The graveyard is quiet, as graveyards tend to be. It is a cool summer night, silent and still. The crescent moon hangs in the sky, gleaming and silver, barely providing enough light to see by. The stars are scattered in their constellations, bright and shimmering and bisible in a way that tells that the graveyard is nowhere near a city.

The graves are all identical, simple white marble slabs with names carved into them in plain block lettering. The names are rarely in English, the lettering ranging from Arabic to Russian to Japanese in origin. Sometimes there is only a first name, sometimes a Christian name and a surname, sometimes only a title. There are no dates of death or of age, no epitaph to give a glimpse of the life of the occupant of the coffin below.

If a scholar were to walk through this graveyard, they would be astounded. Some of the names here are famous, or, more often, infamous. Some names belong to people who were never seen, only whispered of. The names belong to knives in the back, of arrows to the throat, of bullets through foreheads, of poison in a wedding champagne.

This is not a resting ground for the peaceful dead. This is the place where the killers go to rest.

Four men walk through the cemetery. They will one day be buried here. Their appearance is similar to one another, indicating shared genetics, if not parents. They carry shovels and their motions are muted. They are afraid.

They stop in the newer part of the cemetery. The grave in question is less than a decade old, although they do not know that. The name carved into the marble is Afya Raatko.

The Lazurus Pit is the stuff of legends for those who have never seen one work, and the stuff of nightmares for those who have had the misfortune to.

There are different types of Lazurus Pits, confusingly enough. There are the common enough, use once and then useless forever types, that are generally scattered around the Earth, and supposedly other planets, although that is a manner of great debate of xenohistorians. Those are generally protected and horded by Ra's al Ghul, and their affect is treasured. Although using one of those is more painful, general consensus seems to be that the negative effects of the Pits (more on those later) are decreased in those.

Then there were the seven Great Lazarus Pits, Ra's al Ghul's treasures. There was once a Great Pit on each continent, but then Bruce Wayne destroyed the North American compound as a message. Ra's al Ghul's fury had known no bounds on that day. For those interested in the al Ghul family history, it might be of some note that Damian al Ghul-Wayne disappeared from his mother's compound on that same day, under mysterious circumstances.

The Lazarus Pits are a creation of magic, although their exact origin is a subject of mystery.

Lazarus Pits are able to heal any injury, (although they cannot regrow limbs or organs, but they can reattach them under certain, very confusing , circumstances). They usually go for vital damage first (such as restoring life) and then move down from there. The last thing that heals are the scars; those stay longest, defying the Lazarus Pit's magic. The Lazarus Pit also marks its own, bleaching the hair and warping the mind. People call it Lazarus Madness; it causes anger and bitterness and pain and pure and simple irrationality. The more a Lazarus Pit is used by a single human, the more the person is affected. Ra's al Ghul's hair is now the color of snow, and his anger is a force comparable a hurricane. His hatred is immense, his bitterness about the world of old is even greater.

The Great Pit of Asia is in the place that once was called the Fertile Crescent. In those days the man who would be Ra's al Ghul was born, and had a son. The son died. The father lived. The father buried his son, weeping. It would be centuries before the man would discover that the Pit of his, his prize, could restore life to the dead. Some speculate that this realization is what drove the man, who once was a doctor, who once saved lives and helped build civilizations, over the edge. Others claim it did not happen until the early Medieval era, where the man was eventually linked to the Great Plague. It does not matter though. Not for this story.

The four men carry the coffin into the great chamber. The coffin is simple, made of oak. There are no decorative carvings; no indication of who this woman was in her life.

The cavern which contains the Lazarus Pit is humongous. Stalactites and Stalagmites made out of pure crystal hang from the walls and the floors, glistening eerily in the light of the Lazarus Pit. The ceiling of the cavern is fifty feet tall and domed beneath the tear drops of crystal that hang from it. The floor has been smoothed by centuries of wear. The Pit itself is a perfect circle, a ten foot diameter. It is eight feet deep, with barely an inch from where the edge of the cavern floor ends and where the not-exactly-water begins. The rough black stone shines brightly in the luminescence of the Pit; the liquid within the Pit is a strange, light green that bubbles and churns randomly.

