gift of mercy

"What are you waiting for?"

Damian al Ghul stood above the battered, bloody form of Dick Grayson, his dark eyes wide as he felt his fingers tremble against the cross-guard. The point of his sword brushed the boy's heaving chest, and he tried to tighten his grip on the hilt, but it only made his shaking grow worse. He wasn't supposed to be scared. He was an assassin, killing wasn't hard, and he'd done it before, but… he'd never personally known his targets. He'd never lived with them, been a guest in their home, eaten with them, trained with them… Everything in him told him that this was wrong. Dick Grayson was no enemy of his, and killing him would cause a fury, a reaction of columns falling against each other one by one until everything was consumed by dust and debris and the decay of the world as he knew it.

He had never meant for this to happen. He had thought it so simple, to gain Grayson's trust, to gain the information he needed on the Justice League, and their miniature counterparts, and he thought that he would never have to care one bit about any of them, because they were all so weak and unworthy… He'd thought he'd done it too. He was certain, until this very moment, that he had succeeded in playing them all, and coming out untainted.

He had been wrong.

Damian al Ghul didn't understand how this could be. He'd done everything asked of him— everything! He'd given up all the information he had gained while playing his part on a Team of inadequate teenagers, he'd acted as if he hated his mother for 'disowning' him when they had encountered her on a mission, and when Barbara Gordon had come close to discovering him, he had not balked at the request for her to be detained. So why did he hesitate now?

"Perhaps…" Damian struggled to keep his voice level, and he hated Grayson then with everything in him, because he was a weakness. A malignant growth that plagued Damian's heart, something that needed to be eradicated before it spread and infected everything inside him with its disgusting, needless cowardice. "Mother, does it not make sense to keep him alive? Batman would—"

"Do as you were told," Talia warned. She sounded only slightly bothered, as if she were chastising him for not clearing his plate at the table, as Grayson had on numerous occasions. That only made his hands tremble more.

Damian took a deep breath. Grayson was watching him, his eyes dark, and blue, and sad. His breathing was rigid, and his skin was splotchy and slick with blood, red seeping through the dark of his uniform, through the dark of his hair, and running all across his pasty skin. He'd been beaten before this by another assassin, Deathstroke, as it happened, but the man had no intention of killing the boy. He had only done what he had supposed would make Grayson scream.

It had worked. Damian had heard Dick's sharp cry clearly from his perch in the rafters of the dank pit of a cell. He had decided not to join his mother in watching on the ground, because he thought it best to not see Grayson's stupid, beady eyes as they grew wide and frightened from the pain… It had been a smart move, but not for the reason he initially had thought. If he had seen any more than the thrashing of Grayson's legs, he might have tried to stop the torture. Imagining that made his stomach hurt.

Grayson opened his mouth, and his lips twitched at the corners, as if he was trying to smile, but he was failing so miserably that it turned out to be more like a bloody grimace. He looked so sad and broken, it made Damian realize that Grayson was not so old after all. He was twelve years older, but he looked so small beneath him, it was a wonder to the faux Robin. He was not much more than a child himself, this stupid boy who had defended him, and vouched for him, and trusted him with everything that he possessed…

Weak, Damian thought, pressing the point of his sword into the torn blue bird that flared across Dick's chest. He only stared, his lips trembling as his gory grin turned into a strange, sad pout. You were weak for letting your emotions cloud your judgment! My father would have seen right through my lies! You idiotic excuse for a Batman! You brought this upon yourself!

"Dami…" His soft whisper was enough to make Damian freeze, the sword barely embedded in Grayson's skin. "… 's okay… to say no… you—" Suddenly Grayson was seized by a violent coughing, and Damian stumbled back, recoiling in disgust as blood sprayed across his face, the metallic tang of it stinging his tongue as it dribbled into his gaping mouth.

I can't do it, he realized, and he looked to his mother for some kind of assurance, but there was nothing but disappointment glowing in her dark eyes. I'm a failure. Everything I have done is for naught… I am no son of al Ghul, nor am I a Wayne. I'm a traitor to both. I should turn my sword on myself right now, before I have to face either of them.

"Mother…" Damian said, his voice thin. He watched Grayson's body twitch feebly as he calmed, his coughing melting into soft rasps. "I… I cannot kill someone like this. He is such a pitiful sight, it seems… wrong. If… I were allowed to duel him properly—"

"You would die," Talia stated, glaring at Grayson with unfathomable hatred burning within her. Damian saw that she feared as well, but he could not understand why. She was in no danger here. And fear was not for an al Ghul. She must have a chill, or be sickened by the blood, as Damian was. "Damian, do as you were bid, I beg you. Just kill the boy and be done with it. It's not so hard, just trust me, and give him a gift of mercy."

