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Damian noticed the urn in the living room the very first day he arrived at Wayne Manor; it’s a quaint ceramic piece the color of bloody roses and adorned with copper patterns of wildflowers. It still perplexes Damian now, even though a week has passed. He’s not oblivious to what it is and what it’s used for, an object to store the ashes of someone deceased, but the sway it has here is odd. It’s parasitic and bleeds the essence of everyone who passes by, their shoulders slump and their eyes go distant towards something or somewhere Damian can’t comprehend.
His Father is Batman, a warrior his Mother lauded for his remarkable strength of body and character, yet the urn seems to be his weakness, his kryptonite. He needs to investigate further. Where is the man he spent his infancy idolizing? The man Mother told epics of?
He sees his Father in his office at his desk, perhaps doing paperwork or something of that sort. It is irrelevant. If he is to become Father’s companion, his “Robin”, he must know all aspects of the job and pursue all possible inquiries to maximize his effectiveness in the field.
“Father, I have a question about the urn in the living room. Who’s in it?”
The effect of his words are instantaneous; his Father’s arms go limp and eyes go distant as they do whenever he passes the urn. It’s stealing the life out of him as they speak. Damian lets the silence stretch while Father’s lethargy grows to frankly irritating levels, and he is just about to snap before finally receiving an answer.
“…Tim Drake. He was Robin…why do you ask?”
There’s fragility in his voice; the authoritative timbre of Batman gone and replaced by a brittle facsimile ravaged by grief. Damian knows who Timothy Drake is, or rather, was. The third Robin, an insignificant child who took up the mantle after Jason Todd’s death. His name isn’t brought up in conversation. Ever. By any means.
The name Timothy itself is taboo; it ushers in rot and decay whenever spoken, even if in hushed whispers. It seeps into people and festers their wounds, deepens their bruises. What could Timothy Drake have accomplished to inspire such an answer? Why is his name a mortal sin?
How frustrating. Someone so seemingly bland and unimportant shouldn’t be the cause of this mess. This is but an unfortunate roadblock to a legacy foretold and paved out in Damian’s name.
“I simply wished to know. If I am to become Robin, it is imperative I am aware of these matters.”
Father tenses and goes rigid as though he is encased in stone, stuck in a singular moment that entraps one’s soul. It’s clear Damian said something to trigger this, but exactly the reason for said reaction eludes him.
Father isn’t like what Mother described. He is a somber, fatigued, sullen man with a weariness in his bones when he isn’t behind a mask. Sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, he puts his head in his hands and stays there for minutes at a time, as if he’s shutting himself down from the world. Surely Mother wasn’t lying or ill-informed? This can't be the same man she loved, the same man she described to Damian with such reverence in her voice.
“…Damian, you’re not going to be Robin. I’m not allowing you to be involved in any of this until you’re an adult and can make your own decisions. Until then, you’re my son and only my son.”
This…this is absurd! This is unfair! Damian isn’t like the others! He’s not a ridiculous circus acrobat or a dirty vagrant or an insignificant civilian, he’s been raised since birth to be the best and eventually take Father’s place at his side! He’s not going to be reduced to some petulant child.
“But—but that’s ridiculous! You know I’m not like the others, I’ve been trained by the greatest fighters in the world, I’ve bested all my teachers and been taught everything I need in order to succeed! I will be Robin.”
Father’s eyes sharpen; they’re stormy and dark, brewing in restrained fury. Damian isn’t going to cower, he’s faced far worse than whatever Father now dares to throw at him. He’ll always come out victorious.
“This is about Timothy Drake, isn’t it? You’re afraid I’m going to be some fool and get myself killed? I’m not him, I’m not—”
“Get out. Now.”
Damian refuses to stand down like a cowardly buffoon. He’s not giving up his right, his destiny, only because Father is sad his unworthy lackey died.
“Fa—”
“I said now! If I ever hear you say anything the slightest bit resembling an insult towards Tim again, I’m sending you back to your mother. Get out.”
His words are glacial and dredged from agony; they leave Damian shivering with their intensity and he can feel the ice shards forming in his veins. He now knows this is forfeit, he won’t be able to convince Father in this emotionally compromised state—not yet, at least.
