Chapter Text
Damian is aware Mother is hiding something. The others in the League look to her and then must look away from her in fear, in awe, in respect, but he has the privilege of being able to watch. He cannot tell whether she is hiding it from Grandfather—if such a feat is possible—but she is hiding it from him.
The chances of a test to see if he notices are high. He can’t allow a secret to be held from him with that possibility on the table.
He watches Mother throughout the next few days, watches her pattern. There are no secrets in the letters that come in by hawk. Her movements about the island are not erratic or lonesome. Mother is rarely alone long enough to hide something physical. Damian determines the best course of action is to see if there are any clues within her private quarters. The mission—getting in and out, unnoticed—is a daunting one, but Damian’s the son of the Bat. He’s got this.
One night, Grandfather calls her to hold a council with him, one that Damian is not granted entry for. Damian stalks through the beams of the stronghold, feet careful and quiet above the assassins below him. The beams lead over the communal sleeping quarters, and the kitchens. He jumps across the two towers and lands softly on the rugs outside of the family rooms. Grandfather’s is at the end of the hall, the double-doors opulent with etchings of gold and demons for the doorknobs. It’s always made Damian stand a little straighter. Aunt Nyssa’s stands empty to the left of his. Sensei’s is on the right. Next to Aunt Nyssa’s is Mother’s, then Damian’s.
He walks past his own room, safe in the knowledge that no one saw him come this way, and tries Mother’s door. It’s locked—not that Damian had different expectations. Grandfather holds keys to every room on the island, the lock is for those beneath her. He pulls out a small pick he’s been learning with. It takes a few moments, where Damian attempts to ignore the sweat that gathers on his neck, before the door swings open with a faint click.
Damian closes the door behind him. Turns the lock, too, just in case one of the servants come near.
Mother’s rooms boast a simple elegance. A deep green rug decorates the hallway that branches off into a sitting room, a training room, and silk hangings that block the door to her bedroom at the end of the hall. Damian peeks into each room as he passes it; they mostly look the same as he last saw them (too long ago).
Within her room, he finds the secret. A young man—teenager—sits propped on a bed that is out of sight from the doorway. Damian has to walk in to spot him. The teenager has a sling on, bandages that cover half his head. One of his legs is elevated. Damian freezes for a moment, even though he is aware that the other in the room is in no condition to cause him harm. The teenager doesn’t even seem to notice him, so Damian stalks closer.
There is a dagger at his hip, a gift a year and some change from Damian’s mother. She had crafted it for his first mission without her. Damian had exceeded the expectations set by Grandfather, even if it was the only praise or prize he received for it. That is all to say, Damian is well-versed in how to use it should he have need. He keeps his hand over the hilt, but does not pull out the weapon.
The teenager has pale, blue eyes. They stay distant even when Damian is close enough to hear his breathing. He’s got stitches along his hairline, Damian notes, and thin scars along his cheek and neck. Both of his hands are wrapped, but not restrained. “Who are you?” Damian murmurs.
A blink is what he gets in response to his question.
Damian pulls the blanket down, the teenager in a shirt and shorts that hangs loose; he makes a catalog of the older boy’s injuries. His left arm is wrapped down to the elbow, his left leg in a cast. His right leg is only wrapped down to his knee, and Damian can see the stitching underneath the bandages disappear up to the shorts. “What happened to you?”
There is a struggle as the teenager attempts to sit up, but doesn’t answer Damian directly. Small grunts escape from him as he struggles; Damian chooses to help him. If Mother thinks he is worth the trouble, then surely he is. His back is also covered in the pressure bandages, and they press soft against Damian’s hand as he pulls the teenager forward to fix his pillows. He’s settling the unknown boy back when a throat clears behind him.
“Mother.” Damian does nothing so graceless as whirl to face her. Instead, he spins on his heel, back straight and attempts to act like he fully expected her here.
“My child,” Talia says, and the candlelight does not reach her eyes. Damian struggles to identify what her thoughts are at the moment and it worries him. “What are you doing here?”
“I recognized you were keeping something from me.” She can hide something from him, Grandfather can hide something from all of them. Damian is required to be honest. “I thought it prudent to know what it was.”
She hums and walks close to him. Damian attempts to stand so straight that his vertebrae will pop out. “That was very perceptive of you.” Talia tucks her hand under his chin, strokes his cheek once with her thumb. “Your training is doing you well.”
