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tw: self-esteem issues, typical implications of trauma and emotional neglect, allusions to self-harm.
you had always been a good kid.
you didn't have a consistent a plus, and you most certainly don't always win awards, let alone shower in a streak of gold medals and thick paper announcing your spot as first place. you're not the picture-perfect kid aunties will brag about and compare their other children to. you're not always refined, as a child born into the streets of gotham, bound to be rough around the edges—
but you were good.
and your momma always told you every night, in her hushed whispers and cuddling arms, after her sweet lullabies harmonizing with the hums of your broken fan, that it's alright if you're not the greatest; as long as you're good.
she taught you manners, to always respect everyone around you, your elders, strangers, even children your age, because blessings always come in the form of good faith if you're kind.
you believe her, of course you do, she's the only person you had in your life, the only person you needed. you should've never desired for anything else; what else could you wish for if not her love and presence only?
she's enough for you, and you're enough because she tells you too, with her siren-like eyes softening when she gazes at you with only love encrypted in her eyes, her once seductive smile plastered all over wanted posters now beaming with joy at having you in her arms rather than inauthentic pursuits of attracting men around her.
you always followed through with her words, because you love her and it's no doubt that she loved you more than enough too, too much that she had to continue on with her prostitute lifestyle to provide for your little family, too much that it was the reason why she had to be killed off in the first place.
because of her, you chose to be kind, you chose to lower yourself, to never raise your voice higher than those around you, to be humble, and to never show when you're at your limit, even to others closest to you other than your mother.
you remember so little of her the more you age, you grasp on straws just reminiscing on every moment spent with her.
"a good kid," she says, her voice almost a tantalizing memory threatening to drift away, "won't finish first, but fate will always make sure that they never finish last. so choose to be good, alright, baby?"
"yes, momma," your reply came in curtly, tiny fingers playing with the ends of her hair, without moment's hesitation, or doubt in the meaning of her words.
because her words are god for someone like you, because she is your mother who always knew what's best—
because she is your mother, and you may not like her for who she is as a person, for all the wrongs she did in the past before throwing it all away to raise you; but you love her either way, and follow whichever path she leads you to like a little duckling...
a good kid doesn't finish first, but they'll eventually get what they always wanted, right?
even if they wait for weeks, months, years; fate will find a way...
so why can't you have you have what he have right now?
why, just why, are you always finishing last?
why can't you receive the same attention tim did when he was first introduced?
elegant, poised, a rich boy with millionaire parents who had so much to spend, standing proudly and confidently at the doorstep of the manor, as if he had already belonged the moment he stepped foot into the staircase. thirteen year old, older and taller than you, better than you.
the memory is still clear as day, because it was the same day you had bothered alfred to update you on your offer to hang outside in the gardens with your father, only for the butler to look down at you with the same sympathetic eyes and tired smile, retelling you in his familiar excuse that bruce is busy.
'papa is busy,' the words echo in your brain in a mocking tandem, you wish to bang your head on the kitchen's mahogany doors at another attempt rejected. you wish to rip at your hair like you always do. but you can't, you just can't because alfred is in the same room as you, aged hands patting the delicate strands atop your head. you feel disappointment, you always do, then it's shame; shame because it's always alfred who has to witness your bated breaths and spilling tears at another day wasted alone—!
shame because this always happens, it's like bruce never wanted you in the first place; he probably doesn't even think you exist.
but of course, your young brain reasons, your father's always busy when it comes to you, only you.
his timetable consists of mourning his dead son, handling wayne enterprises and juggling his philanthropist career. when will you ever be worth enough that he places you in the same pedestal as all his other obligations?
and back then, you thought every night he spends missing are nights spent with multiple women— back when you've not known of his identity.
yet the point stands still, his missions do not relate to whatever situation stands before you now.
why?
why is it him to who answers the door to tim, the young boy's piercing blue eyes looking up at your father in a challenging gaze? whilst you stand, restlessly in a corner at the scene that unfolds before you. why is it him, who at first makes bruce hesitate, yet still take in the boy holding the camera, hand on his back to guide him inside, as the boy speaks cryptic words you couldn't fathom as you watch behind arch of the living room?
your blood curdles, heart starts to pound out if its gilded cage, and you feel your body buzzing in pure, unadulterated envy, the sole emotion you feel clawing its way into your vision; you see green, you can't see anything else but the scene before you. shaky breaths, blurry vision, balance barely stable as alfred could only offer a pat on your back and his pitying gaze on you.
no words, not even comfort, the manor seems dark again, everything feels as if it's closing into your body and devouring you whole.
why, why, why?
the questions circulate, the memories resurface all the time at just how easy it was for tim, just how he didn't even need to beg to have your father, yes, your father to keep his eyes on a boy whom he have only spoken once in his lifetime.
tim doesn't need alfred to relay a message, he doesn't even need to hesitate being in the same room as the man who seems always a mile away from you, who could never look down even when your fingers come up to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, just like how you did with your mother's hair, all in the name of getting him to see you.
but you're not tim, you're perfect, you never will be.
it hurts, everything hurts when a stranger, someone like tim had the opportunity to talk to bruce, you never had any—!
even if you're always good, even if you always tried to succeed in your academics, your extracurriculars, your everything, even if you always try...
... the moment timothy jackson drake stepped into the manor, the moment his shining blue eyes, almost twinkling like yours when you've been first introduced, stared analytically at the man you called father, was the moment it piqued his interest; was the moment you knew that being good doesn't equate getting what you always wanted:
the attention of a father who chose to cope with grief in another new robin partner instead.
to be bruce's child first, rather than an afterthought later.
ever since then, ever since tim came into the picture, it was harder to gain bruce's attention. even alfred was divided between you and your seemingly divine... brother who just decided to take your place, who will soon be bruce's third child, erasing your name off of his memory.
being good was not enough, being great didn't even compare— your mother's words seemed easily overshadowed by the gnawing jealousy at just how wonderful your new brother is, at just how similar he is in regards to bruce, but different and also infinitely better than you.
it was the first crack in your fragile, glass heart after it had been wrapped in thousands of bandages from the heartbreak of your mother, it was the first rip at the seams at the already lacerated wounds that emotional neglect has left you.
from the days, weeks, months, you couldn't recall, trying to form some sort of interaction with bruce, dick and now even tim, instead of having alfred be your medium of communication.
from the cold, rainy nights spent with just your thin blankets and fading memories of your mother to soothe you from the nightmares that relishes in your fear.
imagining what it's like having your father speak words of assurances in a dull, almost alien-like tremor (you've never even heard his voice up close before...) comforted you at first, but now it became thousands of hushed whispers wishing you were never born in the first place if it meant your trepidation would end.
and it would've been better, the dread that buzzes restlessly under your skin could've been satiated if tim had even the decency to acknowledge your presence. but just like bruce, god, just like dick who had easily accepted the smart, academically talented boy as his own sibling— you're still amounted to nothing to be even considered worthy.
good, but not enough, not worth the effort of being greeted every morning, not worth the time spending small talks with. even dick, the athlete who once promised to ditch some patrols in bludhaven in passing moment's as an excuse to swat you away, have now opted to bother the newest addition to the family, forgetting that it was you who idolized him the most—
even if it was tim who met him at the carnival first, before dick's parents had died, going as far to dedicate the entire act for the boy— it was you watching him through the broken down television too, legs swinging back and forth on your springy, dusty couch as you doodle him doing stunts, talking to you because he meant the world to you too after you realized he was considered a brother to you.
tim met him first, yet you did so too, but as his younger sibling instead...! so it's unfair, it's unfair, everything is so unfair. tim and his stupid fucking goals of helping your father cope, your father, not his, his parents are alive, your mother is gone, goddamnit—!
it's all unfair. your mother says the world treats good kids like you right, so why...?
... what else could he want? what else does he want to take away from you?
and how could you blame him...?
he was perfect in the sense that you aren't. he was what bruce needed: a reliable pillar of support, stubborn enough to deal with the stress piling up with the loss of his second child, qualities that couldn't be seeked in you even if anyone tries their hardest to squint past that once wide-eyed, vulnerable exterior of yours.
all they could see is a broken child, but not of their own. they could offer you sympathy, pity at just how terrible your past came to be, but that's what every child of gotham goes through. not even witnessing your mother's last gulps of breath would be unique enough to pique their attention. they couldn't possibly see you being part of their family, never.
you learn quickly, that the world has always been unfair, that sometimes, your mother's words aren't always right, not always the best. you need to be better than best, but you couldn't.
so you still chose to be good still, because what else could you do? who else could your identity be outside of the morals she had taught you?
that's who you always are—
that's who you always will be.
always the lesser one. always the forgotten muse and the unspoken poetry.
because that's what good people are, always belittling themselves for others, always allowing the bigger people to step on them like ants. to crush on their hopes and dreams like the crumbs of bread that spill onto the sides of a pavement.
tim is a good person, it was why he wanted to help bruce in the first place, but you couldn't also forget the fact that he's the perfect son for bruce too— that's the main difference between you both. you're worlds apart. he's naturally smart, almost flawless both physically and mentally, and helps slowly but surely fill the hole in bruce's heart unlike you who realizes that you'll only deepen it instead.
and you're a good kid, you're his good child, you wish you were his kid.
you're kind but never the greatest, talented but not good enough.
and that's who you'll always will be.
just a person defined by their worth, by the words of their mother. just a kid with nothing more than a smile to offer, no matter how strained the side of your lips are, no matter if the tears threaten to crawl out your eyes like spiders the longer your presence get ignored—
you're good, but you'll never be good enough.
... so what made you better now? what made you worthy now that all their eyes are now on you?
you wish it was easy to answer, but life's always unfair to a good kid like you.
has anyone ever noticed why the wayne manor has been so dull lately?
why don't the blooms stand so prideful in the gardens nowadays? surely, alfred's green thumb could fix the problem, but it's been months and the most eminent scent that fixes upon their nostrils could only be obtained if they sniff hard enough to smell fresh flowers amongst the scent of mud after rain or wet concrete.
why does titus seem so down these days? damian tried to play tricks with him; his beloved pet only replied with a loud, high-pitched whine in reply and lay languidly at velvet carpets with a bone on his slack jaw. his owner noticed how his tail seemed to wag less the more the days passed by. and damian isn't stupid, but he notices how titus, with the addition of alfred the cat, would often frequent sniffing and lay on a spot damian's familiar with; one he's sure a certain rival of his would only sit upon whenever they'd hide from him.
why have there been fewer homemade baked treats in the pantry? hell, they seem to lessen every single day someone opens the pantry. wasn't it alfred who baked them? was there a thief who had been stealing, or was the steady decline not mere coincidence? nobody else took a hobby to baking, since they've all been frequently absent, prioritizing their patrols and mostly taking the cookies and crinkles at the end of their shift, munching on the treats all for themself. alfred hasn't definitely been taking a break and refuses any offers to, yet the lack of goods was noticable, and whenever alfred bakes, it doesn't quite share the same sugary, or savory goodness the past deserts have been sporting.
why has there been silence, one that so ominous, for months? dick swore he'd often hear someone conversing through doors with alfred. at first he assumed it would be tim, or cass, but with how feeble and meek the voice was, yet talkative and light with an accent he's sure he heard from bruce. yet he dismissed the implication of another presence in the room. but as of current, he misses that strange voice that speaks of stories about highschool drama and friends for terrible influences.
has the rooms been lacking of music lately? tim frequents the soft, buzzing hums his hyperactive form hears from across the living room or near the fireplace's burning embers. sometimes he'd be lulled to sleeping whenever he hears specific melodies. he'd listen so often that he even managed to recognize his favorite tunes with just a single note, eyes slowly closing every time he's in close proximity with that unknown voice, conditioned to finally sleep like a pavlovian dog. tim has been losing sleep these days, eyebags frequent in his eyes. he misses the music, he misses his only saving grace during restless nights with even energy drinks and bitter coffee being ineffective.