As Damian takes his leave, a stare stabs at the back of his head. It prickles the skin like needles and makes rivulets of shame trickle down his spine.
However, a new plan forms together, with Timothy Drake at its gestating core. If Damian can figure out what exactly happened to Drake, he can unravel the specifics behind Father’s vehemence against his involvement. From there, he can form a modified plan to convince him and rightfully take the position he deserves. Who is Timothy Drake and what caused his death? What was his significance to Father beyond the role of Robin?
Damian will figure it out, mark his words.
Richard Grayson is an odd man. He is the personification of a wound; there was once something else there, youth and passionate hope perhaps, but damage has eroded him into jagged edges and glass smiles. He is a pariah among almost all his fellow heroes, and they keep him at a distance as if he is a stranger or as if they are cautious of him. The unknown past rears its head whenever in the presence of Richard Grayson and Damian is curious as to why. Perhaps the secrets of Timothy Drake lie within him.
On rare occasions, Grayson stops by the Manor to speak with Pennyworth and converse with Damian. They are still relatively unfamiliar with each other and their interactions never go beyond the hellos and basic platitudes, but Damian can rectify this. In order to understand Timothy Drake, he must form a connection based on mutual interest. Surely Grayson would want to talk about Drake, wouldn’t he? It sounds like they were relatively close.
The opportunity presents itself on a Saturday evening, the air is alive with humid teardrops on freshly-rained gardens and crickets chirp as the sky turns a brilliant vermilion medley. Just before Grayson leaves, Damian prepares some tea and calls him over—those tedious Pennyworth brewing ramblings finally became worthwhile.
He casts his bait when Grayson is just about to cross the threshold of the door.
“Grayson, would you like to sit down and have some tea before you go? I made it myself.”
Hesitation. Grayson’s expression is melancholy and void of light, but he comes to sit across Damian in the kitchen. Good. Damian has questions that it seems only Grayson may be willing to answer. He takes a sip of his tea and plunges right in. He's ripping off the bandage, so to speak.
“I want to know about Timothy Drake.”
Color drains, Grayson's face bleached a deathly pallor. Stirring, successive waves cross his expression; kaleidoscopes of mourning, fury, and nostalgia all converging, scribed into the vast compendium of his grief. The urn suckles on this loss, sapping on the marrow of their discontent. It thrives on hopelessness, it flourishes in despair, it grows strong on the blood it leeches, shading ever more luminously red with each gluttonous drink.
From what little Damian knows of Grayson personally, it is obvious that he’s a man of strong emotions. He is not like Pennyworth who hides through an opaque wall of stoicism or like Father who only lets himself break in solitude. Grayson feels things with force; there’s an internal resentment of this fact, Damian is sure of it. Grayson wishes he could be like those who shield their heart behind an iron safe.
“…Why do you want to know about him?” Grayson’s eyes are sunken and shadowed with bruised purple bags beneath them. He’s dressed in a navy blue jacket that's ripped at the cuffs and torn jeans that are dotted with brown-black spots of oil. He must have been working on repairs.
“I…wish to learn more. Who he was and what he liked. Father refuses to answer my inquiries and he seemed…important… to all of you.”
It’s stretching the truth, but Damian needs to know more about Drake. His future at Father’s side depends on it. He refuses to be discarded, to be a burden, to be a detriment or anything of the sort. Who is he if can’t be a warrior, if he can’t have what he was born to inherit? He’s nothing. Worthless. Damian can feel the eyes of the urn in the living room. They’re derisive and egregious in their mockery; they’re telling him “You’ll always live in my shadow.” with gleeful malice in their tone. No. He’s not letting it win.
Damian should throw that obsolete bauble against the wall.
“Alright, I can tell you some things…if you’re willing to listen, that is.” Grayson looks to the side and there’s a noticeable sheen on his cheeks. “I don’t think I’ve talked about him with anyone since he—” He cuts himself off with a sharp bout of depression, and a pervasive tragedy invades the room, as if baneful tendrils bind Grayson to the chair and prod him with the burnt steel; he is branded by his loss.
It’s clear that this interrogation is going to require Damian’s intervention; Grayson is far too emotional.
“What was he like? His personality?”
