Parte 1, parte 2, parte 3
Summary: Same environment, different treatment (I don't know what else to add).
Warning: This is absurdly long.but please appreciate it!
I looked at the new room you had in Gotham—it was bigger than the one you had in the League. The ceiling was higher, and you even had your own bathroom. You wondered if Damian’s room was even larger because, if this was the servants’ quarters, you couldn’t even imagine what the Masters’ rooms looked like.
You knew you had to unpack, but it didn’t take long, considering you didn’t have many belongings—just the essentials, the bare minimum for a servant’s survival. Because of that, you took the opportunity to thoroughly inspect the room, searching for cameras, microphones, anything suspicious. You did it discreetly—you didn’t want to get caught. They needed to trust you if you were going to stay here with Damian, your prince.
So far, you hadn’t found anything strange, which was what unsettled you the most. It didn’t seem like they were monitoring you in the room. Maybe there were cameras in the bathroom, but when you didn’t find any, you grew even more uneasy. Why was there no surveillance where you slept? Your mind flooded with doubts about the intentions of the people in this house. You tried to recall all the training you’d received, hoping to decipher what this meant and what they expected from you.
What worried you most was that you hadn’t been given any orders—nothing. They just left you in your room.
*Are they watching what I do when given no instructions? But if that’s the case, why isn’t there surveillance in the room?*
The questions only made your head spin with confusion, so you decided to do what you knew best.
Waiting was the best thing a servant with no orders could do. Waiting for commands was the only option for now.
You didn’t know what else to do in a room so absurdly large. Why did servants need this much space? It wasn’t like you had time to stay cooped up here—after all, you had to be at your master’s disposal, not lounging in your quarters.
Your eyes widened in realization.
You had left Damian! You’d been so absorbed in inspecting the room that you’d forgotten about your brother!
Quickly, you opened your door and stepped into the hallway, glancing both ways to ensure no one was around. Seeing no one, you headed straight for Damian’s room, which, thankfully, wasn’t far. The proximity filled you with satisfaction—you had quicker access to him now. In the League, Damian’s quarters had been much farther away, forcing you to wake up earlier just to reach him on time. But now, you could get to him in moments.
Standing at his door, you knocked using the "code" the two of you had developed to confirm it was you—two knocks, a brief pause, then two more.
You waited patiently for Damian to call you in, but you didn’t have to wait long.
You opened the door to find Damian sitting in a chair, staring distractedly out the window. But what caught your attention was that his room was nearly identical to yours—the only difference being the few personal items Damian had added. Though they were minimal, you found yourself studying the room more than your brother.
"You’re not wearing the mask" Damian noted, still gazing at Gotham’s skyline.
"The orders indicated it was no longer necessary, my prince" you replied. Damian remained still.
"I did that… Well, revealing your face wasn’t part of the plan, but it couldn’t be helped. It was either that or sending you back to the League." Damian clicked his tongue before finally turning to face you, his eyes tracing your identical features.
"Either way, I must congratulate you." He stood and walked toward you.
"Congratulate me for what, my prince?"
He clicks his tongue as he stands in front of you, crossing his arms.
"How many times have I told you not to call me that? In any case, I congratulate you on your hypothesis about who our father is. I'm more than satisfied with your analysis and the results of your research." Damián stands in front of you, placing a hand on your shoulder.
"It wasn't bad… For a servant" he says mockingly, but you sense a hint of pride in his voice. You watch as he walks to the bed to sit on it.
"It's an honor to know that you're satisfied with my work. There's no greater honor than receiving your praise." You smile proudly at Damián's praise.
"Stop talking like that, we're alone" Damian feigned exasperation, you feigned obedience. But today his voice sounded less convincing, as if in Gotham the mask of 'prince' weighed more heavily on him. He pats the spot beside him, a clear indication that he wants you to sit next to him.
"You did the same thing in the league, you kept talking formally when I asked you not to, well, even though I kept talking formally to you too."
"My prince to me is still"--
"Ataullah, come at once."
Grandpa had ordered Damian to be abandoned in a blizzard as punishment for not completing a mission perfectly.
When you heard the current through the wind and the cold, desperately calling for Damian, you were cold, your hands were frozen, your throat was burning. You almost lost hope when you heard a faint scream—you could hardly call it a scream, it was too faint—but you heard it, and that was all it took to guide you to Damian.