why has the dust been collecting off the bookshelves of their library? whenever jason visits the library, there would always be fingerprints he'd find on certain books, one he'd pick up and come to enjoy reading. some were collections of series, others being short novels. the ghost that graces him these recommendations, who sometimes even brings new books, hasn't been in the library for months now, and he's skittish the more he visits the manor each time. the library was his sanctuary for all the moments he'd have fights with bruce, or felt too deep into his traumatic anguishes. the tastes he shares with this lone stranger who visits the library at different lapses than him was now gone, and he's noticed the anger that pangs deep in his chest every damn time dust has been collected off of books, with no fingerprint in sight.
just, why has it been so silent lately? both physically and figuratively. no music dawns their ears, no hinge of the fridge being heard throughout the night, or at least the faint mutters of an unknown whispering.
these were all unsaid questions buried deep in the minds of the people under the roof of the manor. now the only things they could feel were the heavy knocks of the rain on the window and the cold sensation of tiled floors on their already covered soles.
it wasn't noticable by chance, but it could be felt by everyone, both inhabitants and visitors.
and the answers lie simple: it's a secret.
they're the deals you make when you want someone to keep their mouth shut close, they're the things you swear your life to to never confess upon. they're the unsaid statements which helped torment a certain child under the roof of an already lonely and ghostly manor.
sometimes, secrets don't take in the form of someone making one up, but rather, it takes in the form of an unspoken agreement, a pact with your surroundings, an untold promise with nature or the things around you.
you were never particularly secretive with your talents, for arts, baking, or anything that takes in the field of creativity. you kept to yourself, and don't bother anymore to annoy your family to look upon a sketch only to be dismissed, or to taste the treats you hide by a pantry for later consumption; but you loved it still whenever alfred gave you the creative liberty to stroll around the manor to decorate the bleak place into a less melancholic version of a gothic abandoned house by the forest, left with only the legacy of a long-standing family.
it was just, you never find it necessary to tell anyone why there's a charcoal portrait of alfred hanged in one of the uncrowded hallways, or why the colors of the walls change momentarily, or why certain colors of flowers were more present by the garden than other colors— so maybe you could consider that a secret.
and it made you feel less lonely, if even by a fraction. yet you don't know it, but your acts of service to the manor was what made the family enjoy their stay a bit longer, was what made them appreciate the backdrop of a new wallpaper they had thought alfred had chosen, or find the designs of resin furniture adorable.
you don't know it, but you were what made mundane living enjoyable for those who seek to relish in the sheer feeling of adrenaline instead.
when you were first taken into the manor, you were the reason why all their senses were stimulated. tiny, malnourished you couldn't keep your toes in place once you've been exposed to a new, more bigger environment.
back then, the manor carried this atmosphere of darkness, a reflection of bruce wayne's grief after his beloved parents' passing away from his arms. yet you took that pain, and turned it from its bleak, grayish colors, to an intimate, fluorescent glow. a soft, bright light emits from one of the random rooms, with custom-made beads dangling about and glow in the dark stickers that litter the room. it was one not too blinding to the eyes, and felt warm like the touch of a mother to their crying child.
your cooking of sweet treats were the ones they often like to fight over. it was through alfred's secret recipes he bestowed upon you, and your own alterations for your baking, that the kitches would always smell of cinnamon, brown butter, and caramelized sugar. it was because of you that you made the manor smell sweeter, more homey, like what would've smelled of an apartment during christmas eve. you've made them associate the kitchen with both famous, foreign, and local recipes that they came to love. steph loved it whenever she'd stumble upon a cookie decorated with purple, cass finds the ribbons on some cupcakes cute, associating it with ballet.
every time bruce, tim, or dick needs a place to destress, they often visit rooms with sweet humming or the occasional singing. it was sometimes gibberish, others with lyrics, yet pleasing to their ears all the same. it reminds them of their mothers' singing, whenever they'd knit or praise their precious jewelry. it makes bruce's stiff posture slacken, finding that odd voice sometimes sharing his talking habits through the lyrics they sang. dick would always sing along, feeling as if he was back in time with his mother playing with his hair as she sings circus music, and tim would close his tired eyes, laying his head on his hand as he dreams pleasant scenarios for once in his life.
although you never once felt any of their embrace, they've certainly felt yours in their hearts, minds, and sometimes even their body; a spiritual connection they've felt with you without even knowing it. the last time damian touched you was when he pinned your wrists to your side. and even if he tried his hardest to ignore the raging beat of his heart, screaming at him to release you from the tight cage of his grip, he refuses to. out of sheer anger and petty spite, or the desire to feel the skin of his sibling who struggles to let go from his hold, he doesn't know. but he certainly does remember how your palms lack callouses unlike his does, and how warm your touch felt, even if blazing with cold sweat from his threats.
he had remembered the smell of your sweat and even the taste of your tears by accident and committed it to memory.
it was through your indirect care that everyone felt loved and cared for, and find themselves enjoying the sweet, small moments of living within what was once a stuffy manor holding painful memories.
and nobody knows why — with the exception of dick, bruce, and damian now — that despite the batcave being filled with the entire family, it felt empty all the same.
well, not entirely empty, but bleak with color. every hue remained gray in their eyes, the pipe leaks were eminent, heavy breathing was evident all throughout. no music catched on to their ears, and they all remain skittish and rigid.
it seems as if everyone has catched on, that they're all holding their breath together as the leader of the group, batman, looks around to do a silent head count.
after all, he told both dick and damian to update the family that this meeting is urgent, and no one shall even bother ditching, or else they wouldn't get to the bottom of your disappearance without all the help they could receive.
in a race to get you, they need to burn off all resources or god help bruce because he'd run himself crazy searching for you.
alfred doesn't want that happening, but he understands.
you're important, and no one could dispute that fact. after bruce had gone through your all your diaries, your sketchbooks that he had to pry away from damian's possessive hold, and the box of belongings that you left that he stashed away in his office— he knew he couldn't just leave his child out in the streets of gotham.
you're his child, and a damn child of his means his responsibility. either he likes the obligation or not, it's his duty to protect you from the harm of living in such a dangerous city. and you're certainly not a vigilante, he'd already ran through multiple recent investigations before everyone came rushing down to the batcave to confirm you're not connected with any bad guys; which was good, and bad news.
that means you chose not to undergo the same, dangerous path jason chose, or rebel like damian, yet at the same time you must've been incapable of self defense.
and he knows that even if you fight with normal moves; without his guidance against a gallery of brutal villains out to destroy batman or anyone related to bruce, you're dead meat. bruce doesn't want you dead. the only times he wants to hold you in his arms were the ones unconnected to you laying limp with your last breath, no. he wants you alive, and well, and safe from harm.
his precious baby, his treasure. he wants to see your face in one piece, and he wishes cradle you in his arms. just because you're over eighteen doesn't mean he's fully lost you. he's your father, first and foremost, and your hero second.
that's why it's imperative that everybody follows his orders now, with the primary order being that everyone, under the guise of currently not holding a mission, is required to be in the batcave within the first thirty or forty-five minutes of the announcement. no, there's no excuses that should be said, or buts. this meeting is a priority meeting, and as vigilantes who fight for the safety of their city's citizens, they know not to disobey.
and as family members related to bruce's precious second youngest, it's an obligation for them to care as much as bruce, dick, and even damian does for the search of your disappearance.
though apparently, jason couldn't get that message, and didn't bother to update through comms over where he's at the opposite side of gotham, his devices turned off after he had recently gone off in a rebellious tangent yet again about bruce's refusal to mercilessly slaughter the deserving ones.
he'll lecture his second child soon after he reports to bruce, mentioning your safety on the line while at it, but right now?
right now he needs to address the elephant in the room: the overbearing anxiousness and antsiness everyone collectively feels, bruce's stern eyes replicating the anger, the surge of energy he feels to exact vengeance on every crime that litters the street, the same urgency he felt compelled to drown upon right after his parents have died right in front of him.
whilst alfred's knowing ones stare at each and every one of the culprits of your disappearance, all a direct reason why you had left in the first place.
someone sighs, and it's not bruce who speaks up first amongst the crowd of vigilantes.
"so what now, father? are we all just going to stand here, or are we going to address the main issue? or do you want me to be the one who brings them back home? i wouldn't mind finding them before all of you do."
"this is not the time to be... you, damian, we're all....we all need time to think." it was dick who spoke next, with a sense of urgency, as his eyes that tried his damn best to stare at damian softly, with a smile to accompany it, immediately plasters itself back on his phone, spamming your phone with messages damian was sure were all about him begging for you to take them all back. without any fights, without any hesitation.
ever the pacifist, one would think. but everyone could see wide blue eyes, glinting at the screen. begging for mercy for such a lost case, tears nearly rimming his eyelids, lips bitten raw as blood drips down his quivering chin.
cass could read his movements, she knows he's mad. but not even a master of body language is in need to know just how much dick's rage emanates off his body.
fingers clenched on his phone, teeth gritted as he spoke, eyes frantically searching through messages, scrolling up, then down, as if he's waiting for something. for someone no doubt.
tim deduces that the person they're focused on for this urgent meeting was the same person dick was trying to text. 'must've been related or close to us if it means it's this important for everyone to be involved.'
he'll look through dick's phone later to solve the itching case, his fingers twitching to whip out his side in the batcave's screen and make a new case file.
but he chose to ignore it for now, they all do, each one focusing on their primary worries.
"who's them? wait— what even are we gonna talk about?" duke's voice rang loudly through the cave. it at least broke through the tension, bruce's tense shoulders sagging in relief then suddenly reverting back to its old, rigid pose.
everyone noticed the action. they're trained individuals after all.
barbara flinched through her seat at the sight of the man, with her hands readily available to type at the keyboard. though her eyes stay glued at batman, looking deeper and noticing his fervoured state.
it's as if he is lost in thought.
and with just how much thoughts were racing in his mind, it's easy to drown. to get lost in that mirage of memories trying to link an image of you to anything he tries to remember. even now, bruce wants to see your face first and foremost. he wants to see an image of you sleeping in your tiny, creaking bed, and to erase any of those memories to replace it with new luxuries he could provide you in life; a comfort you should've been blessed with the moment you entered the double doors of his manor.
his string of pearls, his little treasure.
"(name). they left, and i need all of you to listen to me, now. rebuttals later."
when bruce spoke up, gruff and domineering, with no room for anyone to speak back, all eyes were now on him.
dick throws his phone across the room, ignoring the shatter of the pure, aluminum branded back of it. his foot was jittering, and his voice was as ready to command orders with bruce.
blue eyes stare, vicious and hungry, impatient at its prime. with the addition of damian's green, squinted ones, and bruce's stern glare, thundering and clouded.
it was a spectacle to witness the same emotions coursing through their veins. as if they're one and the same; vultures feeding off the feeling of need and urgency to actuate what seems to be an already brewing plan on the trio's part.
the rest, unknowing of what had just occurred half an hour ago within your bedroom, listens.
they ignore the gnawing feeling of intuition, of something, right at this moment, going wrong, just to hear bruce's explanation, with dick and damian butting in.
they listen, fascinated about you being bought up, a name so foreign yet familiar, a mystery in their eyes despite having met or seen you occasionally; a glimpse of you running through hallways or painting in the garden.
they listen, and all the individuals let deep, feral emotions fester within them the longer they allow their ears and their mind to devour the words dick says, all syllables a symphony of praises towards you, each vowel accentuating his favor.
they listen, and learned.
whatever happened within the batcave, is also a secret.
you have your own secrets. they have theirs.
except, yours were discovered, and they choose to let emotions brewing deep in their hearts as obscured within public view.
tim wants to search for you, steph joins in on his sentiment too. barbara's already at it whilst she types and listens in on bruce's words, cass ponders about your invisible presence and just like bruce, tries to think of memories of you stumbling by her, and duke just as much attempts to picture your face and remembers something sentimental; one he'd ponder on later once he's alone.
now they all know your secrets, not everything, but a semblance of it. they discover their neglects, and acknowledge the consequences. why throughout their stirring arguments, they all couldn't find your handmade night-lights that they like to look at during the dark, or smell the baked crusts on your home-made pumpkin pie recipe, or the humming of random music through the halls.
because you've never once visited the batcave—
and it was the only room not graced with your courtesy, care, passions, and love.
they listen to bruce's plan, yet they ignore the growing dread.
they ignore why jason is radio-silent all throughout too.
instead, they focus on you, trying to reminisce on old, buried memories they at least spent with you. good ones, not the ones containing your meek begs, and heartbroken gazes. or the ones where you stood in the corner of a room watching them talk. or the times where you all had dinner together and you're left in the wake of silence despite the chatter filling the dining room.