Grayson looks down and takes in a deep breath before speaking. The atmosphere doesn’t quite darken, but mutes and becomes sodden with a menagerie of recollection and bandaged wounds. They are memories of a time tinged with warmth but snuffed out by mourning, and Damian finds this silent history deeply uncomfortable.
“…He was the most selfless person I’ve ever met. He was compassionate and brilliant and stubborn and dorky and charming and just amazing. He loved to skateboard and tinker with stuff and play video games. He was so determined too. He broke into my home on more than one occasion and he wanted to help Bruce despite having no personal incentive to. He just wanted to save people and thought it was his responsibility.” There’s a mixture in Grayson’s voice. Admiration and regret, a lurid slurry with contrasts of gentle pinks and tragic blues.
“He became Robin because he wanted to stop Bruce from going too far, from acting reckless or from getting himself killed. Jason’s death hit Bruce hard and Tim thought someone needed to intervene and he asked me to become Robin again. I said no…but he didn’t stop trying to help. Afterwards, your father and I were captured by Two-Face and he saved us, so we chose him to become Robin. The rest is history, I guess.”
Damian must admit there is a certain… respect…in Drake’s dedication to the role and to his determination in providing his Father assistance. It is commendable that he managed to save both Father and Grayson from Dent, even if he was never formally trained. It was still foolish to take the mantle in the first place, however. Drake wasn’t Damian, he didn’t have the talent to back it up.
“You said he broke into your home to convince you to become Robin again. How did he know you used to be Robin?”
Grayson gives him a joyless smile. It’s revealing, and speaks for the past in all its glory and disgrace.
“He already knew our identities beforehand. It’s a long story. He met up with me at a circus.” Grayson checks his watch, “It’s getting late, so I should get going. It was…nice talking with you Damian.” He quickly blushes, nearly stuttering, as if he’s embarrassed, “…maybe we should do it again, if you’re interested?”
There’s a silent pleading in his tone; Grayson desperately wants to do this again and Damian sees it plainly. Damian isn’t a therapist, it’s not his job to have Grayson recount his golden days with him and Drake. However, his open vulnerability and piteous desperation makes Damian squirm with something he can’t quite describe. Perhaps he can gain information from these sessions and use them to solve his Robin problem. It will be beneficial to continue these talks.
“That sounds agreeable. We will talk again later.”
He extends a hand to Grayson to make their agreement official. Grayson’s eyes go wide with surprise and fleeting shock before he lets out a small laugh and takes his hand to shake it. Damian doesn’t get what’s funny.
“I’ll see you later, Damian.”
Grayson’s visits become a more regular occurrence after their talk. He comes by and tells Damian tales of training and assassins, of broken backs and split personalities, of identities revealed and of death, of earthquakes and disease, and of brotherly love. It arouses sentimentality in him, the way Grayson speaks of Timothy. The stories send Damian back to a time when Mother spoke borderline mythical tales of a man in a bat suit, a man with boundless skill and determination, and with uncompromising morals to do what he thought was right. Damian hates when nostalgia strikes at the most inopportune times.
It’s nights such as these, when the onyx sky's alight with sparkled gems and the air is balmy with heat, that he can’t help but ponder his investigation of Timothy Drake. Timothy is an enigma. The embodiment of a contradiction. What Grayson tells him and what others say are not compatible, a garish clash of opinions that leaves him disoriented.
Timothy was trained by unparalleled martial artists and even Lady Shiva herself, yet is described as small and frail. He discovered Father's identity through his adoration of Grayson, yet his favorite Robin was Todd. He was obstinate and charming, yet gratingly sensitive and a loner by nature. He was also addicted to coffee for some reason? None of it makes sense.
Damian needs to take a walk. His sleep eludes him and he must endure the plebeians at his school in a few hours. His head has a slight, nagging pain as he thinks of Timothy; he knows multitudes more about him, yet he is no closer to solving his death and it needles him. A walk will do him some well-needed decompression. He gets two-thirds the way down the stairs before he’s stopped dead in his tracks.
Everything is steeped in darkness except for the illumination of the moon coming in through the windows, which cascades the room in dancing shadows from the trees in the midnight breeze and paints the crimson urn in moving black stripes. It’s almost glowing in the moonlight; it refuses to be ignored or fade into the obscurity of the background because its shed blood must be acknowledged.
