Chapter Text
They say ascension is heavenly. That it is the purest thing as the golden light of the skies wash over the mortal skin that sheds to a gods. They say it is heavenly as all of the suffering and pain is taken from you. They say ascension to godhood is heavenly, but they are liars.
To indeed be a god, one must suffer. One must bleed. One must feel and feel and feel until the mortal shell they wear as a second skin sheds. And when it sheds it burns.
Ascension to godhood is not heavenly. It is not pure. There is no gold light from the skies or the pain taken from their souls. It is a dark thing, becoming a god. It is a dark and bloody thing. A human becoming a god, a human clawing its way to the skies with every tragedy that followed them as fates spun their tale, is not heavenly. It is a broken thing, a human becoming a god. Broken glass shards of a human, slowly replaced by time and fate over time to create something new. Something else. Something other. Something godly.
Tim Drake always suspected something was different about him. Maybe it was how the city of darkness and war called to him from the edges of it's richer parts, or maybe it was how no matter how hard he tried to blend in, tried to fit in, it wasn't quite right.
He had never thought he was fated to be a god.
----
There was a man standing over him. Standing over him and the body Tim didn't know was breathing. There was man-no there was something. Not someone. Tim's mind screamed Danger. Danger.
Tim froze, chest stuttering as he fell backwards, the blood of the pure snatcher still thick on his hands as his camera bounced against his neck. He wore deep red robes with gold ropes across his chest and arms like strange bindings. He held a gold and black spear and a golden helmet stained with a deep red. The golden helmet and accents of his outfit glinted dangerously in the harsh dim lighting of the alleyway. His eyes, Tim would never forget. Gold and red, burning bright and glowing behind the strange helmet.
The man, the thing, the being that's robes swayed in the still air, tilted his head, as if studying Tim. And Tim wondered if this was how he was going to die, thirteen years old, over the body of Batman's victim that would soon be his first kill, if this how he was going to die, staring at the gold and red eyes that were like flames burning into his skull. Fires of a thousand wars and sufferings, fires of every hearth and inferno, fires of the innocent and fires of the guilty. Burning red and gold. Red and gold.
Just as quickly as He was there, He was gone. And Tim was left with a racking chest unable to breathe as he forced himself to call 911 for the purse snatcher in front of him. Tim's hands shook as he did so, he couldn't understand what he saw, who the man with the spear and helmet was, what had just happened or anything really. He was scared. Scared and afraid of what to do.
He glanced down at his camera, which had a bootleg Nightwing sticker messily stuck on the side. Tim's eyebrows furrowed in determination. Batman needed a Robin.
As he stood from the alley as the sirens grew closer, he looked around once more, looking for Him, looking for answers.
He found none.
---
Tim saw Him again, standing behind Shiva on the grounds of Paris as a gang war spread out of control as Tim tried to control it, tried to take down King Snake, tried to learn, and tried to fight. Tried to stop a war. Tried to learn to fight in one.
"You are weak Little Bird," Shiva said, bo staff dragging on the floor as she circled him, "This war will drown you."
Tim turned, following her motion cape of black shadows whipping out behind him. His green gloved hands gripped his own bo staff, the protective material squeaking at the strength of the squeeze.
There was Him. A flicker. Gold and red. Spear in hand.
Then He was gone. As if he never existed.
Tim's eyes bore into Lady's Shiva's. Fire burned in his chest, flickering and eating at him. He had a duty to Gotham, to the Mission, to Bruce, to Dick, to Robin. To the soldier lost before him, to the child lost to a battle that wasn't his, to a city lost to strife. He had a duty. A war to stop. A war to join.
"Then I will learn to swim," Tim said
Tim striked, bo staff swinging in front of him as Shiva easily dodged just as he expected, and he flung the other end of the bo staff to her stomach as he placed his boot on her chest. He clicked a button on his bo staff she had foolishly left him alone with. A dagger popped out of the end, pressing to her throat.