... and once they couldn't muster anything up, they figured on creating new ones instead.
warm.
this place feels so unnaturally warm, that it seeks shelter under your skin. warm, yet welcoming at the same time.
...where are you?
your bleary eyes slowly open, blinking gradually, squinting out the streaks of white in your vision. it's always a hassle to wake yourself up. sleep has never been peaceful for you: always awoken by nightmares, or tormenting paralysis, sometimes mere insomnia causes you to lay awake and sweating in your tiny room. and your dreams always has to involve your family, one way or another; of course it's always about them, they've been your only source of life despite never being there for yours. but now? now you feel like you've had a complete 9 hour cycle of sleep, with no hint of fatigue in your body.
you've never had any proper sleep. ever since you saw... you saw her dying that it never registers within your mind just how deprived you are of rest, constantly haunted by memories you wish you just could... forget. but you couldn't, not when your beloved mother is the only precious reminder you have in life to stay alive.
your arms, arms that were always sore, in twisted positions, bruised and with faded scars from all the times you felt too impulsed to hurt, the only way to forget the mental torment you've gone through; now lay atop cozy sheets with no pain bared, no extra sheen of sheen on sweat. your fingers stretch, you caress the pillows your head lays on, cold to the touch against your warm, uncrying face.
it feels nice, feels crisp against your skin. your ears don't burn and you don't feel the need to flip your pillow to the colder side.
a yawn slowly escaped your lips. you lick them, they're not chapped, nor dry. they don't feel bitten, nor streaked with blood. you lick again, there's no familiar sting, nor the taste of blood that seeps against cracked skin.
'this is strange.'
you feel unusually relaxed, your breathing's oddly steady. there's no scent of smoke and pollution invading your nostrils, no shadow of doubt cloaking your mind.
you don't feel like dying today.
it feels so nice, the weather's so weird... pleasant. but this? it's not normal, gotham has never felt so quiet today. there has never been a time where you wake up feeling so... human. this is not routine. you're not used to this. god, everything's so strange and yet...
it's been so long since you last felt like you were... home. wispy streaks of particles dance under the soft light that beams outside of crooked, wooden windows. it casts an angelic glow on your surroundings, unlike the shrouded darkness you're accustomed to.
your eyes do a double take, churning mechanically at an angle where you can clearly see the glass panes.
"hm?" windows that always fog up with polluted specks of dust, now clear, and bright as day. it feels like the sun is kissing your skin through the light that enters the glass, you feel the at ease as your bones crack comfortably, and your muscles stretch without ache.
and you...
you're laying in a thick mattress that buries you in deep burgundy sheets. blankets wrapped around your body like a welcoming hug, you're reminded of your mother yet again.
your heart thumps rhythmically, not erratically this time, no— you've never felt so invigorated. it's been a while since you slept in a comfortable bed, in a comfortable setting, with a comfortable atmosphere. not the sound of blades hit your ears, nor the honking of cars, or ringing of phones. wherever you're laying didn't feel stiff like cardboard back in your apartment, the pillowcases are cool to the touch. your clothes don't encase you uncomfortably tight, there's no random thread that persists on irritating your skin.
it feel so oddly peculiar, so comforting, and you want to cry.
you feel light, airy even. there's nothing but the buzz of empty warmth that encapsulates your entire body. you're not used to this, this disgusting feeling of comfort, you don't think it's real.
only one response enters your mind, the only thing you're accustomed to.
'i don't deserve this.' your thoughts drown you into a deep sea of anguish, but the dichotomy of comfort and pain stirs you into satiating confusion. this is the first time you felt blessed, the first time you wish you were good enough to feel like you're worthy of deserving such goodness in your life.
suddenly, you feel like crying, but no tears escape your eyes, and your heart refuses to beat out of its cage. you're in a trance that refuses to release you from its comforting hold.
the hazy tune of birds chirping snaps you out of your deprecating reflection of your life.
when you squint and look out the windows once more, you make out a faint reflection of green, dominating the entire view second floor view of what is supposed your home.
for the first time, you don't feel fear reminiscing on that earthly shade of color.
you're in a... forest.
your nose picks up on the scent of the damp, green, grasslands. your eyes makes out the scenery outside, droplets of water slowly dripping on tall leaves, the rivulets travelling from blades of leaves to nourished, wet soil. it produces this stimulating smell, one you haven't been able to experience for months living in the polluted air outside the windows of your apartment.
petrichor.
you don't know what, or how, or why this is happening.
all you know is common knowledge, something perceived through senses and observations. you're in a cottage, yes, the interior layout is filled with personal trinkets you know you would've bought with money if you even had it, and furniture suited to both you tastes and your mother's... but otherwise, nothing else.
other than memories of a fantasy you shared with your mother, back when you were innocent to the cruelty of the world, of gotham and its merciless passions.
"XX/XX/XXXX, entry no. 23.
i remember one conversation i had with my mother.
it was about something related to where would we choose to live if we had the choice. she asked me that, out in the random, and that took me by surprise to say the least.
huh, during that time, i never knew her intentions for my answers.
i answered her sincerely, told her that, well, i wanted to live in a comfortable cottage, with two floors and a spacious bedroom for me, with hers right beside mine; so she can keep all the monsters away when i got too scared living by my own.
i wanted fairy lights strewn on the roof of my room, and matching glow in the dark stickers of stars and constellations with hers, just like the ones we have in our quaint apartment. i told her it wouldn't be complete without the mini figurines on top of raspberry colored cabinets, the ones that i loved to collect whenever we thrifted at stores, and most importantly the picture frames of us together.
she giggled at my reply, and told me it was such a 'me' thing to choose what i had said. but i retorted and told her she'd choose the same thing. and she said i said what exactly was on her mind.
thinking about that memory now, i feel warm despite the fact that bruce forgot to attend another parent-teacher conference again this week. every memory of my mother... tugs at my heart, both painful and nostalgic. i miss her.
if my momma was here, she wouldn't even hesitate to pull out of whatever side hussle she had for a job at the first second i'd mention something about my school. she always prioritizes me as her only child. it makes me feel special, and loved, and cared for— i haven't felt that in a long time. i won't lie that alfred's presence helps but a mother's love precedes all essence.
i love her so much. i wish i never took her for granted.
now that i think about it too...
if my momma was here, we could've been in that cottage right now, living our lives, carefree, without nothing to worry us. whether it'd be food in our plates or money to pay the bills. we'll always be happy with mushroom foraging and sitting by the warm fireplace i pictured, with her homemade hot chocolate by the table. she'd be nestled beside me, keeping me warm. that's enough to make me happy, enough to dismiss the heaviness in my heart as i write this.
i wish we were at that cottage right now, forever actually. i don't need a big family, all i need is my mom. and sure we'll have some arguments along the way but it wouldn't be as bad as, well, damian threatening to draw his sword on me and stab me at the heart every second i made him mad, which is always...
funny thing is... fuck, i never noticed how she was saving up money and starving herself whilst simultaneously keeping me well-fed so she could pursue my dreams of actually getting a cottage. i was so oblivious to everything that i just, i never noticed that she was earning all this, to build my dreams, so we can escape from gotham and live new lives with each other by our side.
she was doing all this, for the sake of my comfort, my happiness, my everything. she lives her life with no breaks, and retired from her previous job as a... sex worker just so i can live normally, so i wouldn't be ashamed of being her child, of seeing her as my mother. she was everything i needed in my life. she sacrificed, and i took it for granted.
and i wanted to scold her so badly; doing this for such a lost cause as me. it hurts to think about it now.
so what if i wanted a cottage? what about it if i'm now living with my father, huh? i don't care about living comfortably at all, if that meant i didn't have mother by my side, to support me, to actually love me, then what is a house all worth for??? all i wanted and needed was her, just her. and they took me away from my mother.
my mother.
your heart breaks at the seems whilst you write that faithful night, the grip on your pen near to leaving dents on your finger. if it draws out blood, then so be it. your handwriting turns unintelligible, strokes not knowing where to end. what once was clean, white sheets of paper now crumpled by your despair, by the tears that escaped your eyes, by your fists balling at the paper, all your emotions boiling down to mere grief.
if bruce mourns for jason, you do so too for your mother.
yet you continue to write, and write, and write. it's the only medium of comfort you have, the only means to treasure memories long gone, heartaches and comfort all a coagulation of your retreat to the real world.
if dreams can come true, then you wish the fantasies of your mother being with you comes alive, that she'd be by your side, taking your pen away from your hands, kissing your sweaty forehead and matted tresses, assuring you she's fine. she'll smile with crinkling eyes, and set your quivering hands to a stop, then wrap you in her arms, shielding you away from the burden of living without her.
if you were her flower, then she is your hearth. the only warmth you'd feel in such a cold manor, the only one capable of dipping her hands into your chest, taking your beating heart, and melting off the frigid locks that kept your love in place ever since her death.
only then can you say that dreams do come true, only then can you rest; close your eyes without praying for a dreamless slumber, without nightmares, without swords piercing your body, or the dismissive turn of your family's back on you.
but if dreams do come true, what does that say about nightmares?
only reality can tell.
or you can tell.
at you current state, seated restless on your tiny room with barely any illuminated moonlight guiding your tired body, tormented by both past and future, writing endlessly on journals soon to be forgotten— wouldn't that be considered a nightmare? to be subjected upon unwanted isolation, from the very same people who promised their lives to protect lives such as yours.
your family, your father, brothers and sisters. through empty promises alone; all enough to destroy you inside out.
talentless, worthless, out of place.
yet even if your diaries were all torn apart, pages seeping with both blood and tears, you still write.
you write, and you continue through your endeavors. what once were fond memories were the same monsters chasing you through barren halls and empty rooms.
after all, it's the only way to honor her passing, even if it kills you all the same.
you continue, wiping at your sullen cheeks, and brushing away ripped strands of hair; pen inseparable from stubborn, swollen fingers.
now i'm living here, in this big manor, with nothing going on for me. i have alfred, and he's like a father figure right after mom, but it doesn't change anything... it doesn't change the grief i feel, the sorrow, the unwaning depression. nothing. i couldn't even get myself to stand up from bed because i'm so fed up with everything.
if i didn't try so hard in the first place, i would've never been left this destroyed.
i want to give up, i want to die and just disappear off the face of earth. no one would notice, and at least after i die, i would be reunited with her— but I can't. why?
i have to remind myself everyday. i just can't give up and let all her efforts go to waste. she doesn't want me dying, earlier than her age, too. she told me i couldn't just let go so easily, that life is beautiful if you try to find its hidden beauty. i'm still trying to find meaning in all her wise words, i can't just take her honor for granted, especially since i know that despite everything, she has her own anguish and regrets.
does she regret having me?
right now, i feel a spark of motivation. she's been saving up, just for me, and i want to honor her memories at least. if i can't feel like home in this manor, then i'll make myself a home. to honor her, and to build upon both our dreams.
i don't know when, or how i could even engage in this impossible goal. but for momma? i'll do anything for her, even if it means working myself to death. because at least that means proof that i tried, and she'll be proud of me in the afterlife. god, i hope she would be.
we'll get that cottage soon, momma. i promise."
thinking about it now, that was ten entries right after your breakdown during your birthday. it was at a period of time where you fully accepted that you'd never be loved by your family, that you never belonged, and matured just as quickly after taking a break from writing self destructive diaries.
you sigh, looking down at your clenched palms and indenting fingers on skin. you really wish she was here. it could've made everything better, you would've been better if she was by your side.
a knock ensures before your door, and that alone snaps you out of your thoughts. you jump in shock yet feel no pang of panic in your heart, but before you could reach out to defend yourself, the door opens after the prior knock, and your...
your mother enters.
angelic, glowing, beautiful.
she's decorated in a white dress, with a pearl necklace decorating her neck, glinting like diamonds, soft in its assertion. like an angel, rather than the devil she's portrayed to be in the newspapers she hid from you.
she looks beautiful, as always, breath-taking to the point it makes you wonder how you share the same genes as her.
but her beauty now precedes her beauty from when you last saw her bleeding in the cold tiles of your apartment. now, she looks old, yet ethereal. wrinkles flecked her skin, her eyes drooped at the lids, her hairs displayed streaks of white in some areas.
you've never seen her like this.
she had you very young, and you've lost her young. yet she looks as she's rebirthed now, living yet aging like fine wine.
she is happy, and content with her smile, and looks at you with a radiant grin, smile marks on her sunken cheeks, like you mean the world, walking towards your seated form as she hugs you weakly, yet lovingly.
warm, like the spring's gentle blooms, like the feel of petals rubbed against your fingertips.
you're caught breathless.
