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Dearest Mother,
I hope this letter finds you well; I miss you terribly. The date is currently February 13th, it has been six months and four days since I arrived in Gotham. Life here is much different than you described it to me. The culture, customs, food, and language are nothing like back home. Pennyworth has tried to replicate some of the dishes from Nanda Parbat, but none of his recreations taste the same. I have been tempted to try my hand at recreating food from home, but because that action falls below my station, I have not acted on it.Insted, I flip through old cookbooks given to me by a chef from home. The old and wrinkled paper still smells of the spices used in the League’s kitchen. Reading through these old books helps me feel more at home when Pennyworth’s cooking does not live up to expectations.
The manor is much, much different from home. It is cold and desolate, nothing like the warm sandy floors of the League’s headquarters. There are no servants at my every beck and call; there is only Pennyworth, who is everywhere and nowhere all at once. He always seems to find me just before moments of vulnerability—it is only by Allah’s will that I have not been caught. If patience and strength are to be my lessons here, then I ask you to lend me yours, if only in thought.
Grayson is… odd. He is nothing like you described him; that small child filled with rage and hatred seems to be a thing of the past. He seems to be attracted to me as a moth is to flame, but I truthfully want nothing to do with him. He treats me as though I am five years old; I am ten, and he should act like it. But my constant reminders of my age and station have done nothing to persuade him away from coddling me.
Grayson has attempted to start training me, if only in the way of acrobatics. His training is intense; his fighting style is intertwined with any and all gymnastics moves you could think of. This is much different from any training I have ever received in my life. This is the first style of fighting I’ve learned in Gotham that I have truly struggled with. The flips are nothing like the strong jabs and steps of League fighting.
It is maddening. He teaches with infuriating casual patience, smiling when I scowl, correcting me as though my errors were trivial. And so, after each failure, I retreat to the small comforts I have brought from home. A pouch of saffron, a few carefully chosen books, and incense sticks fill a small corner of my room. I run my fingers over their worn pages of my favorite books, and light incense that reminds me of home. For a fleeting moment, the cold manor and the taste of failure fade, and I feel anchored once more. Only then can I compose myself and remember the lessons you instilled in me, Mother—patience and persistence above all.
Drake is horrid; he is every part the spoiled child you described him as. My first attempts to end him and take my rightful place as Robin and heir to Wayne Industries have not gone well. Not to mention that Father has not been supportive of these attempts, though I am not sure of the reason why. Drake remains a continued thorn in my side, and I promise you that I will dispose of him and take my rightful place in this family.
I have not much to say about the other members of the family, excluding Father. Cain is off putting, and someone to be wary of. I often find her lurking about the manor, watching silently, as though studying my every move. Brown, while I know little of her, is scarcely worthy of words; our interactions are few and far between. Todd is an inconsistent presence within Wayne Manor. Father and Todd rarely occupy the same room without some dispute arising.
Father, however, is much as your stories described. He is a formidable fighter, a master strategist, and utterly dedicated to his mission. Sometimes, while on patrol, I cannot help but watch him in awe. His approach to criminals is so unlike that of you or myself—it is truly a spectacle to observe. In some ways, Mother, his methodical patience reminds me of you, though his discipline is harsher, more rigid. I respect him greatly, yet he is ever correcting me, whether it be in my stance or the way I confront those who would do harm. I know you warned me that Father is against killing, but I did not expect him to be so persistent in enforcing this principle.
English in this strange land is difficult to understand; it is nothing like the smooth and carefully measured words of my teachers and books. The people here speak with odd accents, dropping the “g” at the end of words, elongating vowels, and using slang in ways that make their English almost impossible to follow. It is nothing like the language spoken back home—Arabic is far easier to comprehend than the words that sometimes come from Gothamites’ mouths. Sometimes, when the confusion becomes too great, I think back to simpler times, sitting beside you and Grandfather, listening to your measured voices as you read to me in Arabic. Those moments of clarity and warmth linger in my memory, and I hold onto them tightly.
Mother, I apologize for burdening you with these grievances, but it is the only way I feel able to speak to you. Grayson and Drake speak poorly of you and Grandfather. While the others do so sparingly, Drake and Grayson are the most vocal about it. Whenever the chance arises, they do not miss an opportunity to disparage you. Though Father attempts to shut these occurrences down, their words still sting and make me ache to prove them wrong.
I know this letter might never reach you; the chance of interception is high. Nevertheless, I must send it in hopes that you will write back. The urge to hug you grows with each passing day. I am very ready to see you again. I long to be home with you and Grandfather; I do not feel as though I belong here. Yet, Mother, I will endure these trials, holding fast to the hope that I will be with you again soon.
Your Son,
Damian al Ghul.