Chapter Text
Damian Al-Ghul Wayne had everything at one point.
He was a prince. Ibn al Xu'ffasch. Son of the bat. Heir to the demon. These were the titles befitting him, binding him to the paths designed especially for him.
He had never asked to be ripped away from everything that he knew. From the warmth of his home, his beautiful culture, and the gilded halls of the palace. Nanda Parbat was everything he knew. Everything. And yet, he could not argue when he was plucked from its marble halls.
His desires never mattered. They never had.
Damian had been raised to understand one fundamental truth in his life: his mother’s word was absolute, her will was unyielding. The concept of rebelling against his mother’s wishes was hardly even a fleeting thought. It was simply unfathomable.
His mother had high expectations for him, but it was to be expected. He was the heir to the demon, was he not? He was meant to rule the world from the shadows, and holding such power meant he needed to be prepared.
And prepared he was. Hours of his childhood were spent training relentlessly. His small body had been pushed beyond its limits time and time again, until exhaustion was set deep in his bones, until vomiting from exertion was expected. His tutors ran him ragged, blades lashing his skin more times than he could count. They had not been kind; they cared not that he was royalty, only that he could be better. The punishments were harsh with each passing failure.
It mattered not to them that he was barely five years old.
And yet, in the quiet hours of the night, it was his mother who was there. Her chambers proved to be a sanctuary, draped in expensive silks and the softest linens; it was she who provided comfort. Even now, he could recall how the room smelt faintly of Jasmine; how it lingered in the air where she walked. The pleasant scent wrapped around him as she tended to his wounds, ensuring he would be prepared for his next training sessions.
And if he were damaged too badly for her hands to heal? Well, that was what the Lazarus pits were for, were they not?
But Damian learned from his failures. He had no choice. The League of Assassins did not care that he was only a child; they expected more from him than from anyone else. This was his legacy, his duty, and nobody would follow a weak demon.
So Damian trained harder, faster, and longer. He trained until his body was worn from exertion, until he had defeated every assassin placed in front of him in honourable combat, until he was a formidable warrior.
He trained until he was a weapon, forged to be used by whoever saw fit. He was determined, above anything, to become someone worthy of the titles bestowed upon him.
Damian Al-Ghul took his first life before he was eight years old. He could still remember the pulsing of arterial blood, how it coated his tunic. He was taught that this was to be expected, that it was the way of things.
Taking a life was trivial to him.
But he was nine when his life was uprooted. When his mother stole him away in the dead of night with little more than the robes on his back and his katana. He would have preferred more preparation to bring with him the little treasures he had stowed away. He did not have much; it was inefficient for him to clutter his chambers with trinkets and baubles, but there were a few things: A book of poems in Arabic and a tiger carved out of soft wood, barely the size of his hand, given to him by a tutor when he was barely four years old.
The tutor was punished swiftly when a servant witnessed him doing something unthinkable: Treating Damian in a way that was unbefitting of his station, as though he were a simple child.
Damian never saw him again. The replacement tutor never so much as looked him in the eye, never told him stories of the world beyond the palace, never snuck him sweets or carved him toys.
Kindness, Damian learned, was something that was not meant for the likes of him. There was no reason for assassins to be overly kind to one another, or to speak to their superior beyond their usual deference. Damian only knew kindness from the whispered words of his mother in her jasmine-scented chambers in the darkest nights, or in the soft wood of the carved tiger from his long forgotten tutor.
But now, when both would be so far from his reach, what was kindness to him?
Damian had grown used to impassivity by the time his mother had him on a rooftop in what he knew to be the coldest city he had ever set foot in. Rain pelted his hood, and smog filled his lungs, settling heavily in him in a way he was unfamiliar with. His father, The Bat, stared down at him through expressionless white lenses as Damian stood as tall and proudly as he could, determined to prove his worth yet again.
His mother had instilled in him during the flight to the most disgusting city known to man, Gotham, that his father, Bruce Wayne, was the lone guardian of the most crime-ridden city in the world. He was only a few years into his crusade, but his name was whispered among the shadows and struck fear into the petty criminals that roamed the streets. All were afraid of what the Batman might bring down upon them. Damian’s grandfather spoke fondly of the Batman, of this Bruce Wayne. He was the only person to ever garner the title of Detective from the Demon’s head, and the only one to survive turning down an offer to become the next heir.
