Nesting Fears
I made this fic based off my dear friend @yys002's art! Check out her blog(the art below is hers)
He was walking in a dream, fading memories echoing around his lucid consciousness.
There were voices around every corner, whispers of his loved ones, honeycomb promises behind unending walls. He was trapped in the manor, wandering up and down its lonely halls.
Dick tried to enjoy the experience, a sleep beyond nightmares was rare for him, if he remembered it at all. Life had thrown him too many dangers to rest softly, though he’d come to terms with that reality long ago. He was too proud of his life; what with the people he’d helped, the lives he’d saved, the friends met.
He missed his parents more than the world, but if they were forever doomed to die—-there was nowhere else Dick would rather be. Being Robin honored their memory in a way that doing circus tours for the rest of his life never could, to turn his tragedy into a force for good--Dick knew they’d approve.
So why did he feel so uncertain? Why was he so afraid?
Dick put his hand on the shadowed wall, his fingers flat against the ancient timber. A sigh of passive exasperation left his incorporeal form, the strain of his worries weighing harder on the young vigilante than any physical hardship. The manor had contorted a direction through his memories, winding corridors of past glories and future anxieties.
It’d taken him through miles of it, or so Dick assumed. Dreams tended to play fast and loose with reality, the forest infinitely more important than the trees. Dick just wished he’d wake up already, but it seemed that wasn’t what his subconscious had in mind.
The room shifted around him, a blurring mass of colors and whirring sounds that passed as soon as it arrived. Dick didn’t feel alerted by this special change like he would in the real world, staying in a plain state of confused discomfort.
He recognized the room he’d landed in immediately, foreboding sinking into his chest like poisonous worry. Cautious in his step, he approached the lone statue-head in the center of the rectangular room--more fit to be a windowed coffin than a place for the living.
The marble carved features of Thomas Wayne stared back at him, set on a similarly expensive pillar-- confirming Dick’s worst suspicions.
This was Bruce’s study.
There was history to the room, an importance that lent it a weight closer to crime alley than simply a place where the Wayne family liked to read. Bruce had told Dick close to everything there was to know about his mission, about Batman, including where he’d originally gotten the inspiration for it.
Dick looked back to the head of Thomas Wayne, the stone where his pupils should be staring daggers into his being. Righteous judgment radiated off it like smoke from an SOS flare, a wordless indignation towards Dick being in his presence.
“I don’t know what you want from me, I don’t even know why I’m here,” Dick said, disregarding the insanity of choosing to talk to a lifeless statue. He chose to not look it in the eyes, opening the curtains to observe the rolling greens of the Wayne estate.
Dick tried to enjoy the view, his mind’s admittedly imperfect recollection of his childhood home, as the imaginary sun slowly rose on the distant horizon. He closed his eyes, grasping at some sense of peace in the half nightmare around him.
“You know exactly why you’re here, boy.”
Gone as soon as it came, the silence overtaking the room shattered, the rumbling baritone of a voice unknown acting like a sledgehammer thrown across softened glass. It’d caught Dick off guard at first; as deep and guttural as trigon, the avalanche-like vibrations of each enunciated word a death sentence in its own right.
He looked to his left; at the only thing he could imagine as the source of the noise.
The Statue spoke again, it’s stoic expression unmoving, it’s lips motionless:
“Bruce should have never let you join his crusade, a child has no place in war.”
Dick gritted his teeth, aggravation flaring like hot fire within him, figment of his imagination or not--hearing the same tired spiel of Bruce’s boneheaded arguments made him want to scream.
“Oh put a sock in it, rock pile,” Dick said, looking the statue dead-on, “If you can’t even come up with your own points, then there’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind.”
A laugh roared through the air, it’s intensity like an earthquake to a withered coffin; shaking the room so violently as to carve gaps in the floorboards and throw books from their shelves.
Dick struggled to stay afoot, his trained grace doing little in the fantasy of the dream.
“And yet you argue with me still!” The Statue laughed, “I’m not here to convince you of anything, little bird--only to remind you of a truth you so pathetically avoid.”
The condescending tone clicked all the wrong buttons for Dick, draining his vast well of patience to an exceedingly shrinking pool of agitation. He wanted to be as far away from the manor as possible. He’d prefer the worst patrols in Gotham, the deadliest missions with the titans, at least then he’d be doing something productive.
Not this.
“And what truth is that, oh hallowed prophet?” Dick leered, sarcasm etching his sentence’s end, “Go on, what cold truth do I need repeated? What wise wisdom of the batman have I forgotten? Is the eighteen-year-old apprentice still too young to be taken seriously?
The Statue remained impassive at the surface, betraying the hostility it so flagrantly spoke with, “Quite the opposite in fact. You are an apprentice in name alone, what use does Bruce have for a student he cannot teach, nor listens to his orders?”
It pained Dick to admit, but the statue, whatever part of his mind it represented, was right. Bruce and him didn’t need one another anymore, and that was a knife to his heart that kept on twisting. He was quiet for a tense few seconds, his fists balled and breathing slow.
