Chapter Text
Three Thousand Years Ago, the land now known as Camelot was filled with Magic.
Three Hundred Years Ago, the warring kingdoms of Camelot came together with a common goal: removing the plague of Magic from their lands. This alliance became known as the League of Albion.
Nearly Three Decades Ago, a fairy child was found at the edge of the Hobb Forest and adopted by peasant farmers.
Three Years Ago, that baby, now grown, left his village to work for the royal family of Gotham, the Noble House of Wayne.
Three Months Ago, he overheard rumors of growing pro-Magic movements in neighboring kingdoms.
Three Weeks Ago, hearing reports of mystical disturbances on the boarder of Gotham and Bludhaven, he went home to visit Smallville, half a morning's walk from the alleged upset.
Three Days Ago, he began the trek back to Gotham . . .
Clark paused for breath as he came upon the crest of the hill and let his gaze wander the landscape before him. It was summer, and the world around him was bursting with life.
It had been good to travel, to wander the countryside with only his horse for company. He carried himself with a purpose, never straggling too long in any one place on the road, but not rushing himself either. He alternated between riding in the saddle and walking leisurely on the road, guiding his steed along by the lead to give her a rest from his weight. Clark Kent was a tall fellow, and though his dappled grey mare was large enough to accommodate his size, he still felt guilty having her carry him for any extended period of time. Besides, walking on the path gave him plenty of time to admire the natural world around him as he made his way back to the stone labyrinth that was Gotham.
Earlier that morning he had been the only traveller on the road. Now as he entered the city proper - no longer in the countless small towns and hamlets that made up the surrounding municipalities - and passed through the Northern Gate, the once trickling stream of people surrounding him increased into a mighty wave. His senses were overcome with the sights and smells of Gotham: people and animals hauling carts crossing paths on the streets jostling one another for purchase on the road, merchants shouting over the pedestrians and one another to hawk wares, meat and vegetables roasting in the thermopolia lining the busy intersections wafting into the breeze. A pack of young boys nearly bowled him over as they chased by, a baker in hot pursuit with a wooden paddle raised above his head, yelling at them about a loaf of stolen bread. Clark shifted his mare just in time for the boys to dart under the reins as the baker's curses drew scattered laughter from the crowd.
Thick battlements and once-white stone buildings rose taller than trees around the streets, and colorful banners and flags were strung up overhead, zigzagging and criss-crossing and snapping in the wind. On the corner of a particularly busy intersection a small covey of street performers busked for change. Clark dug a few spare coins from his pocket to toss into the collection pail as he passed. A singing young woman gave him a shallow curtsey, voice never wavering as she wordlessly thanked him.
The crowd pushed on, and Clark was tugged along with the flow of bodies. As he journeyed further into the heart of the citadel, the streets grew older and narrower, but the number of people began decreasing. Eventually he passed over a drawbridge and through the innermost gatepost into the castle square: a grand pavestone courtyard encircled by walls just as high and thick as the bulwarks in the lower city. But though the courtyard was usually rather busy, with servants and knights and noblemen alike using the area to meet in the shade of the oak trees lining the perimeter or to pass from one wing of the castle to the other, today it was packed with more people than Clark had ever seen there before.
Clark pulled his horse close to his side to take up as little space as possible and stood on his toes to glimpse around at the cause of this gathering. Even with his height, it was hard to determine why everyone had passed their workday to stand in the yard; the crowd was so dense it was hard to see anything other than the tops of heads and the ends of feathered caps. Someone elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and Clark muttered an apology he didn't owe, wanting to keep the peace.
Then, as if given an unheard command, the crowd began to part. A pathway from another gate opened, one Clark knew led to the knight's wing and the entrance to the dungeon - and now he could see a wooden platform had been erected in the center of the courtyard - and a man was being led by a chain around his neck to the beat of an unseen drum, barefoot. A legion of knights surrounded him, one holding the end of the chain with a thick leather glove, and they held their swords to the man. If he didn't match their pace, or if he tried to run away, he would quickly meet the end of their sharpened blades.
Privately, thought Clark this was a bit ridiculous. The man (if he could even be called that, he looked barely over the age of maturity) looked as if he would have been unable to lift a particularly heavy crate, let alone successfully charge a trained knight. But there was no denying the underlying fear everyone around him felt - as if they were waiting for him to snap and kill them all. A woman near Clark made a warding gesture with her hands, muttering a prayer. Another man spat on the stones as the accused passed him by.