Damian had asked Dick once if killing someone out of kindness was alright. Dick had been confused, not sure what Damian had meant, but then the little assassin had explained. When someone is in pain, when they cannot bear to go on any longer, but they cannot take their own lives… mercy was a small gift, and giving it did not cost a dime. Was it okay to kill, if it put a person out of their misery?

Dick had surprised Damian with his reply.

"A merciful kill isn't really a kill," he'd said quietly. Damian knew this was a touchy subject, and he had seen through Dick's mask easily, noting that this seemed more personal than he would admit. "It's… if I person can't be saved, but they're in pain… if they don't want to live anymore? That's okay. But that's a really rare case, so I wouldn't think about it too much. I don't think one person alone can decide whether a death is merciful or not, and you'll probably never have to deal with that."

He'd been wrong, of course, like always. He had to decide by himself whether or not killing Grayson was a mercy. What would they do to him if not? Why did he care? He should just let someone else do the deed, so he didn't have to deal with the desperate stares, and the ragged breathing. No. Dick Grayson's death would not be a mercy. Damian would not be able to kill him. It was a fact that he had to accept. There was nothing inside him that could betray his own set morals, the very strict, very old way of life that possessed his little being for one reason or another.

Grayson had welcomed him into his house, gave him a bed, and a life, and a home. For Damian, it had all been an act, but for Dick… He had cared for Damian in Bruce's place. He'd done things for Damian that his mother would never have done in a million years, like sit at his side when he was ill, and rub his back until the nausea went away, and the bile went down, and there was nothing left in him but an empty stomach and the sour aftertaste of vomit on his tongue. Grayson had never done anything wrong— except trust Damian. He'd even pulled Drake's identity as Robin away from him to give to Damian, which had not been something Damian had expected, and somehow, that had made him happy.

Had it all been an act? His happiness, his gratefulness to have someone there, his strange contentment? His life had always been about his mission, but sometimes he forgot. And he was scared. Damian was so scared, because he didn't understand how it was possible that he could have let himself feel attached to Richard Grayson, who was nothing to him, not blood, nothing but a meal and a mission, and because of that Damian had failed.

He could not do this. He couldn't be Damian al Ghul if it pushed him this far.

"I…" Damian looked at Grayson, who was trying to sit up, his eyes squeezed closed as he held his chest, his breath rattling softly in the chilly air. "No. I can't."

In his hands, his sword trembled. The blade felt too big for him, too cumbersome in his little hands, and he felt that there was nothing left to him but the weapon he clutched fearfully, knowing well that he might be killed for his weakness. He wished he could go back to the manor, where everything seemed so safe, but that was a silly notion. No one would ever want him there again. Drake would never stand for him anywhere near his home, not after what Damian had done.

Barbara would awake to find that she could no longer walk. She would rightfully blame Damian for that.

The Team would call him a traitor, and none of them would want to look at him. Not after all he had done. The Justice League would arrest him, and have their Martian probe at his brain until it was confirmed that he truly only wanted to be a Wayne. And even then, they would never trust him. If his father ever returned, he would not accept him. Not after all the grief he had caused.

Talia was staring at him. Her eyes were cold, and her lip twitched, and Damian saw her fear grow stronger and stronger, until he felt it roll from her in waves. He shook with that fear, his mouth opening in horror as she took a step toward him, toward Grayson, and he shook his head, trying desperately to remember why he was defending him, why he didn't just slide the blade between Dick's ribs and twist the steel into his heart. But he couldn't move, and the sword felt so cumbersome and heavy, he wanted nothing more than to throw it across the room.

"Mother, please…" Damian pleaded, raising his sword without fully meaning to. It gleamed dangerously in the dim light of Dick's cell, and the air was thick and chilly, pressing against Damian's cheeks in icy, sharp kisses. "There is no need for his death. We can use him, I swear. Can't we? He'd be a good assassin. Batman trained him, and he's fairly adequate, and he won't be so much of a bother to you or grandfather, I can make sure of it, and we could always use someone of Batman's caliber, so perhaps we should just…"

Damian's voice could hold no longer, and he snapped his mouth shut before it wavered and cracked. His mother only watched him, her face grim, and Damian felt himself take a step back, toward Grayson, and he gripped his sword tighter. He gritted his teeth, staring defiantly up at Talia, his lips drawn back.

