Archive of Our Own ^beta

‘i’ve come again
to break the teeth and claws
of this man-eating
monster we call life’
- Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, “I’ve Come Again”

The rumors following his sudden revelation into League society all coalesce into a general outline, far from the truth but true enough to cover both him and Shade with a sort of safety for a time.

Hidden by Mother Soul, they say and spark rumors of another Lazarus Tournament. One of Hiscousins, recently birthed and young, they say. But he survived childhood, they say.

That last one, especially, helps build Jason a reputation that makes him wonder how many of Ra’s al Ghul’s siblings did not survive childhood. And, somehow, before he blinks, he’s known as Jason Marat al Ghul, much younger half-brother of the Demon’s Head. This Talia – not his T, no matter how similar she feels when giving him an exasperated huff or a small smile from the corner of her mouth – gives him a longer lesson on League factions and dynamics than he– T’s need-only one, but he can’t be certain if she’s withholding anything.

It’s like being brand new out of the Pit again, suddenly aware and confused and suspicious of everything around him. Only instead of waking up in an upside-down world where Bruce has failed to avenge him, failed to honor his courage, failed the very basics of not fucking replacing him, now Jason walks through a world half-a-step sideways from his memories, all deja vu one minute and jolting back to reality the next.

Shade grounds him. He hates himself a little bit for it, for relying on this scared child to keep him steady, but he’s doing the best he can. He lays out the truth to her the second day at ‘Eth Alth’eban, bare and insane-sounding as it is, and then shows her magic as proof. After that, he has to offer her the paths before her. No one sits idle in the League. You contribute what you can, for your age and ability, and the more power you have the more responsibility is asked of you.

Helping Shade learn the local dialect and settle in keeps him focused through the first three grueling months of reconditioning, forcing his body from malnourished to functional the way he once did as Robin. Only he’s no bird here, not destined for flight (or Icarus’ fall to Earth either).

- - - -

“I see you have shadows again, Marat.” Ra’s lifts an eyebrow as Jason enters the room. Like Damian, with Hafid, the old ghoul refuses to call Jay anything but the middle name Talia bestowed on him. Whether that’s a dig or a reminder to himself about their dual, if different, connection to Bruce, Jason really can’t tell.

He does have shadows, beyond the guards officially assigned to him. Or, rather, he’s holding Damian on his hip again and Mara has one little fist clenched in the fold of Shade’s sari as she toddles along with them. When not in the few classes toddlers can do at this age the little kids like to search him out. He’s not as busy as their parents or grandfather and, if he is, Shade will be there. Jason insisted she be included in his lessons as much as possible, even if they’re learning at different levels and even if she side-eyes everything more violent than self-defence lessons with an expression that very much says ‘but do I have to?’. (No, no, she does not.)

“I wasn’t told you wished to see me alone, «ustadh».” Jason purposefully does not turn his attention to Talia, who stands in the corner with a displeased expression hiding beneath her features.

Damian, who still lacks much in subtly at 3 years old, notices her and shouts, “Omi! «Put me down, Jason.»” loud enough that it echoes in the cavernous room they’ve entered. And it is cavernous, the ceiling an unfinished mixture of jagged edges and sharp divots. Jason takes that in with a glance as he lowers Damian to the floor. A stairwell leading down cuts off at an odd angle, descending into the dark, and his stomach clenches up. He knows this place.

“Come here.”

No. Jason clenches his teeth, but– With Shade behind him and half-defenseless, especially with Mara gripping her like that, he has little choice but to go. Lowly, under his breath, he pulls up his recently brushed off Mandarin to say: «’If this is what I think, you will not like the result.’»

“It is necessary.”

“I will take him, Father. Damian has spent so little time with you this week.” Talia interjects herself so smoothly it doesn’t look like outmaneuvering the ghoul until they’re already half-way down the staircase. Behind him, aside from the echo-y rap-ta-tat of their footsteps, Jason hears Shade asking Ra’s a shy question about words. She and Damian can communicate better than three months ago, but they both get caught up on vocabulary sometimes.

The staircase goes a long way down. Further than the one at the house in Cyprus, further than any pit he’s been aware of, and Jason gets annoyed at his own jangly nerves before they’ve made it two flights. To distract himself he asks, “Why is he insisting on this?”