The drum stopped beating as the procession reached the platform. A trumpet sounded, and as one unit the crowd looked up toward a figure emerging onto a prominent balcony overlooking the courtyard. Clark followed the gaze of the crowd, and laid his eyes on the King of Gotham, Thomas Wayne.
He looked the same as he did the last time Clark had seen him; weary, angry and thrilled to make an example out of an enemy.
"Let this serve as a lesson to us all," the king said as he faced the crowd. It felt as though he was staring them all down individually, like the king was speaking to Clark Kent alone. "This man is adjudicated guilty of conspiracy to use enchantments and magic." He paused as the crowd voiced its disapproval, with jeers and heckles rising in overlapping waves of noise. The boy did not react. He continued to stare blankly at the wooden platform he was now standing on, unhearing of the condemnation from the king and his court.
"Pursuant to the laws of this great kingdom," the king continued, his voice rising above the squall of the crowd. "There is only one judgement I may pass. With the power vested in me by the crown, for the crime of sorcery," and here his impassive face twisted into a sneer of disgust, as if speaking the word itself was as incriminating as committing the act. "I sentence him to die."
The crowd roared again, cries for damnation and blood rose around Clark's ears. The drum began to sound once more, and everyone started to move, determined to get a better view of what was about to happen. Clark himself felt stuck to the ground, as if a pit had opened in his stomach that left him frozen in place. Beside him his horse nickered nervously, stamping her feet and flicking her ears as the crowd pressed against them. Clark brought a hand to her neck, nervously patting her with clammy hands as he stared at the man about to die.
A tall figure, face masked by a dark hood, moved to stand over the man, now being shoved harshly to his knees by the knight holding the end of his chain. The drum continued, and the hooded man - the executioner, Clark's mind helpfully supplied - raised a large, glittering axe over his head. He held it there, waiting for the king's command. Clark swallowed thickly, wanting nothing more than to look away, to turn around and go back to Smallville. But to willingly turn his gaze, to ignore what was happening and deprive this man the dignity of a compassionate witness to his death despite his alleged crimes, felt wrong to Clark. He knew he needed to stay and watch, despite the way the edge of the axe and the cruelty of the onlookers made his heart squeeze in discomfort.
The drum rolled. The executioner looked up at the king on the balcony. The king raised his fist, then -
He let it fall, and the axe came down with it.
The drum ceased. The crowd gasped. The dull thud of the man's head hitting the ground rang like a church bell in Clark's ear. There there was a cold, thick silence descending over the yard; all of the onlookers adrenaline and anticipation wilted in the face of what had just happened.
"It brings me no pleasure to do this," the king said, breaking the spell of silence that had fallen over the courtyard. The sounds of the citadel beyond the castle walls seemed quieter too, having faded from a consistent buzz in the background to a nearly nonexistent hum. His voice carried easily across the crown; it seemed as if the entire city was now holding its breath. "But it must be done. Magic corrupts; it destroys without prejudice. Those who succumb to its temptations, willingly or otherwise, can only be redeemed in one way.
"That is all. You may return to your work." And with that, he turned and strode back into the palace.
Around Clark, the guards began clearing the crowd from the square. Everyone broke off into their own huddles, discussing what they had just witnessed as they went back to the routine of their lives. Some hurried away with pale and green-tinged faces, others lingered to try and catch a closer look at the poor boy's body. Someone's dog had wriggled itself free of its owners grip and darted forward to sniff at the blood pooling on the rough stones before being yanked back with a yelp. Two young boys mimed swinging an axe at one another, laughing and carefree until their mother pulled them both sharply by the ears away from the gruesome scene. A sozzled merchant shouted his approval of the king's judgement, stumbling against Clark's shoulder as he lost his balance, before being pulled back into his group of equally day-drunk peers.
Clark decided he'd best be on his way too, and he hurried off to the stables.
Bruce woke, as he normally did when left to his own devices, when the sun had long reached its peak. He was lying prone eagle-spread across his bed, heavy curtains pulled across both the cathedral windows lining the walls and the tester of his four-poster bed. It was dark, and warm, and all too easy to fall back into the comforting haze of sleep.
Until the curtains were harshly pulled back, letting the bright sun hit his photophobic eyes with a hiss.
"You're still in bed?" A familiar voice said, tone bright and lilting like the sun. Bruce scrunched his face, opening one bleary eye against the cruel light of day. There, broad frame silhouetted against the noonday sun, dark shadow from the unlit room failing to cover the sparkle in his blue eyes, was Clark Kent, Prince Bruce's best friend and manservant.