"Mother, I cannot do this," he hissed through his teeth.

"That is obvious." Talia's eyes were dark and livid and scared. She stood above Damian with a strange sadness around her, and her eyes narrowing as she slid a dagger from her waist. "Step aside."

"No." He didn't want this, he didn't, he didn't! He just wanted to be… accepted. No one treated him with the respect he deserved, no one but Grayson, and that hurt. Not even his mother could understand this, and his father did not even know he existed yet, and Damian had wished so hard… because it wasn't fair! He should be allowed to meet him! He didn't want to hurt the people who cared for him, not when… they'd tried so hard… and he'd returned their kindness with a crippled girl, and a soon to be dead leader. "He does not deserve to die."

"It is not about what he deserves," his mother hissed. "It's about what is needed. His death is a necessary casualty. Move aside."

"No!" With a sudden, startling strength, Damian point the sword at her, gripping it one handedly as he flung his other arm out defensively. "You're not listening! You never listen! I don't want to be… this…" He gestured to himself, then to his mother, and then to Grayson. "Anymore! I want to be…"

"Robin?" Talia spat. The air was thick with fury and sadness, disappointment ringing in her tone. Damian could not waver now, though, not when he'd made such a rash decision. If he could… just delay her, then perhaps the Team would… "I should have foreseen this. Of course he would sway you to his side. It is in the parenting, I expect."

"I want to meet my father," Damian breathed, his voice desperate, and edging on despair. "And when I do, I don't want him to see me as the demon that tore apart his home. I am not a demon, mother. I'm…"

She moved, and Damian reacted. It was simple, and easy, and he was so angry with her, with the world, and suddenly everything was hot and stifling, and he heard it before he saw it, and he froze, his muscles locking— what had he done? The sound of metal piercing flesh, the sickening shlunk, the sound of her sharp, pained gasp as the sword sunk deep into her abdomen, sliding through her like she was made of butter. He heard her spine snap, and he felt her body shake, and he stared, at his hands that grasped the hilt of the sword, his mouth falling open in horror. He had not meant for— but he'd only wanted—! This wasn't supposed to happen! This was not what he wanted, no, no! No! This was his mother, and he… he cared for her, so much more than he would admit, and now…

He screamed, falling backwards against Grayson's legs, and he clamped his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. His mother wobbled on her feet, the sword protruding from her stomach, buried to the hilt. She dropped to her knees, her breathing ragged and her body swaying. Damian crawled to her, his fingers hovering shakily over the hilt of the blade, and he opened his mouth, but he could smell her blood, and it flipped his stomach.

"No…" Damian gasped, grabbing the grip of the sword and yanking it from her, blood spraying across his face as he flung the sword away, catching her body as it slumped forward. Her blood was all around now, spilling ceaselessly from the open wound in waves, and it stained his clothes, which were pure white, and he clutched her tightly, feeling her shudder as her life was sucked away. "No, no, no, no, no, no… Mother, stand! Grandfather can fix this! He's done it before, he can…"

She pressed her palm, bloody and quaking, to his cheek, and her breath rattled in his ear. She rested her chin on his shoulder, and he felt her smile against his ear. "You… have made your choice…" Her voice was thick, and wet, and he felt the sticky warmth of blood against his cheek. "Do not waste… this gift…"

He stared at the wall, shaking as he dug his fingers into her shoulders, tears prickling his eyes. She'd done it on purpose. She'd made him angry, and used that to her advantage, so he would strike her down when he was distracted. It made him sick, and he breathed in the scent of her hair, sweat and blood and a strange, welcoming sweetness, the smell of home, of his mother, of her life slipping through his fingers. She'd done it on purpose. She'd given him a gift.

A gift of mercy. Her death for his life.

"Mother, please…" he choked. She breathed her last ragged breath, her fingers slipping from his cheek, and she slumped, her body collapsing against him. He felt her go limp, her chest ceasing to move against his, and her quivering becoming still. She was gone, and she was smiling, and Damian pushed her away, his hands slick with red, and his mouth tasting sour, and he felt Grayson stir behind him, attempting to reach out, but Damian didn't want that. He wanted his mother to be alive, and he wanted this nightmare to end. He wanted to go home, go where it was safe, and he wanted to make things right with stupid Barbara Gordon, and he wanted to see Drake again, no matter how much of a moron he was.

