too quickly to what must be happening. Is Father okay? Are the negotiations going well? At the end of the day are they going to lose the man who means everything to them?
Dick, attention already straining for any sign of this torture coming to an end, immediately hears the echoing footsteps heading down the hall towards the library. He drops back down to his feet, straightening his clothes and pretending like his anxiety hasn't reached new heights with Tim's curious eyes on him, the boy clearly wondering what's happening with his eldest brother.
The door opens, and relief sweeps through Dick in a rush when he sees his father. He's not dead or in jail, he's here, and that means everything is going to be okay. Father can make anything okay.
There's a severe look on Father's face though, and Dick understands why better when Father steps further into the room and Dick sees that he hasn't come alone.
Dick doesn't know the man standing in the doorway. He's large, certainly taller than Father and with broad shoulders. There's a bandage secured over his right eye, and he has a head of white hair despite looking far too young for that. There's a sword on his belt, and he wears black armor despite being currently inside the palace and not bearing the markings of a knight.
The man looks back at Dick evenly, his one-eyed gaze sweeping over the four boys in the library. Father does the same, but his look is softer, more concerned. Checking on their welfare.
Father's head turns slightly towards the man with him, and he quietly says, "If you would give me a few minutes?"
The man considers Father for a moment, and then nods. His eye flicks once more over to Dick, and then he steps back out into the hall with a, "Five minutes, Lord Wayne," called over his shoulder.
Father grimaces, and the door closes with a heavy noise, silence falling in its wake.
"Is everything okay?" Jason asks hesitantly.
There is a long pause where Father says nothing. He seems to be steeling himself, taking a deep breath before he turns back to his children. He seems...sad, first meeting Jason's eyes before looking to Damian as the one-year-old toddles over to the man, having apparently decided Father has been in the room long enough that it's time to give him attention.
Father does smile as he takes his youngest into his arms, but he still looks so sad, and it makes fear grip Dick's heart. Has he misjudged this completely? Maybe they are going to kill Father, but they're giving him a chance to say goodbye. No, no this can't happen, they can't take him away they just can't—
Dick rushes over before he's even aware of making the decision to do so, wrapping his arms around his father's waist like that will prevent him from going anywhere.
"I'll fight them all," Dick announces, voice muffled from how his face is pressed against Father's stomach. "They can't have you!"
Father sucks in a sharp breath, and his free hand lands gently on top of Dick's head, brushing through his hair. "Oh, Dickie. No, nothing is...nothing is going to happen to me."
Oh. Well that's good. Why does Father look so sad, then? Why did the other man say he only had five minutes?
Father draws back, hand moving to Dick's shoulder and squeezing gently before steering him towards the grouping of chairs where Tim and Jason still are.
Tim's eyes are wide and troubled, looking between Father and Dick like he's trying to figure out what's wrong. Jason has gotten to his feet, his hands curled into tiny fists, his worry practically emanating off of him.
Dick's heart aches, for a moment. He's always tried to shield his siblings from the worse parts of the world, feeling it was his duty as the eldest, but Jason has seen more than most, and no matter what Dick has tried he's never quite been able to protect Jason's innocence the way he has with Tim and Damian. The first few years of Jason's life certainly didn't involve living in a castle, and he still has enough memories of that time to make him far too knowledgeable about the world.
Father sits down, settling Damian on his knee and wrapping his arm around Tim when the boy presses up against him, simultaneously seeking comfort and trying to comfort in turn.
"Come here, boys," Father says, gesturing for Dick and Jason to move closer. They do so without a word, watching the man intently.
"There is so much I want to explain to you," Father says on a sigh. "But I—time is limited." His gaze shifts to Dick. "Something big is about to be asked of you, Dick. I'm going to ask something big of you. And I wish I didn't have to but we have run out of options."
"What's going on?" Dick asks, a small tremble in his voice.
"We've lost," Father says seriously, and even though Dick figured that was happening, it still rocks him to the core. There had still been some small part of him that believed everything would be okay, that Father would fix everything somehow. But no, they can't turn back the clock. They can't make everything better just because they want to. They've lost the war.
"Okay," Jason says, his voice surprisingly level considering the deep concern now lining his face. "What's that have to do with Dickie?"
For a moment, Father flounders. His lips press into a thin line, and he releases a breath through his nose before saying, "We've had to surrender, to avoid further loss of life. And Luth—King Alexander wants assurances that we will keep to the deals struck, as well as...punish us, for our actions."
King Alexander, Father said. So Luthor really has taken control. King Clark is dead. What happened to the queen? To the princes and princess? Little Jon wasn't even a year old—would they truly have killed him?