Bruce grunted in response and fumbled to pull the thick quilt over his head. Clark scoffed and tugged it back, letting the fabric fall onto the cold stone floor of Bruce's bedchambers.
"I could fire you for that," Bruce said, except his mouth wasn't cooperating with the whole 'articulate your words' part of communicating, so it came out more like a slow "Uh cud frr yuh f-tha," which wasn't very princely of him. But his father and his childhood tutors and Alfred weren't here to hear him mumble, so he didn't care. He pulled his legs up to his chest in a fetal position as he retracted against the now-apparent brisk cold of the room; even in the midsummer the castle had a way of trapping a chill in its walls. "Throw you - in the dungeon for . . . interruptin' my sleep."
"If you could," Clark said, unimpressed with the threat. "You would have years ago." He went around the room pulling aside dark curtains and opening windowpanes. A breeze blew through, bringing with it the smells of the courtyard it overlooked: horses and fresh bread and wood and hay and -
Bruce sat up, suddenly wide awake. The scent of blood was heavy in the air, pushing away everything else. He scrambled off the bed, uncaring that he tripped over the sheets and quilt and clothes and books he had left on the floor, and pressed his face against the glass of the window. There, six stories below, was an executioner's scaffold. Hay was piled across its surface, having been placed there to catch the blood (and there was so much blood, gallons and gallons and gallons that had poured from the neck of the Sorcerer; a blood atonement made to right the countless wrongs he surely must have done) was soaked through, and some had puddled onto the flagstones below. A scullery maid was on her knees, scrubbing at the ground, hands and scrub brush and the hem of her sleeves swallowed by the sudsy incarnadine water.
Slowly, Bruce realized there was a hand on his shoulder, warm and strong and comforting. Clark was beside him, looking down at the evidence of Bruce's father's mighty power with an unreadable expression on his face. Bruce felt, suddenly, that he needed to defend his father - defend himself. Magic was evil - inexcusably, undeniably evil. It tainted the mind; it warped the soul; it stole purpose from the individual; it ripped apart families; it destroyed everything that was good in a person.
Bruce knew this. Bruce had witnessed this firsthand, when his mother had been taken from him with magic. He had trained to defend himself and others from magic; he hated magic and every damn sorcerer that dared to walk the sacred lands of Camelot.
But there was still a part of him - a shameful, weak, horrible part of him - that hated the bloodshed and the death. However deserved it was, Bruce couldn't stomach the thought of purposefully ending a life. He had tried once to tell his father how he felt, to ask if there wasn't another way to solve the problem, like exile or imprisonment. He had hoped his father would understand where he was coming from and agree with him.
But before Thomas Wayne was Bruce's father, he was the King of Gotham, and being King meant having grit and sacrifice and a willingness to do the right thing even when it was hard and uncomfortable.
(Bruce was still learning this, even at twenty-and-five, as his father would often berate him.)
A moment passed, and Clark withdrew his hand and stepped away from the window. Bruce fisted his own hands in his sleep shirt, willing away the complex muddle of shame and discomfiture making a nest in his chest. He turned away from the window (away from the reminder of his failure as his father's heir) and took in the sight of Clark, a pillar of normalcy in Bruce's ebullient life.
He was lucky to have a friend like Clark. Even though it probably should have been awkward, being close with his employee and servant, it just wasn't. When Clark became his manservant a little over three years ago, he had been quiet and awkward, almost painfully formal, keeping to himself and attending to his duties with precision and dedication. At first, Bruce had been fine keeping it that way. His father had insisted on him having a manservant, and even though Bruce did not want anyone in his personal space or involving themselves in his life (or learning his secrets), it was better to let it happen and keep the man at an arm's length. Alfred Pennyworth, the castle steward and his father's closest advisor, had assigned one Clark Kent to the prince after he had turned away a dozen other completely qualified candidates for various non sensical reasons such as "his voice is too nasally" and "he could hardly carry my sword to me, he was so frail and weak", and Bruce . . . really could not find a fault with Clark. At least, not one he felt warranted immediate expulsion after standing in Bruce's presence for too long.