There’s someone staring at it in the living room. They're in a t-shirt hued with a subtle shade of gray and checkered white boxers. The clothes, damp with sweat, carry the story of a sleepless night. They’re transfixed, paralyzed as if they’ve been caught in a trance or are nothing more than a marble figure on display. Damian knows who’s staring at it; it’s the ghost who carries a radiance of sorrow, who wanders the halls with hushed and hurried footsteps when he believes no one is around to perceive.
“What are you doing, Todd?”
Todd quickly spins around towards Damian; his face is flushed and hair drenched. Todd’s pupils are pinpointed in Damian’s direction, and the front of his shirt is translucent with perspiration which sticks it to his chest like glue. How disgusting.
It hasn’t dawned on Damian until this moment—it's the first time he’s ever spoken to Todd, despite living in the Manor for months now.
“I—…nothing, I’m not doing anything right now. Why are you down here, kid? Don’t you have school or something today?”
Father has spoken few words about Todd, and all of them are shrouded in secrecy and vague allusions to a past “incident”. He was told that Todd is under a period of “house arrest”, and will be staying at the Manor with them until his sentence is fully carried out.
Damian isn’t a buffoon, he’s aware of Todd’s past as the Red Hood, crime lord of Gotham’s underbelly and slayer of those who are deemed unworthy, but the way Father speaks strikes him in a peculiar way. Father speaks of an “incident”, a singular one, rather than a collective amount of actions. This means, according to Damian’s deductions, that Todd is not under house arrest for what he had done to criminals as the Red Hood, but rather something separate. Something more personal.
This could be the lead Damian has been looking for.
“Yes, I do have school but I couldn’t sleep. Why are you staring at the urn, Todd?”
“It’s none of your business.” Todd’s response is barbed wire; it’s razors and sharp edges that threaten to cut and slice at anyone who goes forward. Damian isn’t frightened by his feeble threats, he’s been cut before.
“Is it about Timothy?”
Todd’s face blanches a drastic white and his mouth is left gaping. The urn’s presence becomes even more pronounced, as if invigorated by Todd’s distress and infecting the surroundings with a miasma that reeks of congealed blood and rotted flesh full of wriggling maggots. Damian can smell its death and malevolence in the room. He is now positive that the urn must be cursed, because the way it torments everyone here is beyond belief. This living room contains a tribute to desolation—the exemplar of Gotham’s sickness.
In the seconds before Todd answers, Damian feels the urn basking; it relishes their discomfort.
“…Yes.”
“Why are you here at this time of night? Were you two close?”
Todd winces at the question. His eyes water and dart away from Damian, then turns to the side as if he’s receiving a physical blow to the ribs. He guesses that means no, Todd and Timothy weren’t close.
“No…no, we weren’t. I just come here sometimes…after a bad night. I tend to have a lot of those, recently.”
“Is that why you never show yourself? You’re always hiding or sneaking around, and you never speak to anyone, either. Father won’t tell me anything.”
Again, there’s another wince. Damian’s finally found a person of interest in his investigation. Todd forms a perplexing look, one of anguish, of resolve, and of repentance simultaneously. It strikes him just how bizarre this man is; he’s not what the reports told. Todd’s vacant of the qualities the Red Hood possessed, he completely lacks the honed rage, the calculated brutality. He’s a gutted animal, hollowed out and strung up. A dead boy walking among living men.
“It’s a punishment I give myself.”
With that, Todd brushes past him back into his wing of the Manor, leaving Damian alone with the urn and its reeking aura. He cannot help but stare at it and its bleeding colors.
Todd did something to you, didn’t he?
An ache accompanies Damian’s chest at the thought. Something happened to Timothy, which ended up killing him, and Todd is in some way involved—though in what capacity still remains to be answered.
And why does that make me sad?
It’s Damian’s eleventh birthday and Father has bought out a restaurant for the night. He is excited, perhaps the most joyful Damian has ever seen him. Apparently, this is a location he went to with his parents as a child. But Damian doesn’t think it a particularly good idea, they haven’t really felt like a… “family” much since he first arrived, though in fairness Damian isn’t quite sure what family feels like to begin with.