This intrigued Damian greatly. If his grandfather saw such potential in his father, then Damian would strive to earn his approval, too. To become something that made him proud.
His father, startled by the discovery of a child he was unaware of, one that shares his facial structure and the intensity of his scowl, took the discovery as gracefully as he could, which was to say, horribly.
Bruce Wayne, barely twenty-seven years old, had not expected to become a father so early, if at all. That was abundantly clear to Damian, even as a child.
When he had been brought to Wayne Manor, Damian had expected a certain level of opulence that he had grown used to in Nanda Parbat. But there were no servants here, save for one elderly man named Alfred Pennyworth. There were no lavish feasts, nobody to assist him with his duties, and nobody to fill the hollow emptiness of the large manor.
His father had avoided him for days after arrival, throwing himself into his case files and his work at Wayne Industries. This did not bother Damian; he was used to his mother being busy and sparing little time to see her son, but he was used to having things to do. People to fight, mountains to climb, training to complete. Save for the meals provided by his father’s servant, Pennyworth, Damian was left mostly to his own devices. He used this time to accustom himself to the layout of the manor, to the weak points in the security, and to knowing where each and every passage was where an attacker might lie in waiting.
It was only after two weeks of minimal contact with his father that Damian had stormed the batcave late in the evening, where his father was typing in front of the large computer, analyzing a file about some criminal terrorizing the people of Gotham, some Scarecrow creature. Damian simply couldn’t care less.
Clearing his throat to gather his father’s attention, Damian steeled himself and announced, “I am Damian Al-Ghul Wayne, Ibn al Xu'ffasch, Son of the bat and heir to the demon. It is my legacy to inherit your title as the bat. You will teach me all that I need to know.”
His father showed little expression to this announcement, save for a raised eyebrow. “You’re nine, Damian. You won’t be going out on the streets, it’s too dangerous.” He said simply, before turning his icy blue gaze back to the computer screen to resume his study. The dismissal burned in Damian’s veins.
“I am a fully trained assassin.” Damian countered, stepping closer. His posture was rigid, disciplined. “I have bested many opponents in battle; I am prepared to slay your enemies, Father.”
He expected acknowledgement. Approval, maybe. Instead, his father flinched at his words. He was unsure of why. He knew his father did not kill, but that was just one small detail; what did it matter if he did?
“That doesn’t matter, Damian.” The bat sighed, running a hand over his face. “You’re still a child.”
Damian scowled at this. “Tt, I have never been a child, I am a prince, heir to the demon. If you do not teach me all that you know, then there is no point in my being under your tutelage. My grandfather would show me the respect I deserve.” He snarled, turning to stomp out of the cave in an entirely non-childish way, because he was not a child.
Damian had stormed to the library, settling down in a chair by the fireplace that he had come to claim as his own. He sat with his favourite book, The Art of War, but the words jumbled together on the page. Not for the first time, he yearned for books in his native tongue, for the training he had at the league. He was homesick for the life he knew and could not have. It was here that Damian had dozed off, comfortable in the corner of the room with his back protected and warm from the embers of the fireplace.
It was here that his father found him after patrol. He did not stir, even as strong arms carefully lifted him from the chair. They were delicate as they carried him through the manor.
It was only when he was lying down, warm fingers gently stroking his smooth hair, that he stirred. “Father?” He asked, confused, as he squinted at the shape above him. His voice was thick with sleep.
“I suppose…” His father began quietly, voice softer than Damian had heard it. “I can let you come out a few nights a week. But you’ll follow my rules. We do things differently around here; we don’t kill.”
His voice was soothing, Damian found.
Damian blinked slowly, his thoughts sluggish and distant. “I will obey.” He whispered, “I will be a good soldier, Father.”
His father sighed, giving the boy’s hair one last stroke before standing and slipping off into the shadows from whence he came.
The nights that year got impossibly darker. For where the bat stalked in the darkness, his shadow seemed to grow into an entirely different entity, one that struck harder and faster.
