Chapter Text
Mother has assured me it won’t be as unacceptable as it sounds, but I can tell she’s biassed. Mother has a certain unexplainable infatuation with my father. She hasn’t explicitly told me but I can tell from the way she talks about him.
I don’t share her high praise of the man, of whom I barely know anything about. I know of his ice blue eyes, which have been described as pools of water on glass and of his hair, which apparently resembles my own.
I also know he is a civilian and learned a few moments ago of his collection of children. I’ve come to the conclusion with the little information I have that my father is an eccentric man, as many of his prosperity are, and an unskilled simpleton.
Frankly his blood taints my own.
To say I don’t quite understand why my mother is so enamoured with him is a vast understatement. Frankly I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a spell of sorts on her, though as far as I’m aware that is highly unlikely. It would also be an insult to my mothers tolerance to such things.
“But why must I…play pretend for him.” I force the whining tone out of my voice, that would be unbecoming of myself no matter the unfortunate circumstances.
“Because he is unaware that I’m an assassin, let alone second in command of an assassin organisation. It’s important that my beloved stays unaware.” Mother dismisses my concerns again.
Father frustrates me, truthfully I don’t even believe he deserves the title. He doesn’t even know of my existence, but then I don’t know much more than that about him, not even a name. Which leaves me without a proper substitute for father. Father has also earned the title of beloved , I have my own nickname, yet the amount of adoration that seems to seep into his name is almost embarrassing. As I cannot comprehend what my father could have done to earn her love and still have it despite being absent for the past ten years. I, despite being present, must prove my worth to my mother constantly, over and over. Yet the love she has for me is almost always because I am his son. She looks at me like I’m either a current disappointment, or like a fond memory in the distant past.
I have the itch to say more, ask more, accuse of more. But frankly it’s useless, I’m proud of my mothers side of the lineage, yes this is true. I greatly respect my mother and her teachings, I am grateful to be taught to discard weakness, I am thankful for every punishment I’ve received, I believe everything my mother and grandfather do is for my benefit.
Yet I cannot help but think that currently, mother is acting foolish. I’d ask why can’t she simply be honest to father, he is so threat to us, and I could practise my training easily without question, I wouldn’t have to be treated like the brainless drooling snotty things that people call children, I wouldn’t have to act like a whiny helpless swine either.
It makes all my efforts feel rather pointless. After training to become what mother and grandfather wanted, I am simply supposed to reject it all as if all those years never happened. All I earned is going to waste.
The real consequences that mother fears, though she’d never admit it because Al Ghul's fear Nothing . I believe this is the only thing mother truly fears, is that father’s opinion of her would decline. Father makes mother weak.
Any form of attachment is a liability, a vulnerability. Perhaps that’s why she’s so fond of father, it’s the fact that he is weak. That he can’t use her want and love against her, he’s under her, he’s not a threat. Unlike many of the skilled fighters grandfather would have her rather breed with.
Father is a well kept secret , not even grandfather is aware of who he is. Though after learning of him more deeply beyond the Color of his eyes, I doubt I would’ve been allowed to live beyond a week, let alone nine years.
So instead I sit silent, it gains a nod from mother. We sit in what most would call silence. Frankly I find nothing about our current situation silent. Cars are dreadfully loud normally, in a city as wet as Gotham, it’s only amplifies it. The pouring rain creates a scatto tapping against the roof of the car. Along with the clamour of the wheels leaving miniscule wakes as it parts the water on the asphalt road, the more then occasional potholes causing the vehicle to jump, shaking the car, as well as the splashing as the wheels plough through the pools of water built up in them.
Gotham, I’ve quickly learned despite only being here for approximately an hour, is rather raucous, making the drive from the airport rather shameful.
“Don’t sulk.” Mother chides half heartedly sounding more tired then not.
“This will be for the best.” She says as we reach the gate of a large estate.
I know it’s not my place to talk back, so I say nothing. Though I’m sure my silence is telling.
“Your grandfather’s plan for you is unacceptable. You will be safer here.” She says as she parks in front of the buzzer.
“Grandfather will find me, then what would he be able to do?” I scoff knowing that is the end of what I thought my life was, I may as well go out fighting.
“Once Ra’s becomes aware of your…lineage he will likely leave you alone. If not, your father has connections.” She sighs and looks at me.
“Because I’m defective.” I answer bluntly while shoving down the snide comment that father requires exterior help, mostly because it would be rather hypocritical in the moment.
