Chapter Text
Grandfather's newest creature was strange.
Usually, Damian did not allow himself such thoughts: Ra's al Ghul's word was law, and an inferior being such as himself had no reason to question it. Of course, he might be the future Heir, but to become so, he had to train even harder until he could defeat the Demon's Head in a fight – something that, for now, had only resulted in public humiliations, paying for his audacity beneath the branding iron.
At such times, Ra’s would remind him how fortunate he was, for anyone else would have been executed without delay. Damian was grateful for the blessing he had been granted.
That was why he swore to himself that the third time he tried, it would be the last. The corpse of his beloved grandfather would lie at his feet during his coronation, before being buried in the sacred Ghul cemetery.
But for now, he was merely a weapon. Yet he had already proven his worth, slaying several unicorns and extracting their blood. So why did Ra's insist on keeping that good-for-nothing in the dungeon? Did he not believe that Damian was enough?
“Put your sentimentality aside, Damian,” his mother would have scolded him if she’d heard him. “Keep a cool head.”
Damian drew in a slow breath, making as little noise as possible, and turned his gaze toward the captive.
Ra’s had been trying to capture him for weeks. It was difficult, as the Fae were renowned for their discretion, but this one was bolder, and had been lingering without suspicion in the field of flowers on the other side of the mountain for hours, basking in the sun. There, they ambushed him, attacking his wings first.
Yes, wings. It was a male aerial Fae. A being of wind and light, known for being playful. But to Damian, it didn’t seem so cheerful, there miserable in its cage.
It seemed that the greatest weakness of this species of Fae was being confined in the dark. Without access to the sun’s rays or the ability to spread its wings, the faerie was growing weaker day by day. The fact that it couldn’t eat human food made matters worse.
But that wasn’t the most unusual thing in Damian's opinion; rather, it was the fact that the prisoner insisted on humming. Despite its parched throat and limp limbs, it kept murmuring ‘melodies unknown to the human ear’, as the cooks claimed.
Unfortunately for him, it seemed he’d arrived during a lull, as there was no sound in the darkness.
In any case, that wasn’t why he was there; Ra’s was determined to extract information from the the winged prisoner, so every morning the captive endured hours of torture and repeated kicks. Despite how expressive he was when singing, he was as silent as the grave at those moments. Grandfather was growing impatient, so Damian decided to take matters into his own hands.
Was it risky? Of course. If he failed and his grandfather discovered he was here, he would be severely punished. And nothing could save him.
But if he succeeded… If he succeeded, he would be one step closer to greatness, to spending just a few more minutes in the throne room, to becoming the Heir—to being appreciated.
He pulled his black cloth mask up over his nose, leaving only his eyes exposed. It would be risky if the faerie were then to reveal an unknown power and, in its thirst for vengeance, recognize him. Therefore, he would keep his gaze fixed on the floor throughout the conversation.
He grabbed the match from his pocket and struck it against the stone floor, lighting the lantern he’d brought for this very purpose. It seemed the sound had roused the creature, which began to stir.
Damian’s breath caught in his throat. Thanks to the light, he could see the Fae’s delicate, translucent wings, hanging down at its sides. They were—or rather, they looked like the reflections of rainbows in rain-filled puddles, forming hypnotic patterns. He gasped in amazement before observing the prisoner.
To be honest, he was somewhat disappointed: it looked like a normal human, apart from the wings and its unremarkable beauty. Perhaps he’d expected something less mortal and more ethereal—he wasn’t sure—but it could also be that, being far from its natural habitat, the captive had lost some of its charm.
The humanoid figure opened its eyes, and Damian quickly looked away. He could hear faint movements from time to time, and a faint moan escaped the prisoner’s lips. It seemed puzzled by his presence at such an unusual hour, outside Ra’s meticulous schedule.
“Fae, I’ve come to question you. We’ll make a deal, if it’s in your interest.” Damian reached into his robes and pulled out his peace offering: a flask of fresh water, which he held out near the bars. “I know Ra’s hasn’t let you drink for days. I’ll give it to you if you give me some information in return, agreed?” Among the few records the League had on the species, it was written that they too needed to drink to survive, though to a much lesser extent. Like the one before him, they could go two weeks without drinking.
The prisoner didn’t even make a sound when breathing, which unsettled Damian. What if his plan failed? What if the Fae wasn’t interested in the deal? In that case, he’d try to slip away as quietly as possible, hoping the other wouldn’t say anything (though he doubted it, given its resistance to his kidnappers).