"momma...?"
beauty that is true, that is honest, and speaks of history. beyond the barriers of photos you see in her at her prime, when she was known as a 'man-eater', a lustful creature that steals from rich to survive.
you've never lied when you said your mother is always going to be the most beautiful woman in the world.
at least, in your eyes. because if she objectively was, then your father could've, should've stayed with her, for the sake of his pride and reputation at the very least. he could've had her by his side, even through a loveless marriage, if it meant it ensured her safety.
you dismiss the bitterness the brews inside you, and opted to focus at the strange, yet welcome circumstances beforehand.
your hands find a way to wrap around her crouched figure, fingers lingering on the once sinewy bones of her spine, now healthy even through the sagging skin.
"my baby..." you look up at her, her hands holding your head so tenderly, cradling you side to side.
"momma..." she kisses your forehead, then both your cheeks, and takes a seat beside you. when she did, you felt a surge of energy and warmth burst throughout both your body and heart. for once, you felt giddy, solitary confinement all but a dream in this fantasy land.
you don't let her hands go for even a second, fearing this moment will be taken away from you. there's warmth emanating off the fingers intertwined with yours, you wish this moment never ends.
the questions that almost left your silken throat took hesitation. you just can't ask why she's alive, where you are and why you're here in the first place; for fear she'll be taken away from you, that you couldn't see her beyond the conjured and brief memories you had of her.
you wish to cry once again, this time, you let out a small hiccup and feel saliva bundling on the back of your mouth. she hums in resounding worry, her other hand swiping away at the hair covering your wide eyes. the softness in her eyes doesn't falter, and she hums a familiar lullaby: one that triggers nostalgia, that reminds you of the days spent without electricity in your tiny apartment with her lighting a candle just so she could read you another one of your favorite stories, huddled beside her.
the last you've heard of her voice, it was parched and inaudible. she always sacrificed for you, and drinkable water was a privilege in the shady parts of gotham.
"you're probably wondering where you are and why we're here, aren't you, sunshine?" she cuts her singing off abruptly, your eyes snap open to look up at her through your eyelashes.
"... y-yeah," your reply comes in, voice barely whisper. unsure and insecure of where this conversation will go, you chose to bury your head in her shoulder. she smells of ripe strawberry and cherries, unlike the mixture bold perfumes mixed with the stench of booze she comes home with after another night of restless endeavor. yet you don't acknowledge the memories of the past, you're here with her now and it's all that matters.
"where are we, mom? am i... dreaming? please, i- i miss you." this time, your tears come out in a steady stream, but your throat doesn't constrict in itself, and you don't feel the urge to rip at your hair at anymore.
now you're just terribly sentimental rather than bitter. no more was the jealousy that aches, or the panic rushing through your veins. it's just you and your mother, and the memories of her passing that buries you at the hilt of your sadness.
"well... you're in the realm between life and death, my little angel," she states with lidded eyes, as if it is a matter of fact. her hands move to scratch your scalp, she hums and swings your crying body side to side, akin to a mother cradling her newborn baby.
you felt particularly reborn, the sudden change affecting you more than you'd like to admit. the light outside your window casts her in a sheen of white, glimmering like rays of the sun, or like the twinkle of the moon.
even if she was old, and grey and wrinkly, she's always been ethereal.
and you're convinced that she's the angel instead.
"you've been through a lot, haven't you?" her questions brought you out of your tearful stupor, she brings her lips to kiss at your forehead and wraps her palms on the sides of your face, wiping away at the waterworks refusing to cease.
all you could do was nod, and feel the warmth reflecting off her body, transferring all to you. even in the plane of death has she always been generous.
"i-i... i don't want this to end, momma..." you utter, gazing at her ever-smiling face. there was a faint translucency in her body, as if her form is slowly disappear. and for a second, you feel fear that she'll disappear. fear that dissipates just as quickly when you hear her heavenly chuckles.
"...baby, i'm here with you right now in because i want to remind you to choose the path to live. it's too early to die right now, it's too early for my baby to join me in the afterlife." her words are too complicated to comprehend with how muddled your thoughts were, her saccharine actions feel like a forbidden touch, and you just couldn't comprehend why, just why does she want you to live...
when there's nothing else left for you in the realm where she's not around.
"but i... i don't understand...? why can't, why can't i be with you, mom—?"
"because unlike me, baby, you have so much to do. i've nothing left of me to offer when i died, baby... at least now, at least you'll find that you're still always loved, even when i'm not with you."
she cuts you off with a hush, pinching your cheeks before another wave of tears and quivering hiccups escape your befuddled body.
but you can't afford to let her go a second time, you can't go back—!
you don't want to be back in that damning structure you call a manor, you don't want to watch your father from a mere corner shrouding himself in the pits of darkness you know you couldn't carry, you don't want to return to begging for dick's attention as he turns a blind eye, you don't want the pitiful stares from tim when he's in the same room as you, or duke, cass, and steph's hushed whisper whenever you pass by, plans being made without your knowledge, without acknowledgement of your presence. you don't want to be blamed by damian for even being born in the first place. you don't want anymore uncelebrated and silent birthdays anymore, or milestones celebrated with just a fucking cupcake and a pat on your head...!
you want your mom, you don't want your other family, not anymore...
even if... even if your disappearance paved the way for a new shift in interests in your family's mind, even if you're now unknowingly the center of attention after months of the manor's solitude without you; just like you had always wanted— you're tired, and you've long since given up and grown from selfish and unrealistic desires of a completely healthy family.
if you could even call them that wretched title.
if you could even consider them as one like how they never did you.
the tears return just like the pain you were temporarily barred from, now it's a waterfall that threatens to throw you off of your escape from the reality of life, stinging your eyes and falling on crumpled sheets as your fingers grip uncontrollably for a sanction of control. from what? from the fear that now is the moment that you'll truly never see her again, not even in your memories.
"... momma, please, stay—!"
but right before you could reason out, desparate words crawling and jumping out your heaving chest and into the spiraling room, right before you could beg her to stay closer with you with her flickering warmth for just a second further as her body slowly dissipates from her hold on you, as your vision darkens and you hear that faint, familiar murmur of gotham's bustling motorcycles and alleyway screaming—
her last words, full of assurances, just like the day she tucked you in that little closet and made you promise that you'd stay silent for her, sacrificing her life just so she could protect you; it grounds you into your spot, restless, broken, and chasing unsaid words to tell her before you lose her once more, and destroys any and all hope for complete, and utter happiness you forced yourself to truly believe.
"... i love you, my sweet angel. be good for me, alright...?"
and just like that, your eyes blearily open to find itself into a completely foreign surrounding yet again.
and this time, it is real and unwanted.
'jason todd, a good soldier,' were the words marked and engraved on his tombstone. buried under the healthy soils of the manor, he felt as if his presence was forgotten all the same.
it was true, he was a good soldier. always obedient, always listening and mirroring bruce's orders, even though he grew up in the ratty streets with a drug-addicted mother and an abusive father, when he was picked up by bruce and lead into the vigilante life with the beaming potential to combat even dick; jason was always the good kid, who, even if he became a tad bit rebellious on the years garnering on teenage life, died honorably for the safety of his biological mother who betrayed him.
jason todd, always the boy portrayed as a warning sign for all the future robins, always the child remembered as just that: a soldier of batman, the kid of bruce who died unfairly; the truth of his death, the truth of joker's fucked up foil to destroy the bat's mentality even further all for a good laugh, hidden beneath restricted case files and bruce's suppressed emotions— all left unattended, just for him to be replaced by another new robin; a telltale signal that felt like bruce was trying so hard to repair the broken fixtures jason left behind.
the implication itself felt as if the world is laughing at his heroic acts, never acknowledged beyond the faults that lie on his stubbornness; a learnt trait all robins grew into once they've been taken in bruce's care.
he must've never been a good kid if life decided to take him away, when his youth was at an all time high, when all he wanted to do was meet his real mother, and to save her even when she had left him to die with explosives laid beside his beaten body.
was it his fault that all he ever wanted to do was to make his father proud? what was wrong with being a hero, being robin with his magical passions?
jason was never the spiteful man everyone assumed him to be. he was never rebellious, or thirsting for vengeance, or came to hate bruce as much as what everyone else thought of when they'd first hear his name.
even when he was revived in that sunken pit of hell, nineteen with a seventeen year old soul, feeling his once lanky body too tall, too big for him to flex his fingers, to kick with his now muscly legs, crying and screaming under all the madness of forcefully having his soul be reunited with his body after two years of peaceful rest.
and when he had returned to his senses, when he discovered that there were two new children running around the manor, one a product of a one-night stand, the other donning the identity of a new robin, did jason become the spiteful image everyone imagine the young boy came to be from when he was just an impulsive teenager.
becoming alive once more, reliving betrayal after betrayal, watching in the background: never the full story, but enough to feel like he's been replaced— it became his sole duty to torment, to do to criminals what has been done to him, just to teach the bat that his moral code was flawed, was what caused a thousand other souls to be lost under the hands of the puny joker.
all this, just to feel a sense of right in a life constantly wronging him.
yet under all the blood-soaked jackets, the aluminum amoury, under clenched teeth and resentful, dead blue eyes stood a boy who loved. who stole tires to provide for his small family who never truly loved him: a father who beats at his body nightly, a mother who dismisses him in favor of her favorite substances. who read books of all genre— classic his all time favorite, jane austen his beloved author, he loved school, loved learning, jason always came home with an A+ in all his subjects, eternally grateful despite the years of betrayal, of heartache, of shredded photos and shattered picture frames.
who advocated his young life fighting crime, kicking ass beside his vigilante partner and a man he came to call his dad, even though he had all the opportunities in the world to turn rotten like the crime infested streets of gotham. because he was a good kid, too, and a soldier the next.
he was never the violent kind. he was the kid who loved above all else. idolizing dick, bruce, all the good people in the world with shining ambitions that should've never been stained so early. he even told bruce he always wanted a little sibling to care for. he wanted to teach another young, unfortunate child what it's like to share kindess in this shithole of a city.
jason todd was a ball of pure joy, loved by bruce to the point his father could've never moved on from his death, never acknowledging the next traumatized child that came after him, and also tim, too, who he always mistakenly call by jason's name.
jason couldn't see beyond the surface of what he knew, masked by hatred for what had become after two years, questions spiraling hid head that accompanies a darkness he never knew could shroud him like a cloak. bruce used to hide him under his curtain of a cape back when he was a small, manourished kid, his vision overtaken by pure black; but now the older version of him knew what true darkness is like without needing his vision disrupted.
death feels like eternal darkness, a void that devours your vision of all colors, no physical form, no thoughts, but unmoving with the feelings grounding you in place, like hell. and with the shadow of doubt that he was never truly cherished by a man he loved to call his father, that no vengeance took place after his death, jason couldn't fathom the pain greater than what he experienced in that cold, dark warehouse; spending hours hoping that he'd be saved.
how long did it take for bruce to replace him? days, months, weeks?
how long did it take for bruce to move on? was he just an afterthought to the man? was he just a good soldier in bruce's eyes?
and why, just why, does he also blame himself for his own doom? for being stubborn enough to pursue chasing after a clown smarter than him, why does he
... if he had never died, things would've never escalated that far, it wouldn't have created a domino effect that ruined not only his life, but his angel's too.
if he had never died, you wouldn't be bleeding in his arms like he did too in bruce's.