“To him, possibly. But your grandfather isn’t very open minded.” She replies frankly. No one in the league is ‘open minded’, we follow strict rules to ensure the prosperity of the demon head. I know she only says that because she herself is endeared by it, by the weakness that I’ve somehow inherited. I don’t answer, only cross my arms, to avoid fidgeting. It’s true there were things that I found…difficulty in grasping. My grandfather assumed I was weak minded, so I threw all of those concepts aside, to cut out any flaws, and strain out any remnants of my tainted blood. I’ve succeeded and failed, I’ve accepted but I can’t claim I understand many of grandfather's prospects, I can follow nonetheless.
“He will be good for you, he can protect in ways I cannot .” She answered with certainty as we near a large estate.
I find the prospect a little ridiculous, how is a civilian like father supposed to protect me, an assassin. I’m sure I could kill him with little effort, likely his whole adoptive family.
“I will visit to test that your training is at an appropriate level.” She informs me as she presses the buzzer. I shove down the childish idea of opening the passenger door and running. I wouldn’t get far, especially since my only ticket out of this cesspool is by plane, maybe sea.
“Wayne residence.” An older British voice rings through the speaker, which is barely audible through the showering rain.
“Alfred.” She greets him, Alfred, with a friendly voice, it’s one I’ve never heard, it sounds rehearsed yet simultaneously unpracticed, like a skill you mastered but haven’t used in a while.
“Miss Talia, we weren’t expecting you.” He says after a moment of processing with a small inkling of surprise yet remained professional, most may think that this interaction was normal. When in actuality they haven’t spoken in ten years, I doubt he was even expecting to see her on the street by chance, let alone at the entrance to their domicile.
“I assure you, I wasn’t expecting to be here either, I deeply apologise for the lack of notice.” She answers with an inch of sympathy and it almost sounds candid, I’m sure it’s only an act. I know better than to be so gullible, especially with my mother.
“It’s very alright Miss Talia, I’d assume you’d rather explain inside?” Alfred responds sounding accommodating, yet his proper way of speaking leaves that assumption, whether it’s true or false.
“That would be most acceptable.” She responds before a small click reverberates off the speaker, only then does the large gate open.
I watch as we slowly reach our destination, anticipation and dread piling onto each other in a sort of war playing my mind. On one hand I’d finally be free of this car, along with the sounds, the sloshing, pattering, scraping, clanking, and squeaking of this damned car. Though I doubt being in his house wouldn't be any less of a torcherous experience. It leaves me feeling almost numb, the two countering extremes dulling eachother out until I’m left only feeling the aftermath. Once the war is over and the blood is spilled, the question who won hangs in the air, the survivors defeat their opponent, but now they must live with what they’ve done. The blood will forever taint their hands, the screams will play to a backdrop of a horribly vivid image that will play on a rewind in the back of their minds. They won, they fought the war as men, and they’ll accept their victories thinking of themselves as monsters that are caged within their minds.
Once mother parks the car. She sends me a look telling me to exit the vehicle. I allow myself a moment of hesitation before I unbuckle myself and exit through the passenger door.
I don’t bother to hurry to the porch which is sheltered by the gable roof. Even if the rapid rain is quickly soaking me, I stand in it instead of under the shelter of the mansion.
My mother on the other hand does stand under the gable roof, it isn’t a long wait before one of the double doors opens to reveal an older, or poorly aged man who seems to be a servant.
“Miss Talia.” Who I presume is Alfred greets with poise. He hasn’t noticed me, though it’s intentional on my part, if I had it my way he’d never know of my existence and I of his.
“Alfred Pennyworth.” Mother greets him with a practised smile. She doesn’t waste any time to propose her question.
“I’m afraid, I have a favour to ask of…Bruce.” I know she had the urge to call him ‘beloved’, considering their lack of time together or contact I’m sure it would be considered inappropriate.
“I see, I could fetch him for you. If you require his presence personally.” Pennyworth agrees easily but I can sense a hit of scepticism.
“That would be necessary.” Mother nods then snaps her fingers lightly before gesturing for me to come under the gable roof. I comply knowing better than to squander our time, I however keep my head low and don’t move the wet hair that’s been plastered to my face.
Pennyworth’s brows raise slightly in surprise, though it seems this turn of events isn’t completely unexpected to the older man. He recovers quickly and steps back to allow us to enter, my feet dragging for a moment before I collect myself and fix my posture. I mustn’t degrade myself, It’s unbecoming of me to do so.