The Manor is a mortuary touched by the fingers of Death; the air is always heavy and everything bends brittle with stress. Their “family” is a shattered mirror fractured into pieces and composed of ruined men ravaged by the past. Even now, Damian can still smell the rot in the living room. What is a birthday supposed to feel like? Certainly not this.
Grayson is late due to traffic, and informs everyone by phone that Gordon can’t make it. He says that she has an emergency with her team and her duties as Oracle must come first. Damian understands, out of all the people Damian has met since arriving in Gotham, Barbara Gordon is one of the few he has genuine respect for. She is intelligent, very much so, and no-nonsense in a way he finds refreshing. She teaches him how she operates aspects of her surveillance system on occasion, even though it goes against Father’s “no vigilante work” rule. She told Damian that she “doesn’t give a single shit” about what Father says she can and can’t do. It’s a shame she can’t make it, but least Cain is here.
They are seated at a table for six in the middle of the restaurant. The mahogany chairs are a rich chocolate color and a smooth velvet red cloth with black floral patterns on the edges is covering the table, while the chandeliers above paint the room a syrupy yellow. There’s stained glass windows behind them colored brilliant emerald green. It makes Damian squirm. It's beautiful, but reminds him of the Manor and he doesn’t quite know why.
Father clears his throat just as Grayson arrives, who takes a seat right next to Damian.
“I’m glad you could make it, son. I know Barbara has her duties, so I got someone else to come over and celebrate with us.”
An awkward silence follows, and Grayson looks unsure of what to say. The waiter brings the first course out as the quiet stretches on, a small platter of assorted cheeses and artisan breads. Grayson takes a sip of wine and nods his head—though it’s stilted and artificial.
“I’m, uh, glad I could make it too.” He looks at Damian with a cautious smile and hands him an envelope, “Happy birthday, Damian.”
Cain retrieves something from under the table and hands a plain cardboard box to Damian, as well. She seems excited.
A new voice suddenly rings out, “Sorry I’m late, I needed to borrow Kyle’s car to get here and it’s a hunk of junk.”
The air freezes and turns frosty instantaneously. Damian knows who that voice belongs to, he recognizes it even when not torched by guilt or loathing. He looks over at Grayson, who is aghast and contorted with shock. Cain’s eyes are narrowed into slits and her nostrils flare with indignation. Father, however, looks unsurprised.
“I am…surprised to see you here, Todd.” Damian does his best to keep his tone level.
“Am I intruding? Bruce said I could come, but I’ll leave if you're not okay with it.” Todd’s voice is quiet and soft in a cadence that makes Damian pause. However, he can feel the urn watching him, beckoning him, even now. It is calling for bloodshed and violence in high-pitched shrieks of malevolence that leave Damian’s ears ringing. It hates Jason. Grayson seems to hate Jason, as well.
“No, I suppose not.”
Grayson still hasn’t changed his expression, his breaths are shallow and come in short bursts. As Jason takes his place, Grayson’s gaze dart to the empty seat next to him; they’re foggy with emotion as a murky white haze settles over him and beads of sweat begin to appear on his forehead. The conversation between Father and Jason fades to the background, their discussion now quaint murmurs as Damian watches Grayson glare at the empty chair. His eyes start to glaze over and his mouth turns downwards into a scowl, his visage sharpened by shadows and hate. Damian is…concerned by this display.
“Grayson, are you alr—”
“I need to leave. Now.”
Before Damian has any time to react, Grayson is already up and on his way out of the restaurant. His strides are rushed and panicked, and he nearly stumbles out onto the parking lot outside. Father and Jason get up to follow him.
It’s just Damian and Cain at the table now, the bread having turned into ashes in their mouths; a frothy foam of grit and dust that flavors the palate with the chalky taste of cadaver. The sound of screaming is faintly coming from the parking lot. There’s no sound between Damian and Cain except the ambient music on the restaurant speakers, a jazzy tune of saxophone and soft piano chords. Damian can hear the end of their fight outside. This is what Hell must be like.
“I wish you stayed in the ground and I wish I never met you. You’re a monstrous piece of shit and you’re dead to me. I hate you. We’re never speaking to each other again.”
“Dick, I’m sor—”
“Don’t ever apologize to me. You’re just like your mother, Jason. Go to hell.”
