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A bloody sword is a beautiful thing.
Ra’s told him that once, and he’d forgotten he remembered it. But who’s blood is this? What’s going on?
Damian couldn’t remember how he’d gotten back here, to the burnt-out shell of Wayne Manor. He recalled leaving the cave with his father, recalled the thrill of adrenaline as they moved through the night sky in search of action, but then... what happened?
Who’s blood is this? his mind insisted again. Something about the question utterly terrified him in a way Damian was completely unused to and he sheathed the dripping weapon clumsily, unable to look at it any longer.
He raced headlong through the ruined manor, calling for Pennyworth, his father, Grayson, but it was as quiet as a tomb. The scent of smoke and death clung to him and unfamiliar helplessness clawed at his chest. His feet had a mind of their own and eventually he found himself at the entrance to the Batcave. Don’t go in!
“I have to go in,” he replied out loud, voice confused and lethargic to his own ears. The grandfather clock slid aside of its own accord and a yawning blackness beckoned him forward. It was far too dark, even for the cave. He stepped into the abyss unwillingly, picking his way easily down the metal steps despite his blindness. Damian blinked when he got to the bottom of the staircase and a sickly green light suddenly illuminated the scene. A strangled noise caught in the back of his throat, sounding nothing like him.
The bodies of his family and team were piled high in the center of the cave, flies buzzing across their vacant eyes. He took a horrified step back, grip loosening on the hilt of his sword. Wait - when did I draw my sword again?
The answer hardly seemed to matter - not with the bloody corpses of his loved ones staring at him reproachfully. Not even Titus had been spared, the Great Dane dead from a long slash that opened him belly to spine. All of them are sliced open , he realized distantly, and dazed green eyes dropped to the bloody weapon in his hand. When did I draw my sword?
Something touched his shoulder and he whirled around instinctively, blade arcing for the kill. No, I don’t kill anymore , he thought frantically, even as the sharp metal tore into flesh.
“Dami - an,” she choked out, blood spattered across her face and neck from the force of his impale. “ A bloody sword is a beautiful thing,” Ra’s approving voice echoed.
No, not her! He stood frozen, watching disbelievingly as her hand rose shakily to the blade in her chest, sadness in those purple eyes. “Raven,” he whispered. She slid the sword slowly out of her body, blood sheeting down her front in a rush of bright red.
Damian caught her as she fell, finally back in control of his body. “Raven…” he repeated, burying his face in her hair and sinking numbly to his knees. “Beloved...you - I didn’t…” He couldn’t find any more words. I don’t kill anymore, the voice in his mind repeated weakly, overpowered by the sound of blood dripping on the stone floor. “I’m sorry,” Damian whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Her only response was a strangled gasp as she grew limper. Her always-warm skin had turned cold as ice, her sweet scent metallic and coppery. Blood, so much blood. Red on pale and purple and dying.
Not dying , he realized suddenly, lifting his head and seeing empty violet orbs. Dead.
This isn’t real, someone called distantly. Damian clung to it. It can’t be real.
“It’s real,” a voice that sounded suspiciously like Grayson responded.
Damian tightened his grip on her and snapped his eyes shut. “Go away,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“Can’t make it go away. Look what you did.”
I didn’t! It’s not real!
“You did.”
Raven was so light in his arms, head lolled against the crook of his neck and rapidly-cooling blood covering them both. She felt real. Wake up, beloved , he pleaded silently.
His father’s deep voice rang out now, thick with rage and disgust. “It was only a matter of time. I never should have taken you in.”
Damian opened his eyes to see the scene had changed, gaze falling on the decapitated heads of Batman and Nightwing perched atop their own crumbling headstones. Somehow they were outside now, the dilapidated Manor visible in the distance. He felt the hatred burning behind the dead heroes’ masks.
“I should have given up on you,” his once-brother snarled. “Look what you did.”
Unbidden his eyes dropped back down to Raven, cold and bloody. Damian studied her face, willing violet eyes to open. Wake up, beloved.
“I bet you’d do it again.”
The woman in his arms vanished without warning and he was back in the Manor, mind enslaved as his sword separated Pennyworth’s head from his body. His brothers were next. Grayson, Todd, Drake. None could stand against him. It’s not real, he repeated to himself, unable to stop his own rampage or close his eyes to the slaughter. His father’s curses rang in his ears after the Dark Knight lay dead, innards glistening in the muted light of the cave.
