#chalantweek

Dick can't breathe, can't move, can't actually do anything that would help the situation at all.

A dead weight is upon him, pointed edges thrust deep into his chest, piercing his skin- puncturing a lung, probably. That's probably why he can't breathe.

He'd warned them; God, how he'd warned them not to wake her. But Circe and her crew of imbeciles were never ones to listen to Batman, to Robin, to Nightwing.

They'd insisted on taking their blood- Damian's blood, because Dick wasn't a virgin, Bruce wasn't a virgin. Damian wasn't a techinically a virgin, but he guessed it was only worth something with a woman.

What a load of bullshit.

And now- now, because of their idiocy, because of their inability to differentiate between a good idea and a bad, and this one was insanely bad, she was awake.

A stammered breath filters through Dick's mouth, but he feels it get stuck somewhere down his throat, not being able to get further and he chokes, body spasming slightly as he retches, coughs up blood, tries to inhale but can't-

Physically cannot do anything but lie there, as the face looms above him, eyes as blue as the crest on his uniform, as glazed as a stoner's, eyes that blue and that glazed stare into him, looking him slowly up and down.

Around him, bodies lie, shredded and weak. Moans, guttural sounds that remind him of dying cats, mutilated beyond repair.

"Don't reanimate her!" He'd yelled, desperate, urgent. "Don't let her soul come back!"

But it had been too late; far, far too late. They'd dropped the blood, smothered the bones.

Said the incantation.

Watched her rise from the shadows, tearing the skin from Circe's minions to form her own flesh.

Legs, all eight of them, expanding and unfolding, collecting bones from the skinned minions, scalping their hair, sprouting it from her own follicles.

It had been silent for a moment. And then erupted Circe's ferocious laughter, the monster's ragged breathing and banshee screams.

The smell of blood, urine and decay seemed to hang heavy in the air.

Dick can still smell it now, after-

The monster had turned on Circe first. As simple as though flicking away a bug, a large, marred hand had risen and, well, flicked. Circe's head had gone flying at incredible speed, smashing against the cave wall.

It exploded, fell limp like a pumpkin, blood and brain spewing out, tongue bitten off as the collision made her teeth clamp down. Eye's dazed, body in a clump on the floor, blood pooling around it.

Damian and Bruce were next and- and, God, Dick doesn't want to think about it.

Doesn't want to remember the squelching of their muscles, the snapping of their bones, the silent echoes of their cries.

And then she'd come for him, pinned him down, actually given him a fighting chance to lose.

Because, really, what can he do but lose? He's dead, he's a dead man breathing.

Her face comes closer to him now, and her nose sniffs, sniffs at him, his clothes.

And then her mouth opens, tongue unfolding slowly out. It's covered in thick, green semi-translucent goo, and it stinks, it stinks so bad, and Dick want's to vomit, but this thing is a top of him, and the only thing coming out of his mouth is blood, and he retches again, blood coating his teeth and spilling down the front of his uniform.

There's blood on her teeth, too, her sharp, jagged teeth that slightly resemble fangs.

She says something, then, and her voice is wretched, broken and scratched like a record, and it grates Dick's ears, and she only says one word, one shattered one: "Za-tan-na."

And before Dick can think what it means, because this is the only sound it has made besides the cries, her hands clamp around his neck.

And pull.

Dick cannot scream, cannot do anything as his head is disconnected from his body, as the bones are snapped and the tongue slivers down his throat, choking him, returning to his body, not tearing in two and staying in his head like Circe's had.

His eyes roll back, and he feels his brain make that last jump start to his heart and- and then, he feels no more.

Sees no more.

Hears no more.

Breathes no more.

Thinks no more.

She cradles his head in her lap, hands running through the blood and sweat soaked hair, lips murmuring to herself in a language only she understands.

One of her legs whips his body up, hanging it beside her. It sways in the breeze, a breeze unexplainable for they are in a cave, so the only explanation is that she is swaying it, moving her leg, her whole body side to side as she murmurs.

Except she's not murmuring, not quite; she's singing, an ancient melody, one with a tune she plays over and over inside her head.

boy with a perfect soul, heart with a gaping hole. dark twisted fantasy, turned to reality. kissing death but losing my breath.

--

Staring up at the sky, the never ending sky that stretches for miles upon miles, Dick cannot help but head a heavy heart.

He longs to be up there, to be weaving in and out of the path of birds, to dip and dive into the texture of clouds he can no longer remember felt like.

He longs to fly, to play tag and perform aerial tricks with the rest of the children.

He doesn't want to spend the rest of his life grounded, walking with shame as burnt, torn apart bones protrude from his back, feathers tattered and sparse and utterly unmoveable.

He doesn't want to be like the Fallen, because he's not!

He's really not, and it's not his fault that his wings are the way they are.

Things just happened, and, well, they happened to him. Repeatedly. And now he can no longer join the winged people, sailing above in the endless sea of sky.

And most of all... He can no longer be with her. Not that he was with her in the first place, but now- now he doesn't even stand a chance.

Why would she, a blue-eyed raven haired beauty with wings as magnificent as the constellations at night, go for him, someone with a status perceived as low as the Fallen.

The answer is simple; she wouldn't.

And that's why, when he sees her land not ten feet in front of him, head bowed and blushing, Dick can't think it real.

And when she extends a hand to him, head raising to look him in the eye with cheeks still as pink as the roses in Wall Park, as blazing as the blood pumping through his veins, it takes a while for Dick to move forward, to clasp that hand in his-

And when he does, when he threads his fingers through hers, he can't but think that even if this was just a dream, and he had fallen asleep watching them soar above him- he wouldn't care.

Because too Dick, a blushing, shy and imagined Zatanna was better than no Zatanna at all.

And sharing her wings, taking that first step off the ground for what felt like an eternity, was better than anything he had ever experienced before.

--