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The sky was clear. The breeze had the faintest hint of winter on its heels, a silent reminder of their winters that come suddenly and stay long. Not much could be done during winter, not that was meaningful, and the strategies they’d planned, well.
He didn’t want to have to see any of them put into action. It’s hard enough to make sure everyone is fed and safe during winter without a war complicating matters.
Perhaps he’d be lucky and winter would come in on the heels of his mad plan, thwart his brother and father from trying to counter his move. But then, he would be lucky enough if his plan worked at all.
Three loyal guards, one lantern, one white flag. The lantern isn’t lit until they’ve slipped past their own guards, more focused on who might be coming at them to notice a quiet departure. The flag feels a trifle ostentatious, but Kon made the case that his plan wouldn’t even have a chance if they’re merely shot in the dark.
Halfway there, Bart turns his head and tension rolls down his spine. He stops himself before he grabs his sword hilt, and the four exchange glances. They’ve picked up an escort.
Tim would rather be here alone. He doesn’t want to risk anyone else’s life, but he doesn’t know if he’d make it through on his own, and there’s so much at stake.
The enemy encampment looms ahead of them, torches flickering through the trees. There’s a cleared area past the tree line, before the camp itself; easily guarded. Their own camp is set up much the same way.
“Go,” Tim says quietly, the first words any of them have spoken that night.
Kon licks his lip, and glances at Bart and Cassie. Bart bites his lip, nudging his horse closer to Tim, putting his hand on his arm. Tim puts his hand over his, squeezing tight enough to be felt through their leather gloves.
All four of them swallow back words, because they said it all, days before when Tim first proposed this idea. They’ve come this far, and none of them will fail to see it through. Slowly, they turn their horses and go back the way they’ve come.
Tim watches them, sends up a silent prayer they make it back safely. He’s left with the torch and flag, and nudges his horse forward with his knees until he reaches the bright clearing.
“Halt!” a voice cries out, and Tim does so. His hands are already up, one holding a flag, one holding a torch. He doesn’t resist as the guards converge on him and disarm him.
“I’m here to speak with Red Hood,” he says, grateful his voice doesn’t shake. “I come openly.”
“What of the others who rode with you?” asks one, who must have shadowed them here.
“Escorts only,” Tim answers. “I would appreciate them being allowed to leave unharmed.”
A low murmur among the guards, and Tim focuses on breathing deeply and calmly.
The first die has been cast.
His arms are bound, an insult for someone coming in peace, but one which Tim cannot afford to acknowledge. At least they are bound in front of him. He’s kept waiting while guards go to and fro, surely carrying messages to Hood.
The sky is still dark when he’s finally led through the camp, ignoring the curious glances from around fires, the faces peering out of tents. His planned speech is going through his head over and over, his heart rate picking up with every step he takes.
When a tent flap is lifted, he’s shoved inside and has to work to keep his feet. A quick glance shows a spacious tent, a table set up on one end, and a man wearing a shockingly bright helmet.
The name Red Hood was given to him for a reason. And the rumor appears to be true; that he rarely takes the helmet off.
No one follows Tim in the tent.
“Speak,” Red Hood invites mockingly, voice rough. “Since you came all this way.”
“I came to ask for peace,” Tim says, voice miraculously steady. “To end this conflict.”
“My answer is no,” Red Hood says immediately. “I told your king the same.”
“I offer myself,” Tim says. When Red Hood tips his helmet to the side, Tim adds, “I am Timothy Drake Wayne.”
It might have been possible to miss the way tension floods Red Hood’s body, but not the eager step forward.
Another die cast.
“Why would I care?” Red Hood asks, his body relaxing into a posture of unconcern. “I never agreed to peace in exchange for a hostage, even one such as yourself.”
“You don’t—” Tim has to clear his throat, and curses his weakness. “You don’t burn the villages.”
Red Hood is silent.
“When you ride through them,” Tim continues. “You don’t burn them, you don’t kill the peasants, your men don’t—outrage the women.”
The silence is heavy.
“You’re not an evil man,” Tim states. “You have a reason for this war. And that reason is—me.”
Red Hood snorts. “Think you’re that important?”