Bruce moved to the table at the center of the room and poured himself a glass of water, the clink of the decanter against the ceramic mug oddly loud in the comfortable silence between the two men. He turned back to see Clark standing by the bureau, clothes for the day draped across the dressing screen, hands clasped lightly behind his back and eyes bright with quiet understanding. Bruce swallowed his water thickly. There was something . . . inherently decent about Clark - not just in the way he carried himself, but in how he made others feel capable of their own decency, too. Maybe that was why it hurt so much, why that bitter lump of shame nestled in Bruce's ribs burned. Clark didn't expect perfection from him, like so many others; he didn't demand answers or apologies or expectations of what Bruce should be. He just was; he was content with Bruce's presence alone, and he himself provided a steady presence in the storm Bruce kept convincing himself he could outrun. Clark was so good, and Bruce was selfishly struggling with his duty in keeping people like Clark safe so they could continue to share that goodness with the world.
Bruce stepped behind the screen, shedding his sleep tunic and dressing himself in his base layers. First came the starched white shift that went under his outer layers, catching sweat and dirt and anything else that could dirty or ruin his clothes from underneath, and then his under drawers which he fastened with quick, practiced motions. "How was your trip?" He asked as he dressed.
"It went well," Clark replied, voice carrying warm and steady across the echoey room. Bruce couldn't see his face, but he could hear the smile in Clark's voice. "Ma and Pa Kent send their love."
Bruce smiled as well, stepping into his breeches and drawing them up his legs before fastening them at the waist. He had heard many stories of Clark's parents over the years, and was sure they were the reason for their son being as wonderful as he was. He would have liked to meet them one day, if he could think of a justifiable reason why the heir to the throne wanted to meet two peasant farmers; to sit at their table not as a prince or a nobleman or a knight of the realm, but simply as Bruce, and to break bread with them and to thank them for letting their son into his life. They were the kind of people Bruce suspected the kingdom relied on far more than the men who sat in his father's high council chambers pretending their voices alone could keep the world spinning.
Bruce's smile faded as he remembered the village the Kent family lived in, Smallville, and the reports he had heard in the council meetings he attended with his father. "There was an attack near your village," he said, stepping out from the privacy screen. Clark looked up from where he was organizing stacks of paper at Bruce's desk, biting his lip as he furrowed his brows. "I heard of it after you had already gone."
"Yes, I - I learned of it when I arrived," he said, stuttering a bit as he spoke. Bruce wondered if he had felt he was in danger while visiting his home, and for a moment he fiercely wished he had tagged along so he could have protected Clark from any dangerous magical attacks. Then he stamped that feeling down as quickly as it arose; it wouldn't do for the Prince of Gotham to act as the personal bodyguard for his manservant. His father would have a conniption if that were to actually happen. Clark met Bruce's gaze, and he looked worried. "People were hurt."
Bruce looked back. "I know," he said, wishing he could somehow do something immediate to make this problem disappear. "I'm sorry."
His words felt inadequate, paltry against the real pain and suffering people were experiencing far away from the city boarders of Gotham where Bruce was near-powerless to help them. An apology was all he could give.
Clark blinked, and then he smiled kindly. Bruce felt like smiling a little, too, at the way the room seemed to grow a little bit brighter and warmer.
Instead he just crossed the room to face the large, polished mirror where a dark doublet had been laid out across the back of an upholstered chair. Clark moved with him, dutifully straightening and adjusting how the garment sat on Bruce's shoulders and assisting with the complicated ties that kept it close to his body.
"Was your family safe?" Bruce asked, fussing with the topmost button clasped at his throat (definitely not fidgeting, just making sure everything was presentable).
"They were," Clark replied. "The attack was further down the river, closer to the neighboring heap-village. I helped a bit with the clean up. Pa and I worked on rebuilding doors for a few buildings." He paused, eyes downcast for a moment. He held the hem of Bruce's doublet between his forefinger and thumb, running the tip of his finger across the embellished seam. "I wish I could have done more."
Bruce's not-fidgeting stilled. He thought of Magic - destructive and consuming and evil - and he thought of the people left to try and clean up the mess remaining in its wake.
"You did what you could," Bruce said quietly. "And you came back safely. That's what's important."
Clark met his eye, and that bright smile returned - gentle and grateful and kind.
"That's true. After all, if I stayed building cottage doors in Smallville, who would be here to clean your dirty laundry?"
Bruce rolled his eyes, deciding not to dignify Clark's joke with a response, and headed toward the door.
Even when he slept the morning away, Bruce had a strict schedule to keep.
After eating whatever food Clark had procured for him from the kitchens (today had been sliced pears, buttered slices of bread, strawberries, cold milk spiced with cloves and honey, watered win, boiled eggs, and a leg of roasted chicken. Bruce made sure to leave some for Clark to pick at, knowing the man preferred anything other than the cold porridge that was made for the servants breakfast) and dressing in the clothes Clark laid out for him, he would make his way down to the training grounds.
