these violent delights.

DAY 004, 16:12Z. west of nanda parbat. the league of assassins is a centuries old myth made flesh: a group of half-maddened shadows that all follow a single timeless man with the goal of molding the world into his image. they work as a uniform body, each a muscle under the scrutiny of the head of the demon. few ghouls leave the side of their master, for who would forsake such intoxicating power to live among mortals again? to have the demon's favor is to be afforded the life-giving powers of the lazarus pits.

from the breast of the source came the seven forces of the universe, with life force & death force being the most important in their relation to the league. the death force is a primordial energy which is intangible to mortal & immortal alike -- though exceptional mortals have briefly harnessed it with disastrous results, such as the possession of the tear of extinction by the late king arion of atlantis.

those who live through brushes with the death force are said to have become corrupt, necrotic bastardizations of their former selves; this sacrifice of sanity also affords the entity with an infectious affinity to take the life force of others. in contrast, life force affords organic matter to flourish in the multiverse; entities that interface directly with the life force are said to retain a connection to all life & are afforded the power to compel & control any life born of the sea. the only known entity to have directly interfaced with pure life force is the greek deity poseidon.

power struggles between pantheons after the source birthed them all caused untold catastrophe across earth as each laid their claims to the planet. these disasters formed great mountains & perilous valleys, within which concentrated pools began to form where the blood of gods were spilled. as eons passed, undisturbed life force & death force mingled into a physical manifestation best described as an unnatural syrup-like liquid that emits an eerie emerald light despite a lack of bio-luminescence.

to the rest of the world, the earthen hollows that contain the lazarus resin are most commonly referred to as ley lines.

these pits, as they would eventually be coined, remained undiscovered by mortal life until 688 CE when a young healer discovered the first in the arabian peninsula on the search for the cure to an unknown ailment that plagued his patient. in a desperate attempt to save the man as the spirit of ahriman watched nearby, this doctor & his wife placed his patient into the pit. the perfect balance of life & death cleansed his body of the disease; the toll paid in return was the clarity of his mind. maddened by the invasion of the connection to all existing life & the rot of necrosis, he strangled the doctor's wife before the effects had time to wear off.

the doctor razed the city of qaryat al-faw in his grief & set out to discover more about these mysterious pits. well rounded in the mythos of his era, the doctor named this phenomenon a lazarus pit. having witnessed the first man to be resurrected in the likeness of lazarus, the doctor was cautious in his experimentation & it took many years before he began to harness its strength to preserve his youth & that of those who followed him. those who pledged themselves to his cause were blessed by their leader to access the pool in healing major injuries & protect them from the sands of time. first among these were the doctor's parents & the badawī tribesmen whom he had been raised among.

rā's al ghūl, my grandfather, achieved complete control over all discovered lazarus pits in the world; he discovered almost all himself. through these, he maintains near immortality & has returned from death hundreds of times. as of this written account, rā's al ghūl is deceased.

as familiar as the darkness that wraps around the pair, talia's presence is acknowledged with a nod. fingers slip into his pocket as her hand rescinds, flicking the card free to be freely inspected.

❛ ... i wasn't aware we have new family members. ❜ and by that, lucille means the little chihuahua wagging its tail at her. by far, not exactly the strangest animal they've had in the manor. could be worse. still, a bit peculiar, if anybody asks her.

"Because they're ghouls, Damian. When my parents died, they stood outside for months, trying to get a picture of me, of anyone on staff during that time; they bribed any maid or groundskeeper we had. Eventually, someone caved and Alfred had to fire everyone and hire people on a weekly basis from then on." Bruce sighed deeply, thinking back on those times. "They're not interested now, but soon...they'll come hunting for you, because they don't know you. Greed and curiosity, it's a dangerous mix. You can deal with them however you want, but if you don't throw a bone to a pack of hungry dogs, they'll start making their own stories and building their own narratives. Always remember, a lie travels faster than the truth."

well-worn flesh rolls between his teeth as the boy sits with his father's words, canines intent to catch the sliver of inner cheek that hangs free, evidence of the last blow to the head he received.

❝ why? ❞ damian asks again, curiosity shifting as the first shreds of a plan begin to coalesce in his mind. ❝ why should i care about the lies perpetrated by the media? no amount of muckraking could change the truth. ❞ the leaden feeling in his stomach tells him bruce is right. better to corral the hounds than to let them run free, snapping at his heels just to get a taste.

it’s a question she’d never have posed to anyone else. to another Talon? it would have ensured she would be sealed away, never again to even breathe the cool night air beneath the stars.