He sat in silence, wondering why no one came in to see what all the commotion was for. Perhaps his mother had warned them not to. It didn't matter now. Damian crawled into a corner, and he stared at Grayson, and Grayson stared back, his eyes wide and pitying, and Damian hated him for that, but truly he wanted nothing more than to curl up beside the battered boy and cry. Tears were in his eyes, and his throat was tight and aching, and his chest felt like it was about to burst, bloodying the room more with strips of his lungs and heart and bits of his bones, the ribs, and fleshy tissue strewn across it all. He wished it to be true, but nothing happened, and he stared at his mother. Her body was bent awkwardly, and blood gleamed in the dimness, and she looked dead. Her hair spilt across the ground, mixing with the crimson of her blood, black against red, and her eyes were open and glassy and dark.

And then the door burst open. Damian was not shocked to see his old teammates— Superboy barging in, the Martian right behind. Damian watched them vacantly, and he stood, revealing to them all his blood stained clothes, red and red and red and red all splashed across him, painted finely along his chest and against his pants, and spread along his face. He stood in front of Grayson, suddenly defensive again, even though he knew they were here to save him. Grayson had struggled to sit up, his hands clutching one of his wounds, and he reached for Damian with one broken hand.

The Martian got to him first. She flew above Superboy, her arm whipping out, and Damian gasped as he felt himself being lifted into the air, his little body flailing helplessly as he floated farther and farther upwards. He looked about fearfully, his eyes landing on his dead mother, and then to Grayson who was now shouting in horror. The Martian's glowing orange eyes met his, and he screamed.

Her mind was sharper than any knife, any sword, any weapon he'd ever touched, and it sliced against his feeble mind with the force of a thousand hammers, ramming hard and fast against his mental barriers. He couldn't fight her, he couldn't think properly, and he screamed louder, tears spilling from his eyes as pain shot through him, jolting his muscles and he felt as if his bones were crumbling beneath his skin, splintering and tearing through his flesh, ripping him inside out. His brain swelled and ached and suddenly electric rods were prodding at it, clawing it open and probing it viciously, pouring his secrets into the air with blood and fire and bile and tears. He twitched and tried to speak, tried to beg her to stop, because he didn't understand how anything could be this horrible, how she could be so horrible, she wasn't a bad person, she wasn't like him, but she was so much worse, and it hurt...

And suddenly he could see himself, and he screamed louder, louder, sobbing and writhing, gasping faintly as he watched himself shove the blade through his mother's stomach, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. His body twitched and burned and he wanted to tear himself apart, but she was already doing that for him, on the inside, taking everything from him, everything, everything! She was awful, and he didn't know how to breathe anymore, and he thought about Grayson, and he felt so sorry, because this was his fault, and he would know it now, he would never accept him, because Gordon was immobilized because of him, and the idiot had a moronic crush on the girl, though he never pursued it because he was a complete dolt, and anyone could see, and now she was crippled, and it was all his fault, and he practically pulled the trigger, and he wished he could pull a trigger now, on the Martian, on himself, just so the pain would go away.

It did. He fell, his body crashing in the pool of his mother's blood. He gasped, heaving and shaking, tears flowing freely against his cheeks as he tried to regain his senses… he felt… disgusting. He felt rotted on the inside, and torn on the outside, decaying all around, and he rolled onto his side, his stomach churning. He stared, his head pounding brutally against his skull, and he gasped, curling into himself as he watched Grayson be torn away from the Martian by Superboy. The girl was staring at Damian, her eyes suddenly wide with regret and guilt, and she looked away, her arms curling around herself, as if it would shield her from the reality of what she had just done to a child of seven.

"Let me go!" Grayson snarled, pushing against Superboy. "Let me— Somebody please— Impulse! Beast Boy! Get Damian, get him out of here right now!"

"You were choking her!" Superboy spat right back, and Damian thought that was total bullshit, because Dick Grayson would never hurt his own team. "And he's one of them! What she did is… it's not right. I'm not saying it's right, because it's not, and she knows it, but we can't take him with us. He's one of them!"

"No he's not! Let me— Dami?" Grayson sounded panicked as Damian rolled onto his knees, shuddering and gasping, and vomit spilt from his stomach, bitter on his tongue as it splashed against the floor, melting with blood. It stung his throat as he heaved, and retched, his body expelling anything inside his stomach. He felt hot and tainted, impure and sweltering. "Damian!"