After that, you carried him back to the station, with Damian almost unconscious. You still remember the gentle whisper, "Ataullah,... my ,,Ataullah." You almost fell when you heard it. At one point, you swore you'd heard it wrong.
It was also Damian's way of calling you to drop the formality once and for all, even though you never completely abandoned it.
You sat down, but your back remained straight, as if Ra's's whips could still fall upon it, but you still felt different than in the League. There, they could never drop the formality because they were always under close surveillance, and the fear and tension of being caught sharing an intimate moment was inevitable. He still remembers the last time it happened; the scars are still there.
"What's your room like?" Damian always asks as if he doesn't care, perhaps because it was an unfamiliar place, where they didn't know the rules allowed them to be more relaxed, but even then, there's a chance they'd be punished for behaving like this, regardless of what your investigation said.
"It's almost the same as yours. There are no cameras, no microphone, no orders. Everything is strange, inconspicuous. I'm not sure if they're watching us. Maybe they do it in another way, but for now I don't understand what it is" you whisper. Damián nods, looking at his hands, perhaps imagining something, but you don't know for sure.
"I've never seen anything like this. There's only one servant. He gave me the freedom to ask him a few questions. I didn't feel like he was lying to me, but all the information he gave me didn't satisfy me." The air was soft, but your muscles remained tense. How long would this peace last?
You continued talking. Damián didn't say anything, but you knew he was listening attentively. In any case, you felt good, comforted. This was one of the moments you rarely had with your brother. You were more than happy to savor it all.
"Good" you stop to look at your brother.
"We're in an unknown place. We've got some clues from your research, but we're still lost. For now, if anything changes, we have to let you know immediately, understood?" Damian's voice was calm, but his eyes held the same sharp edge they'd had when he gave orders in the League.
"Yes, my prince," you said, standing up and standing in front of him. You stared at him as you said, "My life was always yours," you murmured, touching the scar on your side, the one you earned the day you saved him from freezing to death. You saw Damian look there too, and for a second, his expression was that of the little boy who had first called you "Ataullah."
You wake up early at 5:00 a.m., as you always do. You quickly get everything you need ready. Your clothes are spotless. You quickly clean the room and head out to the kitchen. Damián wakes up at 6:00 a.m., so you still have time to make breakfast.
Thanks to Alfred showing you the basics the day before, you know exactly where the kitchen is. When you arrive, you don't see anyone there, which surprises you a little, but you decide to get to work.
You're still puzzled by the lack of instructions you've been given. You barely saw Alfred the day before, and even if you did, the topic of chores wouldn't come up. For now, all you could do was wait and do what you did in the league. If you were lucky, that's probably what they wanted.
You searched for various things in the cupboard to memorize where everything is. Once that was done, you began to take out the things you needed to start making breakfast.
You were making a simple tea to start breakfast when you felt a presence you quickly recognized.
"Mr. Pennyworth, it's good to see you so early," you turned to look at the butler.
"Good morning, young master."
"It's not young master Pennyworth. The only young master is Prince Damian," you said as he continued preparing to finish your brother's breakfast.
You saw out of the corner of your eye that Alfred remained silent as he watched you. You thought he might be watching you properly prepare the prince's breakfast, so you tried your best.
"I see you're only preparing one breakfast."
"Should I prepare breakfast for the others, Mr. Pennyworth?"
"Oh no, he just asked me who it's for." That made you frown. You finished your breakfast and carried a tray into the kitchen, leaving it perfectly organized.
"To whom else, Mr. Pennyworth? To Prince Damian." If this was a question to test your loyalty, you're more than ready.
"And his?" Alfred continues to look at you, and now you feel like this isn't going the right way.
"The prince's breakfast is more important." You look at Mr. Pennyworth, who has a look on his face you couldn't identify.
Alfred took an egg from the bowl and cracked it into a pan. "The young master doesn't need a servant who's passed out from hypoglycemia."
"It's true that it's important. A servant is useless if he has no energy. In any case, breakfast comes first, mine comes second." You're proud of those words, but you see Alfred sigh, and you can't help but feel like you said the wrong thing.
"I'll make breakfast for you, so you don't have to worry about anything for now."
"No need. I'm perfectly capable of making my own breakfast, after attending to the prince's needs." You weren't incapable; you were more than capable of making both the prince's breakfast and your own.
"I'm sure you can, but Incest."