Seconds ticked by until they had turned into four minutes. He’d already resigned himself to putting the water away and turning back when he heard some rustling sounds. A force joined that of the bottle, and he let the captive take it.
He raised his gaze just a little, watching the Fae’s throat move. Right, it was drinking. That meant it was willing to go along with it.
"If you tell me something useful," Damian whispered, looking down at the floor again, "I’ll bring you some more water tomorrow."
The truth was, it was an impulsive plan. The faerie was already well-stocked; perhaps he wouldn’t be interested in such a deal. But he assumed that, given his weakened state, he might be interested. After all, water always had unusual effects on all manner of species, and he had no doubt that, for some of them, it must be able to heal wounds.
The silence grew heavier, and as before, Damian counted the seconds in the back of his mind until the creature made a high-pitched sound, similar to a human affirmation. Blindly, he reached out to retrieve the bottle, and his fingers brushed against the immortal’s.
His heart skipped a beat at the warmth he felt on his fingertips. It was a lingering heat, a tingling sensation, almost pleasant. Could it be… Could the Fae have poisoned him? After all, not all the powers of these beings were known, and it was fairly likely given the situation.
Damian jerked away suddenly, knocking over the lamp, which went out as he tried to put as much distance as possible between them. But the creature began to screech, startling him.
The screeches were more animal-like than human, but low enough not to alert anyone nearby. In any case, he was in trouble; he had to get away as quickly as possible.
That was his thought, before a pair of slender, cold fingers seized his left ankle. Panic seized over him as he tried to break free, but to no avail against the creature’s inexplicable strength. What on earth? Wasn’t he supposed to be weakened?
The Fae shoved him toward the bars, sliding his leg through them until he was trapped beneath one of the captive’s own legs. He let out a few small whimpers, reaching out and grabbing his arm.
Damian realized, with terror in his chest, that he couldn’t escape. This was his punishment for being so trusting, he thought bitterly.
He had to accept death. Only then would he die with honor, his grandfather’s voice reminding him from time to time, since he was far too weak to defend himself. Far too inept, and foolish, and sinful, and—
The screeches grew louder, shifting from high-pitched and demanding to deeper tones, sounding almost like questions. The Fae took his arm, pulling him so awkwardly into his cell that Damian’s face was pressed against the metal. He closed his eyes tightly to avoid looking at it, and that was when he understood what had caught his attention: tears were streaming down his face.
Damian al Ghul was crying.
Oh, any hope that his death might be less miserable had vanished completely. He would die in that cell—perhaps stabbed, devoured, or by some strange power—and seeing the trails of tears on his cheeks, Ra’s would not even deign to cremate him, as some good soldiers of the League were granted the privilege; no, he would be thrown to the coyotes in the Arena as this week’s meal.
He would never be remembered again, and Ra's would have a new heir – more intelligent, stronger, more capable – who would achieve everything he himself had failed to.
A feeling he hadn’t experienced for 84 months washed over him, and a choked sob escaped his lips. His lungs began to burn, weighing heavily on his stomach. He felt so weak, and he was.
He deserved it.
His body went limp, ready to welcome death with open arms.
But the Fae seemed to have other plans, as he slipped his free hand through the bars and cupped his face, cradling his jaw. The grip was firm, but the gesture was gentle. He squeezed his cheeks, forcing a cry from him. Damian didn’t understand what the stranger wanted until it tried to wrap its fingers around his eyelids.
He let out a groan as the creature's sharp nails dug into his skin. The other began to make small, high-pitched noises of varying tones, stopping its probing of his eyes but instead pinching his eyelids, tearing at them. It seemed to be coercing him into showing his face.
At the same time, why not? He was about to die; he could allow himself to see the Fae’s face. If his grandfather heard him, he’d give him ten lashes.
He blinked, squinting, trying to adjust his gaze to the darkness. He was met with a luminous blue sky, before realizing they were glowing irises in the dark.
Silken, ebony locks framed the most striking face he had ever seen. The man looked like one of the classical sculptures he used to study in the stolen artifacts room—the very pieces that inspired his secret sketches. Despite the chains, the prisoner’s gaze remained as tranquil as an undisturbed lake, radiating an unfamiliar warmth. Then, a low murmur slipped from his lips, gentle as a lullaby.
The creature brought its fingers close to his eyelashes once more, coaxing him to open them with gentle, soothing coos.
Was this what it felt like to be hypnotized?
“Hey, what’s all that noise?” exclaimed one of the four guards entering the dungeon.
Oh no.