Forsooth, 'Tis A Curse Most Foul
Damian Wayne awoke with a strange sensation in his throat. It was as though someone had rearranged his vocal cords overnight. He sat up in his bed, reaching for the glass of water on his nightstand, and cleared his throat.
"What manner of trickery is this?" he attempted to say, but what came out instead was: "What manner of tomfoolery hath befallen mine person? Mine throat feeleth most strange!"
His eyes widened in horror. This was not how he spoke. This was not how anyone spoke—at least not for several centuries.
Damian leapt from his bed and rushed to the mirror. His reflection appeared normal enough—same scowl, same piercing eyes—but when he opened his mouth again, archaic words poured forth.
"Forsooth! What devilry is this? Hath some villain cast a curse upon my person whilst I slumbered?" He clasped his hand over his mouth, as if that might trap the antiquated speech patterns inside.
Alfred was the first to encounter the transformed Damian as he descended the main staircase of Wayne Manor. The young master was still in his nightclothes, which was unusual for someone as disciplined as Damian.
"Good morning, Master Damian," Alfred greeted with his customary British formality. "I trust you slept well?"
"Good morrow to thee, Pennyworth," Damian replied with a frustrated expression. "I fear I hath been bewitched during mine slumber. Prithee, observe the manner in which I must now speak! 'Tis most vexing, I assure thee."
Alfred's eyebrow rose marginally—the butler equivalent of extreme surprise—but his composure remained impeccable.
"I see, Master Damian. How unfortunate. Shall I prepare your usual breakfast while you sort out this... linguistic predicament?"
"Thy consideration is most appreciated," Damian said, relief washing over his face that at least someone understood him. "I shall break my fast anon, but first, I must seek counsel from Father regarding this most grievous affliction."
"Very good, sir. Master Bruce is in the study reviewing case files."
Bruce Wayne was indeed in his study, dark circles under his eyes suggesting another long night of patrol followed by case analysis. When Damian entered, Bruce barely looked up from his computer.
"Father, I must discourse with thee on a matter most urgent," Damian announced, standing ramrod straight by the desk.
Bruce grunted what might have been acknowledgment.
"Behold, some malefactor hath cursed my tongue during the night's repose! I can speaketh only in this archaic manner, and I require thine assistance to break this enchantment forthwith!"
Bruce looked up, blinked once, then returned to his screen. "Hmm. I'll look into it," he said, clearly not processing a word of what Damian had said but unwilling to admit it.
"Father! Dost thou not comprehend the gravity of mine situation?" Damian demanded, his voice rising. "I cannot patrol as Robin if I must address villains as 'thou nefarious blackguard' or somesuch nonsense!"
"We'll figure it out," Bruce replied noncommittally, scrolling through another file. "Have you told Alfred?"
"Pennyworth is already apprised of mine affliction, and unlike thyself, he comprehendeth mine words perfectly!" Damian crossed his arms in frustration. "Thy attentiveness leaves much to be desired, Father."
Bruce nodded absently. "Good, good. Let me know if it gets worse."
Damian threw his hands up in exasperation. "Verily, thy concern overwhelmeth me," he muttered sarcastically, stalking out of the study.
In the kitchen, Dick Grayson was cheerfully demolishing a stack of pancakes when Damian entered.
"Hey, little D!" Dick said with his mouth half full. "You look grumpier than usual this morning."
"Grayson, thou must assist me," Damian said urgently. "I hath been cursed to speak as though I were born in days of yore!"
Dick froze mid-chew, a syrup-laden bite of pancake hanging from his fork. His eyes widened comically as he processed what he was hearing.
"I—" Dick began, then pressed his lips together, clearly fighting back laughter. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"Mock me not, Grayson! 'Tis no jesting matter! Some villain hath enchanted me, and I can speak only in this antiquated tongue!" Damian's face flushed with indignation.
Dick made a valiant effort to maintain his composure, but the corners of his mouth twitched uncontrollably. "I'm not—I'm not laughing at you, Damian," he managed, though his voice quivered with suppressed mirth. "This is serious. Very serious."
