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As much as Dick enjoyed the manor, he always jumped at the opportunity to travel somewhere new. There was something inside him that just wasn’t meant to stay in one place, something that felt distinctly human. Whether it was simple instinct or nostalgia, he wasn’t sure.
“Do not wander far,” Bruce warned as they finally arrived at their destination. Rows upon rows of stalls greeted them. The smell of food lingered in the air, just as varied as the meals Alfred prepared. “We will return to the manor before the sun sets.”
A curt nod was all the response Bruce got before Dick was excitedly going from stall to stall. Toys, food, keepsakes, all of it drew his wonder in a way that made him ache for a past that was lost to him. When he arrived at a stall of textiles, his heart seemed to stutter.
A large blanket was draped over a table as decoration. Different patches of color came together to form a unique design. Somehow, even though the size was too small and the colors were too dull, it reminded him of the blanket which sat in his room. One that smelled equally of death and love.
With great effort, Dick tore his eyes away from the stall. He moved on to the next, eventually finding his attention drifting between the shiniest items on display. Glass, metals, anything that caught the light also caught his eye. At one stall, he found himself enamoured with a small silver bell.
Unlike the other stalls Dick had stopped at, the owner looked at him with a kind smile. “See anything you like?”
Hesitantly, Dick pointed to the bell.
“Ah, a good choice,” The shopkeep picked it up and gave it a ring. Despite its small size, the sound was near deafening and incredibly disorienting. It took all the concentration he had not to stumble back from the force of it. “It’s no church bell, but it’ll scare any spirit that would want to nab a little one like yourself.”
Or that might protect him. Dick subtly scanned the crowd for any signs of Bruce, but found nothing. He turned back to the shopkeeper with a polite smile.
“It’s a neat bell,” He bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet. “But-”
“Here,” Without warning, the bell was practically shoved in his hands. He stared at it for a moment, then looked at the merchant. “Take it.”
“What do you want for it?”
“There's no need for that.”
“I-” Dick thought for a moment. He dug through his pockets, eventually fishing out a single copper coin. He held it out to the shop keeper. “I can't accept a gift without some type of payment.”
“That's very kind of you,” To his disappointment, the coin was returned. “But I don't need your money.”
“But-”
“If you really are insistent, then maybe you can pay me back if we ever meet again.”
The merchant waved to him as he moved on. Dick gave a polite wave in return before practically fleeing. Once he was out of sight of the shop, he pulled a gold coin from his pocket. He whistled a song to it, causing it to crumble and be taken by the wind to the merchant's stall. The dust would settle eventually, turning whatever it coated into gold.
With his debt settled, Dick stowed the bell and moved on.
Eventually, he came to the end of the row. At one of the very last stalls, he saw several paintings. Portraits, landscapes, and all sorts of others lined canvases of varying sizes. Near the stall, the painter himself put the finishing touches on another.
Slowly, Dick wandered closer to the painter’s stall. He took great interest in one with a bird as its subject. It was an attempt at a cardinal, but the colors were off. The red was too bright and the bird looked far too somber. All the cardinals Dick had ever had ever met had been quite cheerful.
“A fan of nature, are we boy?” Dick looked up at the painter. He didn’t like the disdain he saw in his eyes nor the smug grin that poorly hid it. “Are you a fan of the arts?”
“I am.”
“Then this must be quite the treat for you,” The man’s ego felt almost suffocating. “Tell me then, what do you think of the work?”
“It’s…” He thought for a moment for the most polite way the phrase his thoughts. “Mediocre,”
Dick turned back to the painting as he took a step forward. Technically, the painting was done well. The brush strokes were clean and intentional and the form of the bird was accurate if improperly colored. It was just missing something.
“I don't feel your soul at all here.”
“And I suppose you're a scholar of the arts,” The man sneered. Dick clenched his hand into a fist, patience already wearing thin.
“I'm not-”
“Well, perhaps expecting such an uncultured child to have any real appreciation is too much,” The painter waved him away. “Run along boy, I have better things to do than educate a child who’s blind to my talent.”
Something tightened in Dick’s chest. A robin’s song rang in his ears, petty and vindictive. It wanted to scratch and peck at the man until he took back his insults.
“Is this really what you call talent?" Dick tilted his head, the bird inside him cooing in approval as magic rushed through his body. It wished to lash out, to snap, to break, to take. “I’m not the blind one here.”
The man opened his mouth to retort, but his anger quickly melted into horror. Dick watched with satisfaction as the man frantically grabbed at his face. His eyes stared forward, unseeing.
“M-My eyes!” He screeched. It was an ugly sound befitting his personality. Blindly, he stumbled forward, knocking over canvases and drawing the attention of those nearby. “What did you do to me!?”
“I’m sure you can see for yourself,” Dick took a step forward, smilibg to himself. “But maybe that's too much to expect from an arrogant artist.”
“You!” The painter jumped to his feet. “Demon!”
He lunged at Dick just as a crowd was beginning to form. Dick couldn't help but laugh which only enraged him more. The bird in his chest preened as magic yearned to lash out in further retribution. Dick considered taking the man’s hands if he dared lay them on him, but it never got to that.
Out of seemingly nowhere, Bruce grabbed Dick from behind. He pulled him out of the way of his attacker’s path before trapping him in a tight embrace. Arms wrapped protectively around him as others went to restrain the painter, the man now madly raving about demons.
“Did he hurt you?” The question was so quiet, so worried. Dick laughed harder at the thought. As if he was the one who needed to be coddled when a man laid on the ground not fifty feet away permanently scared. Not that it wasn't his own fault.
“Robin,” Dick's shoulders shook in a way that must have looked like sobs to onlookers as pitiful stares made his skin crawl. “Dick.”
“I'm fine,” His laughter quieted into giggles. He pointed at the man, magic lashing at his mind like a whip, igniting a new frenzy. “He was being impolite, I needed to teach him a lesson.”
Bruce looked at someone other than Dick for the first time. He saw the man, noticed his eyes, and looked back at Dick with an expression he couldn't quite parse.
“Richard,” Dick tensed at the use of his name. The thing inside his chest fell silent as did his laughter. Whatever magic had rushed to his fingertips retreated, leaving him with nothing but himself and his guardian. “We are returning home.”
Hesitantly, Dick nodded, as Bruce picked him up, chest strangely tight. The way Bruce carried himself, the stiffness of his actions, it felt… wrong. Was he upset with him?
He only did what felt natural.
Bruce held him tight against his chest as he slipped away from the ever enlarging crowd. Behind them, the growing thrum of chaos made Dick want to soar. Distantly, he felt something inside him sing with satisfaction despite Bruce's sour mood.
Later, Bruce would interrogate him. He’d learn what happened and hold him close. It would be many years before Dick would learn why Bruce thought his actions so wrong, but none of that mattered now.
Right now, all that mattered were the distant screams of anguish that rang in his ears like a song. Maybe he could create something of worth afterall.