Talia pauses on the narrow staircase to turn back and look at him. “Who are you to question the Demon’s Head?”

His skin boils with heat as anger rushes through him that she’d ask that. No, that she feels the need to ask that, because his T wouldn’t have. She’d ask him, ‘Why do you think?’ or maybe ‘Does it truly matter why?’ to prompt him to think and consider his options. She’d never ask ‘who are you’ because she knew him – and he knew her. Right now he misses her so much he could scream, even if he hadn’t seen her in person in ages before this, and that grief makes him angry. Anger is so much simpler.

This Talia tilts her head, reading the anger in his stiff shoulders. Then, she asks, “Why have you not tried to return to your own time?”

That question surprises Jason enough his shoulders loosen. When he first went to her, he expected the question… for weeks. When they came here, to the desert, he waited for her and Ra’s to ask, but three months now and they haven’t. “Why ask that now?”

“Because now you might tell me the truth.”

He glances away from her. “I have a friend. I can save him a lot of pain if I time things right.”

“At the cost of your entire life?” Talia turns and keeps walking down the steps, her each motion graceful and perfectly balanced, the hand-lamp held out evenly before her. Damian wouldn’t be able to do that yet, as the stairs are too steep and tall, but how long before perfect grace is trained into him?

Jason doesn’t want to consider the answer. He doesn’t want to consider her question, either. His life– An invisible scar itches along his wrist and his left eye socket aches, the way it always does when he thinks of the night he shot a blank at Cobblepot. “I can rebuild. It’s not the first time.”

“Still, a lot of work to do for one man who doesn’t know you.”

When he told Shade about the different paths, she asked, ‘Do the warriors have families?’ and he’d said ‘yes’. Two days later, he pointed out Cheshire, in her classic mask, dangling a charm of some sort above a dark-haired baby’s head. In the next half-year, something will happen that convinces Cheshire her daughter is better off in her father’s care, but right now he has proof Lian is healthy and alive and not lost in the past. “This one’s worth it,” he says with the cool edge that discourages further questions. Even in this crushingly childish voice of his, he nails it.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs and a narrow path circling a slowly bubbling yellow-green pool, he thinks Talia has decided not to answer. Her softly spoken, but certain, words surprise him. “The doctors say you have injuries that will never heal correctly,” she says. “I made the request.”

“I came out pissed, last time,” he tells her, making certain to meet her eyes. He’d told her this part of the story in Cyprus, what he could remember of it.

“Hmm. How many of Father’s guards did you kill again?”

Without Ra’s in here enjoying a soak, no ring of guards encircle the edge of the pool this time. Talia often dismisses her guards and, as a ‘child’, Jason only has two, both of whom stayed up above. At his age, they act as much like minders (and, no doubt, spies) as guards, the same way that Damian is forever treating his guards like pack mules meant to take him places. Jason would think the guards stayed behind because of that risk, except… “None.”

“No, you killed after you discovered the newspaper. Whatever pretty lies my beloved might have convinced you of, the rage never came from the Pit. It came from the injustice. I have no doubt you will be fine.” She eyes him once over. “Undress, unless you wish to walk upstairs in soggy clothing.”

- - - -

He still does not want to go into the Pit.

Whatever this Talia might think, he knows that before he came back in time he could reach for the Pit and it would come. If he was frightened, in pain, exhausted beyond endurance, he reached and it steadied.

When he tries to explain that, she merely huffs a laugh at him. “And why would you wish to sacrifice that advantage?” And she sounds like his T again. The woman he never allowed himself to think of as his mother, because it felt too much like replacing Catherine Todd. (As if Catherine had not replaced him with drugs, first.)

In the end, she waits him out. He can’t reject this and make her look weak to her father; not when he might need her help, a lot, in the future. It would be smart to get his malnourishment taken care of now, where he’s strong enough to survive the Pit with his mind intact but still on the edge of his next growth spurt. He mastered the Pit, whatever it does, once, so the risk remains minimal so long as he doesn’t start mimicking Ra’s. (As if Jason would want to live forever.) He knows all this and sighs with resignation.

She grabs him firmly once he’s naked, slicing a cut so sharp as to be nearly painless across his skin. “So that you have an injury that it will recognize.”

And then he steps into the nearly too hot warmth of the Lazarus waters and lets himself sink under the green.

