Chapter Text
When he dies, there’s a sick sense of irritation.
“Grayson,” he mutters, “you idiot. You should have saved me.”
And then he cries.
He doesn’t mean to, of course, but his white-knuckled fingers can only hold back so much. It’s only three thin tears trickling out of the side of his eye, but it burns his cheeks.
He is weak and dead now, and there is nothing he can do to reverse that.
If he closes his eyes, Damian Wayne exists only in the last moments of his death: the ghost of a sword still scrapes against his stomach, a phantom pain still echoes in his chest, and the Heretic stabs him over and over and over again.
So he keeps his eyes open.
One hand on the katana strapped to his side, he forces himself to move on.
His feet pad on empty ground and he starts off in a random direction. He doesn’t know where he is or where he is going, but he needs to get a scope of his surroundings.
After all, if this really is death, he’s going to be here for a while.
(Tears brim on the corner of his eyes and threaten to leak out if he blinks.
Keep your eyes, open, Damian. Mother would be so ashamed. )