Screeching tires reverberate through the restaurant and an acrid scent of burning rubber enters his nose. Father and Jason take their seats again. They are completely numb, faces barren and devoid of expression. The jazz continues to play in the background, a mocking symphony that grinds salt into the wounds with forceful hands and shears skin from muscle with dulled blades. Damian thinks he knows what happened to Timothy.
“You murdered him, didn’t you?”
Todd starts to open his mouth and then quickly closes it. He nods.
Damian finds himself staring at the urn when he gets back to the Manor. The ride home was an exercise in agony; the journey marked by oppressive silence and occasional sniffling from the driver seat.
When they get back, Father shuts himself in his study and locks the door behind him with haste. Damian feels the urn again, its eyes peering over his shoulder. Its presence is muted, lacking death and fire.
As he walks up to it, something rancid ignites in his chest—a hellish mixture of resentment and contempt. Damian…hates.
“I hate you.”
His own insides are molten lead; they’re heavy and heated; they crack and the sides spill over, an inflamed conflagration of the soul. It’s all Timothy’s fault. He doesn’t even know when he stopped thinking of him as Drake and started thinking of him as Timothy, but he let the urn and Grayson’s fables worm their way inside him and it left him weak. He was led astray and it made him vulnerable.
“If it wasn't for you, I’d be by my Father’s side. I’d be worth something, but he won’t even look at me most of the time because he’s too broken by your death!” His voice starts to get louder. “It’s not fair! I was trained since birth to be something, be someone, and you stole it from me!”
The urn says nothing.
“Grayson goes on and on about how amazing you were, but in reality you’re just dead. You were so courageous and prodigious and caring, while everything I am doesn’t mean anything because I don’t mean anything in comparison! I thought if I figured you out it would solve things, but I was wrong.”
The urn says nothing.
“You ruined my Father!” Damian is screaming now, it’s raw and visceral with turmoil. “He hates me because of you! I’m just a burden to him! Why doesn’t he care about me?! Why did you have to die and ruin my life!?”
The urn says nothing.
A crescent moon casts its light upon Damian in the stillness, unshed tears glistening like the stars. He hates it here. He misses Mother and the League. Damian is tired of Father and his constant absence, tired of Todd’s self-congratulatory guilt parade that only serves to show how tragic he is, tired of Grayson’s tall tales from non-existent “better days”, and absolutely tired of goddamn Timothy Drake.
He’s about to leave, form an escape plan back to Mother and return to his erstwhile life of isolation and death, until he notices something under the dresser behind him in the urn’s blood reflection. It’s a picture frame, a small one made of brass which practically shines in the darkness. He picks it up and dusts it off with his hand.
It’s an old picture of Grayson and Timothy, probably from early on in Timothy’s career as Robin, because he doesn’t appear older than thirteen. They’re in the yard. Dandelions and unmowed grass tilt in the breeze. They’re wearing casual clothing, gray t-shirts and blue shorts in the summer heat. Grayson is doing a handstand with one arm, he looks relaxed and has an easy grin with hair sticking to his head that’s matted from sweat. Timothy, on the other hand, is laying down and covered in dirt, his face turned down in a scowl with no real heat to it. He must have attempted to replicate Grayson’s pose and fallen down. Damian’s lips involuntarily turn upward at the thought, sorrow ebbing out slow but persistent. It was foolish and arrogant to begin with, trying to go toe-to-toe with a circus acrobat in gymnastics. Slightly humorous in an embarrassing kind of way.
A lot of people mourned you, but I don’t think many really knew you.
The thought comes suddenly and with an unexpected force, sobering and melancholic.
Only now does Damian realize he’s been yelling at inanimate pottery for the past three minutes. That’s rather pathetic.
He can make amends, though. He can make things a little bit better, promise peace between him and this spectral object with an invisible, omnipresent power.
Damian puts the picture frame next to the urn. It’s…a gesture, or an offering, of sorts. A way to say “I think I understand you now. At least somewhat.”
He may have never met Timothy Drake, but he can see the impact he had. Timothy touches every corner of this home, for better and for worse. Perhaps they were right to miss him.
When he turns his back and leaves, he no longer feels anything watching him.