Clark would normally join Bruce, to be there to bring him a drink of water, or a towel to wipe his sweat, or to run drills with Bruce himself, but today Alfred had requested him in preparing the staff to receive the first of their honored guests arriving this evening. Delegates and ambassadors and noblemen from all the kingdoms and territories in Camelot were coming to Gotham, to renew the League of Albion's peace treaty.
"Ah, your highness," the dry voice of the Master-at-Arms broke him out of his thoughts, drawing his attention to the gaggle of knights and hopefuls assembled around the training ground. "How wonderful you are here to join us for this afternoon's training. Perhaps you can get the young wards to be productive with their time, instead of wasting it for those who are actually here to learn?"
Bruce nodded and made his way to the far side of the yard, where three boys were gathered, laughter floating light and clear in the afternoon air as they talked and went through their warm-up routines. The training yard smelled of cut grass, dry dirt, steel, and sweat. Rows of practice dummies lined against the stone wall surrounding the perimeter, stuffed with straw and canvas coverings mended countless times to repair from well-rehearsed strikes. The other end of the yard held racks of wooden staves, blunted spears, and dull-bladed practice swords.
The three boys each greeted Bruce with a respectful bow of the head, not completely forgetting the manners their wet nurses and governesses had taught them, before moving toward Bruce with a familiarity and camaraderie that only those that knew the real him behind the crown and the pageantry of court could.
"You're late," Jason tutted, leaning his weight against the bo staff he propped up on the soft ground. "Did you and Clark have an eventful morning?"
Dick cackled at the insinuation while Bruce simply rolled his eyes, too used to Jason's commentary. Tim, for his part, had the decency to look mildly offended on Bruce's behalf before he quickly fell into giggles with Dick and Jason.
"Alright, alright," Bruce said simply, his voice carrying rising above the bubbling laughter.
Jason raised an eyebrow, ever cocky and irreverent of Bruce's status as crown prince. "You mean when we beat you."
Bruce arched his own brow, but did not rise to the bait. Instead he reached for a practice sword. The wood handle was smooth and soft from use, but its blade was flat and dull from the same. He rolled his shoulders once, twice, letting the lingering ache from oversleeping give way to the familiar comforting burn of stretching well - used muscle.
"Move, boys, before the sun gets higher than your blades! Go, pair off!" the Master-at-Arms barked out. Bruce stuck with his three wards-in-training instead of seeking out an older, more experienced dueling partner. It was well enough, since the three boys tended to not get paired with any of the other pages or squires. The Master-at-Arms claimed it was because no one else could push them properly, but Bruce suspected the truth was that the other trainees simply hated sparring against them. Dick, Jason, and Tim — though years younger than Bruce — had taken to combat with remarkable skill and attention to detail, each in their own unique way. They had an edge to them that no one else could rise to meet, except for Bruce himself.
"Jason, start with Tim. Dick, you're with me," Bruce ordered.
Jason groaned dramatically. "What, afraid of me and my skills, your highness?"
"I'm afraid of wasting time," Bruce countered. His voice was level and monotone, and an outsider might have thought Bruce sounded irritated with the young man, but Jason knew Bruce wasn't truly ...
The four of them moved into two separate pairs. The dust of the beaten-dirt training yard rose around them, dirtying their boots and the hems of their trousers. The air smelled of churned earth, sweat, and anticipation.
Jason twirled his staff in a lazy loop around his head before smacking the butt of it once on the ground in a hollow thwump. "Try not to embarrass yourself, Timmy."
Tim just rolled his eyes and adjusted his stance. He wasn't nearly as overly-confident as Jason, or as dramatic as Dick, but Bruce knew the boy was just as capable as the older boys. Where he fell behind in terms of strength or size he more than made up for in intelligence and his ability to analyze a situation to determine the most effective process, regardless of muscle memory or flow of fight demanding something different. He breathed slow and steady, settling into his own defensive stance with a jo staff.
"Begin!" The Master-at-Arms roared, and Bruce's attention was pulled back to his own sparring partner.
Bruce and Dick circled one another, practice swords held high and ready. The younger man's grin was infectious, toothy and wide and playful, but his feet moved in precise and sure steps. He was like a flowing river - seemingly calm and predictable on the surface, but strong and decisive under the current.