He nods. The scope of his gratitude and the relief of her amusement wash through him. Damian may have failed this portion of the mission, but that does not mean that he has lost the full end goal. Mother moves around him to help the bed-ridden teenager with a drink of water. She holds the glass careful to his mouth, other hand cupped to prevent any water spilling on him. It fills Damian for a moment, a cold kind of emptiness, for he can’t recall her ever doing something like this for him when he was injured.
Granted, he is competent enough to never be injured to this scope.
“Who is he?” Damian asks after a beat.
“He didn’t speak to you?”
“...No.”
Mother sighs. “That is to be expected. He hasn’t spoken to me either.” She sets the glass back on the table between the two beds. “His name is Jason Todd.”
Damian waits for her to explain the significance, or for his mind to remind him. He knows of no great fighter with that name, of no great ally or foe from his lessons with Sensei on League history. Mother straightens up and looks back to him. “He’s the Batman’s son. He was Robin.”
The teenager looks different to him now. Damian didn’t know that his father had any other children, was only aware that he had a partner in the loosest sense—he is careful of the gossip he hears from the assassins. If they catch him, then he would learn nothing. “A brother?”
“In a sense, I suppose.” Mother tilts her head as she considers Todd. “He can’t compare to you, of course, my beloved. He holds no blood to your father. A chosen son, nonetheless.”
“What happened to him?”
“Death.” She says. “Or, as close as we can tell. None have been able to explain to me how he came back, or why like this.”
“It wasn’t the Lazarus water?” Damian sees no green dancing in his eyes, but also sees no other explanation.
“No, Ra’s would not allow that. And your father would not have attempted it. He had buried Jason Todd, mourns him. I intend to return him—a gift most special, or sentimental. Your father will like that.” Mother pauses. Her hand comes close to Todd, but he doesn’t flinch from it. He doesn’t even blink. She pushes a hand through Todd’s hair. “Once his body and mind are healed.”
“Could he be healed by…” Damian stops himself from finishing the sentence. She had just said that Grandfather would not permit Todd into the pools.
But Mother doesn’t snap or scold, this time. There is no punishment. Instead, she waits for a moment. “It could. But I do not think it should be the first solution, not when his physical injuries are healing along the appropriate timeline for wounds this severe.” Damian nods. “He needs care, his wrappings changed, and company. I have been doing what I can.”
“Of course, Mother, I can assist.” Damian struggles to keep his tone from going dry. He would have offered his help either way, but he is never asked. He is not told either, just expected.
“My son,” She says, a small smile on her face. It doesn’t fully reach her eyes but Damian rarely sees one that does. Damian hears thank you in her words, and it means more than the smile could.
—
Todd’s cast comes off, and they move him to Damian’s rooms. He spends time standing behind the couch in Damian’s sitting room, hand on the soft cotton that makes up the cushions, or time holding one of the books from the bookshelf. Damian wonders if Todd used to be a reader, and what he enjoyed. When he gets done with training, most days, he reads to Todd.
Damian works on his sketchings with Todd being a quiet presence behind him. His trainer wants him to move into painting, to see a more realistic view of the battlefield. If Damian would be able to remember the colors and shapes and vague spaces between, then he would have more of an edge. (Damian’s trainer and he both don’t talk about their first conversation, don’t share it with anyone else—how art can heal.)
Todd has a bed next to him. It’s not the one from Mother’s room, but Damian’s sure that the bed there has also been removed. Todd sometimes sits hours on the edge of his bed as he rubs a mindless hole into the edge of his quilt.
When Damian practices his katas, Todd stands to the side of the mat. He’s more alert in this room and this room only. Damian figures it has something to do with weaponry on the walls. As Robin, Todd must have been cognizant of the dangers around him and even with his mind half-way gone, that awareness must linger on. It could be a way to sharpen him back to the waking world. Damian doesn’t tell Mother this idea.
Even while the only sunlight Todd gets is from the windows of Damian’s rooms, his skin darkens as the summer comes in. Todd’s scars show up white and stark against his skin, unlike how Damian’s are a flat brown that could almost be ignored if not for the way they shined. Damian rubs Aloe Vera and coconut oil onto Todd’s scars when he does his own.
Damian ignores the eyes of his Grandfather, the best he can. He’s sure Mother has told him that Damian has taken on Todd’s care. Grandfather never did have the patience for a failing project and it makes Damian nervous on his brother’s behalf. It makes him begin to think of ways he could rectify the slow pace at which Todd is healing.
He keeps these ideas away from Mother as well.