Then Damian heard soft footsteps behind him and his mind went blank with dread. Not again! Not her!
But he was already turning, blade in hand. His name fell from bloody lips once again, betrayed purple eyes growing dim. Only then was control of his body given back to him, in time to catch her and beg forgiveness. Grayson started laughing from his place in the pile. It’s not real.
“It’s real,” a voice - his voice - countered. Damian flinched and looked up to see himself reflected in the spreading pool of Raven’s blood. The expression on his doppelganger’s face was fevered and rabid, reflecting none of the agony he felt. “Did you really think you could run from me forever?”
I’m not you! I’ll never -
“Again,” Grayson’s voice said gleefully.
NO!
The last thing he heard before the scene reset was his grandfather’s joyous refrain.
“A bloody sword is a beautiful thing.”
Again and again and again and again . He lost track of how many times he killed them all. The weapon in his hand never got heavier, the smell of blood was never less potent. Watching his most precious person be turned into a memory never got less painful. It's real, his defeated mind whispered.
"A bloody sword is a-"
Damian jolted, blinking against bright lights and the sound of obnoxious, steady beeping. This is new , he thought brokenly as he waited for the horror to begin. His limbs were leaden and his head ached abominably, making him hopeful that his suffering would end soon. Death would be welcome.
Nothing happened for a long moment, senses slowly sharpening until he registered that Raven was stretched alongside him in a snug hospital bed, holding him tight against her. One smooth arm was curled around his neck, pressing his cheek to her collarbone. She feels so real . All of the Ravens had felt real.
Damian must have said her name out loud, because she pulled back a fraction and her worried violet eyes locked on his. She asked him something, but he didn’t hear it trapped in his despair. “This is the part where I kill you,” he whispered miserably, knowing it was coming. Despite how many times he’d been subjected to it, watching her die always broke him anew.
Sympathy shone in her eyes and a knowing half-smile pulled at her lips.
“No. You’d never hurt me.”
The simple truth of that statement cut through the dread and fear hanging over him and he blinked at the sudden clarity. Of course I would never hurt Raven. Why had…? How did…? A glance around the room revealed he was in the Batcave's medbay, hooked up to a series of IVs. “What happened?” he finally managed, voice muffled by an oxygen mask.
“Scarecrow hit you with his new fear toxin formula. And it must be a good one, because I felt it all the way back in Jump.”
Scarecrow. He began to vaguely remember. At the docks...it was a trap. “How long have I been out?”
“Only a half hour. I came as soon as I could, but Bruce took some convincing to let me help. He thought it would be too much for an empath.” Raven’s expression became a bit guilty. “I may have threatened your father with a timeshare in hell if he didn’t get out of my way.”
Only a half hour? It had felt like eons. Damian fought the urge to shudder at the thought of the toxin getting to run its full course. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”
She was in her pajamas, wearing only a tank top and pair of shorts with her hair a bit mussed from sleep. There was some blood on her clothes and it nearly sent him back into a panic before he realized he was bleeding on her from four deep scratches across his chest. My blood. Not hers. Not her not her not her not her not her not her…
“Shh,” she murmured into his skin, pressing herself hard against him. A glowing hand trailed across his torso, erasing the deep gouges from Scarecrow’s hypodermic talons. "As if I needed another reason to hate your trips to Gotham," Raven sighed.
He took his own deep breath, trying to will away the frightened hysteria that still swirled beneath the surface. Damian hated how out-of-control he felt, how even the sight of the Batcave beyond the door of the medbay was enough to trigger him again. Instead he focused on Raven, eyes scouring every inch of her he could as she curled against him. A line of pale skin was peeking out from between her tank top and shorts (it must be warm in Jump tonight) and a couple strands of short black dog hair were scattered across her clothes (she’s letting Titus sleep on the bed again).
Soft, indigo-tinted hair tickled at his skin, its usual citrus-y scent replaced by something else (she always steals my shampoo when I’m away) and her left hand rested on his chest, dark purple nail polish starting to chip along the ends (hope you’re not biting your nails again beloved) . Raven always wears so many rings, but there’s only one she takes to bed, its green gem winking at him under fluorescent lights (one heart, one soul, one life).
Little by little he fully returned to himself, grounded in the simple fact of Raven , here and alive, warm and soft, loved and his.
There are far more beautiful things in the world than a bloody sword.
