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Kneeling before Ra's al Ghul feels more natural than it should.
Damian reminds himself that he spent the first ten years of his life here at the League, that he knelt countless times at his grandfather's order or simply to show respect. It was a usual part of his life, and it seems that even ten years away hasn't completely gotten rid of that feeling.
It carries an almost uneasiness with it now, though. But that has far more to do with the why than the what, really.
The war is lost. Countless heroes are dead, the rest in hiding, trying to regroup and do their best to fight back. There's been a few successes here and there, but overall...no, it's really seemed like a losing cause. A pointless one.
And then the offer came from his grandfather. An opportunity for Damian, to make up for his 'betrayal' and rejoin the family. Probably instigated by his mother, since Ra's al Ghul has never really been the forgiving sort, but still—the offer was there.
Damian thought it was ridiculous. He scoffed, nearly laughed outright. Complained to his siblings—the ones still alive—about the nerve of his grandfather, thinking he would ever turn his back on the people who had accepted him more than anyone in the League ever had. And for the most part, they'd let him rant, and egged him on, and helped him get it out of his system.
But there'd been a calculating, sad look in Father's eyes. And it hadn't even been a day later that he asked to speak to Damian, and laid out his idea in a dispassionate voice, letting none of his emotions leak into his voice, Batman through and through.
(Damian wishes he had. Wishes his father had shown that this was affecting him, that this was a hard decision for him. That he didn't want Damian to leave, that he would give anything for Damian to stay, but that this is an opportunity they can't afford to let pass. That it could help them save so many lives.
Of course, even after all these years, he finds himself disappointed in the way his father always falls just short of connecting. Falls short of proving that Damian actually means something to him. Just laying out the facts like it's any other mission, not like he's asking Damian to do something incredibly dangerous. Not like he's saying he wants to send him away.)
And so Damian accepted the offer. He gathered up the few possessions he couldn't bear to leave behind, and snuck out in the middle of the night, unwilling—unable—to go through any dramatic goodbyes. He makes his way back to Nanda Parbat, and allows himself to be searched, and then walks through halls that were once so familiar until he's brought before Ra's al Ghul.
He kneels without being asked, slipping into the role he's supposed to play. The role that is going to be his life from now on.
(Does Father understand what he's asking of him? Has he considered all the awful things Damian is going to have to do while he's here? To convince Grandfather and Mother—he'll have to follow their ways. He'll have to be their perfect soldier, abandon everything Father taught him. Does he understand—?)
Damian hears Ra's approaching. The man walks down the short steps of the dais, footsteps echoing through the large throne room. Damian keeps himself from tensing; show no fear, no weakness. And not like anxiety will help in any way—Ra's will do whatever he's going to do, and Damian's feelings on the matter won't make a difference.
So he kneels, with his head bowed, and he waits.
An arm reaches forward, taking Damian's chin in hand. Damian allows his head to be lifted compliantly, raising his eyes to meet his grandfather's. He keeps his expression level, open. Nothing to hide, he's here to be loyal. No secrets from the master.
"So you chose to return to us," Grandfather muses. Out of the corner of his eye, Damian can see Mother standing with an unreadable expression. She's tense, wary. If Damian didn't know any better, he'd even say she was nervous.
"Yes, Grandfather," Damian says, briefly lowering his eyes in submission before meeting his gaze once more. "I understand my betrayal is grave, and that I have much to make up for. I'll do whatever it takes to make it up to you and be the heir you deserve. I swear it."
The Demon's Head looks at him critically. Maybe judging the truthfulness of his statement. Damian holds still under the examination, not flinching away. No fear, no doubt, no secrets. A loyal grandson. Here to return to the fold and make the League proud. Not an undercover agent. Not a spy.
Ra's releases him. He hums consideringly.
Eventually, after long enough that Damian has to force his pulse to not skyrocket with anxiety, Grandfather says, "Welcome home, Damian."
Damian sees Mother smile before he bows his head, closing his eyes against the grief that acceptance makes rise in him. "Thank you, Master."
He's given his old quarters.
They haven't changed, and it freezes Damian for a few long moments, unable to move as he sees that it's exactly as he left it a decade ago when Mother first took him to Gotham. It's been regularly cleaned, Damian can tell, but all of his belongings are exactly as he left them, as if no time has passed.
He runs his hands over the hand-carved furniture, the weapons hanging on the walls, the spines of the books that rest on shelves. It's been a long time since he's been so thoroughly surrounded by the Arabic language—Jason or Dick would speak to him in his native language occasionally, but not to the level he experienced here.
It'll be an adjustment, switching back to this. English was spoken in Nanda Parbat, but Mother and Grandfather always preferred the elegance of Arabic, even if it was a specific dialect that came from the League itself. Another way of isolating them and their people from the rest of the world. Of thinking themselves above it all.
He unpacks the few things he brought, keeping the sentimental items tucked under his mattress just in case; no reason in leaving them out in the open for anyone to see and potentially use against him. No, it's far better to keep them hidden and deal with the issue if it actually becomes one.