"I-"
"Do you prefer anything in particular?" You were speechless when he said that. Your fingers closed around the kitchen knife, as if the question were an attack. Was it a trap? A test of loyalty? "Prefer something?" Was he observing you, was he observing you? Was he demanding of you as a servant? Were you wondering if you had allergies? Was he monitoring you? Was he preferring a certain food symbolic of extracting psychological information you didn't know?
You had so many questions, and you didn't know what to say. You knew you couldn't stay silent; that could get you punished, but you didn't know what he wanted, so you decided to take a chance.
"I'm not picky about food, and I don't have any allergies, so I have to be careful. Anything you serve me will be received with great honor," you say, confident in your words, but still waiting for some sign that this was the response he was hoping for.
But instead of receiving approval, you saw him frown, which left you a little puzzled. That wasn't what he wanted. What was he looking for then?
Before you could speak again, Damian enters the kitchen.
"Has Pennyworth turned you into a slacker?" Damian mocks. You look at him, bewildered. Talking to Alfred, you've completely forgotten about Damian's breakfast.
You quickly bowed and, with a confident voice, said, "My prince, may your presence give me wisdom for battle."
By the king of the eye, you see him raise an eyebrow, but he doesn't say anything.
"If you're done talking, I'd like something to eat." Damian turns around to go to the living room Alfred had shown you later.
"Yes, my prince," you say as you pick up the tray and follow Damián into the living room. Alfred stays in the kitchen without saying a word.
Everything leaves you disconnected, but you decided to take notes afterward.
After your conversation with Alfred, doing chores when he was nearby became… Strange…
It wasn't surveillance, but something else, something you couldn't quite put your finger on.
One of the occasions was when you cleaned Damián's room while he was reading in the corner, the door open. They didn't need to communicate. Every time you picked up the trash, Damián would turn the page.
The room, if not that dirty, considering they'd only been living here for a few hours, but it was still a room that had been unoccupied before we came so unexpectedly. There was just a bit of dust, not something to worry about, but something to leave clean.
Picking up the trash again, Damián turned the page in his book. You glanced at the door for a moment, saw Alfred. He didn't smile, but his blue eyes shone with something that wasn't anger… Pity? Or was he memorizing your every move, like a general studying a lost soldier? He just stood there, watching, as if waiting for you to make a mistake… or perhaps, to do something unthinkable. You thought he was watching you do your chores correctly. Every movement was perfect, the cloth folded at right angles, the books aligned to the millimeter. As if Ra's could appear behind the door, but when you turned to look, there was no one there.
Damian placed the book face down—something he would never allow in the League—and muttered, "Pennyworth looks like an owl." He said mockingly. It was a joke, but you almost dropped the duster.
You stood at attention, back straight, hands clasped behind you. Like you were in front of Ra's's cell. Old habits. Behind you was your brother's door. Bruce had said they'd meet everyone at lunch this afternoon.
You still didn't understand why you weren't ordered to help make lunch, but you didn't argue.
In any case, you were waiting for your brother at his bedroom door. He was getting ready, and you were already ready.
It wasn't anything extravagant, just the proper thing for a dinner party to meet the others who live in this house.
You see Bruce appear around a corner. He sees you and walks over to you.
"You didn't have to dress up," he says, looking you up and down.
"I beg your pardon if you think I haven't prepared properly. If you'd like, I'll change right away," you say, bowing slightly in his presence.
"No… No, you're not fine like this." You glance at him as he clenches his fists, as if he wants to break something, then look around.
"The prince is finished getting ready," you nod toward Damian's room.
"He's your brother. You don't have to call him 'Prince,' you know?" You frown, thinking it's a trick question.
But mentally, you wonder if he didn't understand? Without the title, Damian was just a child. And without the service, you were nothing.
"It would be disrespectful. I'm not worthy of such an honor, Mr. Bruce." You watch as your father gasps for air while raising an eyebrow.
"Mr. Bruce?" He says slowly, almost as if checking what you said.
"I apologize, do you prefer Master Bruce?"
"No… not fine," Bruce sighs tiredly, then knocks on Damian's door.
"Damian, are you there?" The door opens to reveal your brother. Damian was wearing a suit expensive enough to impress, but simple enough not to look weak. You nodded silently, admiring your brother.
"Father, I'm ready to meet… your adopted children," he says, but it's obvious he struggles to pronounce "children."
Your father nods. "Okay, fine, follow me and don't kill anyone, please," he says as he turns toward the stairs.