Ra's al Ghul, the Master of the Lazarus Pit, waits for the four men by the edge of his treasure. He wears black robes with embroideries the same color as the Lazarus Waters, and a sword hangs by his side. His face is the kind of blank that only comes with great practice or true boredom. His keen eyes look at the men and their burden. There is something in his face, despite the deliberate lack of emotion shown, that is cruel.

The men set down the coffin with the slightest of noises, and they step back. Ra's speaks, his voice poisonously soft, echoing throughout the cavern. "Open it."

The men do not even flinch; they do not fear the dead. Carefully, almost reverently, they pry open the lid, revealing the occupant.

The woman called Afya had been beautiful in life. Her features are part Arabic, and part something else that is more difficult to place. Her hair is short and black; it once shone in the sunlight, as bright as the blades she wielded. Her face has become sunken, her skin sallow, her hair dull, although she is rather well preserved, for a corpse as old as hers. Nothing but the best for the body guard and friend of Talia al Ghul, after all.

"Place her in the Pit," Ra's commands, his eyes hard as they gaze upon the woman. She appears to have been in her thirties when she died.

But then again, looks are deceiving things.

Without ceremony, without care, the men remove the assassin from her final resting place and toss her into the Lazarus's belly. Her lifeless form hits the surface with a tremendous splash, and then is rapidly pulled to the bottom, as if the Pit's floor was a child grabbing a toy that was dangled in their face.

For a moment, there is no noise. The waters of the Pit are still as glass.

Then a hand emerges from the Pit, and a scream, muffled by liquid and choking, is heard. The hand is rapidly pulled under again, the Pit refusing to release its victim so soon. The Pit begins to churn and boil, steam hissing in the air, noxious fumes of mossy green that smell of death and decay.

Things float to the surface, awful creatures and plants that grow on dead things and cause decay and rotting. They float to the surface, having been expelled from the corpse. The rising steam catches them up and carries them away, deeming them unworthy of remaining in the healing liquid.

The head breaks free, eyes wide and mouth gasping for breath. A scream breaks lose, a plea for help, but the waters catch her up again and force her down.

Her bones knit back together, her cuts seal themselves up, the gash in her heart is mended. Blood cells are recreated at a far-to-rapid rate, filling her entire being with pain as years of healing is done in moments. Calloused, scarred hands claw at the surface, attempting to break free and seek precious oxygen. She knows, deep down, in what little part of her that is still rational, that she cannot break free, and that the Pit will only release her when she is deemed healed enough, but her lungs burn for lack of air and her waterlogged screams choke her, nearly killing her again.

This is even worse than the last time, she thinks dimly, as her leg moves into a more natural position with a sharp stab of agony. She'd been alive last time.

Finally, finally, she breaks free, her fingers scrabbling at the smooth stone as she pulls herself away from the cursed waters. It tugs at her legs, trying to pull her back in, but although she is exhausted, tortured and drained, she is still strong, and she tugs herself away from the Pit, freeing herself entirely from its gasp. She coughs, forcing the foul liquid from her lungs, gasping and savoring the polluted air. But it is air, nonetheless, which is more than the dead have.

She finally looks up, her eyes darkened with hatred.

She looks at Ra's al Ghul. She gets up onto her knees, and spits Lazarus Water in his face.

"Hello Father," she growls, her tone scornful.

Damian dreams.

This is not an unusual thing. Most people do, after all, dream. Even if they aren't remembered, even if they aren't sensible, people dream. Whether they relive their own worst memories, prophetic scenarios (that actually aren't actually prophetic most of the time; but people only remember the ones that do are), or odd, nonsensical things like men who dress up as Bats and patrol a crime ridden city alongside cheerful, colorfully clad children. Who are usually assassins.

Damian's dreams, unfortunately, usually fall into the first category. Only, like most revisits to traumatic experiences, it is even worse in his mind.

He stands in a hallway, a sword in his hand.

Traitor, he thinks, numbly. The sword moves without another thought, searching for his target.

The target wears a purple silken shroud and a white mask with lips painted gold. Her hair is soft and gold and her eyes are piercing blue and kind.

She doesn't hate him, he realizes, as he slices through her stomach, feeling the way the blade pierces her organs and slices through her spine with an awful familiarity. Her eyes are loving as she looks at him, even as the blood starts to seep into her black silk shirt.

