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Damian al Ghul is not afraid of his father’s lackeys. For his whole life, Mother has been careful to instill a cautious respect for their tremendous abilities, as she studies them from afar. He has a sense of their proclivities painted in broad strokes, has trained with lesser djinn from around the world, and with the honor of tutelage from Grandfather himself, he has cultivated enough magical sensitivity to at least be aware of supernatural machinations even when he is outmatched in ability.
Damian is not afraid, but he is wary, stands straighter every time a wisp of something metaphysical brushes against his senses. Mother does not outwardly respond, and he tries to mirror her, to keep his reactions invisible, to stay quiet and respectful as his parents discuss his arrangements.
His parents — he knew he was to meet Father one day, but this is sooner than he could have dreamed, and it never occurred to him that he would witness both of them in the same room. He knows it will not last, knows the itinerary of Mother’s travel to return to the League, and so he tries to soak it in, but he is continually distracted.
Father is, in many ways, so much larger than life that he seems unreal. Doubtless part of the mystical aura of the training of his youth, increased by prolonged contact with numerous powerful spirits. Even blatant staring yields no sign of the moving shadows integral to the Bat’s repertoire, but there are moments in the ebb and flow of conversation that the air itself seems to become heavy and oppressive under the weight of the man’s disapproval.
When Mother takes her leave, she does so without a goodbye. “Your father and I have much to discuss,” she says, and he recognizes it for what it is, but she’s already on her way to the door.
“Alfred will help you settle in,” Father says, and an old man enters the room, effectively trading guard, and then his parents are gone.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, young Master Damian,” the man states. “I am Alfred Pennyworth. May I take your bag?”
Damian hands over the bag without protest, a shiver of supernatural warning too distracting to bother engaging. He dismisses the servant with a click of his tongue and lets one charmed blade slip from the cuff of his sleeve to his palm, turning slowly to assess the shadows in the room.
The continued presence of the servant, when he has turned a full circle, is second in surprise to the teenaged male who has appeared out of nowhere and is slipping Damian’s bag into his own hand. “Hi,” the apparition starts to speak.
Damian knows better than to wait for the charm to be carried by words. He snaps his arm forward and lets the blade fly, arms himself with several more while it’s in the air, rushing forward to overwhelm the enemy before it can—
The spirit is gone. A yelp from across the room draws his attention, and it stands there, clutching its wounded shoulder, expression caught in gaping disbelief as a thin line of blood escapes the sliced sleeve of its garment.
When it pins its eyes on Damian, he does not smile, but he nearly wants to. Blood at first strike was more than he expected, and he will have to be sure to revisit that craftsman if this is the result of such costly charms.
Then, there is no time to smile. The spirit shifts and the hair at the back of Damian’s neck prickles; he recognizes the sensation from training and is already spinning with another blade in hand, and successfully lands a kick into the figure’s side, followed by a line of smaller blades that dot across the torso before it disappears again.
“Alfred, get out of here!” it’s yelling in an uncannily human voice, and Damian whirls and another throwing star is in the air before he actually sees the figure, perched on a bookshelf. “I’m gonna need some help in— ow, ow!”
They fight, a skittering kind of fight, with the spirit disappearing and reappearing every time Damian gets too close or lands a successful throw. It lasts only moments of whirlwind motion, but he feels his heartrate accelerating as though it were prolonged conflict, and puts extra force into his next attack to remind himself that he has been trained for this and no djinn will ever have him at its mercy again.
He is beginning to run out of charmed weapons suitable for throwing when he stumbles over nothing, and is jerked upright by a power not his own that hauls him too far forward and halfway into the wall. He gasps from the cold of the force wrapped around him, struggles with all his might but cannot free himself—
“All right, you brat,” the spirit is saying, drawing close at last, “now let’s just—”
Damian can see the frustration in its eyes, hear the annoyance in the sharpness of its words, feel the press of cold magic trapping him. His ears ring in memory and his heart is possibly no longer within his chest for the fear that seems to have replaced it.
His katana sings when he wrenches it into the light with his free hand, and the relief it brings him is opposed by the blatant terror on the spirit’s face when he lashes out in a wild swing. It lands true, resistance met with blood, and instantly he is tumbling free of the shadows and away from the wall, keeping his best-enchanted blade between himself and the apparition, both hands on the hilt so it won’t see the lingering tremors of fear.
When the door bursts open and the room darkens and chills, he nearly shifts the blade to threaten the figure that enters. Hoping against hope that his mistake is not noticed, he holds his chin high and greets the man. “Father.”
The room chills further, and he swallows, fights off a shiver with everything he has, wills his heart rate to decrease and permit him to handle the situation calmly before it devolves out of control.
“Damian,” the man says, his accent twisting the vowels strangely, quiet, human; but his eyes are hard and the shadows in the room are growing rapidly. “Drop the sword.”
He shifts, lets the tip of the blade lower, eyes flicking to the figure on the floor. The spirit is clinging to whatever form of life it possesses, still dangerous, still more powerful than any djinn he has ever faced. “Father, it—”
“Drop the sword.”
The words come with an arctic chill, and the katana thumps quietly on the rug. He fists his hands to hide how they shake, holds them at his sides, forces himself to look straight ahead and not bow his gaze to the floor in submissive terror.
The man is already crouching by the spirit, murmuring soft words to it, drawing his hands over the wounds and collecting stray blades that lodged in its clothing.
“Master Damian, if you will kindly follow me.”
The servant’s words are clipped, and he had not even noticed his return. He does not permit any indication of his surprise to show, and merely follows, turns his back on Father and the spirit and tries not to rush out of the room. He is not afraid. He is not.