Damian takes a step ahead while you follow a step behind him.
"Guys, these are the new members," Bruce points to Damian and you.
You saw a lot of people you already knew from their profiles; you knew every part of them from their other identities, but you didn't know them personally.
A tall, thin boy approaches you. You recognize him as Richard Grayson, Bruce's first adopted son, also known as Nightwing.
Richard smiles, arms open. "Finally, I'm meeting you! B told us a lot about you—"
Richard moves forward to hug Damian, but you react like a spring. Without thinking, you step between them, pushing Dick hard.
"Keep your distance," you say, standing between him and your brother.
Richard quickly becomes concerned and waves his hands in a peace gesture, smiling nervously. "Whoa, easy, kiddo. I just wanted to say hi."
"Tt, your lack of protocol is pathetic," you hear Damian say mockingly. You imagine that for him, the mere fact that Richard is there makes him even more unworthy than he already is. You realize that Damian didn't correct your movement. He didn't say "Enough." He just let your body continue to protect him… like in the League.
Richard raises an eyebrow at Damian, who was standing behind you.
"Protocol? This is a family dinner, not a royal audience."
You raise an eyebrow after hearing the word "family." It was as if they didn't see Damian as the heir.
You watch as Richard tries to extend his hand toward you, which surprised you because he was trying to give you a Western handshake, which in the League would be a gesture of equality.
Your muscles tensed as if his hand was on fire. You took two steps back, the thing you had hanging behind you bumping into Damian's shoulder, but you didn't care. No one touches the Heir. No one touches you. "Don't touch me."
"…Okay, okay. No contact. Got it." Richard turned his palm up, as if showing he wasn't hiding any weapons. "I just wanted to know your name."
"Wow, I know B said you guys were intense, but this is—" you quickly interrupt Richard.
"This is the Prince. You're Nightwing. I'm your shadow. No names here." You say, cutting him off, the words coming out cold.
You hear a faint "…Ataullah" behind you, not loud enough for the others to hear, but enough for you to hear.
"I see you're still the same as always." You close your eyes. That voice—Jason Todd, your mother's "broken toy." Red Hood rocks back in his chair, a crooked smile on his face.
"Todd." Damian looks at him with disdain. "Who knew you'd survive long enough to be annoying?"
Dick looks between the two of them: "Wait, they know each other?"
"Unfortunately," you say through gritted teeth, staring at Jason, still remembering their interactions in the league.
"You're not a servant," he said slowly, as if trying to avoid an argument.
"I'm not just his servant, I'm also his shield," you say, looking at him.
"That's the problem, you're more than that," he sighs tiredly, holding a punching bag.
You get upset. You've had this conversation more times than you can count. You're tired, fed up with his insinuations.
"Am I what I am, according to you?" You don't shout, but you do raise your voice.
"His brother," he turns to look at you, but you open your eyes. You quickly look from side to side, trying to make sure Nadia is listening. Saying that so openly would only get them punished.
"Have you gone crazy? Don't say that!" You say, trying to shut him up.
"I've seen them. I've seen how they behave. I've seen the videos, the videos that show their brotherhood," he says, looking at you, not caring if anyone hears them.
Your hands trembled. 'Brothers' was a forbidden word, a fantasy that only existed in the seconds before sleep. "Shut up!" Your voice sounded strange even to you, as if someone else were speaking.
"Also, when no one is watching."
"Don't go on!" You say louder, desperate.
"He called you 'Ataullah.' You know what that means, right? 'Gift from God.' No one calls a servant that." His voice grows louder.
"You know nothing!"
"You treat each other like brothers!" He shouts, echoing in the living room.
"What do you know? You're just a fucking replacement!" You say, glaring at him.
Jason squeezed the punching bag until his knuckles turned white. He knew he was playing with fire, but someone had to break that damn indoctrination. You watch as he turns and walks away, leaving you behind.
"I miss you demon twins too." Jason turns to look at Bruce.
"Did you know I used to kidnap a puppy to show it to Damian?" he says with a hint of mockery.
"Wow, really? How cute." Richard looks at you with a smile, while you look like you're about to stab someone.
"Wow, that's really cute considering he comes from a cult," says a boy next to Jason. It's Tim Drake, third son, also known as the current Robin.
The knife you keep in your clothes is in your hand before you know it. Damian, who notices it, kicks your ankle, a sign you recognize from the league "stop."