“and I know you would not have raised your sword to my throat for it.” that’s all there was to it, really.

where would she go? where would they both go? if they abandoned their respective keeps, found somewhere somehow out of reach of both Court and League? the mythical sunshine would sear her golden skin until the time it set beyond the horizon again, and Damian… robbed of his station and birthright and forced to hide his face.

she could ask it, of course, but never in seriousness. never more than a hypothetical.

but oh to run as free as the small kitten hidden in Damian’s very tunic. to be doted on and loved for the very act of living, with nothing asked or expected of you but to exist.

they had speech and reason and leashes about their necks, and that meant they must be part of something far greater. even if they do not see all the machinations turning in the hands of people who see the grand plans for this world.

her words hang in the air between them, strangling the unidentified airy feeling in his chest. all that remains in its place is the weight of the silence that stretches by the second: cold, uncomfortable, unknown. every poised step takes the utmost concentration on each muscle group, as if a misstep might spill unspoken truths into the world for all to see. for her to see.

the familiar path that wraps around nanda parbat deserves all of his attention. every rock and knotted root catches his interest, though not enough to ignore the girl blurred in his peripherals.

he would not raise his sword against her, even in defiance of the league, the talons, and all the plans that lay between their organizations. damian knows it. mar'i knows it. alkaios knows it.

to showcase such bias would spell his final days among the ghouls, they can surely smell the weakness in his respect of the young talon. they must hear it in his tone, ever softer with the girl of his own age.

damian's steps quicken, as if to outrun the pounding in his chest. he can feel his pulse radiate beneath his jaw & at the apex of his forehead, all beating in time with the thunderous drums in his ears. he clears his throat, anchoring himself in his next words as the light of the city peaks above the dimly lit path ahead.

his free arm, the one not cradling a kitten beneath his tunic, sweeps forward to wave her forward.

❝ alkaios should stay with you, if just for tonight. i will escort you both to your quarters. ❞

as silent steps stroll through the hallways of the aging manor, talia fights off the tears caused by the depravity in her upbringing. that same insanity she had allowed to invade her son's heart like infecting rot. a rot that spirals from its center core as sharp as an ancient blade, from nothing deeper than a prick. it is a cruel reality that keeps them, feeding off the bitterness they carry, caged by bruised and broken ribs. she is ever sorry, damian, that she brought you into this world. more still, that you are the light in hers, that you must carry that weight on your small shoulders and little, clenched hands. she means not to leave it.

she walks among ghosts in a home that does not, nor ever will, belong to her. but there are memories here, faded moments of laughter and love, of running barefoot and soaked from the rain to the library fireplace. the cave below holds those of disagreements and copulations, same as the bedroom up the stairs and to the right. as silent as an ordered death, she walks to the kitchen. there she finds a familiar face, saddened, aged, and weary. her arms stay by her side until the elder smiles. she remembers once how she promised to care for a stubborn bruce. she believes she failed in that regard. alfred does not blame her. her arms toss around his neck and she asks for forgiveness in her own way.

two warm & wet cloths are taken with a bottle to disinfect, and talia does what talia has always done: cared for the men in her family. she follows in the smaller footsteps of her child, spraying and cleaning what blood he's left behind. this is not alfred's chore to bear, though he would do so in silent stride. he leaves her to her duty. a caregiver to the heir.

ra's raised her to be so much more, but none have brought her pride. she despises the leadership of the league, and curses her hands for their skills in death-dealing. damian knows this horror well: the faces of those she has killed flash in her mind and in the mirror to her horror. she begs the ghosts' forgiveness. even in death, they are not free from the demon's hand. they must wander here to haunt and grieve with broken necks.

her return to her son's bedroom is not announced. talia steps to him and kneels, taking away the brush from his hands. she uses the second cloth, now cool to its damp touch, on his hands and face. she creates thin rivers of blood as the water & crimson clash. mother & son are silent, emerald eyes crestfallen that her boy, a child, is covered in the hurt of others.