He doubts anyone is going to search his room, but there's always the possibility. They don't fully trust him yet, after all. He isn't surprised, nor does he particularly blame them. He's been fighting at Batman's side for ten years—they'd be idiots to fully trust him after just five minutes.
This is a long game. Damian knows that, is prepared for it, as much as he can be. It will be a long while before he can do anything of substance for the resistance, a while before the edge of suspicion fades from his grandfather and even mother. He can do it, because he has to. Because Father gave him this task and he will not fail, not when so many are counting on him.
He misses his family. He misses sitting down in the kitchen for a quiet breakfast with his siblings after a long patrol, and helping Alfred with some of the more strenuous tasks around the Manor, and sketching beside Father as he reads, and—
So many things that he didn't realize there would be a last of. So many things he didn't think would end, but now have. He might never be able to get it back.
Timothy, Katherine, and Harper are dead. Stephanie might never walk right again. Duke lost his right arm. His family is broken, and he isn't there to try to help keep them together. He isn't there to defend them.
Instead he resides in the League, following their commands as if he's eight years old again and desperate to please the man who controlled his entire world.
But Damian has a mission, so he does as he's supposed to, refusing to let his emotions get in the way. He trains with his mother and the other masters, honing skills left behind long ago. He resumes lessons in areas his grandfather considers him lacking, and doesn't flinch from the insults that come his way, the words that cut like knives but are truly only tests.
He remains steadfast. He watches Ra's execute a traitor without flinching. He listens to reports of the horrors raging through the outside world without a single blink. He is ruthless and cunning and even cruel, at times, because that's what they want from him. That's what an al Ghul has to be.
That's what his family needs from him, and he will always try his best to make them proud.
Damian has been back in Nanda Parbat for three months when Grandfather first makes him kill someone.
He doesn't tell Damian who the man is. There's no hint of if this is a traitor to the League, or someone fighting in the resistance, or even a random civilian. He's given no context, no explanation, just an order to swing the sword.
And he does. He keeps his expression neutral and draws the blade that rests at his hip, approaching the kneeling man with slow, measured steps. He does not let his internal storm show, does not let any of the watching eyes see the anxiety in his chest, the loss, the regret. The bitterness, at having to do this at all. The fear of what his family might think, even if he's here on Father's orders, even if he's simply doing what he's supposed to.
He's a good son. He can do this.
He makes it quick, shoving the sword through the man's heart in one quick blow. He makes himself watch, not taking his eyes off of his victim as the man shudders and chokes and coughs up blood before slumping onto the floor, dead.
Damian calmly cleans off his weapon and slides it back into its sheath. His expression does not change. He does not flinch, or cry, or scream like he wants to. He just turns back to his grandfather, who's looking at him with something new in his eyes.
Damian doesn't know if the something new is good or bad, what it means for him, but it doesn't look disapproving. There might even be something...pleased about it.
Another test passed, then. That's good. He'd hate for this murder to be for nothing.
That night, Damian stands in the shower for a long while just staring blankly at the wall. He can't afford to break down like he wants to. Can't afford one single moment of weakness, just in case there's someone waiting around the corner to spot it and then everything is ruined.
So Damian stands under the spray of water, just slightly too hot, and works to convince himself that he did the right thing by taking that man's life.
Exhaustion hits before it even gets close to working. He is far too numb to muster up any care about that.
Things are slightly more relaxed after that. Not completely—still, suspicion lingers—but enough to be noticeable. It's not anything he can directly put his finger on, but it no longer feels like every pair of eyes in one him, waiting for him to fail. It no longer feels like Grandfather is expecting his betrayal at every turn. It no longer feels like Mother is watching him warily for what he might do.
He was obedient. He killed on command. That, apparently, says a lot to them about his loyalty.
(It does say a lot about his loyalty, they're just very wrong about whom that loyalty is to.)
Grandfather begins to trust him with more, over the coming months. He involves Damian in important meetings, meetings where they plan the next step of their domination. He has Damian present for gatherings of some of the worst men, and doesn't keep watch of him to make sure he behaves. He puts Damian in charge of a class, teaching new League members how to be the perfect assassins.
This is the long game, and Damian is still in the beginning stages, but he can't help but feel at least the slightest bit accomplished. Because this might be Hell, but at least he's playing the role he was supposed to perfectly.
He can only hope that somewhere, Father is proud of him.
(He can only hope that Father doesn't hate him for all the things he's doing.)
A summons from his grandfather is not an unusual thing, so he doesn't bat an eye when one of Ra's' men comes to fetch him. He simply puts away the weapon he'd been training with, wipes off the sweat clinging to his brow, and follows.
When they reach the throne room, Damian contains a sigh when he sees a man kneeling before Grandfather's throne, aware now that this is going to be one of those days. The only question is if Damian is simply here as a witness, needing to see the guilty punished for their crimes considering he's the heir, or if his grandfather is going to make him do it.