At night, Todd abandons his own bed, and crawls in to press against Damian. It started months ago, when Damian jerked away from one of his nightmares with a knife in his hands and blood dripping down on him. Todd had been cut along his cheekbone from Damian’s wild slashing, and yet still carefully lays down next to him. Todd’s hands are clumsy in their comfort when they push against Damian’s hair. Damian tucks the knife back under his pillow, inspects and cleans the wound, and does his best to move Todd back to his own space. The next time, he doesn’t cut Todd, and he doesn’t deny himself the comfort his older brother brings. Now, he and Todd both sleep better with each other at their backs.
—
Damian wakes to shouts. It takes only a second for him to determine this is not a training, the smell of blood and the sharp clang of swords crash in from the window. He stretches his arm out and realizes that Todd is missing. Damian does not hesitate to draw out his knife, crouched low as he makes it out of his bedroom.
The door to the family hall stands open wide, a dark yawning thing that makes all of Damian’s hair stand on end. He spins towards each room and keeps his back pressed against the wall. There are no assassins that lie in wait there, but neither is his brother.
There’s a scuffle going on outside, the sound of flesh striking flesh, groans and blood being spit. Damian rushes out. He’s certain to find Todd wandered out and got himself killed—he let his brother be killed, how could he ever show his face to his father, and is caught by Mother before he can make it fully into the hall.
She presses him against the wall behind her, and he is able to take in the scene before them.
Grandfather stands in the hallway, by his door, with a bored expression for this assassination attempt. Sensei is not seen, but Todd—
Todd has several men on the ground at his feet. He’s not lunging towards the two that circle him. Todd’s got a few cuts on his shoulders, and his knuckles are bloody, and one of the men bring his sword up in a flash of moonlight. His arm is caught before he can finish the swing by Todd, who snaps it at the elbow before he flings the man to the floor and kicks him in the head. Damian watches as Todd faces his last opponent, standing alone in a hallway with the rest of them just watching, and he realizes Todd isn’t fighting, not really.
Todd is guarding. Guarding Damian’s door, specifically.
A warm disbelief diffuses through his chest, one that makes Damian’s fingers tingle, even as he continues on and Todd takes down the last man. There is still the sound of warfare from outside the family wing, but in here, it is quiet for a moment.
Grandfather clears his throat. “Well, we have found an actual purpose for the failure of a corpse you have dragged into our home, Talia.”
Mother nods. Damian clenches his jaw, but tries not to show his anger. He keeps his eyes on Grandfather, certain that Todd is not a threat if no one else poses one to him. “It is good for Damian to have someone at his back. Even better that he cannot speak on the things he sees.”
“Though I do wonder if there’s a way we can have him finish his work.” Grandfather muses. “Tonight, we’ll have a public execution for them, after gleaning where they came from—we’ll send someone up to collect them, as I doubt the dead boy can understand even basic commands. Send him back to his room, before he becomes even more of an eyesore.”
The last sentence is directed at Damian. He attempts not to blink as his Grandfather’s piercing stare lands on him. “Yes, Grandfather.” Damian moves towards Todd and puts his hand on the wrist of his brother.
“Oh, and child?” Damian freezes, a small amount of Todd’s blood slides between his fingers. “Come back out to the courtyard afterwards.”
For the execution is left unsaid. Damian refuses to feel anything for this—pushes the good, the bad, the questions, all down and away. He needs to get Todd cleaned up and go down to the courtyard. That is the reality of things. “Yes, Grandfather.”
—
Todd starts going on missions with Damian. Damian gets good at stitching wounds on a body different from his own, and learns they share their blood type.
—
Todd sits in the sunlight that comes through Damian’s window. He faces it, head tilted like a particularly indulgent cat. The thought sours Damian’s stomach; the bright red and awful sound the small bird made in training today surfacing in his mind instead. His punishment for refusing aches along the length of his arm. Damian had come to his quarters to have a minute of peace.
A soft hiccup comes from Damian’s throat, the failure of stopping it hurts almost as much as the weakness that it shows. Todd looks his way—and that is all that can be said on that, for he does not really look at Damian. His eyes gaze on nothing in the distance between them.
There is no worry that Todd will expose a small slip from Damian, that he could even if he wished to bring ruin to Damian. It soothes the young boy as he makes his way to the chest that sits at the foot of his bed. Under his robes are scraps of paper—not the landscapes he draws to better his knowledge of the battlefield; no, these are much more secret in their designs of the hounds and birds and rats that linger around the island—and bandagings. Damian sets to wrap his wrist, the blood dry from where the ruler cut into him, as he ignores the way his eyes drip.