... except unlike him back then, you want to simply die now.
jason's passing was not only his guilt or bruce's, it also marked the start of your treacherous journey of thirteen and a half years living in silence, in fear and in constant yearning after your mother's death, for a love so passionate from bruce like the one he gives to all his other children but you.
for a love he had given all up for jason that he never had any to spare to you.
bruce never gave you what you wanted, what you practically needed. all in favor of mourning the passing of his second child, his son who achieved more than the levels you knew you'd never reach. you were never the desirable child, because as good as you were like jason, as nice as you could be, or talented— nobody could replace the hole that jason left within bruce from when he left the world.
you both were good kids, but jason was infinitely better.
when you were first introduced to the manor, jason assumed you and tim replaced him, he watched secretly after his resurrection, with grim prayers for your downfall 'cause he couldn't attack you like he did tim in the tower because of your civilian status, your involvement towards batman was close to zero.
you were a young child, you knew nothing, and he hates you.
he regrets hating you.
all because he hates seeing himself in those young, glinting eyes. he never realized what he felt was fear, fear that someone like you could end up like him, when he had first obsessively did research on your buried past. your world could've been so easily destroyed by the tips of his finger and he had done so mercilessly until it was too late.
he really hated you at first, but he couldn't do anything to hurt you without trespassing the manor and triggering all the signals and alarms he's sure have been updated by the new, puny little robin. he hated you so much for reasons he couldn't pinpoint, blinded by sorrow, and grief, and every piling resentment built on years of animosity he should've only directed only towards bruce, and never someone as innocent, as uninvolved as you.
you, who he calls his angel after the years of torment you've unknowingly and obliviously suffered under him.
but he was so angered, the darkness in his mind clawed him deeper in a frenzy for revenge, that it overpowered the empathy he felt for when he first saw you, standing alone in the kitchen room with an apple in your hand and a blunt knife in the other. not ready to defend yourself at the sight of him, not even pointing it at him, but inviting the man to eat with you your favorite abomination of apple slices and peanut butter— as if you didn't care about the gun in his hands and the window cutter in the other.
you didn't understand why it was so easy to ignore you. it had been years since you have talked, let alone find yourself staring at a person, that you never cared for your safety as long as it meant that... well, you could have someone to finally talk to, with your parched throat from all the moments of unuse, excitedly addressing him as mr. ghost.
he couldn't do anything, couldn't even stare at you for longer, so he ran away at first glance, and failed to see the heartbroken sigh from you agter and the tears that welled up having your hopes raised up only to be shattered once more.
that sight of you standing under the moonlit night triggered conflicting feelings within him– but it was always the strive for vengeance that took over his life, didn't it? even though meeting you bore solid evidence that you were none the wiser, that you didn't deserve anything coming from you; it was through his sheer dedication to destroy all things cherished by bruce that he never once realized that you were merely nothing to bruce— that he ruined an innocent person's life over nothing.
he resorted to praying for your demise if it meant he couldn't physically hurt you. he focused on tormenting you indirectly before the fire in his raging heart was eventually extinguished.
he was the man you see by the hallways, the monster you thought raptured knocks on your window in the middle of the night, the reason for why some of your old childhood toys would be missing eyes, had loosened stitches, or had their stuffings removed and displaced somewhere hidden you couldn't reach.
a cryptic message that made you run and bury your head in alfred's suit, asking the old man to spend the night with you after another one of your toys was ripped apart. a reaction that made jason scoff at your immaturity; as if the inner child in him wouldn't react the same way.
you were only a few years younger than tim, despite arriving in the manor before him, and jason was stupid enough to assume you had been raised well by bruce that you'd be mature at your age, he was such an idiot to think that you wouldn't be as emotionally affected but rather paranoid of the sudden paranormal activity surrounding you. that the cookies you baked were all left to be crumbs, after just leaving them to cool off for a few minute, the pens you used for journalling wouldn't have gone missing— he thought surely, you'd be broken mentally...
but never this... emotionally.
what he didn't expect were breakdowns right after, hair pulling, the biting of skin and panic attacks after panic attacks.
wide eyes staring at the ceiling, perspiration on your skin clinging on to blazing bedsheets at the lack of ventilation, sporadic breathing, bleeding scratches on your skin like a wild animal.
you cry like one, unashamed of how loud your sobs were for such a parched throat, at how long you've been wailing alone whilst hugging your too-little body, eyes closed and misty, as if it would rid you the images of your wrecked bedroom and missing journals.
yet jason never stops to wonder why no one had came running in your room to save you from destroying yourself even further.
he never wondered nobody bothered to acknowledge your crying every night, continuing on his tangent to destroy everything you loved just to prove a point, that you couldn't be worth the effort for bruce to care enough about, despite the internal conflict he felt ruining an innocent kid's life.
and he didn't even need to prove anything, because you were never worth anything. the longer jason went on without bruce's acknowledgement, the more everything felt wrong, the more he felt like whatever he's doing is torture, not retribution.
he's terrible for what he'd done, and slowly resigned to watching over you instead to ensure you'll slowly calm down after months of his monstrous presence looming over you.
but the damage was already done, and you're left to even smaller, shattered pieces.
and here he is now, watching as you bleed out in his arms, crying and babbling at the pain, yet begging under your breath to "please, please don't call batman, don't call bruce... please leave, please, please, please don't do anything stupid, jay..."
whilst pushing him away, as if scared of him, as if you'd rather death than... than to see bruce dismiss another relayed message regarding you.
even if you're dying, you refuse to undergo the same pain of neglect. even if you're dying, you don't wish to ruin their movie night plans just because you were stupid enough to drink yourself to near death to distract yourself from dick's messages.
all because you've taught yourself that you're never worth the wait, and jason takes blame in partaking the destruction of your optimism.
under the flickering light of the lamppost, your swollen eyes and snot-ridden nose don't pose the same satisfaction he felt when he first ripped your plushie apart, not anymore. all he felt was dread now, that you're bleeding, his angel is bleeding and everything happening is very much real.
he feels a hidden awe, too, at just how ethereal and warm your body feels, despite the light leaving your eyes, the fight slowly being replace by another one of your panic attacks. he holds you still, and stabilizes your body with his strong arms to prevent anymore bleeding, despite the wobbly legs and your losing consciousness.
jason couldn't afford to let you die in his arms, he couldn't fathom just how much he misses your presence.
and now he realizes just how much he hates it when you fear him throughout the entire procedure of calming you down. how you shiver in his gaze, how he feels the pricks of your goosebumps against the thick fabric of his gloves.
you never once feared him when you first met him, it was through your lack of it that he bonded with you, keeping the torment he put you through a secret. even though he makes short and sometimes brash comments with his unfiltered mouth, you'll always find joy in his words because he was the only decent guy around the manor, despite his presence being scarce and sometimes nonexistent.
you cherished him, and god, he never knew how much he cherished you too.
but now you're sobbing and mumbling incoherently about how you wish it was never him who saved you, that it could've been someone else, or you prefer to be left rotting in the damn corner, dead and discarded, if it means it wouldn't be him saving you, for damn reasons he doesn't even know.
why do you hate him so much now...? why does his precious angel look at him in a tearful daze, all desparate to push him away despite the soreness of your body, despite the blood dripping from your lower stomach all the way down to the floor in a swirl of nauseating crimson mess?
why does he see himself in you?
why does he see the same broken child who chooses to care for others than themself?
as much as jason hated to admit it, as much as he said he never wanted to die for the sole reason that he cherished the moments with his father at most—
jason wished he could've turned time back right now, at this instant. he wished he could've been stronger, could've been far more resistant of that damn explosion, that he never was stupid enough to fall for one of joker's traps—
if it meant he wouldn't be suffering from the gripping ache on his chest, from the dreaded claws you call paranoia at the sight of your ice-blue lips and dimming eyes from all the blood loss, your arms still trying to push him to a considerable distance despite him wishing to hold you oh-so tightly, as his fingers, shivering from a familiar panic he felt, try to wipe away at the river of tears collecting at the edges of your dirt-stained chin and wobbly lips, his helmet pressed atop your forehead as if to reassure you, mostly himself that you'll all be alright—
that you wouldn't go through the same route as him, scarred and traumatized after this moment under the moonlit night that watches jason wrap his gloved palms on the back of your neck despite the remaining fight and adrenaline in your body, the other bulky mass of muscles under your feet.
the polluted air bares witness to his hasty breaths, the protective hold that refuses to let go, body automated to run to his motorcycle, stepping carelessly on the bloody carnage of the alleyway's floor (they deserve torture after what they put you through, hell, he'll make sure their burial will be damning to both the police that failed to search you even though they were in close proximity to where you screamed, and the other related lackeys involved in this wretched smuggling crime), to bring you to doctor leslie for an immediate surgery.
jason hopes that instead of hate, you'll still feel a semblance of any remaining love for him instead of aching nostalgia after all this time.
he hopes you could forgive him as it is only now that he realizes how vulnerable you truly are, that despite jokingly calling you his guardian angel, he should've been the guardian, the knight, the man who protects you from all evil as what he calls his morals to be.
why were you even out in the first place? just why were you absolutely wasted? why, why, why does the image of your resigned, and tired eyes the only thing flashing and looping in his mind, filtering out the speeding motorcycle cutting through wind and traffic lanes, ignoring red lights and the loud beeps of the other vehicles before him, the pump of engines similar to the wild beating of his heart, as he speeds through shortcuts after shortcuts to take you to immediate treatment before it was too late.
he takes short breaths, too aware of his surrounding, too deep in thought, he couldn't waste any moments thinking about anything but his angel.
he wishes he could've changed so many things. but you couldn't change the past anymore, you couldn't change the grueling form of torture you call silence for a child who wanted the same type of love bruce had for when jason was alive, who had to deal with the aftermath of jason's death.
and now, as the ripe age of eighteen, still too young, and still bleeding, at the mercy of death.
it never occured to him just how interconnected your lives were together. just how much it was through his passing that affected your life.
he was the first brother who saw you without the need for your cries of attention every lonesome passing of time in the ghostly manor.
and you were the first who stared at him through tear-stained cheeks and diluted irises. not out of fear, not out of haste to warn other members of his growing family of jason's (a stranger in your eyes, no less, with armoured chest plates and a crimson helmet glinting mercilessly in the dark, lightless room only illuminated by the wretched moon, with guns loaded with bullets in his holster) sudden trespass within the kitchen windows, not out of every negative emotions he expects of you; but out of sheer shell shock that someone had finally caught you through your nightly sneaking.
out of genuine whiplash of someone finally looking at you eye-to-eye, head faced to one another, your cold fingertips pressing against the swell of your eyebags from restless nightmares and anxious paranoia triggered from academics, as if to tell yourself that this was all mere hallucination.
you matter so much to him, even if he tries to overcorrect his sins, trying his damn best to notice your presence whenever he visits the manor, even if his brash words sting your heart sometimes, even if he couldn't properly show you affection he should've given you—
it's not enough.
it was never enough, that even his gentle words spoken to you whilst he speeds through his motorcycle felt entire foreign. that despite unconscious and limp on his body, you're still flinching and the tears couldn't have enough time to dry. jason could've done so much more for his precious little sibling, he could've been the best older brother in the world like he promised himself to be back when he was an oblivious little child, just like how he sees you right now.
everything he did was not enough, but the doubts that circulate his mind didn't fester in his mind much anymore; because he turned it into motivation, he looks at you through the mirror of his motorcycle, vulnerable, aching with the need for affection (that he could provide, he could give to you infinitely...!) and transforms the regret into motivation.
to be better, to be the one you look up to, not with thoughts of how or when you'll be able to spend time with him, but with confidence and preference for his time. that he'll be the first you choose to look for.
jason promises you his undying loyalty, to protect you from the danger of this world, to savor the light and the warmth that emanates off of your presence. despite the heartache you felt because of him, because of all your tormentors— you were still kind, like an angel who had fallen from grace, but chose to grace the world instead with their remaining salvation.
if you manage to survive throughout it all, through the surgery and the anaesthesia-filled stitchings, with jason's scarred hands wrapped around your fists, daintier compared to the muscles in his. if by the end of this night, jason would have you alive (he will, he'll refuse anything else, even if it takes you being resurrected in the lazarus pit, then so be it) in his arms and resting peacefully in his apartment and not under bruce's roof, out of respect from your sheer insistence that you'd rather anywhere but the manor.
jason swears on his life that he'll make it up to you.
he'll be better for you, for his angel, to atone himself for all the sins he committed upon you.
and even if it means ripping the world upside down at its seems, even if it takes decades for you to feel comfortable within the confines of his arms, unlike the dread that claws at your body earlier, pushing him away, pushing your older brother away— he's willing to undergo even the same torture from joker if it means making up to you.
as long as he has you in his sights.
all this, just to see the fear in your eyes replaced by genuine happiness at the sight of your big brother, ready to do anything for you the moment requests spill out from your benevolent lips and gleaming eyes.
you truly are his saving grace, his angel in disguise.