He's been with the League for ten months now. He has killed multiple times, and he refuses to let himself keep track, to remember their faces, to remember their names the few times he was informed of who they were. If he does, it will only haunt him. Better to stay distant. Better to desensitize himself to it as quickly as possible, if this is his life now.
The kneeling man is not in good shape. He wears misshapen clothes, most likely given to him as prison garb, and it does nothing to conceal the gauntness of his frame or the bruises that cover the visible skin. His black hair is a tangled mess, greasy and limp atop his head.
He's been here for a while, then. Ra's doesn't typically keep prisoners for that long unless they're high value or have something he wants. Or if he's using them to control someone or something else.
Damian wonders which of the above categories this man falls under. Wonders if this is the day his suffering finally ends with a quick death, or if he's finally broken and is here to tell the Demon's Head whatever he wants to know.
Damian makes his way forward, passing the prisoner without another glance before coming to stop at his grandfather's side. He kneels, head bowed, and then rises when permission is given. Only then does he face the kneeling man.
And then he has to work very hard not to startle or shout in alarm, because it's Richard.
He looks even worse from the front. Mottled bruises darken his face, one pupil blown wide in what's indicative of a head injury. The way he's holding himself is precarious, like he's trying very hard to not exacerbate any injuries. There's dried blood on his neck.
Why is he here? When did Ra's capture him? How long has he been right under Damian's nose, suffering? How long has he been oblivious to his brother's torment?
"Our prisoner attempted to escape today," Grandfather says, tone careless. He doesn't acknowledge who the prisoner is, though he has to know. They've met before, multiple times. They've dueled. Richard has beaten him, even. Ra's al Ghul isn't the type to forget people with skills like that.
So it's purposeful. Distancing himself—and Damian—from the identity of the man before them. Making it seem like he's nothing, just another prisoner. One who was apparently idiotic enough to try to escape, and got caught.
Richard's eyes slide aimlessly for a moment, so obviously trying to focus that it nearly hurts Damian at seeing him struggle so, before they land on Damian. There's no shock or anger, at seeing him standing at the side of the Demon's head. There's no spark of betrayal or horror. No demands to know what Damian is doing.
(Damian almost wishes there were. Because then he would be able to see that his brother's fire is not gone, he'd be able to know that he's as okay as he can be under the circumstances. And maybe if Richard is angry with him, then this won't be as hard. Maybe if Richard yells and looks at him with disgust, Damian won't hate himself as much if what he thinks is about to happen truly does.)
(No, none of that is true. He doesn't think he could bear it if a man who has always been like a father to him looked at him in contempt.)
"He has given us nothing of use, and my patience has grown thin," Ra's continues. "His death will be a great blow to all the heroes left who think they have any chance of opposing us. It's time for his end to come."
No. No, no, no. Damian knew it was coming, knew it from the moment he saw the kneeling prisoner, but it's—this is Richard. He can't watch Richard die, he can't possibly—
Richard is looking at him levelly. There's no fear, no hate, no desperation for Damian to act on his behalf. Only a steadiness that Damian feels disgusting for taking comfort from.
He is not the one who should be in need of comfort right now. He is not the one about to be murdered.
"Damian," Grandfather says, and Damian knows that's the order. Ra's has officially declared that Damian must be the one to deal the death blow. Ra's is ordering him to kill Nightwing, fracture the resistance in a way that will take them a while to recover from.
He's ordering Damian to kill someone he loves more than almost anyone. A man who has always stood by him, always defended him, always loved him even when he tried his best to push everyone away. Who gave him Robin, made him a hero, showed him how good family could be. Richard and Alfred—the first two people to ever show Damian true kindness, and now Damian is being ordered to kill one of them.
This is another test. The final test, maybe. The ultimate one. Grandfather wants to see just how far Damian is willing to go for him, how deep his loyalty truly runs. He knows how important Richard is to him; every aspect of this is purposeful.
If he doesn't do it, he'll likely lose all the trust he'd built up. Maybe he'll have to start from scratch, maybe he'll be killed altogether. He wouldn't be able to keep smuggling information to Father like he's started to, wouldn't be able to save lives and advance the cause of the resistance.
And Richard would still die. Ra's would simply kill him himself, and he might even make it painful just to punish Damian.
He has to do this. It is the only option. And looking at Richard now—
Still steady. Despite his injuries, despite his impending death, he meets Damian's gaze with a strength that Damian soaks in near desperately, for he can find none of his own.
Richard shouldn't have to be strong right now, shouldn't have to bolster Damian up and show that it's okay. He should be allowed to grieve, for his life is about to be taken from him. Instead he offers comfort in his gaze, in his resolute expression.
Damian hates how grateful he is for it as he draws his blade.
He makes it as quick and painless as he can; Richard deserves that much. No, he deserves so much more, and Damian will never be able to make up for this. He'll never be able to recover.
He watches his brother's blood spill across the floor, and does not flinch when Ra's' hand lands on his shoulder. He thanks his grandfather, when the man tells him he's done well. When he offers a proud smile.
Damian watches the blood, and mourns for a million things he's never going to get back.