Shiva grinned, a feral and wild thing.
"Little Birds don't swim."
Tim pressed the dagger closer to her throat, his teeth baring as he growled.
"I am no bird," He said, voice deepening
His anger was tangible, thick like blood and honey, coating the air of the training court yard with a thick layer of power and something that Tim never quite could describe. It had been there when he took down Crane and when he forced Bruce's hand to let him keep the mask. It flickered and rose like flames, ever present, sending chills down backs.
Shiva laughed, the sound barely echoing over the feeling of his anger.
"Yet you wish to fight like one?" She taunts, "This disguise will not hold you forever Little Bird. Hiding doesn't suit you."
Tim stepped down on her chest as Shiva wheezed slightly.
"You said you could train me," He hissed, "Then train me."
There was a flash of movement, a slamming of his back against cobblestone, and suddenly Shiva held his staff turned spear to his throat.
"You have much to learn if you wish to swim," Shiva said with bite
Tim grinned rudely, "I'm a quick study."
She offered the bo staff out back to him.
He took it as he rose, anger still flickering around him.
"Let us begin."
---
Tim felt his anger wrap around his hands and his throat, begging him to scream, begging him to fight. It was thick and heavy as it sat over the cave so much so the air was sticky with it. It was cold and burning at the same time.
"You need to rest," Tim said to Bruce
Bruce growled, "You do tell me when to rest. I am Batman. You are Robin."
Tim felt the anger rise, burning and freezing as the fires flickered in his chest. He wondered if he imagined Bruce flinching or not. The man wasn't thinking clearly, he had a concussion because while Tim was off training he fell back into bad habits. Started wearing suits with less armor, stopped pulling punches, stopped taking care of himself.
The ice of his fury pricked at his finger tips. Tim slowly stepped towards the Bat Computer where Bruce sat hunched over, over working himself while injured. This battle was a battle Tim had known he would fight the moment Alfred handed him the mask of Robin. A battle Tim knew he would have to fight. A fight that Tim would not back down from.
"You will listen," Tim said, voice quiet and deadly, full of the ice the socialites said his mother spoke with
Bruce's eyes bore into his as he looked at him with something akin to fear. Tim reasoned it was the concussion.
"You will rest," Tim said, taking another step, "You will start wearing your good bat suit. You will eat the food Alfred makes you. You will heal. You will live."
Bruce didn't say anything, his eyes searching Tim for something Tim didn't know if he had. Maybe it was Jason again, with the suit and the scowl that mimicked his predessors. Maybe it was his anger, and his tone that reminded him of Dick. Tim didn't care. Bruce could see in him whatever he wanted as long as he took care of himself, as long as he lived instead of surviving.
"Ahem," Alfred said, with ever the perfect timing, "I have prepared your bed, again, Master Bruce. If you are more inclined now to rest."
Bruce broke the stare and glanced at Alfred, nodding mutely as the butler helped him walk across the cave floor and to the elevator.
Tim exhaled deeply, looking down at his hands. What had he gotten himself into? Taking care of Bruce Wayne? Being Robin? Training and fighting Shiva? Wearing a dead boy's clothes? He was just a forgotten son. A boy left over and over again who watched wars and fights from a distance, never daring step close. Why did he think he could help? Why did he choose this?
Tim looked up at the Robin case, in the reflection of the glass he saw himself. He saw the domino mask on his face, the Robin suit on his body. Behind him he saw Him. Spear in hand, gold bindings and helmet. There than not. Tim blinked, looking back at the suit, back at the reflection.
He choose this because no one else would.
He stepped into a war he always watched from afar because someone had to.
He fought to keep Batman alive because...
Tim clenched his fists.
He fought to keep Batman alive because Gotham needs Batman.
The city needs Batman. The battles that only he can fight need him. Tim couldn't sit by and watch those fights overtake the city he loved.