" up. " she whispers, tapping his elbow with soft fingertips. the cloth now left on the floor. she strips his shirt from his body, noting the blood that stains it, too.

she will have words with bruce, and damian will hate her for them. her child, as brilliant as the full moonlight, should be spared from their realm of violence. but they all know the truth. there is no turning back the clock.

you cannot give embalmed lungs breath.

" you should be in school. " she whispers. " putting all the other children to shame with your talents. not jumping off rooftops. "

damn him. damn the immortal al ghul. may his future hell be everlasting. her next words are not a request. it is a tone he knows well, though eyes are soft as she rakes over his body to find if there is a source of pain.

" you will not go with your father tomorrow night. "

damian does not process these minute changes. his mind is far away as the events of the evening flood his vision; echos of snap decisions made in a fit of rage set his muscles ablaze with the ghost of adrenaline.

donald park, an average gotham citizen to the untrained eye, considered himself a crafty man. he thought himself unmonitored, free from watchful eyes. if he ever noticed the shadows move or how some doors he would carelessly throw closed would hesitate to slam -- donald never let on. robin, even in his stark colors, found no trouble folding himself into the night's embrace. he found no trouble scanning camera feeds block by block just for a glimpse of donald's burnt orange coat and suede pants. he found no trouble perching atop the rooftop of an apartment building in the cramped lower gotham residential to find the gait of a man with something to hide out of a crowd.

days of following his suspect's routine finally afforded him an opportunity to slip into the man's domicile when donald took his nightly stroll. he had ten minutes before donald would return from the mailbox, back to the shut-in routine with his closed drapes & blaring stereo radio. it was enough time for damian though, who wasted no time sliding a thin wire into the seal of the third-story window. he made quick work of the flimsy folding lock mounted on the frame & slid his body through the window before setting the seal back into place.

he lost himself in the adrenaline, pawing through drawers & peering under furniture. it was the stench that ultimately led him to the evidence he sought -- death wafted from a tall wardrobe in the corner, its familiar weight burrowing into his skin like ash. he did not even bother picking this lock, instead opting to strike the cheaply designed mechanism's side with curled fingers.

the heavy wooden box was lined with human filth, hatred seizing damian's heart as he beheld the fleshy remainder of a boy stapled to the back of the wardrobe, robin immediately recognized him from the gcpd's missing children registry.

it was not the robin of gotham that awaited donald when he returned home. when the door to apartment 3e was latched from the inside by its late resident donald park, it was the prince of assassins who met him. it was damian al ghūl whose knife carved past thyroid cartilage to sever his larynx before a shout could bellow into the narrow apartment halls & it was damian al ghūl's precise hand that sliced clean through the tibialis anterior muscles in donald's legs that left him gurgling in a pool of his blood. it was damian, too, that teased his tantō along the man's heel to expose an inch of achille's tendon to the air. then another. he left both legs in the same state of disrepair, the slippery slivers of muscle squeezed tightly in his unwavering fist as he ripped them free.

it was, however, robin of gotham who left the apartment landline hanging by its cord, the voice of a gcpd dispatcher faint to the ear.

he had not waited to confirm if the injuries would prove fatal, already atop the roof & sprinting towards gotham harbor. he dropped his bounties into the murk; justice was served indeed.

his mother's touch surfaces him from the dredges of his mind. her voice shakes loose the hungry cobwebs that imposed upon his mind as he recounted the state he left donald in, the childish glee at his own skill setting his pulse high again. damian allows her to wash him clean, as if the physical presence of blood would wash away the brilliant colors burned behind his eyelids.

no one but she could so easily pick her way past his set traps. fine. no sulking alone tonight, whatever.

❝ --- fine. ❞ another night, he may have protested. tonight, he would rather hear the consolation of his mother's forgiving words than face bridging the path to his father's moral high ground to beg some forgiveness. damian does not want forgiveness, nor does he think he needs it. he delivered swift justice to a man who needed it -- what is so wrong with that?

damian was merciful tonight, a guardian angel for those lost without one.

Al Ghul Family Values 🗡️ (2015 vs 2024 redraw under the cut!)

"All right, I'll have Lucius draw up the papers for it, but you still need to make appearances. You can't let this be your whole life. Otherwise, what will people think of Damian Wayne and what he gets up to? Also the press, that's,"Bruce sighs heavily, he's never talked about the small things that he has to do as Batman and Bruce Wayne. "Look, you're going to have to call the press on yourself every once and in a while."