The Batman and his Shadow became the bane of the underworld.
His father believed that everyone deserved a chance at redemption, that healing was possible even for the most vile of offenders.
Damian did not believe that creatures such as the Joker were redeemable. His last attack on the city resulted in over a hundred people dying after being exposed to his newest strain of Joker venom. The man was heartless, soulless, and cared for nothing except his twisted games with his favourite vigilantes.
But his father believed that there was hope for everyone. This sickeningly sweet sentiment only grew further when the shining beacon of hope himself appeared before them on a rooftop, the garish “S” on his suit a display of colour against the darker backdrop of Gotham City. He had invited Batman to join something called the Justice League. A community of overly friendly superheroes who want to team up to save the world.
Most of them reminded him of the faux-personality his father would put on when in public. Damian saw them all as bumbling idiots who were too nice. Well, most of them. Constantine was never really that nice, and Hal Jordan was a bit of a douche. Damian could respect both of them for this.
Damian was even more surprised when his father agreed to join this ragtag team of superheroes, metas, and aliens. He was less surprised to find out that it was Pennyworth who pushed his father into joining, citing that both of them needed to “Stop brooding in the cave so much, lest you both morph into the bats you so admire.”
Thus, the Justice League was born.
Damian would have preferred to have little to no contact with these outsiders. He would have preferred to keep his city to himself and keep them far away from his family and their dark little world. But he was only a child, only twelve, as his father reminded him over and over again. He had been in the disgusting little city for three long years.
He was aware that his father was concerned about his lack of friends at the pompous academy he attended. It was hardly his fault that the wealthy of Gotham were all white, and he had been labelled as different the moment he set foot in those gates. Who his father was mattered little to the children. But he did not care, he did not need friends, and he did not want friends. He was surprised the next time he had zeta’d into the ridiculous space station that the Justice League labelled “The Watchtower”, to see Superman kneeling in front of a small boy wearing a matching suit, complete with the bright “S” on the front. The boy, with his messy mop of black curls and thick glasses, seemed to be Damian’s age.
The Man of Steel perked up like an overly excited puppy when the Dark Knight appeared with Damian by his side. Damian was not blind to the adoring way the alien gazed upon his father. He could see the hearts in his eyes from where he stood, and he was certainly not a fan. “Bruce! Damian!” The alien said, with a blindingly bright smile on his ridiculous alien face. “I’d like to introduce you both to my son, this is Superboy.” He stated, nudging the smaller boy forward.
Damian was nudged forward by his father’s gauntleted hand as well. He was no fool; his father petitioned the alien to provide him with companionship. He couldn’t care less.
The smaller boy gave Damian a lopsided smile, sticking one hand out. “I’m Jonathan Kent. Well, Jon. My dad calls me Jon. Jon-El, too. That’s my Kryptonian name. I’m Kryptonian, if you didn’t know. Well, half, my mom’s a human. I think you’ve met her befor-” He spewed out in one long jumble, before Superman’s hand touched his shoulder, halting his incessant rambling. He was much like his father, Damian noticed, a puppy.
Damian glanced up at his father, who was staring at him through the cowl expectantly. Sliding his gaze over to the eager puppy in front of him, he slowly raised his gloved hand to give the boy a handshake. “I am known as the Shadow. My name is Damian Al-Ghul Wayne.” He said simply, before tucking his arms behind his back once again.
His armour was similar to his father’s, but far sleeker. It was meant for an assassin, after all, not a heavy brute. Damian had opted to cover the bottom half of his face, rather than his eyes. His black robes and cape had dark green stitching throughout to honour his heritage. To the naked eye, it was difficult to see, but he knew it was there, and that was all that mattered.
The puppy, Jon’s eyes grew wide as Damian introduced himself, his lopsided smile growing wider. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting the Shadow! You’re so cool! Nobody ever gets you on film, there’s like, only two photos I’ve seen, one was on some blog online! Is it true you have a sword?” He gushed excitedly as the two league members interrupted smoothly.
“Why don’t you show him, Damian?” Father said smoothly, already turning toward the meeting room. “I’ll come find you after the meeting. Just… Don’t break anything.” His deep voice grunted out, Superman giving them both a dazzling grin before hovering after Batman into the meeting room.