If the only strength he can have now is not to sob, Damian will cling to it.
He’s tying off the cloth when Todd gets close enough to his periphery to startle. It unsettles Damian how quiet the non-present teenager can be. He lifts his head, Damian starts to scowl before Todd pushes one of his hands onto Damian’s cheek. The movement is graceless, the pressure off, but a soft shushing pushes past Todd’s lips and it seems unimportant at that moment.
“I do not need coddling.” Damian says, but he doesn’t move away. Todd’s eyes are focused on him, his actions appear to be of a cognizant sort. “I am capable of completing my training. Today was a…mistake.”
“Shh,” Todd’s fingers are warm where they slowly wipe the tears away from Damian’s cheek.
It has the opposite effect, Damian thinks, which is odd. The gesture causes more to leak out of his eyes. “I can. I can,” Damian insists. “But animals—they do not commit the crimes people do. They don’t deserve it.”
“Hm,” At first, Damian thinks Todd is attempting to attack him by hooking his arm around his neck and it causes him to stiffen against the pull. All Todd does is pull Damian to his lap, wrap his arms around him. It’s…nice. It’s awful, in the way that Damian can’t relax and couldn’t leave the comfort even if he wanted to.
“They don’t,” Damian repeats himself, tears making his eyes itchy and cheeks hot. Todd just holds him.
—
The summer turns to fall, and Damian watches Todd. Watches as his body goes through the motions and his mind stays absent. He makes and scraps plans. Damian wishes to wake up to his brother whole, but after half a year, he knows it will not happen on its own.
He asks for an audience with Mother. She invites him out to a terrace over the courtyard, a low table separating them. A fennel and mint tea steeps in the cups between them. Damian sips at his first cup, bird song above them and drills being shouted below them. Mother pours another cup before he speaks; Damian cannot out-wait her.
“I am considering traveling to Nanda Parbet.” Damian says.
“Alone?”
“With my brother.” Damian realizes his mistake a second after he makes it. Mother raises an eyebrow at his personal affect. She pulls her tea up to hide the rest of her face.
“Why?”
Damian wants to look away. It’s an obvious tell of lying, and though he doesn’t hope to be able to deceive Mother, he at least has to make an attempt at subterfuge. “I believe it will be restorative for Todd. Perhaps the stress of dying means he needs a more meditative location.”
Mother says nothing.
“It would be for a short while. You have tasked me to look after his care.”
“I did.” Mother concedes. “And I thought a request similar enough to this would come, though it is a little uninventive for a first attempt.”
The silence stretches between them as Damian struggles on how to reply. She’s provoking him into telling her what his actual plans are, or to defend himself with all the ideas he had before, or it is an attempt to goad him into improper behavior. He cannot allow the instinctual desire to snap back to rise within himself, or else he may lose her permission. “I have seen it work for others within the League. I didn’t consider wasting effort on something new.”
A scroll is placed between them. It is thin, and the pages are yellowed. It must have come from the catacombs below. Mother slides it towards him. “Take this when you go—do not open it here, Damian. Your Grandfather is unaware that I retrieved it. I believe it may prove useful to you.”
Damian is doubtful that Grandfather is unaware of anything, but he holds his tongue. The scroll is tucked between his robes, hidden from view as he nods and drinks his tea. “Thank you, Mother.”
—
Damian had memorized the notes Mother had given him well before they stepped into the Himalayan temples. He secreted away the instructions, kept safe in a high, dry spot no other human would think to look, knowing that Mother would be gravely disappointed should he lose it or allow Todd to destroy it in a fit of rage. The instructions were simply written, ink lined with the age of the scroll's inception. They confirmed that Mother was aware of the choices Damian made by bringing Todd to this place.
Should you ever need guidance without the Demon’s Head, the list below provides an accurate set of symptoms and steps to a healing recovery of Lazarus waters immersion. The symptoms will include paranoia, rage, loss of time and memory. They can be triggered suddenly, or be prolonged at a low-level. The steps to allow an individual a healthy path through the effects of the Lazarus waters are as follows.
1. Allow them a quiet, safe location to return to. When awakening from immersion, an individual will decide upon the target of their paranoia and rage. Typically, this is someone close to them. It should be stated that the target not be present during the healing journey. It is important to have a familiar home to keep them until they return to themselves.