Before you can say anything else, Alfred appears, intervening.
"Lunch's ready. Why don't you finish introducing yourselves so we can start eating?"
"Good idea, Alfred," Richard takes the floor, pointing to himself.
"I'm Dick. You've met Jason, the It's Tim, Cass, Steph, and Duke."
Richard points to each of the attendees as he sits at the table, but he can't stop thinking about their nickname.
"Dick? Really? In the League, that term was used for captured spies before interrogation… Is this a provocation?" you think as you look at Damian, who seems to be thinking the same thing.
Jason, perhaps noticing your suspicious look, smiles maliciously and says, "What's up, little brother?" Have you ever seen a Dick up close?"
Steph chokes with laughter. "Jason, for God's sake!"
You think it might be a trick question and decide to answer seriously. "Only those who were about to be executed." You say, completely serious, staring at Jason.
You watch as everyone suddenly stops to look at you, turning into an awkward silence. You don't understand, and Damian seems confused by the tension that has suddenly emerged.
"You'd better sit down, I'll serve you," Alfred chimes in as he enters with a tray.
You see some people already sitting at the table, so you go to a chair and slide it forward, while Damian goes over and sits on it. You then pick it up to place it in a comfortable position so Damian can eat properly.
"Oh, what a gentleman, I want something like that too." You watch Steph laugh as she looks at Tim, who is sitting next to her.
"You're not exactly a princess," he says as he takes a tray. Steph's chair and pulls it back, causing her to shift.
"And you're no good at being a gentleman," Steph stands up to rearrange it, but Cass appears behind her and gestures for her to sit.
She then takes the chair and pulls it out for Steph, who smiles freely.
"Well, thanks, who needs a gentleman when I have you, Cass?" Cass just nods, smiling, as she pulls out a chair, but Duke appears, making the same gesture Cass had made before.
"Shall I help you?" Cass nods as she sits down, and Duke pulls her out.
"See? You should learn from them, Tim." Steph looks at Tim with a cocky smile.
"Whatever you say, Goldilocks," she says mockingly as she turns to look at Alfred, who places a plate in front of him.
Watching all this was… Weird… No one seemed to behave accordingly, and most didn't follow protocol correctly, leaving you in bewilderment.
While the others continued talking, you stood behind Damian's chair, sitting upright and rigid, as you've done countless times in the league.
Duke seems to notice this.
"Why don't you sit down?" he asks, looking at you.
"I'm perfectly fine where I am." Now you seem to have everyone's attention.
"You can sit at the table, you know?" Duke continues talking, but you decide to interrupt.
"It would be an honor to sit with you, but servants don't sit with their masters."
"Pardon… servant? Masters?" Richard says, looking at Damian and you.
"What is this, the Middle Ages?" Steph looks at Tim, who shrugs.
"Just like in the league," Jason says, sipping juice from his glass.
Just then, Alfred appears behind you, placing a plate in front of an empty chair next to Damian.
"Young sir, in this house, everyone They dine seated. Including you." He says in a soft but uncompromising voice.
You blink, looking at him as if he'd just grown a second head. Confused, you look at Damian for instructions.
"But… the protocol—"
"There are no protocols here, you can sit with us." You don't look at Bruce, your attention primarily on Damian.
Damian clicks his tongue, but you notice—you always notice when it's him—a flicker of discomfort.
"Lt. If Pennyworth and Father insist… Sit."
You move the chair where the plate was, sitting on the edge of it, as if you were committing a crime, and you shift a little so you could have the plate more in front of you.
You felt as if something was about to happen, as if punishment were inevitable even though you'd been given permission. You looked at the plate as if it were the curse of all your woes, and possibly it was.
You look at the claw in front of you. Damian hasn't done anything to make you notice he wants juice, but you grab the pitcher anyway. You pour it first, taking a sip of the juice without thinking. In the League, it was protocol: no poison would touch the Prince. After tasting it and not noticing anything, you pour it for your brother.
You noticed Cass tilt her head slightly, as if she understood. Jason snorted, "Really?" Damian said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
"No need. Here… They seem to do these things alone." Even though Damian tells you this, he makes no gesture to stop you.
Cass stares at Damian with a sharp gaze, as if reading his conflict.
You don't really know what you're doing. You know not to poison anything since Batman doesn't kill, but you can't think of any other idea, which is why they made you sit with them.
You decided to observe each of them to decipher what threat each one represented.