“Batman and Robin are partners, we’re a team...he knows that,” Dick muttered, his hot anger turned to frigid vulnerability.
He waited for a response, the risen moon beaming through the glass, shining bright his open fear.
“Nothing lasts forever, even the brightest stars fade,” The Statue said, “Bruce knows this more than anyone, as should you.”
Dick tilted his head, disbelief plastered across his face, “We don’t just lay down and accept it! Bruce calling us quits isn’t gonna stop me from helping people. I’m not a kid anymore, I can make my own decisions.”
“I find that hard to believe, boy wonder, when you spend so much of your time tracing his footsteps,” The Statue said, holding it’s views like a scalpel to Dick’s life, “Robin is no more his own hero then when you were eight years old, or leading a team of second-rate sidekicks that pales in comparison to what your mentor helped create.”
The insult at the Titans salted the already bleeding wound, Dick’s emotions bubbled to a chaotic boiling point--no one hit his friends without going through him first.
“Keep the Titans out of this, or I’ll kick you off that pillar myself! We’ve earned our place, time and time again,” Dick said, his volume nearing a yell.
The statue didn’t waver, if it was bothered by Dick’s threat--it hid that fact well.
“Your defensiveness merely emphasizes my point,” The Statue explained.
Dick’s squinted his eyes, his stance tense and rigid.
The Statue continued to elaborate, dispassionate as always, “What is the tale of a squire without their knight? What is a son who never surpasses the father? You must grow beyond these trappings of youth, not retreat within them.”
“Robin is my creation though,” Dick stressed, motioning his palms to his chest, “It’s the last thing I have of my parents, of my history...Who am I without it?”
The question elicited a hum of laughter from the statue, baritone and rebounding, though without malice, for once. Dick’s cheeks flushed red, embarrassment at his open vulnerability like salt on a bleeding wound.
“Am I to hear that the Flying Grayson is afraid to take a leap of faith? Is it not defiance of fear that creates the heroics you so revel in?”
Dick sheepishly rubbed his arm, “Well when you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“The path you walk, you’ve known it’s course for far longer than your visit here,” The statue said, “The confusion you face in regards to the future is temporary, if you still have the bravery to persist.”
“Then what is this conversation supposed to be?” Dick asked. “My subconscious motivating me to keep going?”
The Statue said plainly it’s clarification, “Close, but no cigar. That moment will come in a short while; any moment now, actually.”
Dick shook his head, puzzled and uneased, “And what that’s supposed to be?”
“A taste of skies yet flown. You’ll see.”
Before Dick had the chance of questioning the statue’s cryptic answer, an invisible force had thrown him on his back; the shrill cry of a beast sounding life or death danger in his pained eardrums.
He struggled to regain his composure, his heart-rate jumping to his throat as he watched spider webbing cracks infect the floorboards; the noise of the unknown beast quickly reducing the room to literal splinters.
The dream was quickly becoming a nightmare, that much was plain to see. Dick swallowed the lump in his throat, the primal fear heightened by the reality around him coursing shivers from head to toe. He pushed past it, the courage of all his years dancing away from death’s grip reminding him of his true strength.
Dick pulled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth in concentration. Real or not; He’d never turn tail from danger, nor the future. The view from the window pane had brightened to an immeasurable degree, a near blinding wall of sunlight swallowing the space that the manor’s land had formerly occupied.
Another cry broke the air, just as earsplitting and hope-stopping as the last, but this time Dick could see the source...and it was flying right at him.
The creature was monstrous, an ever changing avian patchwork of leather-stitched sinew and brown and gray feathers. The details to its appearances were like a mirage, changing at the slightest glance, blending into a variety of patterns in the seconds of it’s current flight path.
Dick watched the bird in amazement, aware of the danger it presented and finding himself unable to move; completely mesmerized and terrified in equal measure. It molted it’s feathers to new patterns in ways that made Dick want to jump out the window and join it.
It roared again, it’s callous beak now a rallying cry for a cause that Dick felt deep in his heart. He blinked and it’s coat had darkened from the humble colors of the robin; the kiss of a midnight river drenching it’s dozen foot wide wingspan, adorning sleek slings of golden pride on it’s chest.
There was beauty in the change, the transformations from one mode to another. For every reinvention there was horror lost, a terror thrown aside. Dick couldn’t help but admire that, envy it’s adaptation to something more.
Dick blinked again, the large talons of the bird mere inches away from the fragile glass.
It’d changed once more, molting it’s dreamlike austerity to streamlined nobility. Darkness drenched it’s form, the touch of the space holding stars; yet it did not consume it. There was light in it’s eyes, grandness in it’s purpose, freedom in it’s flight--Dick looked into the brilliant sapphire streaking it’s breast and found hope, not despair.
He found a symbol he could believe in, a soul that longed to soar as much as his own.
Dick had found something more valuable than anything in the skies and wonders above.
As the glass shattered, and the bird’s mighty talons embraced him--Dick understood what it was.
And he was never letting go.