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
PLEASE READ: 14,200+ words. no beta, we just cry. "i am good, but not an angel. i do sin, but i am not the devil. i am just a small child in a big world trying to find someone to love." it's a quote that inspired this half of the chapter partly. apologies to anyone if jason seems a bit religious here??? he's not, but i'm trying to establish connections on why he even calls you that nickname in the first place (and totally not me relating it to the flashpoint comic where he becomes a priest 😭). again, bit of a boring chapter, but no hate please haha, instead leave comments if you enjoyed reading it!!! more interactions = more content.
there are many lyrics and song references scattered about the paragraphs, can you guys spot it all for me 🫦? i'm a musically inclined guy, and there's also lots of not implicitly stated songs too, i lost count honestly. tysm for all your patience, because writing through my hectic schedule is honestly a struggle.
as stated, there are a lot of jason todd and mc parallels, i love hearing you guys' thoughts about me expanding upon this. they're very different but also share so many similarities, and i like to explore deeper on every character just to make the yandere element more obvious and distinct.
and like my previous announcement too, please please please do not copy off the scenes i wrote. although my writing is mid, it doesn't mean it should be stolen word by word or the entire scenarios or scenes i've written should be taken in and written into your own fanfics too. my potrayals of each and every characters are a bit more unique takes too (i like to make myself believe), so as much as possible, please credit me. i appreciate you all 🩷
yet again, leave comments, interactions, what you think of this chapter (but not too critical comments, or pure hate please). idk what to feel about my writing, i hate it a lot sometimes but oh well! merry christmas, this is my early gift for all of you guys and for the second part, i'll try to post as soon as possible (i need to generate more spotlight to ensure they get equal attention ofc).
This is Eman Zaqout, from Occupied Gaza, Palestine. I am a Biotechnologist ,🩸💉 and scientific researcher contacting you at a really desperate moment.
I am seeking your assistance to raise funds for saving our lives, facing the starvation in Gaza and help me achieve my doctoral degree dream after being awarded OWSD PhD Fellowship for inspirational women🍉👩🎓
just like any motivated and loving life woman, and for years, I poured my heart and soul into my work at Al-Shifa Hospital and Turkish Palestinian Friendship Hospital, as Biotechnology Specialist serving cancer patients with compassion and skill.
photos of Turkish Palestinian Friendship Hospital before and after the IDF destruction
photos of Al-Shifa Hospital before and after the IDF destruction
I also gave medical lectures to students at different universities and training centers in Gaza👇☑
As a result of my outstanding grades in my study and the excellent performance in my job, I have been a holder of different scholarship and I am active participant in many research visits and scientific missions. 💪The last scholarship as at McGill University in Canada three months ago before the starting of the genocide in Gaza.😫
However,😥
My life changed dramatically when Israeli military launched a sweeping war against Gaza. My home and our neighborhood in the North have been destroyed along with our belongings and precious memories early in this crisis.😢💔
My job and my husband's job are gone. Israeli military forced us to evacuate from the north Gaza to the south where they claimed it would be the safe zone but it is not at all. Our sweet home and neighborhood have been destroyed 😥😭💔
Forced to flee with nothing but the clothes on our backs, today, we find ourselves sheltering in a displacement camp lacking access to sanitation, medical supplies, food and drinkable water. I will not talk a lot about the dire and unbearable life we have to go through, as no word can express it fairly 🥺😣
The good news in the midst of this tragedy, that I am one of the 22 women from the developing world who have been awarded OWSD- PhD fellowship to pursue my PhD study in Malaysia🍉💪. But now I am stuck in Gaza unable to achieve my dream because Israeli army has occupied and closed all the border crossings 😭💔
Meet 22 fellows awarded OWSD PhD fellowship
This genocide has been 11 months of hell and horror. We have reached a point where there is no hope left for us here in Gaza, where we are unfortunately just waiting for our turn to die.
Nevertheless,
I refuse to succumb to despair, holding on to the belief that brighter days lie ahead.
With your kindness and generosity🥺, I hope to survive the genocide and reclaim the path to achieving my doctorate 💉🩸
Your compassionate aid would mean the world to me and my family.🥺🙏❤🇵🇸✌
Hello, my name is Nazin Fakak, and I live in Canada. Today, I am reachi… Mazin Fakak needs your support for Help my family survive famine an
morbidial (fatui x abyss!reader)
child neglect, mention of death, violence
00 — remember me.
it’s not that you don’t remember, it’s just that there’s a lot you don’t. it’s painful, to reach out into whatever clear corners were left in your mind to find any trace of you and not those of a creature from the abyss. whether it’s some spell of subserviency, some sick side-affect of the void, or your own mind, you just can’t remember.
but you do, don't you? you choose to forget. you can try to convince yourself that it’s to keep the abyss from having any more leverage on you, but that’s a lie. you don’t want to remember because you still mourn, you keep mourning a life you never had.
of course you remember a soft hand swiping over your face, to wash dirt and grime off of you when they first found you. you remember the same hand pushing you away when you cried, because snezhnaya does not believe in tears.
you remember her too. you remember your mother. you remember her gentle laughter and her close-eyed smile, you remember her scornful glances and the way her hands tensed at loud children. you remember her disappearing for months for work and returning with the nice men and their big guns.
you remember your siblings welcoming her back, the elder girls and boys clapping and bowing, while the younger ones sprang and beamed at her. you remember wanting to do the same, but feeling lightheaded and ill when you saw her. weariness, you learned later, was what you felt.
you once wanted, so bad, to be a part of the big family you lived with. barely eight, with big, hopeful eyes, clinging to the coat of the man who brought you there, staring up at the big colosseum of a house and the many children running around there.
you had once been so ecstatic to start this different life, after the troubling one you had so far, seeing all the children laugh and run around. but you were a hare among rabbits and a dog among wolves. your life so far had made you too harsh for the innocence of a normal childhood and too weak for one of hardships. you tried to blend in, but it was hopeless. did you try too hard, or not try hard enough?
trying to join in on games was easy at first, everyone was excited at the prospect of a new playmate, a new sibling. but when you recoiled too harshly at being touched and caught in a game of tag, they pulled away, awkward. you liked to draw too, but showing others your pictures made you shy and embarrassed, but the children thought of you as egoistical. small things, very, very small things, made you too odd to be around.
the other children would find your unblinking stare unsettling, and your stillness unnerving. it wasn’t that the house of the hearth didn’t have its own black sheep, but let us not pretend you were a lamb. an ugly duckling, who wasn’t a swan chick in the wrong nest, but a loon out of water.
eventually, your oddity just became you. you didn’t understand why nobody at all talked to you. the children in your years swerved around you, not wanting to attach themselves to a weed like yourself, and influenced by their elders, the new children avoided you like a plague.
it was… unbearable. your situation is so pitiable and morose that you fell into a mood too sombre for a little youth. isolation and loneliness sent you into a dark place, and the fragile hope that rested in your bones was shattered with every rejection you received. a little child, depraved of the stimulating feeling of joy and the company of your only community. a little child, taken from one poor family to another. a bird first held under the water, and then taken away to be held under sand.
nobody saw you. nobody at all. not your absent mother, not the caretaking mistresses, not your “siblings”, nobody. you had managed to get through it for the first year, but your peace had cracked quickly after. loneliness had irreparably, irreversibly, permanently been changed into a different person. at some point in your childhood, you became violent, scratching at anyone who came too close, and sneering at just about anyone with cutting words. you had hoped your outbursts of anger would have made you more noticeable, and the scolding of others made you beam with satisfaction.
only until of course, the scoldings thinned out, and the house left you be, hoping to satiate you with silence and alone-time. you could have laughed at the irony of it if you didn’t feel so ridden with despair, your ears perpetually ringing from the quiet, your efforts truly were useless weren’t they?
your only method of releasing any pent up energy and dismay was the training your mother insisted every child in the house must participate in. beating at dummies with a stupid wooden club to hopefully beat away at your steadily growing morosity as well.
your… vigor, if you could call it that, finally got you noticed. by one person, an old lady who patrolled the corridors, playing the role of a “captain” for all the children who trained.
she alone patted at your scars, giving you the simple opportunity of being more. more than your siblings. your depravity allowed you to cling onto any such praise, lighting a bit of a darker competitive streak in you, a blaze of fury stifling down anybody else who even tried to overtake you.
your “captain” prodded at the monster you were becoming, encouraging scuffles rather than reprimanding you for them. she didn’t defend you when the mistresses shrieked over your teeth biting into a girl’s arm, or your foot to a boy’s jaw, letting you snarl back at them yourself.
she created a small young beast, wrapping the thread of your broken heart and fragile soul around her wrinkled fingers, letting you rely on a person you thought truly valued you. perhaps she truly did. you chose to ignore, to forget the bite in her voice when you couldn’t perform well, pushing with more determination to make her proud of you again. you chose to remember her wired hands pulling at your face, joyful of your violent drive and cold sophistication.
your wooden club was replaced by a sword in a month, and your opponents went from dummies to the nice men with big guns who agreed to the lady’s offer to spar with you. you’d always stop at a blade to their throats, a victory, or a breathless lean against your weapon, a failure.
you, for once, felt complete. worthy. useful. even more so when your opponent grumbled congratulations, surely you were allowed a little smugness at fighting grown men and winning.
your mentor passed shortly after you came of age. you mourned for two months and a half, grieving the one person who gave you a glance that lasted longer than a second. the familiarity of your life fell and faded quickly, your spars less frequent and your days more empty.
you didn’t feel upset. she had been ailing for a while, and her death must have brought her peace. peace that you would cherish for her, in the place of her withering corpse. you were old enough to contribute to what she and the house had trained you and your siblings so long for, the mother government of snezhnaya, a nation you’d never even gotten close to visiting.
your years there, however few, got you a strange reputation. right from the very start of your soldiership you were avoided by those under the knave, your mother, and the others caught along quickly. your team of weaker gunmen and hammer-wielding men were assigned to you simply so you could keep them alive long enough to fulfill their own duties. you found it nearly disgusting, the lack of their ability and their belief in their own contribution to the motherland. what did they think they were contributing to, sitting around while you hunted food and intruders alike? useless folk. all of them.
you tuned it out, your irritation, as you have and would many times over. your goals did not sit still like your comrades, but changed by the will of your leaders. did you consider them worthy enough to listen to? maybe not, but the sense of security you got in following orders, anchoring yourself in a community, gave you life.
then came the abyss, with her gentle hands, whisking your alice liddell self away into a wonderland, and you found security in being powerful.
dear, (name), how does it feel to hate enough to floor cities to the ground? to feel angry enough to swipe your claws at any man remotely brave enough to approach you? to be stealthy enough to evade your weak life in the overworld for centuries, and strong enough to keep yourself from dwelling over it? you have become one of the many gems from the abyssal cave.
beautiful thing, do hope that the prince and his people do not bore themselves out at musing over you.
your peace comes in fragments, make them whole. at least, live trying. your stillness becomes that of a lynx, and your unblinking eyes that of a snake. your harshness is the beak of a loon. your claws are sharp and your canines sharper. they adore you more than anyone else ever has.
value it, value them.
don't forget.
interaction appreciated !
ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ i will probably continue the sagau series as well, but i'm a little demotivated to finish it. i am planning to turn this into a series, please do share ideas and thoughts >< it does help in keeping that drive to write a bit.
sagau p3: animosity, acceptance
he/they for reader, but no anatomy or dni.
random bullshit go. previous parts here and here. just wanted to properly note the doubts and thoughts on the false god's doings.
"you can hardly hold this one accountable for your unfortunate... circumstances," xianyun noted, pushing her spectacles up with a clawed finger, "the adepti were not involved in your and the archon's business at all."
(name) smiled, bringing his cup up to his lips, gingerly taking a sip of the scalding tea. "indeed... your contribution to either side of the falsehood was scarcely significant." he responded, tone so dry and disdainful xianyun had to furrow a brow.
she cleared her throat, glancing sideways at a fuming moon carver. "you must pardon me for such a hasty invitation," she spoke, addressing all those at the table, "when one was alerted of the false- ahem, returned god i believed it best suitable we speak before word got by to the archons." (name) raised an eyebrow skeptically, to which xianyun hastily added "not that any of us would've spread it out, we were of course acquainted quite closely in the early days, were we not?"
(name) hummed, "indeed we were," he looked over at her from above the rim of the teacup, "but you must tell me why the invitation was required at all. i had assumed quite early on you wanted nothing to do with me?"
xianyun and mountain sharper looked ever so slightly uneasy, but moon carver crossed his arms and spoke solemnly. "indeed we did not. and while i cannot speak for the others," he said, looking over at cloud retainer and mountain sharper as though they had done him some great betrayal, "one still does not wish to."
"however, it must be said. as adepti, our first priority is the safety of liyue and her people." (name) smiled, knowing well what the other meant to intend, "you posses a blade against that safety. a wicked one."
how he wounds me, (name) thought lazily, but said nothing at all, letting moon carver speak on.
"we demand to know of your intentions, and why, how you broke the seal of exile. such power mustn't be tampered with, and even as the others only wish for peaceful dealings, one will not hesitate to defend liyue against your previous tyranny."
mountain sharper bristled, "peace, moon carver." he turned to (name) who seemed thoroughly impressed by moon carver's words, choosing to blank out at him for a moment, before their lip twitched upwards and they looked away. "you must realise we chose for such a calm gathering due to the fact you have not yet possessed a threat to tevyat at all."
(name) nodded, "yes, no threat at all. though i find it marvelous how little words seem to shatter this land's superiority... is it truly that dangerous?" his words had no bite behind them, fangs neatly covered by grinning lips, but the others still looked weary.
"good (name)," xianyun began, "we do wish to know, as your... companions," the entire table winced at once, and (name)'s smile faded ever so slightly. his eyes lidding, "my pardon. we wish to know, as liyue's protectors, what you intend to now that you roam tevyat free again."
moon carver frowned, "let us not forget the matter of why you are free to roam tevyat as well. it is the abyss which adopted you, is it not?"
(name)'s fingers interlocked, elbows on the table, as he rested his chin on his hands, eyes shut. "i had help, but i am afraid a dear contract, one much similar to yours allows me not to speak much more of it."
"and as for the matter of what i wish to do... hm, nothing alike what i did once, i assume..."
"i've grown weary at the though of travel, and speaking seems like a chore. i greatly doubt my ability to preach anymore as i once did, so you may rest your scowls and mistrust," he opened a single eye to look at moon carver, delighting in the way the other seemed to only frown further. "i now only wish to carry out a small favour for a friend, perhaps rekindle with old acquaintances along the way." avenge. was a thought unsaid.
xianyun looked weary, mountain sharper skeptical, and moon carver frustrated. another lie from the charlatan's mouth, they thought in unison, only for the man in question to raise a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh.
"you great beings make it so easy to understand what you think, moreso than mortals do," he commented, unlacing his fingers to hold a tea leave between his fingers, picked from a tray. "but i must indulge in your mistrust, indeed there is not a word you should believe from me, not a single one."
"but," (name) continued, placing a sheet of paper on the table, "i presumed you would only be consoled by your own means of tethering beforehand, and have prepared so."
moon carver took the paper, looking over at the text. liyuen alphabet, but written by a foreign hand, judging by the artistic but uncommon curves. but moon carver was too acquainted by the habits of his scarce companions to know it was not written by (name) himself.
"a contract?" xianyun queried, peering over at the parchment. "indeed, a blank one as well." (name) responded, tapping at the sheet, "you, my dear friends, are free to choose the terms. i shall be bound by liyue's laws, and you shall rest peacefully."
mountain sharper took the paper into his own hands, as though to examine in for any fabrication, and upon finding none commented, "a truly unexpected show of genuineness from you, lord (name)."
(name) narrowed his eyes in offense, "...right. i shall give you time to decide the terms in solitude. when you are to sign it, the affects will bear themselves on me without question." he took the tea leaf to his mouth, resting it under his tongue. "and should you find any falsehood... i need not create your pre-existing judgements."
time passed awfully quick in tevyat, (name) thought, watching the adepti privately fuss over the sheet, trying to ensure no loopholes in their terms at all. minutes seemed to play the role of hours, and hours the role of months. in merely seconds the three were done with their terms, and (name) almost giggled at the absurdity of such a stern matter, him, being settled so soon.
"the terms are simple," cloud retainer stated, "a tongue-binder. you are forbidden from spreading falsehoods to any man, child, creature, being, belief, and depleted from writing them, inking them, putting them in song, poem, prose or sharing it in any way."
moon carver looked ever so slightly smug, uncharacteristic for his regular demeanor, "judging to how your injustices to tevyat's purity stem from your lies, you shall be unallowed to lie in any shape of form. this one term single handedly covers any issue you could pose to liyue, the adepti, the archons, and tevyat herself."
(name) looked bored, chewing on the tea leaf in his mouth idly, "very well. i assume you have signed it already, since i feel a sense of foreboding just looking at you."
mountain carver scowled, shoving the piece of paper onto the table. "do with it what you must, but surely you already know, that any defamation done to the contract will not undo it's contents, unless you are you die and miraculously be brought back to life." he meant it in contempt, but xianyun still muttered under her breath "this excludes if you are to become a jiāngshī of course, though i doubt any adepti would aid you in it..."
(name) tilted his head, looking solemnly at the three, and then at the contract. "quite innovative i must say" he drawled, not meaning it at all, but it must've been a truth, "if our business here is complete, i would greatly like to take my leave. even one as idle as myself has other things to do than sit out at tea parties, esteemed hosts."
moon carver and mountain sharper turned to eachother, but cloud retainer spoke first. "indeed. we would not wish for your presence to be found, especially not in the company of the adepti, lord (name). though one must ask for the knowledge of where you plan to keep your abode, and i am afraid it is a matter of curiosity over concern."
(name) sighed, eyes wandering over to take in chenyu vale's scenery, peering down at the far-away ground from their little meeting on the trunk of a large, curved tree. "i do not know, dearest cloud retainer," he mused, resting his head on his palm, "i assume i must wander as i once did. you need not worry so." he added, a little sarcastically, knowing well, they would not worry. not anymore.
mountain sharper bowed his head, "then we must all depart, i have my duties to tend to, and i believe this matter has been settled."
"you mustn't forget yourself, (name)," mountain carver growled, "you were a great hindrance to the land, and shall you return to your unsavoury habits, we shall not hesitate to strike you down, and repent for our past mistake of not involving ourselves."
(name) smiled, standing up from his chair, brushing his robes to straighten the folds. "your tea is despicably bitter," he commented, and xianyun glowered.
💌 very late update... school just started and i've been so burnt out. i miss the fatui, might try to shove them into the next update.
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#01𓂅﹒sagau : part one, part two, part three... tbc .
#02𓂅﹒genshin : #01𓂅﹒sagau, no single works yet .
#03𓂅﹒honkai: star rail : no works yet .
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sagau p2: barbatos' baffled babbling
he/they for reader, but no anatomy or dni.
tw: slight mention of, like, murder, alchohol drinking, venti is somewhat scared of reader and reader knows. kinda toxic then? i don't know.
kind of ooc since i'm not very familiar with venti's character.. advice appreciated! i feel like i use to many commas lol part one linked here
" a ghost god, a man of the spirits, cannot die. exile is slumber, and death a mere dream... the day will arise, sooner than soon, when the moonlit sisters are only one, and the dragons rest under unimportance, when his slumber is broken, and he satiates his rage with vengeance. "
venti scoffed, shaking his head, sending his braids flying. "what rubbish, i thought you'd know better than to spew such nonsense boreas." he scolded, dainty eyebrows furrowed in displeasure.
boreas rubbed his paw against the stone ground of his arena-like abode, his voice a grumbling draught. "i do not lie, barbatos. such were the words spoken by his creatures, when i entered my temporary madness." "and madness it is!" the man of the two exclaimed, "i asked for tales, boreas, not songs! traveler's questions of that fraud have stirred worry within me, i expected you to comfort me with truth!" he guffawed, dramatizing his words, a true performer.
"songs?" the great wolf growled, "i speak the truth of their words, fiction or not. it was his children's' steady belief that he will return, and i answer your questions so." venti rested a palm on his hand, expression neutral, and feelings unreadable, "it is not my duty to please a fool of a god," boreas continued, "or... mortal, such as you, with any lies. i shall not taint my consciousness for your peace of mind."
venti sighed, loudly, as if to shoo away boreas' words with heavy exhales. "nonetheless, i believe my voice and my mentality may be still affected by just the mention of him," venti mused, "you owe me apples, a whole cart load of them, as apology for such disheartening, terrible, astounding news-" "enough." boreas interrupted, his voice a tremorous rumble, but calm as he could be, "you have paid the price of your curiosity with your... grievance, leave my abode at once!"
venti's performances were always met with applause and joyous whoops, from all within angel's share, with the exception of master diluc. the control over something as simple as the air in your lungs did not take an archon's strength, simply dedication. thus, barbatos, rather venti's, melodic voice was never broken or tattered, regardless of his mood.
yet, a deep unrest sat within his bones, settled nicely over his chest and abdomen, twisting and coiling like a trapped snake. despite his banter, and casual attitude to boreas' words, he couldn't help but feel uneasy. the false god's creatures, were much alike their lord, speaking nothing but harsh and unsoftened truths. if their mewls of his return was really spoken, could venti really find peace?
his frustration only grew, the false god had affected his nation as much as they had every other. decabrian fell to the same troubles, but they did nothing but stir his already storming attitude.