§’ßØÿ! ʁǽͳȗɍȵᴇḓ¿’§ the water… asks and he winces, mouth closed and mind echoing. Nothing itches or pulls in his chest, on the All Blades, nothing he and his human experiences can recognize as evil afoot. §’’Boy. Returned?’§ the water asks again, echoing like waves slapping against a distant shore but no longer garbled.

Do I have to do a fucking vision quest to get out of here?

§’Shining boy.’§ A shape moves in the boiling Green and Jason goes to stand up. He had sunk in the shallows, deliberately putting his head under water where he could sit up and clear the surface. All he needs to do is sit. up. More water crashes over his head, a wave throwing him down. His feet flail for the bottom, but feel no rocks. His hands stretch for the surface, but more water pours on.

What. The. Fuck.

§’Shining boy returned.’§

§’Wha’ t’e f’ck does t’at mean?’§ his own voice booms out, snarling and pure street Gotham, challenging the face with teeth in the deep.

The shock of hearing himself opens his mouth and liquid pours in, gaggingly hot but tasteless, before washing back out again when, still angry, he throws a purging spell at it. Christ. It’s alive. It hadn’t taken Ducra or her teachers long to recognize Jason swelled with magic with two not-so-minor limitations. Emotion drove it and he could only touch the animate. First I end up trippin’ into a past I ain’t sure of and now I discover the fucking Lazarus pit is alive. Sure. Why not. Anger sinks its claws into his chest, but he swallows it down in place of the water he purged.

The murky green liquid swirls, giving the impression of teeth again as he faintly makes out light sparks, too.The sparkles, in a slightly oranger green than the murky liquid around them, move with the flow in some places without changing position too much. The… thing stays neither too far nor too close to him for conversation.. §’Marked by the Mother. Part of the Green. Shining boy.’§

His first, violent impulse is to punch it until it makes sense, but punch what? Talking water? A laugh bubbles up in his chest, but he swallows it down. He needs to reserve his air while searching for an edge to orient himself with. It is a pool, he will find an edge. Around him, the liquid heats up, burning a slash across his skin first.

§’Shining boy.’§ He grits his teeth behind his closed lips. I’m ignoring it. Against his skin the heat bubbles, frothing the pool up around him. §’Corrector–’§ A bright tone starts ringing and he thinks, harder, I’m ignoring you! as the tone shifts – §’ŕεҏʀїʂꞓɍ’§ – into the perfect sound of a church bell. His fingers scrabble hard as the boiling heat seeps into his core, pouring into him with that sound and the green-green-green. His eyes burn, his muscles ache, and he gnashes his teeth together, determined to keep his mouth closed until–

He screams as he breaks the surface.

- - - -

“Jason?” Talia’s voice sounds far away.

The air around him, outside of that heating pool, feels so cold and he shudders. First with one big jerk, before he begins to shake uncontrollably. His teeth chatter, clattering together until the sound drowns out any voices. He hears only that clatter, the quick thump-thump-thump of his frantic heart, and the whooshing of his blood for a long time as he shivers.

He feels more. Warm hands (too hot, at first, but so soothing in the icy cold) rub his chest and pure heat presses, harsh, against his side from shoulder to nearly toe. Two little bundles of heat curl around his own palms awkwardly. Those large hands begin to rub a paste into his chest and he tries, reluctantly, to open his eyes. His eyelashes flutter, but he’s too tired.

“Jason.” It sounds both like Talia above him and like she’s too far away to be there. “If you can hear me, squeeze your right hand.” With effort he squeezes.

«‘He did it!’» a little voice squeals.

Exhausted by that small effort, he sleeps again. He dreams of Dr. Pamela Isley, complete with only the tinge of green skin and a lab coat, lecturing him about how humans think of souls in very human-centric terms. A diagram of a dissected soul hangs on the wall behind her. He smells the sharp, distinct presence of clary sage and violets, but when he turns to scan the rest of the room the scene falls away.

When Jason wakes up the next time, he can open his eyes and recognize the room as his own small suite. Three months of living here, making contacts in the kitchen staff and errand runners for Ra’s, trading favors, has made the space less bare.