Once we enter I take the time to wipe my hair back and out of my face, it’s only mildly fruitful as many pieces flop back to where they were before, resticking my skin and slightly obstructing my view.
I allow myself to look around for a few seconds, fathers home thankfully seems tasteful and not overly gaudy or visually busy like many of his fellow aristocrats.
I finally meet eyes with Alfred Pennyworth, he studies my face with an odd look, one that’s familiar nonetheless. His expression is similar to mothers, reminiscing. It’s odd for a complete stranger like himself to recognize me. But it also supports the evidence that proves I appear similarly to my blood father. I resent him a little more for it.
“I need somewhere to keep him safe, as where we previously lived has proven to have a few..complications in relation to his security.” Mother brushes my still wet bangs back as she explains with a voice falsely dripping with sympathy and guilt.
“And you supposed that place would be the manor.” Pennyworth says with a nod, glancing back down at me as if double checking if I wasn’t a figment of his imagination. There’s a trace of resentment under his polish, I suppose it’s justified.
“Yes, I believe he’ll be better off with his father for the time being.” As soon as the conformation leaves her mouth a new blend of insenisty infests the air in the foyer. It makes the air feel harder to breathe, it’s shaper, colder.
“I assume you’ll explain it to master Bruce more thoroughly?” Pennyworth enquiries, though it feels more like a threat.
“If he requests.” Mother nods understandingly, turning to me with a look of pity, which makes me scoff internally.
“I shall fetch master Bruce, you may settle yourself in his office, presuming you know where that is.” Pennyworth raises a brow before turning once given confirmation.
We comply and I can’t help but feel as though my previous assumptions of how nicely mother had left father are false. I suppose that is why assuming is a rather foolish thing to do, there’s always more history.
Though considering I’d only ever heard about how much mother had still adored father had given me enough evidence, it seems the situation is more complex than I’d anticipated.
The living room is on the second floor, forcing me deeper into fathers domain. The halls are decorated similarly, paintings of landscapes and flowers primarily decorated the halls, along with intricate vases and priceless China. The further in the more personal the decorations seem to become, it’s subtle and very well may be subconscious. More portraits fill the hallways and smaller, more niche art prices cover the walls, even the placement of things feels more chaotic and intimate, the formula of presentation slowly decimating into something individual.
Eventually we reach Father’s office, which is decorated in a conflicting fashion. There’s this lingering disparity to the room, it’s as though he shares this office with another. A mix of older and newer photos and a few items that don’t quite fit the tastes of the others. It’s as though he’s scared to change and adopt the space, like he feels he’s abandoning whomever had the space before him, his own father likely.
I can assume a few of the images are of his wards and adoptive children. I also see a few photos of who I assume is father and his parents, my grandparents I suppose. I assume this because despite the older and black and white quality, it strikes me because it’s like I’m staring into a mirror. The younger white boy who is certainly a few shades lighter than me, has my face. It’s the first familiar thing I’ve seen in this damned house, and it’s his face, the one I’ve inherited from him. I’ve never felt closer to my father and further away from myself before.
I myself feel conflicted, old questions l would’ve killed to get answers too, literally, but not feeling satisfied with the truth to my enquiries. Along with newer questions that grow out of truths I’m no longer sure of.
My father, a man I haven’t even had a name or a face to attach the label to. Along with the infuriating knowledge that he inhibits me despite not even being present in my life, that I’m associated with him despite me not having anything to associate him with. My mother, who only ever leaves me with half-truths. Who decides that I must cut myself off from Grandfather and the league, claiming it’s for my own good like I’m some child who can’t handle themselves.
Once father finally appears after a few long grewling minutes subsequently to us entering. His appearance is something that I’ve been trying to piece together for my whole life. His image changes in my mind as expectations plummet or increase with age and knowledge. But once I see his face there’s no doubt in my mind that the man entering the room is in fact my father, or Wayne as Pennyworth called him.
His jet black hair that looked to have been gelled previously, but must have fallen looser throughout the day, his pale skin makes me doubt he’s even stepped outside, the few lines he has decorating his face don’t make him seem old, they make him feel mature and refined, though it seems he’s aged well. He wears a black turtleneck along with black and white pinstripe dress pants, as well as a silver rolex. Of course his eyes strike me. They’re blue like my mother has told me, though unlike my mother I don’t see what’s so lovely about them. They stare at me with a look that’s never been directed at me previously, I know that when he sees me he too creates similar familial associations between us.