With Richard, you sensed a possible provocateur.
Jason was obviously a priority threat.
Tim, tactical intelligence, knew that information from Grandpa's files, and you were grateful you'd taken the time to read them.
Cass, you didn't know yet, but it felt strangely familiar, so you decided to make a mental note of it for later.
Steph is unpredictable.
Duke, you don't know well enough to know, was unknown.
"Do you memorize us? Do you think we're going to poison them?" Jason says mockingly, without waiting for a response from you.
"That's like insulting Alfred." Tim looks at Alfred, who seems offended by the suggestion of poisoning food.
"I beg your forgiveness if my abductions have insulted you, but the prince's safety is my utmost concern," you say, looking at Alfred. You didn't mean to insult him, you just didn't know for sure what they expected you to do. You've never seen this kind of behavior in the League, and you can swear with certainty that Damian feels the same way.
"Don't worry, young servant. In this house, the only thing poisoned is the conversation." Alfred stares at Jason, who ignores him.
"You're still the same as always." Jason keeps talking, and it irritates you. It's incredible how that man could get you so worked up.
"Thank you for the compliment."
"He wasn't a brat," Jason says contemptuously, staring at you.
"Jay—" Richard says, looking at his brother warningly.
"I'm just saying, you're like a lapdog."
"Jason—" this time Tim says urgently, trying to shut Jason up.
"You're so pathetic." Jason doesn't shut up, he keeps talking, as if you're saying those words not only to you, but to himself as well.
"Jason!" Duke butts in, but more to keep the peace.
"I bet you don't know anything but kiss his ass!" His words weren't just for you. He stabbed them into his own chest, as if reminding himself of something… or someone.
"Stop it!" Bruce yells, rising up in his Batman voice. At the same time, a fork and knife are placed next to Jason's head, who avoids them.
All of us, including you, look in the direction of the cutlery, seeing Damian, who is looking at Jason with murderous eyes.
"Shit, little devil! Did the trip make you so emotional?" Jason sneers, but Damian doesn't respond.
No one does, everything is silent.
Suddenly Damian stands up, you do too, then Damian turns toward the door, but for a second, his fingers curl into a fist. A silent command: "Follow me."
You do, and you both walk to the door. When you get there, Damian stops, turns to look at Jason, and finally blurts out, "Next time, I won't miss," before opening the door and leaving with you. But even through the door, you can still hear the chaos behind you.
"This was the worst dinner I've ever seen, and I once had dinner with Connor and Lex Luther."
"And I was going to tell the best twin jokes."
"Master Bruce, I suggest you calm down."
"I need a coffee. One with whiskey."
"Anticipation, sir. The basics of a butler."
But mostly you hear a faint "fuck" and you knew who it was from, Jason.
The hallway to Damian's room seemed miles longer. Every step was a reminder: you failed. You let Todd provoke you.
When you both reach Damian's bedroom, you close the door behind you, then stand stiffly near the door. Damian leans back on the bed, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling.
Damian breaks the silence, his voice extremely cool and calm.
"Tt. Todd is an idiot."
Damian turns to look at you.
"It wasn't a compliment. It's an observation. And stop calling me that when we're alone."
You blink, confused.
"But… it's the right thing to do."
Damian sits up abruptly. "Right? Here? They don't understand. They don't know what it's like to serve… what it's like to belong." You watch your brother's nails dig into his hands.
You lower your voice, almost to a whisper so only your brother can hear.
"…Do you want me to kill him?"
Damian laughs dryly.
"No. Though tempting." You watch as he pauses, then continues. "Father would notice."
You nod seriously, then ask, "So what should I do?"
Damian looks at you as if you were a death riddle.
"Learn. Observe. They're… not the League. But they're not enemies either… Yet."
You clench your fists, remembering what Jason said. "Jason called me a 'lapdog.'"
Damian smiles crookedly.
"Because he's a hypocrite. He was Father's dog first."
Damian gets out of bed to approach you.
"But you… you're mine."
You hold your breath as you answer, "Always."
Damian raises a hand to touch your scar, the one you earned for saving him from the snow.
"Ataullah…" Damian's fingers curl around his shoulder.
"No one will take you from me. Not Father, not Todd… not even me."
Your voice cracks. "…Is that an order or a promise?"
Damian steps back, and in a cool, calm voice, he answers. "Both."
"Yes, hayati," you say as you walk toward the door, opening it but pausing before leaving.