"Indeed 'tis! Wherefore dost thou smirk like a court jester? Mine plight is no cause for merriment!"
At this, Dick lost his battle with self-control. A snort escaped him, followed by a cascade of giggles that quickly evolved into full-bodied laughter. He clutched his stomach, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
"I—I'm sorry," he gasped between fits of laughter. "It's just—you sound like—like you're auditioning for a Shakespeare play!"
"Thy behavior is most unseemly, Grayson!" Damian fumed, his hands balled into fists. "A true brother would offer aid, not ridicule!"
Dick tried to compose himself, wiping tears from his eyes. "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath, but then Damian's scowl triggered another round of chuckles. "Have you—have you told Bruce?"
"Father pays no heed to my words," Damian said bitterly. "He pretendeth to understand, yet I discern that he comprehendeth not a single utterance that passeth from my lips."
"That sounds like Bruce," Dick admitted, finally regaining some control. "Okay, let me help you. We should try to figure out what caused this. Did you touch anything strange yesterday? Ancient artifact? Mysterious liquid?"
Before Damian could answer, Jason Todd sauntered into the kitchen, leather jacket thrown casually over his shoulder.
"What's with all the laughter? Someone finally tell Bruce his Batman voice sounds like he's gargling gravel?" Jason asked, heading straight for the coffee pot.
"Jason! You won't believe—" Dick started, but Damian interrupted.
"Todd! Perhaps thou canst assist where others have failed. I find myself afflicted by some manner of enchantment that constraineth my speech to this antiquated form. Hast thou any knowledge that might prove beneficial to mine predicament?"
Jason turned slowly, coffee pot in hand, and regarded Damian with mild surprise. Then, to everyone's shock, he responded without missing a beat.
"Well met, young master Wayne. 'Tis a curious affliction indeed that hath befallen thee. Pray tell, when didst thou first notice this transformation of thy speech?"
Dick's jaw dropped. "Wait, you understand him? And you can do it too?"
Jason shrugged, pouring his coffee. "What can I say? I have layers, Dickiebird. Not everything I read has pictures."
"Thou art well-versed in such speech, Todd? I confess myself astonished," Damian said, genuine surprise evident in his voice.
"Let's just say I've spent quality time with Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet," Jason replied with a smirk. "Pride and Prejudice is my go-to when insomnia hits. Which, given our night job, is pretty damn often."
"Thy literary predilections have never been disclosed to me before," Damian observed.
"You never asked, demon spawn," Jason said, sipping his coffee. "So, what poor soul did you piss off this time to get yourself cursed?"
At this moment, Tim Drake shuffled into the kitchen like a zombie, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hadn't slept in days. His hair stood up at odd angles, and he moved directly toward the coffee pot with single-minded determination.
"'Tis Drake, looking as though death itself hath warmed over," Damian commented dryly.
Tim didn't even look at him, just grabbed the pot Jason had just put down and poured himself a mug. After downing half of it in one go, he finally acknowledged the room's other occupants with a grunt.
"Tim, you'll never guess what's happened to Damian," Dick said, excitement in his voice.
"Drake, I hath been ensorcelled! Mine speech hath been transformed against my will!" Damian announced.
Tim stared blankly at Damian for a long moment, then turned to Dick. "Is he doing Shakespeare for a school thing or something?"
"No, he's been cursed! He can only speak Old English!" Dick explained, barely containing his amusement.
Tim took another long sip of coffee. "Technically, that's not Old English. It's more Early Modern English with some medieval affectations thrown in. Old English would be completely unintelligible to us, like 'Hwæt, we gardena in geardagum' and stuff."
"Thy pedantry is unwelcome, Drake," Damian snapped.
Tim just shrugged. "Whatever. I haven't slept in 72 hours, and I need to finish analyzing these blood samples from the docks case." He refilled his mug and shuffled toward the door. "Let me know if you start speaking in actual Old English. That might be interesting."
"Drake's indifference to mine suffering is most vexing, yet entirely predictable," Damian muttered.