"Damian," she says, and she reaches for him, but he does not let her speak. He has his orders. He is a good son. He pulls his sword out of her abdomen and strikes again, this time slashing for her throat.

Damian has watched Stephanie Brown die a thousand times over; even if, as he now knows, it wasn't actually her. But he has seen her die, in his mind. This is not how she died. She died quickly, cleanly, a sword through her stomach, and another through her chest.

But here, now, in his dream, she is still alive, and still reaching for him. Her mask falls off, revealing her face, twisted in concern. "Damian," she reaches for him.

He stabs her throat, sending a splash of blood everywhere, coating himself in the familiar sticky substance, but still she does not go down.

She is the enemy, he whispers to himself in the dream. She is an enemy to the house of Ghul.

She wraps her arms around him."Damian," her voice is kind. "You're better than this."

He cries, and then he stabs her again in the stomach. Why won't she stay down.

"Macushla," the nickname falls, and Dream-Damian doesn't flinch. "Please. Don't."

She is not afraid. Her eyes are steady, despite the pool of blood gathering at her feet. She is worried for him, not for herself, and Damian hates her irrationally for that.

He strikes out, his sword slashing through her chest. She falls, finally, broken to the ground. Her eyes are glazed over, not seeing him anymore, a smile on her lips.

Damian wakes up then, soaked in sweat and terrified.

He gets up and strides into the halls of his father's manor, seeking the room that Grayson and Pennyworth had allotted for Stephanie to stay while she was in Gotham, on the condition that she "reformed". Steph had agreed, commenting that she had been thinking about it anyway.

Her room is three doors down from his. He pushes the door open, cautious. He still remembers his time in his grandfather's fortress, where Stephanie could go from asleep to lethal in instants.

The room has been painted pale lavender. The carpet is a soft cream, as are the curtains. The bedspread is deeper purple, the shade that Steph so fondly calls eggplant. The throw pillows and sheets are a bright, almost blinding yellow, but Stephanie has always hated subtle colors.

The room is also empty. His stomach plunges down in disappointment.

Warily, he checks the room across the hall, which belongs to Drake, where, although it disgusts him to even contemplate it, he knows Steph sometimes spends the night. It too is empty.

He closes his eyes, ashamed of how much this upsets him. Steph must have gone to her apartment in the city after patrol. She doesn't like the Manor overly much. Despite her and Grayson's similarities in personality, they don't get along very well. Damian suspects it has to do with the fact that she was one of his teachers. Assassins and heroes aren't supposed to get along, after all.

He wonders where that leaves him, a boy caught in between the two worlds.

A hand falls on his shoulder. It's Grayson.

"Bad dreams?" The older boy… his older brother's voice is kind.

Grayson is not Steph. He did not keep watch while Damian slept, he did not hollow out a closet so he could sleep without fear, he did not sing Damian lullabies or give him a ridiculous Irish nickname.

But Grayson is here, and he means well. So Damian nods.

"C'mon, Lil D," Grayson says, and he leads him away.

Steph is not dreaming. She is… other ways occupied.

"Don't go in there!" She screams at the screen. Tim jumps slightly, jostling the popcorn wedged between them.

"Steph," he complains.

She nuzzles his shoulder, grinning shamelessly. "Not my fault these movies are stupid."

"You wanted to watch them," he reminds her, his arm a warm and comforting presence around her shoulders. Her arm sneaks around his waist, and she rests her forehead against his.

"Doesn't mean they're good. Haven't you heard of Mystery Science Theater, Boy Blusher?"

Tim laughs softly, and then kisses her gently. "What would I do without you?" He says softly.

"Go insane probably. Also work yourself to death," she informs him matter-of-factly, resting her other hand on the back of his neck, keeping him close.

"Death and insanity," he says, eyes laughing despite his solemn tone. "Better keep you around then."

"Definitively," she replies. "A good nemesis is hard to find. A good girlfriend even more so."

"Still haven't dropped the nemesis title?" He grins.

She smirks. "Not completely reformed yet," she says. "Give it time."

They kiss, and the character in the film dies a horrible and gruesome death.