Todd follows him closely, a constant shadow of warmth in the hallways of Nanda Parbat. Damian leads them both through the winding corridors, out through the stone, up the steps to the giant doors, and he settles himself to sit. Todd remains standing as he is incapable of grasping the complexities of tradition and respect in his current state, unlike Damian. The snow piles high on his shoulders, his bones feel the sting of it, but neither of them move. He wonders if Todd can feel it.
Eventually, the doors swing open. The two monks that stand at the entry way do not shift to allow or block entrance. Damian chooses to walk through, as he keeps his eyes ahead and head proud like what has been taught to him.
The room opens up before them — votive candles line the walls to the side, twenty to thirty rows, with large pillars that have animals, and crests, and tiny villages carved into them. Light descends from above in a way that doesn’t appear natural, and Damian does not stop at any of it. At the far end of this decorated room is a raised dais, with two elephants flanking it etched from marble, where a statue of Rama Kushna sits.
Damian stops when he is close enough to see the way the stone carves her eyes, the tiny tarsal plates that jut out from the actual eye. He raises a hand, despite knowing that Todd stopped the second he did.
“Stay here,” Damian says. “I must speak with Rama Kushna, as she is the protector of this place. You cannot interfere, lest we are asked to leave before we even truly arrive.”
It is debatable exactly what Todd gleaned from his words, but his next step forward is not followed by an echoed shadow. He proceeds up to the statue alone and sinks down to his knees to press his forehead to the lowest stair. Grandfather, and Mother, and Sensei all agree that Nanda Parbat is a place of great healing, and how it is brought by the being before him. Damian will not sully his name by not performing the proper greetings.
“Rama Kushna, Scale of the Universe, the Great Justice, I thank you for allowing me entry to your city. I thank you for allowing my brother entry to your city. We swear to follow your creeds within the walls. So help me.” Damian pauses. The rite complete, he wets his lip. “Rama Kushna, I ask for you to listen. I ask for you to see. My brother—”
“I do see, child.” A jolt shoots through Damian, training the only reason it is not shown to Todd. He remains a distance away, and Damian continues to kneel. His hands shake with the knowledge that Rama Kushna is here. He finds he cannot lift his head, until a cool hand touches his hair. “You are capable of looking at me. I am not a God of that sort.”
Damian stays bowed as he moves to face her. She is resplendent as she floats above her dais, hair fanning at unfelt wind and skin the color of sky. He takes a breath and then continues on. “Rama Kushna, my brother is unwell.”
“Yes, a soul not fully here, but not fully gone. How awful.” Her voice drops low with sadness. She means her words. Rama Kushna’s eyes are on Todd, hands folded above her lap as she surveys him.
“I ask for your help.”
Rama Kushna looks at Damian. “I am unable to bring him back, I am unwilling to send him forward.”
“Does his death bring balance? Is it…karmatic?” Damian struggles to ask this. He can only know what his mother says and hopes her not to have been a liar for Todd. That he was good, that he will be good.
“Violence is often senseless, and the weights of the cosmos unconcerned with the death of one child. No matter how terrible — there is an infinite lens on the scope of karma.” Rama Kushna says.
“So if I could bring him back, it would not destroy the balance?”
Rama Kushna considers this, her eyes take on the look of the stars, as Damian feels a cold rush through him and looks away, convinced in that split second that he saw more than he should. When she comes back to herself, her lips twist. “You brought poisoned water to my haven.”
“I brought a way for him to return to the world.” Damian says while his heart thuds in his chest. The scroll, his mother, no one told him that the Lazarus water would be unwelcome here.
“You did not intend for me to bring him back.”
“No.”
“I see futures branching out from fractions of choices, hesitations and impulses. Any one creature has the possibility of tipping the karmic scales one way or another, though many never choose that path. I can see your brother, Jason Todd-Wayne, doing so and I can see him not.” Rama Kushna pauses. “However, I do not see a time where you do not take this step, young al Ghul. I can provide a safe haven for his mind to recover and give you a chance at keeping measure.”
Damian watches her carefully. The second portion of the task is familiar to him. The trial. He has exceeded each his mother has set, that his tutors set, that his Grandfather set. He keeps his hands open on his thighs, back straight.
“But be warned, he will be kept here by you. You must guide his recovery and choose when it is time to leave. I will prevent him from leaving alone, but when you find your way from Nanda Parbat, that is where my onus ends.”
He bows and thanks his mother for her foresight and approval in his mind. “Thank you, Rama Kushna.” When he looks up, a statue greets him once more.