"Now, little princeling," Jason said, leaning against the counter with an amused expression, "pray tell us how thou came to be in such a predicament. Didst thou perhaps vex a witch or wizard? Or perchance handle some cursed trinket without proper caution?"
"I engaged in no such folly!" Damian protested. "I retired to mine chambers after patrol and awoke with this affliction!"
"Did you patrol anywhere near the museum district last night?" Dick asked, finally getting serious about helping. "There was that exhibit on medieval artifacts that just opened."
"Indeed, I did pass through that vicinity," Damian acknowledged. "Yet I touched naught that might bear enchantment."
"Are you sure?" Dick pressed. "Nothing at all? Maybe something brushed against you?"
Damian's brow furrowed in concentration. "There was a moment when I did stumble upon a street performer outside the museum. A woman garbed in strange attire who claimed to read fortunes and cast blessings. I may have... expressed skepticism regarding her abilities in a somewhat forceful manner."
Jason burst out laughing. "Oh man, you insulted a street witch? Classic rookie mistake, kiddo."
"I merely suggested that her profession was naught but chicanery designed to swindle the gullible masses," Damian defended himself.
"And let me guess," Jason said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, "she said something cryptic about teaching you to mind your tongue?"
Damian's sullen silence was confirmation enough.
"Well, mystery solved," Dick said cheerfully. "We just need to find her and get her to lift the curse."
"In the meantime," Jason added with a wicked grin, "I'm going to enjoy every second of this. Please, continue telling us about how thou art suffering, young lordling."
"Thy mockery cuts deep, Todd," Damian grumbled.
Alfred entered the kitchen with his usual impeccable timing. "Master Damian, I've taken the liberty of researching your condition. It appears you encountered Madame Vornheim, a performance artist known for her elaborate 'curses' that typically involve sophisticated hypnotic suggestions. Her effects usually wear off within 24 hours."
"A day? I must endure this manner of speech for a full day?" Damian looked horrified.
"Indeed, young sir. If it's any consolation, her techniques are quite remarkable from a psychological perspective," Alfred commented. "Now, shall I prepare some breakfast for you? Perhaps some poached eggs and toast?"
"Thy counsel brings me some small comfort, Pennyworth," Damian sighed. "And yes, eggs would be most welcome."
"Very good, sir."
As Alfred busied himself at the stove, Bruce wandered into the kitchen, focus still on the tablet in his hands.
"Alfred, have you seen the toxicology report from the Hanover case? I thought I saved it to the—" He stopped, noticing the gathering of his sons. "What's going on here?"
"Father! Hast thou finally decided to heed my plight? I remain afflicted by this most vexing curse!"
Bruce stared at Damian for a moment, then looked to Dick with a questioning expression.
"He got cursed by a street performer," Dick explained, struggling to keep a straight face. "He can only speak like he's in a Renaissance fair for the next 24 hours."
"Ah," Bruce said, clearly still not comprehending Damian's actual words. "That's... unfortunate."
"Unfortunate?" Jason repeated incredulously. "It's hilarious! Listen to this—hey, demon spawn, tell Bruce what you think of his detective skills."
"Father's prowess as the world's greatest detective is beyond reproach," Damian stated proudly. "Though at present, his attentiveness to mine affliction leaves much to be desired."
"See?" Jason said, grinning widely. "Comedy gold."
Bruce frowned slightly. "I assume Alfred has the situation under control?" he asked, clearly hoping to extract himself from whatever was happening.
"Indeed, Master Bruce," Alfred confirmed. "Madame Vornheim's hypnotic suggestions typically resolve within 24 hours. Master Damian need only wait it out."
"Good," Bruce said with a curt nod. "Damian, take the day off from patrol. I can't have Robin addressing criminals in... whatever this is."
"But Father! I am perfectly capable of performing my duties as Robin! My combat skills remain unaffected by this linguistic curse!"
Bruce's brow furrowed as he tried to decipher Damian's protest. "I think he's upset about not patrolling," he guessed.
