category: Gen
fandom: Batfamily
characters and relationships: Damian Wayne al Ghul & Goliath the Dragon Bat
warnings/additional tags: Blood and violence, child assassin, Damian's year of blood, animal death, Damian needs hugs, Damian gets hugs, hurt/comfort
word count: 1020
Summary:
@ailesswhumptober Day 29: Childhood trauma | Guilt | "I didn't mean to."
notes: Based on the dragon bat massacre flashback from Robin: Son of Batman #6. i don't write damian often, so i hope this is okay.
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Visions plague him tonight. Visions of blades and blood and past atrocities, too many to count.
Red blinds his vision as he slashes his way down the tunnel, past the deadly swarm of venomous bugs, through the labyrinth of predators. It drips from his sword as he storms into the final chamber. He can taste it in his mouth, the tang of salty metal between his teeth.
The dragon bats descend, and he does the only thing he knows how to. He kills.
The colours of their fur blend on the ground as they fall, one by one, in a grotesque rainbow of death. Blurs of green and yellow and blue and purple flash past him, and he stamps them out fiercely and without remorse. Until there is only one colour left. Red. The last survivor of the species. A runt, too small to even fly, but large enough, even as a juvenile, to be considered a threat. For is not everything in this underground fortress built to be, bred to be, born to be?
“Fight me!” he screams, holding his sword that drips with the blood of the runt’s family, slicing the air with it a breath away from its snout. All the runt does is squeak and tilt its head at him. Why won’t it fight back?! It has to fight back! He just murdered its whole pack, and it is the only thing that stands between him and the Sceptre of Kings. Adrenaline still pulses through his veins, and he stands battle-ready and undefeated. It has to fight! It has to want him dead, to preserve its family’s honour. The world is not kind, and neither should it be. He anticipates the pounce, for the flashing claws seeking his destruction, but they never come. Why?!
Hot tears well up in his eyes. “No excuses, runt,” he hisses. “Do not dishonor your family’s cause! All of their hope now falls to you!”
Still nothing. It mrows softly, takes a step closer to him. Trying to catch him off his guard. He is never off his guard. But it stays on the ground, staring up at him with large yellow eyes. It is a shame to its family’s legacy, something he will never be. The others have given their lives, all for the youngest of them to not even try to kill him.
He snarls in rage and slams his torch on the ground next to it. It scorns the sacrifice of its clan, rubs their blood into the dust of the ancient cave with its pathetic helplessness. Part of him hopes to provoke a hasty, uncalculated attack from the creature so he may plunge his sword into its heart and finish his mission.
“FIGHT FOR THEM!!!”
He pants as he stumbles to his knees, exhausted from battle and lack of sleep, and points his blade toward the runt’s tiny neck, ready to dispatch the useless guardian. It whines softly, shuffling even closer like a lamb to its slaughter. He can see himself reflected in its eyes, a boy clothed in crimson and shadows, and feel the soft puffs of its moist breath.
Then the tiniest pink tongue flicks out and licks the tip of his nose.
He stares at the runt.
He is covered in blood and dirt and fur, having fought his way through an impenetrable ancient labyrinth, evaded countless deadly traps, and slaughtered this thing’s whole family in search of an ancient artifact for his Year of Blood. His hands and legs sting with the slight burns of the scattered coals from his torch. He screamed at it to attack him, to fight for its life, to react as an animal should, with the same thirst for ruthlessness and vengeance he has. He wanted it to.
But it only puts a small red paw on his arm.
He can no longer contain the tears blurring his vision. They stream down his bloodstained cheeks, force their way up through his aching chest. He sobs like an infant in its first year and smears gore on his face as he covers his eyes with his hands. The runt climbs into his lap, and he buries his face in its fur, until all he can see is red. He is painfully vulnerable, and for once, he doesn’t care. Red dries on his armour, soaks into the ground around him, chokes his nose and mouth with the guilt of his sins.
The runt doesn’t leave as the coals burn out and they are left in darkness. Its warmth is the only certainty it has that he has not fallen unconscious and is now prey to a sinister trick. They are alone in the dark, the only two living among the corpses that he made.
He can still taste the blood.
Damian wakes with a start but does not shoot up in bed. But his heart races in his chest, and he struggles not to gasp for breath, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.
Yellow eyes glow in the dark as Goliath, no longer a runt, makes an inquisitive sound and raises his head. He tries to say, “I’m all right,” but a sob hitches in his throat, and Goliath’s ears flick. Then he crosses the room, hardwood floors creaking concerningly, and growls softly as he places his large head in Damian’s lap. The boy wraps his arms around his companion’s neck and buries his face in red fur again, chest aching at the memories still fresh in his mind.
“I’m sorry, Goliath. I’m sorry for everything.”
Goliath nudges him gently in the chest, a deep rumble vibrating through both of them, and Damian tries to rub his tears away before a huge sandpaper tongue licks across his face, leaving sticky slobber in place of saltwater.
Choking out a soft laugh, he wipes it off on Goliath’s fur. “You’re not a pup anymore. That’s disgusting.” None of them have been able to figure out exactly how much intelligence or sentience the dragon bat possesses, but as his giant friend wraps comfort and warmth around him, Damian could swear he is laughing.