—
2. Allow the newly-born individual a few days alone. The fire that rages from rebirth will die down if there is nothing to feed on. When they cannot locate their target, the symptoms will begin to subside, which will allow for healing. Most individuals who have experienced immersion will attempt lethal means of escape, or release, and thus it is critical to not engage until they show preliminary ability to recognize and reign in their symptoms.
Damian decorates the room Todd will stay in. It has a chest, a bed, a chair, a desk and no windows. That is by design. He carefully folds all of his clothes, and brings in his own pillows for Todd to be comfortable. He hangs up some of the landscapes he drew during his time training to learn the battlefield. It pulls at him in an unnameable way that they will most likely be destroyed, but Todd focused on them before. A necessary sacrifice to ensure a proper healing.
He brings in a water basin, and the waterskin that has stayed tucked on his sternum since leaving the island. Todd sits cross-legged on the ground, his mask off for the time being. His eyes follow Damian for a moment, hazy, before what little focus he has slips away. Damian swallows.
“I am going to wash your hair, Todd.” Damian says. He is going to wash his hair and then depart. He has seen how Todd can fight, trained by the Bat and only taken out by cheap tricks from their father’s longest nemesis. It is a tactical retreat. “You need to rise and go sit in the chair.”
Todd does not respond.
The weight and warmth of his brother moves easy. It reminds him of a small, blind squirrel he once climbed back to its nest for. How the little thing shook in his hand, searching not for escape but just to understand. Damian shakes his head, frustrated that he allows his mind to wander at such a crucial time.
He’s careful with the water. Damian has ensured that he does not touch it when he transfers it to the basin; they need to have at least one of them with their wits.
Todd sinks into the green glow with trust. His hair fans out, and like Grandfather’s, a vivid white streak comes from the root. And then—-
—
Jason is aware that he is awake when he is, and not aware when he is not. Those black spaces in between feel like a moment and a lifetime simultaneously when he floats back out of his mind. Where he is warm. That sticks with him, that knowledge never leaves his mind. There is a woman there, and he cannot recall her name.
Then, there is a boy. The boy looks familiar in a way that Jason struggles to place. He wakes to the boy’s—Damian, Damian—soft tone as he talks. He holds a book in his hand. Jason can’t recall what that’s for. The word comes to him easily as a few memories from outside his body of him curled around one, but not what he did with them.
He comes awake as he holds the book himself. What book? Has he seen this one before?
His boy is back and it is dark. There are tears on his boy’s face. Jason knows that’s bad, tears are always, always bad. A crouched, dark figure over Jason while he sleeps in a bed the size of a sea, a memory of a hand on his face. Comfort. He tries to comfort the child.
There are times he comes to in a room full of sharp things. Weapons, his mind reminds him. He watches the boy, his boy, use them, stretch his arm this way and that as he practices. Jason remembers Bruce, remembers the name and the warm, safe emotion the name invokes. Damian looks like Bruce. Bruce?
A blink, and he is watching his boy (what was his name again?) draw a beach. Jason has been there before, when, when? He looks away and it is a different picture when he looks back. He relaxes. The location is unfamiliar to him.
Jason comes awake covered in blood. He hurts. His boy has bandages out. A voice, in the back of his mind, reminds him that blood is bad. Blood is dangerous. The words blur and he shudders violently. He hurts. He’s covered in blood. Damian wraps his wounds. Where did he get them? When did he get them? They scare him—where is his dad?
There is sunlight on his face. Jason likes the warmth. He knows he didn’t have much of it before. (Before what?) He follows Damian through rows of people with swords. He sticks close because his mind reminds him that there is a child and he should protect them. The child is his, his to protect.
There is more blood. More times Jason opens his eyes to see his boy tending to him. He doesn’t remember where the blood comes from, if it is all his. Most of the time, no words come to him, no memories. These occurrences bleed together and Jason can’t recall one from the other. Each is superimposed over the next, how many times has he woken up bloody? Has he ever been clean? Ever been whole and uninjured?
It is snowing. His boy sits on stairs before him. How long have they been here?
They are in a golden room. It looks like sunlight. Damian tells him to stay, orders in such a way that Jason, for a single second, thinks of Bruce. The name and the face and the memory of being told to stay float away. He keeps himself planted in that spot for his boy.
They are in a tiny room with no windows. Jason doesn’t like it. He really, really doesn’t like it. His mind won’t tell him why, won’t tell him what danger there is. His boy is there. His boy is here with him.
Jason becomes aware of warm water and hands in his hair. Then, he is more than awake. He remembers and he opens his eyes to a world that is green, green, green.