"They wish to take you under their care, Dick," Father says, voice soft and sad and Dick doesn't understand what that means. "You are going to have to leave Gotham and go live with Lord Wilson."
Dick blinks at him. Jason's jaw has dropped. "What?" his little brother demands.
Father keeps his eyes locked on Dick. "I do not wish to make you do this," he says. "I—you are my son, and I would give anything to keep you at my side. Do not think I agreed to this easily. But they are insistent—they will only be happy with my heir as their ward." His lips twist. "A deterrent to acting out. And the worst punishment in the world."
Dick still doesn't understand. He's...being sent away? He—leave Gotham? Go live with a stranger? He knows the name Wilson; it's one of the houses that joined Luthor in his rebellion. A powerful house, one that Dick knows has given Father trouble in the past. 'Strike first' are their words, orange and black their colors.
And that...is the extent of his knowledge.
Father's hand lifts, cupping Dick's cheek. "They will not harm you," he says adamantly. His eyes look wet. "Lord Wilson is many things, but he never goes back on his word. You will be treated well, and want for nothing. You'll be safe, my son, I swear it."
"No!" Tim says, looking at Father like he's lost his mind. "No, you can't send Dick away, we won't let you!"
He darts forward, throwing his arms around Dick tightly enough that it forces the wind from him. Jason instantly joins, hugging just as tightly, and Dick is just adjusting to the force of it all when Damian decides he won't be left out and wiggles off Father's lap, stumbling over to his brothers and wrapping his tiny arms around Dick's leg.
Dick meets Father's eyes above them all, and finds the man looking at him with something that almost resembles grief.
It's that expression that finally makes this all sink in for Dick. This is actually happening. Dick has to...he has to leave his home. He has to move away from his family and everything he knows. Father loves him, would never make him do this if he didn't absolutely have to, so this is actually going to happen. Dick has to do this. He has to agree. Or bad things will happen.
"I'll miss you," Dick croaks out, and becomes suddenly aware of the tears that are gathering in his eyes.
Father is immediately on his feet, stepping forward to pull Dick against himself. It squishes Tim and Jason partially between them, but neither of the boys seem to care, sinking into their father's grasp the same way Dick does.
"You will always be my son," Father whispers against the crown of Dick's head. "No matter how far away you are, or who raises you from here—I love you more than you will ever understand, and that will never change."
The door opens again. Father goes stiff, and Dick peeks out from under his arm, looking towards the door.
It's the man from before, who must be Lord Wilson. He stands with one hand on the doorknob and the other resting on the hilt of his sword, looking at the huddled group inside the room with not even the bat of an eye. He does raise an eyebrow when Father eventually steps back and turns to face him, but all he says is, "It's time to go."
Tim and Jason tighten their grips around Dick. He can feel wetness against his shirt.
"Father," Dick says, because he knows he's going to need help with this. He can't push them away on his own, can't make them let him leave. If their positions were reversed he'd fight tooth and nail to keep them with him the same way.
Father nods and leans down, scooping Tim up into his arms and holding him tightly, not budging even as Tim twists in his grasp, struggling to escape.
Jason allows Dick to push him back with great reluctance, and Dick sees the tears on the younger boy's face, the way his lips are trembling. He seems so, so small in this moment. Dick wants nothing more than to comfort him but he—can't.
"Look after them," Dick says, and Jason nods stiffly, sniffling as he so clearly tries to hold back more tears. Dick is grateful when Jason grabs onto Damian and pulls the young boy away, holding onto him to allow Dick to step back.
"Dickie?" Damian asks, not understanding why he's leaving, and Tim practically shrieks when Dick turns his back to them, fighting as hard as he can against Father's grasp. Distantly, Dick can hear Father murmuring soothing things to the boy, but he does his best to tune it out, focusing on taking one step after another towards the door.
Lord Wilson doesn't say anything when Dick reaches him, simply turns around and heads off down the hall, apparently sure that Dick will simply follow. He's not wrong.
With one last painful glance at his family, Dick goes.
He's escorted to a carriage.
Lord Wilson doesn't speak the entire way, only glancing back once to check on Dick but otherwise paying him no mind. Guards fall into place at one point, all wearing the Wilson crest, but they remain silent as well.
The silence almost feels suffocating by the time they reach Wilson's carriage, and Dick steps out of the circle of guards nearly gratefully. Dick is wound up tight, tense and afraid and already longing for his family, and he just wants some kind of assurance that everything is going to be alright.
He knows he isn't going to get any.
He wants his father so desperately he can barely breathe.
Wilson gestures Dick inside the carriage, and then settles across from him, rapping his knuckles on the roof to alert the driver that they're ready to take off. There's the snap of reins, and then the carriage jerks forward, the clack of hooves on cobblestone filling the air as they pull away from the palace. Away from Dick's family.