"…What if they never accept us?"
Damian stands near the door. Without turning around, he answers, "Then we'll remind them why fear is wise."
You nod as you leave. When you do, you see a figure turn around a corner. For a moment, you swear it was Cass.
You shouldn't have strayed, you knew you shouldn't. The prince told you to rest, but you wanted to walk, which is why you find yourself in this position now.
You found your father's office, where he was talking to Jason about his behavior. You didn't listen much, but you listened enough.
"That boy isn't normal, Bruce. The League drugged him into believing that only Damian's words matter."
You hear Bruce sigh. "We need time to…"
"What if Damian orders him to kill someone? Do you think he'll hesitate?" Jason interrupts Bruce, and you just stand there, listening.
Bruce doesn't respond. He stays silent. You don't know if it's because he's denying the answer or because of something else.
"Even so, you shouldn't have spoken to him like that. Why did you do it?" Bruce finally answers.
"I don't have to explain myself to you."
"Jason!" You decide not to listen anymore; you're fed up. This isn't what you and Damián expected, what you were used to.
You move away from the door and walk to your room, but you still hear Jason's words, repeating themselves incessantly.
It was cold, there was water everywhere.
The League's dungeons never had any light, not a single crack for light to pass through.
Because of that, the only source of light was the fire from a nearby torch, which was behind the door, which was being guarded by a guard.
The light only passed through the small grates in the door.
You don't remember why you were punished along with Damian, perhaps for speaking so freely on his behalf, or perhaps for not fulfilling your respective titles; you don't know, you don't remember.
You only remember Damian's crying; he wouldn't stop crying. You think it was because the punishment was harsh and this was the end of it, or maybe for something else; you don't remember.
You grab your tunic as you tear them up. Then, with a long piece of cloth from your own tunic, you tie the rags together so they look like two rag dolls. Then you turn to Damian.
"Damian, look, it's us," you say as you twirl the dolls around as if they're dancing.
"Why doesn't she have a face?" His voice sounds younger, almost like a much younger child's.
"They don't need one," you say as you continue twirling the dolls.
"But how will we know which is which?" he asks with great curiosity, his mind completely drained, and you move the dolls around to hug each other.
"We could be anyone," you say. You see Damian laugh, but then the dungeon door opens, revealing a guard.
"What do you think you're doing? You're not allowed to play with toys." The guard snatches the dolls away from you as they approach the torch. Damian screams, asking him to stop, but the guard ignores him, causing the dolls to burn.
Damian continues crying, trying to attack the guard, but he can't because the shackles they're wearing aren't long enough to reach the guard.
"Leave them alone! They're ours!"
"Nothing here belongs to them. Not even their tears."
But you just stand there, staring as the boys burn. They have no faces, which you're grateful for, because if they had them, they'd surely be crying.
You wake up, you're in your room in Gothenburg, you look around, thinking about the dream-memory you saw.
You get out of bed and go to your clothes, then you go to your drawer and take out some scissors, you start destroying your clothes.
When you're done, you see two identical rag dolls, and you place them together on the nightstand, near your bed. They're both lying on top of each other, they don't have faces.
"Maybe that's why I didn't give them faces… so they wouldn't cry."
You know you have a marker somewhere in your drawer, but you decide not to put them there.
Anyway, you didn't know what face to put on them.
Wow! Isn't it long? Almost 30,000 words, or more.
Anyway, I hope you liked it. Thanks for your support so far. I hope to check it out too.
Anyway, if you're still enjoying this miniseries, please let me know, as I have many more ideas to write about this, but as always, you have the final say on whether or not to continue (and yes, if I get support).
I'm going back to college in a couple of days, so don't expect posts as long as this one.
Although it was originally going to be longer, my notes app on my phone only allows a maximum of 30,000 words, and it seemed a bit fateful to leave it here.
I welcome suggestions, comments, etc.
Ataullah: Gift from God, nickname that Damian gives to the reader, for having saved him from dying.
Hayati: My Life, the nickname the reader gives Damian (why? has yet to be revealed)
By the way, I wanted to apologize. Even though I meant to tag people, I didn't. I forgot. I'm sorry. The people I'm going to tag didn't ask me to, but I wanted to do it as a thank you for their comments.
@strawberrycakecake
@strawberru8
@justannie18
@hajimekiyoko
@moraxussy
@riselazarus-s
I don't know much English