“Our intelligence suggests I am,” Tim says.
“Your intelligence?” Red Hood asks slowly, walking around Tim. Tim holds himself perfectly still. “What kind of intelligence?”
“Well,” he says, not sure if he should be curbing his tongue, but it’s not like Red Hood’s backing is a secret. “A big clue was the letter Talia Al Ghul sent to Lord Wayne that said, “Enjoy the loose cannon I’ve pointed your way.”
Red Hood makes an inarticulate sound, and Tim can agree that the Al Ghuls can spark that kind of reaction.
“Reports of you raging against the pretender to the throne,” Tim goes on quietly. “Bruce Wayne is the lawful ruler. Richard Wayne is the much beloved heir. It is—I who do not belong in the Wayne family. The pretender you speak of.” His mouth twists on the distasteful but accurate word.
“You think I’d fight a war, over you?”
“Not much of war, yet,” Tim says softly. “No villages plundered, few killed. We could end this before it starts. The Al Ghul's have riches, lands, and they have given you much. If you don’t want their gifts, and your actions indicate you don’t truly want a war, then—what do you want?”
When Red Hood is silent yet again, Tim shifts in place. “Talia Al Ghul hates my king for refusing her offer of marriage. She will back you in this conflict as long as you wish, but—”
Tim stops, his carefully crafted words slipping through his fingers. Red Hood is giving no indication that Tim’s conclusion is accurate, that Red Hood is anything other than a slightly more conscientious, yet still blood-thirsty warlord. Plenty of them throughout history, plenty of blood spilt simply because men were bored.
There was but a single betrayal of emotion, when Tim gave his name.
“You don’t have to fight this war,” Tim says simply, and drops to his knees. “I beg you for the lives of my people.”
He bows his head, closes his eyes, and waits.
His heart beats in his throat, breath coming faster, and he is losing the struggle to stay calm.
Please, he thinks, but doesn’t dare to say.
Something fragile is hanging in the balance, a possibility, a die about to land.
Please.
Tim is alone, wrists and ankles bound, eyes bound, mouth stuffed with something that tastes awful. He doesn’t know what Red Hood has decided. He doesn’t know if he’s going to live or die, or if his people, his family will live or die. Since he’s alone, he bows his head, and his blindfold slowly grows damp.
When he’s brought back into Red Hood’s presence, he’s stiff and slightly dizzy from hunger. They gave him water, at least. His eyes are unbound, his mouth released, but his hands are behind his back and his pace is restricted. With deliberate effort, he stands straight and tall.
It’s dark again, and Tim hopes it’s just the next night, but he has never been good at tracking time.
Red Hood doesn’t make small talk. “I could kill you and go on to have this war.”
This time, Tim is the one who is silent.
“Didn’t consider that?” Red Hood asks him, and when he bites an apple, Tim is convinced his own stomach growls loud enough to be heard.
“I knew it was a risk,” he says calmly. There’s an edge to Red Hood, fury or madness or some combination or both, or perhaps neither. He can’t see the man’s face, can’t read his body language.
He doesn’t know how the die has landed.
“We got a demand for you today,” Red Hood says, almost idly. Tim feels his intense scrutiny, despite the casual words. “King Bruce wants you back, quite badly.”
Tim wants to ask if anything was said of his escorts, if they made it back, if Bruce executed them for treason. But he simply points out, “Then you know I am who I say.”
“A beloved son,” the warlord says, his voice twisting, and Tim swallows.
“What do you want?” he asks plainly, because Red Hood isn’t going to volunteer information. But Tim isn’t going anywhere, and if this plan isn’t working, perhaps he can make a new one.
“Bruce has many sons,” Red Hood says, ignoring Tim’s question.
Tim doesn’t think two is that many, but doesn’t voice the thought.
“You’re the spare,” the faceless voice continues. “The second son, unneeded, except perhaps as a sacrifice.”
The words don’t burn as much as they might have a year ago, and Tim finds it harder to keep his gaze off the food than to ignore the sting.
“Much like Jason Todd,” Red Hood muses, and Tim feels his body go rigid, his attention snapping entirely to the threat in front of him.