"I am assuming Lord Wayne didn't try to pull some kind of ridiculous switch," Wilson says suddenly, making Dick jump. He looks away from where he'd been staring out the window, eyes instead fixing on Wilson's face, who he finds watching him right back. "You are in fact Richard?"
Dick, heart still lodged in his throat, nods.
"Good," Wilson says, and falls silent once more. He shifts, settling in more comfortably against the plush seat, looking the picture of relaxation as his gaze turns out the window.
Dick finds himself unable to stop looking now that he's done so. This is the man that he's going to be living with now. The man who is going to be in charge of him, in command of his entire life. What kind of man is he? That's never been something Dick's needed to know, and now he desperately wishes he did. Father said he would never go back on his word, so he's supposedly honorable, but Dick knows there's a lot of wiggle room there. You can hold to a bargain and still not be a good person. Can still find ways to make life hard without outright mistreatment.
Wilson's eye flicks back towards him after a few minutes. He doesn't seem bothered by Dick's staring, instead examining him in turn with idle curiosity.
"I suppose we should set some ground rules," Wilson muses, head tilting just slightly to the side.
Dick says nothing, continuing to stare. The corner of Wilson's mouth twitches.
"I'm sure your father explained the arrangement, but I will reiterate in case he tried to spare the feelings of his son for the last time. You will be living in my household from now on. You will be raised the same way my children are, and will be expected to behave. You'll go to your lessons, be polite, not cause any issues. Life will not be hard, little Wayne. All you have to do is behave."
After a pause, Wilson continues with, "King Clark and all those loyal to him lost the war, and that comes with consequences. Lord Wayne has to pay the price, but I have no interest in torturing little boys for their father's actions. As long as you don't act out, you and I will not have a problem. You might also do to remember that your behavior could have consequences past yourself."
Dick swallows anxiously and finally looks away, squinting out the window and trying not to cry again. Consequences past himself? Does that mean for Father and his brothers? Dick knows that him leaving is supposed to keep Father in line—does it also act in the reverse?
"Will I be able to get any of my things?" Dick asks quietly.
He feels Wilson's eye on him, but doesn't look. "Your father will be allowed to send a trunk for you. I'm sure he'll include anything he thinks is important."
"Will I be allowed to send letters?"
There's a hint of wry amusement in Wilson's voice when he says, "You are not technically a prisoner, so yes. For the first year your correspondence will be monitored—it is the rule with how fresh the end of the war is—but I won't restrict how many you send or stop you from receiving anything, I'll only be checking for any signs of...plotting."
He seems humored by the whole thing, like reading the letters of an eleven-year-old to his family is a ridiculous concept, so it must be a rule put in place by the new king. Dick doesn't care all that much, really. So what if Wilson reads him saying that he misses home, or finds it strange to live in another place? And it will only happen for a year, after all.
A year. A year of his letters being monitored, and then so many more that he still will be living with Lord Wilson, far away from his family. This is his life now. It's truly happening.
Dick sniffles, keeping himself from crying by sheer force of will. Thankfully, Wilson doesn't comment, gaze sliding away and allowing Dick his privacy, as meager as it is.
You are not technically a prisoner.
Technically.
At least Wilson isn't trying to pretend this is anything other than it is.
"There was discussion before the meeting about killing you," Wilson says, tone far more mild than the words themselves, and Dick jolts, turning to look at him with wide eyes.
"As punishment for your father, I mean. The death of a child..." Wilson purses his lips, gives a small shake of his head. "It would knock anyone to their knees. Lucky you, that option was discarded."
"Lucky me," Dick echoes dully.
Wilson cocks an eyebrow at him. There's not a hint of sympathy in his features. "A wardship is certainly a step up from being dead."
Yes, Dick supposes it is. But that doesn't make this the slightest bit easy. That doesn't mean leaving his home, his family, his friends, is something that doesn't cut straight through his core.
"Did you choose this?" Dick asks, in an attempt to distract himself.
"No," Wilson replies easily. "But I didn't care enough to disagree when Luthor told me what he wanted. It's not like you're going to be any trouble to have around, correct?"
"Correct," Dick agrees quietly. He doesn't think he sees any point in disobedience, or even have the heart for it right now. This is the new way of things; fighting against it won't change anything. It'll only get himself—and maybe his family—punished. He would never do anything to cause them harm.
"Good," Wilson says, head dipping in a small nod. "Then try to get some rest; it's a long journey ahead of us."
Dick settles against the window, curling up in his seat. He wraps his arms around his knees, uncaring for if the action makes him seem childish or undignified. Despite the instruction given to him, he makes no effort to force himself into sleep—the longing keeps him wide awake.