And then he was at Damian's side, his broken hand on his back as the boy's body shook and flung puke from his lips. Everything tasted bitter, and everything was foul, and he choked, coughing and gagging, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Grayson was murmuring to him and Damian knew it was in a different language, but he didn't know which, so it could only be Romani, and it sounded soothing and sad. His broken hand awkwardly moved across Damian's back in small circles, and the vomit stopped, and Damian breathed.

"Listen to me," Grayson whispered, wincing as he pulled Damian into his arms. Damian did not object, but only breathed, resting his sweaty forehead against Grayson's bloody, torn chest. "You were right to want more than this. You deserve more. Whatever happens from now on, I need you to remember that. And… thank you, Damian."

"She did it on purpose," Damian breathed. "She did it on purpose."

"I know. I'm sorry. Can you walk?" Damian tried to stand up, but he when found himself wobbling, he got angry and ashamed, so he didn't try anymore. He closed his eyes, and he tried to stifle his sobs, but he couldn't. Grayson held him as tightly as possible in his condition, which Damian knew was much worse than he made it appear. "Guys, I can't… I can't carry him, can someone please…?"

Damian turned his head toward them, and he immediately cringed, his body going rigid in fear and shock and he shuddered at the sight of her stepping toward him, her hands extended, and he clutched at Grayson, whispering soft prayers in Arabic and Italian and German and Mandarin and he simply could not look at her, not when he felt so vulnerable. He hated them all, he decided, because they were seeing him in his weakness, at his most helpless, and he shook his head profusely. He wasn't Damian al Ghul anymore. He wasn't Damian Wayne. He was just a demon now. A horrible, impure little demon.

"No! No, Miss M, not you, he's… scared of you. Superboy? No, wait, Red!" He sounded so relieved when he said that word, but it only made Damian stiffen more. "Damian, you have to let go now. Red, take him— don't give me that look. Take him now. That's an order."

"Grayson," Damian murmured. He didn't want Drake, he wanted Grayson, he wanted his father, and he wanted his mother, but not Drake. "I'm sorry… for Gordon. I didn't… she knew, and that... was my fault." Damian felt Grayson stiffen at his words, and he looked down at him with shock in his eyes. "I… thought you should know… you can leave me to my grandfather. I should… pay for my follies."

"If you think I'm going to leave you here," Grayson hissed, shoving him into Drake's arms, "then you obviously have a lot to learn about me."

Damian said nothing. Drake was staring at him, the whites of his mask wide. But he held him tight, and did nothing else. Damian was grateful, and he slumped in the boy's arms, staring at his mother's corpse ruefully. He looked to Grayson, who had collapsed after handing him off. Damian knew it had been a long time coming. He was in no condition to be doing anything. Superboy scooped him up, and he jerked his head. They were leaving.

"Are we…" Damian swallowed the bile that clawed its way up his throat. He looked up at Drake, biting his tongue, because he was acting so weak, but he couldn't help it… he was disgusting, and vile, and everything about him was tarnished, and he still ached on the inside from what the Martian had done to him. "Can we… go home?"

Drake looked down at him, and his mouth dropped open. He looked around frantically, but then he composed himself. The others were watching, piecing it together, he knew it. They knew who he was now. They knew why Grayson was so protective of him. They knew that Robin was a murderer, and a mole, and a demon.

"Yeah. We can… sort things out with BG… she woke up. She's… scared for you." Drake looked away, and said nothing more.

And Damian stared guiltily upward, his mouth going dry, because the stupid girl couldn't worry for him, not after everything he'd done… she should hate him. She knew, didn't she? She had to. It wasn't fair. He didn't ask for this.

But it had been given.

As Drake held him tighter, it seemed obvious now. His mother had let him have something that was deprived from him for years. A family.

Tt.

Wow, I really, really like Robin angst? Also I like Damian. I love Damian okay, but... meh, I might have messed up his personality. First time writing him and all. He's seven in this, by the way.

Like, I figure this could be canon if Damian was introduced in... the next episode, basically. Talia and Bruce broke up in 2009, making Damian (assuming he exists) seven as of Invasion.

Oh, M'gann. =[ Obviously she doesn't go full on mind rape here, because Dami's not catatonic, but he's still just a seven year old human who never had to deal with something like that before. Also, rereading that part, it... was a little creepy. I didn't realize it until I went over it though.

Whoo. This was fun. I need to write something happy for YJ, holy shit.

Review, please? =D