Damian didn’t mind showing this half-alien his things. It turned out that Jon, despite his tendency to talk relentlessly, knew when to stay quiet. When Damian spoke, rare as it was, he absorbed every word as though it mattered. As though Damian mattered.
In turn, Damian didn’t mind one bit listening to Jon.
Jon became a regular feature in his life after that. He was a regular sighting in the Wayne household, always attached to Damian’s side. Damian found that he didn’t mind that very much at all.
He did mind that Jon’s father, the alien, the Superman, tended to linger when he brought his son over. He minded very much that he had entered the kitchen to find his father with a red face on one side, and a dishevelled alien on the other.
He minded it very much when he was informed by a stiff Alfred Pennyworth that the Shadow was benched temporarily while Batman recovered from a fractured wrist, and mildly extensive bruising - bruising and fracturing that Batman did not have after patrol had finished last night. Bruising and fracturing that he had the unfortunate displeasure of accidentally hearing when he left his room for water in the early hours of the morning.
He knew his father had his… fair share of partners, but at least they were human.
The alien at least had the tact to look a little guilty about it.
But this tentative peace in the Wayne household could never have lasted forever. After all, Damian was growing up. He had spent a major part of his life in his father’s shadow, both during the day and during the night. He wanted more.
But Damian was a child who had grown up in an entirely different world.
He and his father had never truly seen eye to eye on the methods they used to control crime in the world's most crime-ridden city. Gotham was a cesspool, one that needed a harsher hand to be able to curb the steep rise in crime. Damian saw to it that he was that hand.
He hit harder than his father; he was more ruthless, more calculating.
The two of them began to fight on a scale never before seen in the Wayne household; their shouting matches shook the bats from their perches and echoed amongst the stalactites of the cave.
Damian was sick of his father's smothering. He was sick of being told what he could do and to whom he could do it. He knew his father’s methods were useful, sure, but they weren’t useful for everyone. Putting the same rogues into Arkham over and over again was helping nobody.
Their fight over morality and the use of force came to a head when Damian was shot by the Joker. He was seventeen years old when his world was thrown on its axis once again. Damian survived the shooting, of course. He would never let something as simple as a bullet stop him. But the incident had startled the Batman.
He was barely healed when his father came into his room, into the forced bedrest imposed by Alfred.
He was barely healed when his father appeared in his doorway one night, voice firm. With him, there was never any room for argument. “The streets are too dangerous. You can’t be out there anymore. Effectively immediately, the Shadow is retired. You’re done, Damian.”
“You’re done, Damian.” He had said, in that cold, deep tone of his.
“You’re done, Damian.” He had said, as though being Shadow wasn’t the only thing that kept him grounded in this cesspool of a city.
“You’re done, Damian.” He had said, with no expression on his face, with no comfort in his touch. He had pulled the rug out from under his son’s feet with no care for where he would land.
“I’m done? What do you mean, I’m done?” The boy asked, words heavy on his tongue. His Lazarus green eyes were widening the slightest bit. “What else am I to be, if not the shadow?”
He watched as his father opened his mouth before closing it again. After a minute, he exhaled. “Nothing.” His father said simply, shattering his world into a million pieces.
“Nothing?” He echoed, voice hollow. “So, I am simply nothing to you? I was a soldier for years, I fought your battles as you pleased, and I am now nothing?” He asked, incredulous. His eyes scanned his father for something. Regret, maybe. Pain, perhaps.
But there was nothing.
He could see the regret in his father’s eyes, the realization of what he had said dawning on him.
Damian did not let him recover. He did not let him walk back his words.
“And here I thought that the League was where I would face the most cruelty.” He said, coldly, to his father, who stood there like a statue. “I forgot; you were once their prized pupil. They taught you well.”
“Damian, wait-” His father started, holding his hands up placatingly. “Let’s talk about this.”
But Damian did not wait. Staring his father in the eyes, he whispered, “Jon-El.”
Seconds later, Damian was in the air, arms around the neck of the only person who had ever cared for him for who he is. Despite his upbringing, despite his tendency to be cruel, too.
He had left the manor and his father behind.