"after the moonlit sisters were one"... tevyat's three moons reduced to the lonely fallen goddess in her sky. "the dragons resting under unimportance"... the transfer of power from the primordial dragons to the archons... such tales were dated back to before any ballad venti had sung of, dated back to the age of lady egeria and greater lord rukkhadevata, this first age of archons.
even as decabrian fell and barbatos' reign began, the littered groups of the charlatan deity's mortal worshippers bugged mondstadt with frightening and worrying tales of celestia. tales of celestia's falsehood, celestia's lies, celestia's torments, it all called for utter annihilation and barbatos believed the very worst would come to his people.
barbatos feared the false god. his trickery was no simple game, no harmless joke. it was a dark cancer, which spread through the nations like an airborne disease, threatening every other creature on teyvat. whether it was the archons which would fall for their incompetence, or the people who would fall for their rebellion, celestia lingered closer than ever, breathing down the throats of every worshipper and every god who did nothing.
after the deceiver was exiled, cast away during the cataclysm, all the way to the abyss, venti breathed freely once more. his people loved him, his promises of safety kept their little hearts loyal and happy, but many valued truth more, and the anti-archon's fibs were so well handled that not even the beasts of yore, wise ancient beings, could distinguish between which were false and which were not.
venti shook his head, clasping his fingers tightly on the wood of his lyre, reassuring himself. it has been years since the "signs"
of the other's return took place, there would be no reason for them to return now.
being a godling at the time of the liar's peak of influence, he had learnt to scorn the other, casting a weary glance around angel's share. as though to ward himself from his danger, finding comfort in the cackling faces of drunkards and the scowling ones of gamblers.
yet... the traveler's sudden question about the god had left venti stumbling, and no matter how hard he tried to forget, the familiar fear from all those aeons ago held him in a tight embrace. he couldn't help but feel that the traveler's journey on tevyat had not only solved many troubles and saved many nations, but had also seemed to kickstart the problems themselves.
somehow, the twin-braided bard found himself roaming into the thought of how every visit to a nation from the traveler had begun a nationwide crisis, that was later solved by her too. as if... the traveler's presence kickstarted the world into creating events. would traveler's sudden query lead to the return of... no. how ridiculous, venti shook his head. he mustn't ponder such troubling things, and kick around his seriously sober heart, worrying it with bruises.
yes, a sober heart was a weak one. a drink, many drinks would do good to his soul. peace would find him again, and the next morning, everything... everything would be alright again.
even with his wobbly knees and weak mind, the words that he'd unintentionally heard (brought by completely innocent stray breezes) sent a sharp chill down him.
"the truth, the very truth your... your archons do so much to conceal, it- it's true! it's very and true! and- and i'll have you know-" rumbled a man, dazed and reeking of alcohol. venti swore someone just shoved a glass of some odd bitter concoction down his throat, and his worry flared.
perhaps, perhaps he was too hungover the idea, too obsessed with it. perhaps he was hallucinating, yes, that must be it. or maybe it was just another man of the mob, the mob that refused to trust the archons yes, no- nothing about the charlatan. nothing at all. nothing. no need to fear. not one bit.
venti's heart didn't beat out of his chest, it instead slowed down, and sank down all the way to his knees. he ought to get home, rest his head, calm down. he took a few deep breaths, straightening the folds on his ruffled sleeves. peace, he was at peace, he found peace, mondstadt was at peace, everything was going to be okay.
he wobbled out of angel's share, raising a hand in salute to the bartender and the other bards inside, a cheery laugh bubbling up his throat and the sight of everyone happy. containing the little bubble of warmth in him all the way outside, handing it like a trembling squirrel.
"mister venti?"
he stilled, head going blank, light, as though someone let his brain lose to float away. "huh?" he replied, woozy, enough to come off as someone stupidly drunk, while also being hyperaware of everything around him, freakishly hyperaware. almost as though someone had washed the booze and the fatigue from his bones completely, every inch of him buzzing urgently.
he turned his head slightly, to see a figure, taller than him, blurry from the shadows off the inns and cottages and venti's own bleary eyesight. "um, what's up?" he asked, resting a hand on his hip, trying to come off as casual, as though to convince himself everything was okay, everything was casual.
the other cleared his throat, stepping into the light, "i was wondering if we could have a word?" the man asked, voice controlled, no hostility in it at all. venti let out a small strangled gasp at the man's face, his eyes, so elegantly tranquil, as though every lash was a meticulously crafted carving, every speck of colour in them deliberately painted.
venti choked, he wouldn't have, yet being already so dazed... "yeah, yeah sure we can, mister..." "please, call me (name)."
venti smiled, knocking his head to the side, feeling a warm blanket of blissful unawareness take over him, strangely pleased. "i see, go on then! we have-" he cleared his throat, "all the time in the world."
(name)'s smile lingered, but it dropped from his eyes, right to the ground, where he crushed it with his foot, when taking a step closer to venti, looming over him.
"i'll make this quick, barbatos," he spoke, voice doused in uncanny calmness. whatever warm blanket enveloped venti before was ripped straight off, sending him into reeling anxiety at the name. "i want nothing to do with your lousy self. but your... people," (name) continued, taking one of his braids into a gloved hand, peering at venti, "your people are causing quite a bother for my creatures."
venti felt ill, weak-kneed and nauseous. when he spoke, hoping to find his divine strength, he was met with the small voice of a newborn god, fearful of the stronger deities. "what?" venti's voice came out in a squeak, fitted forcefully through a crack in a wall, "my people?"
(name) smile darkened, frustration seeping off of him. he would've found the once-archon's fear amusing, if it didn't irritate him so. "your knights, your pathetic-" he inhaled softly, as though to calm himself, "devotees. all your dimwitted fools," venti felt a small spurn of anger, at his beloved somewhat-subjects being called fools, which was quickly dampened by the other's raging glare, "they slaughter my folk, cut them to the bone. ruining their already weak selves, drag your people off their bodies."
"i do not wish to kill any man..." he trailed off, losing the barely concealed loathing in his voice for a second, his fingers loosening the bard's hair from it's tie, before it flared up again immediately, "no matter how, lamentable and disgusting they are."
venti swallowed, backing himself languidly up to a lamp-post, as though using it for support. "your, people?" he wheezed, attempting to carefully cover up his terror with thin, brittle layers of nonchalance. (name) clenched his fist, nails making sharp indents into the cushion of his palm, "i do not take the god of thieves to be a fool, barbatos, so use that little, weak brain of yours to figure out who i speak of."
the abyssal creatures, venti thought, the man's companions for the past five hundred years. he didn't want to confirm, but the coiled snake in his stomach busted forth in a wave of hysteria, sinking its claws into his throat and then ripping out of his body.
"...(last name)?" he shivered.
(name)'s smile warmed again, as though nothing was wrong. as though everything was okay. as everything was and would be at peace, he turned away to leave, leaving venti to cough and splutter.
"goodbye, barbatos."
the false god returned, as venti had fretted, after traveler's innocent questions. strange, for his half-hearted theory to take immediate affect... almost as though they were... no. that was ridiculous. a sober heart was a weak heart, a good drink ought to help him.
sagau p1 : miss miko's mumbles.
he/they for reader, but no anatomy or dni.
tw: none.. tevyat is kinda mean to reader but thats all lol.
💌 no actual reader content right now... just a small something to get started, somewhat an insight on tevyat's views on the reader?
" a hidden source of ancient knowledge, scrolls shoved deep within the akademiya's restricted shelves, gathering dust, painting colourful tales of a primeval deity.
a deity unlike the archons, unlike the dragons and unlike the scattered minor gods and beasts of tevyat, a deity who held no significance to tevyat's intricate laws. a deity with no magnificent creatures to call his own, no powers or blessings to give to kneeling worshippers, yet a deity whose swiftest glance struck the mortals of tevyat tongue-tied and reeling.
"let us adorn you with our flowers!" bellowed the trunks of sumeru's towering thorned trees, "let us sing to you!" whispered mondstadt's wailing, whining gales, "rest on our shores," mewled fontaine's raging currents "or drift on our currents, and let us take you far away from all...". inazuma's thunder cried and screamed, loud as a nursery of hungry children, hungry for the god's attention. natlan's rumbling rocks fell from their perches as avalanches, running like babes wanting to be coddled by their mothers, into the arms of the god. snezhnaya's unwavering snow storms fell and fell, adorning themselves with the prettiest snow flakes, just for a look, the lightest praise, from the god.
the deity's devotees were all children of violence, creatures of doom, beings of hate. but to him, they were the scorned, the regretted, the rejected. they were the most precious of all, the worthiest of his stories, the likeliest to trust in his well-crafted chronicles.
he spoke of worlds outside tevyat, worlds overcome with cold, never receding snow and ice. worlds made of gargantuan ships, each city a large cabin, housing pelicans of metal, and people of stone. worlds where reality and expectation went hand in hand, singing songs of people's dreams, bubbling with emotion, joy and grief.
most of all, he spoke of revelation. to him, to his creatures, to his loveliest of children, it was the solid truth, the undoubted phrases that left the tongues of the cosmos higher than celestia itself. but to the archons, to the people, to every other creature, they were a fraud. a liar, who insulted the archons with his reign over their wicked beasts, who wished nothing more that to provoke celestia's wrath, and be stricken so far into the abyss, he himself would someday become one with it. his hymns stitched words, words that revealed the truth of this world, the truth that-"
yae miko laughed lightly, covering her mouth with her hand, pink pigment shining brightly against her nails. "what a lovely story you've made up for me, traveler, paimon," she began, watching the pair carefully, "paimon makes the loveliest story teller... but do tell me what set you out to recite this fascinating little thing." she added, an eyebrow arched elegantly.
paimon scowled, her little face scrunching into displeasure. "miss yae miko!" she stomped her foot in the air, "we didn't make it up! traveler already said so! she said we got it from sumeru! and won't you answer our question?!" she cawed, pointing dutifully at her companion, who smiled sheepishly.
yae hummed thoughtfully, a finger to her chin "do remind me of your question little paimon" she feigned a small yawn, covering her lips politely, "i'm afraid you've bored me asleep with this one, i can barely recall anything..." paimon looked ready to blow a fuse, ridiculously oblivious to yae's teasing, her rubber heart being prodded at, and easily provoked with yae's taunts.
"we'd asked if any of this makes sense to you miss yae, any familiarity?" traveler began, her voice lofty and slightly strained from unuse, "we've tried with other companions, but not even the akademiya scholars have anything to say." yae miko smiled, her shiny canines concealed, eyes shut in a relaxed manner.
"i'm afraid not traveler, but if nobody seems to recognize this odd 'deity' of yours, why are you so persistent on finding somebody who does?" yae enquired, pressing her lips together in a thin line, shaking her head "perhaps they're just fiction you know... another dashed, yet rather thorough attempt i must confess, at a bestseller."
paimon sagged midair, like a suspended sack of rice. "all this trouble for nothing?" she wailed, "i told you we should have called quits after al haitham said he knew nothing! and i told you we should've called quits again when faruzan shooed us away!" paimon scolded, crossing her arms at the traveler. her companion only raised her hands in surrender, smiling apologetically, and turning back to the other woman facing her.
"thank you for your help miss yae" traveler spoke, pressing her palms together, "we're sorry to have bothered you with something so trivial..." yae miko only molly-coddled her in response, shaking her head left and right. "it's quite alright dear, you've provided me with quite a bit of entertainment... be off now, i'm sure you have much work to get to."
she eyed the parchment paimon read out of so enthusiastically, hesitating from the probable absurdity of the question she thought of asking. "tell me traveler, would you mind if i held on to this for a while? perhaps we could make use of it at the publishing house..." paimon opened her mouth to refuse like a little gentle lady, adamant on keeping all their travel's treasures to themselves, only for the traveler to respond first. "i don't see any use for it, i suppose you could hang on to it miss yae."
yae miko brightened, eyes gleaming happily at her conquest "i'm very glad traveler, you've done me a great favour," she said, taking the scroll from her "now, i shan't hold you back any longer. do visit!"
traveler nodded, waving goodbye as paimon tugged on her scarf, yowling "i told you so!"s, "you should have listened!"s and an accusatory "why did you give it away?". yae lifted her hand in farewell, which dropped solemnly as soon as the traveler was out of sight.
she flourished the paper open, a sudden, uncharacteristic scowl on her face, painting her lovely features in disgust and scorn. "even in exile you bother us all, charlatan." she murmured to herself.
she ought to burn it, and throw its ashes to the fish, but held back. the lovely swirls of the letters mesmerising her, drawled along the page in a dance, elegant beyond words. her frustration only grew, chanting that no matter how much beauty liars weaved in their words, they were still lies.
and no matter how beautiful a liar was, they were still a liar, and would remain one until repentance.
and (name) would never repent.
💌 gahh i feel kinda lame.. its been a while since ive written anything and speedran this on 13% charge. had a dillema choosing between faruzan and yae for this intro piece, but i hope its turned out ok. ill try uploading the next part soon. bye bye!
