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His name was Jason Todd. At least, that’s what he had been told. His memories were rather fuzzy. He’d get glances from time to time, from brief moments of warmth and love with a man he felt fit the word ‘father’, to nightmarish scenes of brutality. The healers in the League said he would be free of those nightmares over time, especially if he continued with his training. Throughout his meditations and training sessions, he found himself remembering bits of a religion. The others in the League followed their own paths, praying or otherwise performing a religious ritual, but none seemed to follow Jason’s slowly remembered path. During one part of his training, Jason had carved some beads and strung them together just so, until he had what resembled a rosary. He found it strange just how much of his religion he could remember, while his life before the League was a foggy haze, but Talia had said that any belief that finds itself engraved upon one’s soul was bound to come forth when all other memories are sealed. Keeping these words in mind, Jason had taken to praying daily. Sometimes he prayed to be skilled enough to satisfy his master. Other times he prayed to be forgiven for various sins committed. But most of the time, he would pray for the return of his memories, and, especially, for the warmth of those arms that often held him in his dreams.
A few years passed in this way, and Jason’s memories were still mostly vague, but he had gained some distinct moments. He remembered a birthday, the first celebrated with his new adopted father; He remembered a very colourful uniform, worn by someone he had greatly admired, and he remembered the magic that seemed to go with it; He remembered warm arms chasing away the doubts and despair. He remembers a signal, a way to reach help whenever he needed it, and a regret that he had not used it sooner. But he would not use it now, he could not, not after who knows how long had passed. And so, he continued his training. Talia had become pregnant, and he had been assigned as one of her guards. He was immensely proud to have that honour. Talia was kind. Talia reminded him of the vague memories of warmth he held desperately in his heart. Life in the League felt like life in a mirror, an odd reflection of what his heart could remember, but somehow it all felt alright when he was with Talia. Months passed, though to Jason it felt more like years, until finally Talia gave birth to a beautiful son. She named him Damian, and, taking care to introduce them properly, ordered Jason to protect him. Jason held the fragile new life in his arms, feeling both incredibly tiny and far too large, and swore he would do all he could for Talia and her tiny son.
A few months later, in the dead of night, Jason awoke with a start. Talia had crept into his room and shook him awake, Damian sleeping soundly in her arms.
“Quickly now, Jason, you must take him and go. The guards will notice something is wrong far too soon, every second is vital!” She whispered, forcing Damian into Jason’s unsteady arms. Once she was satisfied, and before Jason could argue, she rose and spoke, every inch a dignified queen in her kingdom. “You must protect Damian. You must take him to his father, to Bruce, my beloved.”
“But, why can’t you–”
“I cannot leave. There is too much to be done here. But I cannot allow them to use my son. Take him, and give him the life he deserves.” Her head snapped at the sound of movement in the distance. “Go, quickly!” She urged, pushing Jason out into the darkness. Jason ran, Damian clutched to his chest, as the shadows enveloped them. He only hoped he’d have enough time to get Damian free. Just as that hope crossed his mind, a throwing dagger shot past him, narrowly missing his eye. He weaved through alleys and buildings, trying to find somewhere, anywhere to take shelter. After dodging countless daggers and other projectiles, all likely poisoned, he found the perfect place. It was an old bomb shelter, meant to withstand more force than a mere League member could manage on their own. Sealing the doors with a slam, Jason swiftly set up a barricade. It was time. He pulled out a little keychain, one he had attached to his hand carved rosary, and pressed the bat-shaped button in the centre. Finally having a moment to breathe, Jason sat down against the far wall, Damian cradled gently in his arms, as he watched the door. As the first of the assassins attacked, the door began to rumble and quake, buckling slightly from the sheer force of the attacks. The noise woke Damian, who began to cry with such ferocity Jason was startled and frozen for a moment. Composing himself, Jason began to rock Damian and, after a failed attempt at silencing the infant’s cries, began to sing the first song that entered his mind.
“Jesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong, they are weak, but he is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me, the bible tells me so.” He sang, voice rich and clear, but pitched softly. He may not be little enough to be among the little ones, but there was still hope. He hoped he could still belong, that he could be forgiven for his failures and sins, and, most of all, he hoped that he was still loved by his God. Just as Damian’s cries began to fade, and the door threatened to buckle in half, a thud of the wall and a movement of the shadows caught Jason’s eye. He braced, ready to attack, only to find the Bat, the one of his dreams, standing before him. His mouth gaped, he attempted to speak, but before any words could be found, the door exploded in a shower of shrapnel. The Bat spread his wings, protecting the duo, and Jason thought maybe, just maybe, his prayers had finally been answered.