Frankly it’s the way his previously analytical stare softens and turns into something I’d never quite felt. It’s something I’d been yearning for my whole life, I’d been trying to earn. The way he so easily expresses his wonderment for me, someone whom he’s never met, yet my mother nor grandfather have never gazed at me in such a fashion in the past nine years of my existence. Yet this absolute stranger looks at me like I’m the world.
“You lied.” Are the first words that fall from his mouth, it sounds as though he choked on them on the way out. He turns to my mother with an expression of rage and disappointment on his face.
“I figured it would have been easier to leave if you.. thought I had a miscarriage.” She explains evenly with an expression that feels like her own, unlike the act she had for Fathers servant Pennyworth.
He clenches his fists with an expression of rage taking over, I can almost see the accusations and questions stirring in his mind. But I can also see that he knows it’ll be pointless, it was a decade ago.
“He needs a place to stay, my father…it’s not safe for him with me any longer.” Mother explains almost numbly, It confuses me. I had assumed she would have done anything to protect her image in front of father, the man she seemed to have adored more than anything. Yet she’s lied, manipulated and hid from him. Perhaps her infatuation is only with the past feeling, how she had felt with him, how things mattered less than, how she had been momentarily free to love. That period is over, her heart has been locked and frozen for as long as I remember.
“He can stay.” Father replies gruffly with his knuckles turning white from the strain.
“I thought it would’ve been for the best.” She says to him apologetically, with an inkling of regret in her expression.
“And I thought we had something.” He replies coldly, refusing to look at her. I unconsciously tense in my seat, I can’t help but feel like an intruder, a reluctant listener definitely, other than the topic being myself, I can’t help from feel an awkward detachment from the conversation.
“I’ll grab his bags, you may…acquaint yourselfs.” Mother replies quickly with a hurt expression, she exits fathers office only moments later.
It’s odd to see mother so emotional, so honest, even with the few words exchanged it felt as though screams and arguments were leaking through their skin and expressions like perspiration. Hundreds of words exchanged in matters of moments through the vulnerability in their faces, like fools and weaklings.
“… Bruce Wayne.” He approaches me with a thick voice, then he crouches in front of the couch I sit on with an extended hand.
I hesitate, only to watch his face for an extra second. It’s so different from how he’d been glaring at mother, it's gentle and…kind yet somehow intense.
“Damian.” I take his hand in a gentle shake, his hands are lightly calloused and warm. He smiles once my name leaves my mouth, is it honest and joyous? Content certainly, perhaps sad, and something else, something that I cannot name, pity perhaps, pride? Whatever it is, it satisfies a distant part of my being, I find a bigger part of myself resenting his effect.
“I… I have two more sons staying here right now. Do you want to meet them today or tomorrow? I know this is a lot.” He explains with accountability, yet it feels a bit awkward. I suppose it would be more peculiar if it weren’t.
“Tomorrow.” I decided immediately, I force my voice to sound smaller and more delicate, pitiful even. Truthfully I do need a moment to process, to adapt, even if it’s only avoiding the inevitable. I also want time to mourn myself, even if it’s only in the few hours of the night I have. I need time to form the new softer and vulnerable persona I will have to adopt, if only to please my mother.
Even if that too feels like a pointless act, as she won’t be here to see, excluding the sporadic visits she promised to make, if only so I can keep a semblance of my training and skills in combat intact. In a city as crime ridden as Gotham, I’m sure I could find a few…punching bags and training dummies, as well as abandoned houses to practise in.
Maybe I only wish to keep up the act as a desperate wish to keep as much of the self I’ve created in hopes of gaining praise from grandfather. Perhaps I may finally be more honest with myself, I’d rather avoid that. Freedom is a sought after thing, yes, but many forget how to live outside of their cages.
Maybe admitting that living in the league has deprived any sense of authenticity isn’t a good thing per se. But it’s safer. I cannot be hurt if no one knows my weakness, I cannot give them away if I don’t know what they are.
As I sit on the small couch in fathers office, with the man himself watching me encouragingly with a certain tenderness and fondness. I find myself for the first time in many years, unsure of my future. My piece of my grandfather's chess board is being removed, but a piece without a role is useless, purposeless. So I follow the last order my mother gave me like the tool I was raised to be, and I mentally prepare myself for the hell that will be living as nothing more than a civilian child.