He can’t quite maintain an even facade, his voice hoarse when he says, “Prince Jason is dead.”
His rooms untouched, his name rarely spoken, a weight around Bruce’s neck, a shadow in Richard’s eye, a—
“Much like you will be, soon.”
“You plan to kill me, then?” His voice doesn’t shake, a small mercy.
“I should,” Red Hood says.
The silence in the tent grows heavy.
“It’s what happened to Prince Jason,” Red Hood adds. “Killed for no real purpose.”
Tim shakes his head once, before he stills his body.
“Abandoned, sacrificed, killed, and then…you took his place.”
The energy in the room sharpens, the fury and madness almost tangible, and Tim’s nails dig into his skin.
“No.” His voice is rougher than he’d like, and he shouldn’t bandy words with a madman.
“I should kill you, and move on,” Red Hood says, the tension in the room vanishing like it was never there. “Devastate your people and your lands.”
“Or you could kill me, and go home,” Tim offers.
It’s a mistake. He doesn’t know how, but the energy in the room sharpens again, and he suddenly feels wrong-footed.
“Home,” Red Hood says softly, tasting the word in his mouth. “Alas, I cannot go home.”
“Then make a new one,” Tim says, a shade away from begging. “But not at the cost of innocent lives.”
“Your family could surrender to me,” Hood says, pulling a knife and tossing it up into the air. The possibility that Tim dies here, having accomplished nothing, feels suddenly much more real. “If they did, no one would get hurt.”
“I surrendered to you,” Tim says, more desperate than he means. “King Bruce cannot—we cannot trust you with the lives of our people.”
Patience, Tim tells himself. He cannot rush this unknown warlord, he cannot push when he knows so little. He’s made his offer, he’s engaged in conversation—
But the conversation is over without another word, Tim’s sight and voice taken from him again, and he’s left alone.
The fear eats away at him, more than the sadness. Fear for his family, for his country, for the lives of his people—he could be doing something instead of sitting here in the dark. But he also knows he’s lucky to be alive still.
He feels still more lucky when he’s given a bit of food before being shoved into the tent, the unlooked and unasked for nourishment lending some strength to his body.
But still he stumbles in, and licks his lips before he looks at his captor.
“I accept your offer,” Red Hood says, briskly.
“I—” Tim is speechless. This is—what he wanted, right?
“We’re withdrawing, and you’re coming with us. An insurance that no one comes after us.”
Tim nods dumbly, his throat tight. Absurdly, he wants to object that he never got to say goodbye to his family. He snuck out in the dead of night, and avoided them for two days before he left lest they read his intention on his face.
And now he’s—leaving. With the warlord, who will likely kill him as soon as he judges it safe.
And inexplicably, the thought of leaving his country for the first time is somehow more unsettling than death.
“Thank you,” Tim manages through a tight throat.
Hood makes a derisive noise. “I’m not doing it for you,” he says.
Tim wants to ask him why he’s doing it then, why did this slight chance turn into victory? Is someone going to pay for it later? He wants to know, desperately, but knows that by his choice he’s taken all his other choices.
He remains silent.
He’s seated in front of Red Hood, hands bound in front of him, atop a large destrier that bears his additional weight with ease. Tim wants to look around, gather as much data as he can, observe an enemy in motion. There’s always something to be learned, something to be noticed, something—
But it doesn’t matter. Tim stares at the saddle horn in front of him, and works on shutting his mind down.
It proves impossible. He stares down nonetheless, wishing he was not so acutely aware of the border of his kingdom approaching.
Well, what used to be his kingdom.
What must Bruce and Dick be thinking? Did Cassie and Bart and Kon even make it back alive? Did Bruce or Dick execute them for their part in the loss of a prince? Would the peace he gained be worth their lives?
Will he be allowed to write his family? He doesn’t think his captivity is going to be anything normal.
He shuts his eyes, Red Hood’s body warm against his back.
Don’t think don’t think don’t think
“Ever been outside your kingdom?” Hood asks him, and Tim—
Tim needs to keep the peace.
“No,” he forces himself to answer.
“Poor little prince,” is the mocking reply.
This time, Tim doesn’t bother to reply.