"Your powers of deduction are truly remarkable, B," Jason said sarcastically.
"Look, Damian," Bruce continued, ignoring Jason, "it's just for one night. We can't risk confusion in the field."
"He's right, little D," Dick added more gently. "Imagine trying to coordinate with the team when you sound like you stepped out of a Shakespeare play."
"Forsooth, this injustice rankles sorely," Damian muttered, crossing his arms.
"I think that means he's not happy," Dick translated unnecessarily.
"I gathered that much," Bruce said dryly. He hesitated, then awkwardly patted Damian's shoulder. "We'll... work on your vocabulary tomorrow."
With that, Bruce retreated from the kitchen, still searching for his missing toxicology report on his tablet.
"Father's departure brings me no sorrow," Damian declared. "His comprehension of mine affliction is sorely lacking."
"Cheer up, young squire," Jason said with a grin. "At least you have me to understand thy flowery speech. And think of the pranks we could pull! We could record you talking like this and use it as your new voicemail greeting."
"Thou wouldst not dare," Damian hissed.
"Oh, I most certainly would," Jason countered gleefully.
Alfred placed a plate of perfectly poached eggs before Damian. "Perhaps it would be beneficial to view this as an opportunity, Master Damian. Not many in the modern age get to experience the eloquence of Early Modern English firsthand."
"Thy wisdom is noted, Pennyworth," Damian conceded, digging into his breakfast. "Though I fail to see how speaking as if I were courting a maiden at Queen Elizabeth's court shall benefit me in any way."
"Well, for one thing," Dick said, having finally composed himself, "it's giving us all a good laugh, and that's always valuable in this house."
"Indeed," Alfred agreed with the faintest hint of a smile. "Levity is a commodity often in short supply at Wayne Manor."
"Besides," Jason added, "now you can insult people so eloquently they might not even realize they're being insulted. That's a valuable skill, young lord."
Damian considered this for a moment. "Perchance thou speakest truly, Todd. If I must endure this affliction for a day's time, I shall endeavor to make the most of it."
"That's the spirit!" Dick encouraged. "And hey, maybe this will give you a new appreciation for classic literature."
"I already possess ample appreciation for the literary arts, Grayson," Damian sniffed. "I am not uncultured, despite what appearances may suggest."
"Never said you were, little D," Dick replied with a warm smile.
As they continued their breakfast, Tim shuffled back into the kitchen, empty coffee mug in hand.
"Is he still doing the Shakespeare thing?" he asked no one in particular.
"Verily, Drake, mine affliction persisteth," Damian confirmed irritably.
Tim just nodded, refilled his coffee, and turned to leave. "Cool. Let me know when you're back to normal insults. I'm going to sleep for either 20 minutes or 20 hours, not sure which yet."
"Sleep well, Master Timothy," Alfred said. "I shall ensure no one disturbs you."
As Tim departed, Damian sighed deeply. "One full day of this torment. How shall I endure it with dignity intact?"
Jason clapped him on the shoulder. "Fear not, young Wayne. I shall be by thy side throughout this tribulation, recording every moment for posterity... and blackmail."
"Todd! Thou art a scoundrel of the highest order!"
"Why thank you," Jason replied with a mock bow. "I do try my best."
Dick finally lost his battle with composure again and dissolved into another fit of laughter, nearly falling off his chair in the process.
Alfred simply continued serving breakfast, his expression serene as always, though those who knew him well might detect the faintest twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
As for Damian, he resigned himself to his fate, though he silently vowed to find this Madame Vornheim once the curse was lifted and explain to her—in perfectly modern English—exactly what he thought of her particular brand of street performance.
For now, however, he would have to content himself with plotting revenge in the language of Shakespeare and Austen. And perhaps, though he would never admit it aloud, there was something rather satisfying about the elegant flow of such refined speech—especially when using it to insult Drake.
"Prithee, pass the salt, good Pennyworth," he requested politely. "Mine eggs require seasoning."
Despite everything, it was shaping up to be an interesting day at Wayne Manor.