He isn’t alone. Shade burrows into his left side, her face pressed against his upper ribs as she curls up. On his right Mara and Damian cling to him, wrapped around his arm and leg respectively as they sleep. A blanket rests over his feet and Talia sits there, reading papers off a packet and making notes in a small book. He can feel the warmth of her hip pressed against the side of his foot and she periodically reaches down to touch his shin or Damian’s back.

When she notices him staring at her she puts her papers and book to the side, closed, and meets his eyes. “What do you remember?”

Green… green water moving… like teeth? Heat. A sound, almost like a word… “Hot green liquid,” he grits out, his throat like sandpaper until she hands him a water cup off the nightstand. His body aches. “Cold. Then, cold.”

“You were under the Lazarus water for over five minutes. Why did you submerge yourself like that?”

He frowns. “I remember breaking the surface last time. It’s my first clear memory of… after. I can hold my breath for five minutes.” Can’t I? I was able to a year ago.

Her grip digs into his ankle, but he refuses to wince. “When you came out, you were like ice. The doctor said you would die if we couldn’t safely raise your temperature.” Jason stares hard at her, but not because he thinks she’s lying. Of course some sort of weird shit would happen when I went under. Blinking slowly, trying to still appear disoriented, he examines her for fear of him, the way his T once feared his actions post-Pit. Instead of fear, this Talia mimics – or feels – concern, her brow furrowed and her fingertips searching out the warm skin of his ankle. “One does not typically lower themselves wholly into the Waters.”

“Whoops?” He offers a sideloped smile. Against him Shade rubs her braids into his ribs, yawning, and Damian, noticing his mother’s touch, squirms awake, crawling into her lap. From over her arm, bright green eyes stare at Jason expectantly, but if there’s some sort of ritual phrase here Jason never learned it. Instead, he smiles at the toddler and murmurs a greeting.

«’Awake.’» Damian gives him a gap-tooth smile, still missing parts of his teeth. “Ahki. Open eye..s.” He grins proudly at his simple English and Jason’s heart aches.

«’You have al Ghul eyes now,’» Talia says. Her touch, much softer now, returns to his bare ankle, as if she’s checking the temperature of his skin. «’Damian, go tell Jason’s guard to call the doctor.’» She puts the toddler down on the floor, watching him for a moment before her attention goes back to Jason. “Rest for now. Work with your new strength begins tomorrow.”

Muscles tense around his right arm as Mara, silent and watchful as usual, with the same steely green eyes as her aunt, keeps her attention split firmly between Jason and Talia. At only three, she has already learned the safety in silence and being looked over. Her father’s unsteady rank as both valuable servant and unofficially acknowledged al Ghul guarantees that. It reminds Jason too much of the little he knows of Cass, his wayward ‘sister’ and steady Bat. Mara’s skin might be darker and her eyes lighter, but she holds that same watchful wariness and uncertainty Cass always seemed to carry when not fighting.

His attention returns to Talia as Damian reaches the door, smacking it to get the attention of the guards waiting patiently outside. “I want to write to Bruce.”

Talia frowns. “Have you changed your mind due to my insistence, then.”

“No,” Jason answers, steel in his voice. Shade starts, dragging her head up only to freeze as she notices the tension. “No,” he says more softly. “But I have siblings who still need his help.” The guard enters and Jason waits until Talia confirms she wants the doctor. When it is only them and the kids again, he slips into Russian, glad that Mara chose German first. «’Bruce failed me, not them.’»

This is only half true, but Jason has begun to accept that his death broke something inside of Bruce that destroyed him as a father and made him retreat into the cold fury of the Bat. Maybe he can do better without that hanging over his head.

«’And you would be willing to aid them?’» Talia picks up Damian again as he waddles over to the bed and lifts his arms hopefully.

He was almost a normal child once, before Ra’s got into Talia’s head and pitted the cousins against each other. Jason realized that, too, and that he will do everything in his power to aid the old ghoul if it means stopping that destruction from repeating in this version of his past. His strength is dragging now, his eyes drooping, but he keeps his attention on Damian as he replies, «’B could use more dad practice before he meets this son.’»

Her arms tighten minutely around her child and Jason knows he has her. He lets his eyes drift shut. She touches his shin gently and sighs out, speaking in League Arabic, «’Sleep well, child.’»

And he does, except for a strange dream about a bell ringing that sounds more like a word: Repriser.