Bruce lifted his own sword in a defensive guard, matching Dick's dance-like energy. "Don't waste that energy," he advised. "Make a move."
"Like this?" Dick asked, and then he was pressing forward with quick steps, pressing into Bruce's space. Bruce easily pivoted, using his own body weight to turn Dick around and looping his foot behind the boy's ankle and forcing him to give ground or risk being pulled off balance and topping backward. Dick stumbled for one step, then two, then quickly recovered and stood balanced in a ready stance. He came back around with a wide slash that Bruce blocked easily.
"You're too wide," Bruce said. "You're exposing yourself."
"Ah, you mean like Jason always does?" Dick shot back, still grinning.
"Hey!" Jason squawked from his corner of the yard. "I heard that!"
Tim nearly scored a hit during the distraction, his blade just grazing the sleeve of Jason's tunic before the older boy recovered and twisted away. "Cheap move, Timothy," Jason grumbled, but there was no malice behind his words.
Both pairs continued on, lost in the whirlwind of sparring. The men each moved with the grace of a well-trained and seasoned dancer, blocking and parrying and slicing and jutting blades and staves. Each body moved like a weapon - or maybe the weapon had become their body, an extension of themselves. Sword arm, dagger wrist, staff legs, shield ribs. The sound of wood striking wood, dull metal hitting dull metal, echoed like drumbeats throughout the training ground. Dust rose higher, and a small crowd of onlookers gathered around the perimeter to sneak glances of the King's wards sparring with the Prince.
Bruce caught Dick's blade again, twisting his forearm sharply and disarming him with practiced ease, and it clattered to the ground. Before Bruce could press the advantage and end the match, Dick rolled forward, scooped up the sword as he somersaulted below the arc of Bruce's blade, and came back up swinging and ready.
Bruce's mouth curved into the faintest smile. "Good."
Meanwhile, Jason had begun to grow impatient with Tim's slow-and-steady approach to the match. He struck harder, faster, his staff whipping through the air in sharp arcs that forced Tim to give ground bit by bit. Tim blocked when he could, dodged when he couldn't, and continued to watch and wait.
"Are you actually gonna do anything, or are you gonna just sit there the whole time?" Jason taunted, sweat tripping down his temple and neck.
Tim flicked his gaze down, hoping for what he had been waiting for. And there - Jason's left foot slid too far back, throwing off his balance as his body subconsciously tried to re-find its center of gravity. In an instant, Tim pressed forward, hooking his staff behind Jason's right knee and pulling up. Jason yelped, and fell flat on his back with an oof as he tried to both recover his footing and bring his staff down over Tim's shoulder.
"Nice," Dick laughed from the other circle. "Well done, Tim. You're finally growing teeth."
Jason clenched his jaw, recovering quickly. Before Tim could land a final blow, Jason brought his staff up to block the younger boy's path. He deflected the staff coming toward him, and in a burst of energy hooked his leg in Tim's ankle and bought the other boy down. Then he stood and brandished his staff, tapping it against his opponents neck. "Yeah," he said, his chest heaving with exertion. "But I bite harder."
Tim pouted, but was had no chance to retaliate. The Master-at-Arms called an end to the first match, and instructed everyone to switch partners. This time, Bruce gestured for Jason. The boy bounded over, swapping his staff for Dick's sword. "At last, the main event."
"Try not to embarrass yourself," Bruce echoed Jason's earlier jab, and settled into a ready stance.
Jason lunged first, his sword moving in a sharp strike aimed at Bruce's shoulder. Bruce blocked, and felt the force of the impact reverberating down his arm. Jason followed with a rapid assault of attacks, his movements aggressive and relentless. A lesser opponent would become overwhelmed with the sheer adamantine enthusiasm of the boy's movements, but not Bruce.
The prince gave ground, letting the ward burn through his energy. He parried smoothly, keeping his own strikes minimal and efficient, conserving energy and momentum until the right moment. Jason grunted in frustration, swinging harder and faster, until his movements became sloppy with desperation. The kid had mettle, Bruce would give him that.
The older man seized the moment, twisting aside and knocking the blade from Jason's grip. Before the boy could recover, Bruce pressed his wooden blade against Jason's sternum.
"Dead," Bruce said flatly.
Jason scowled and bent to retrieve his weapon from the ground. "One of these days, I'm going to get you."
"You'll have to learn some patience first," Bruce replied, and the two of them turned to watch Dick and Tim finish their own match.
Dick darted around, as light on his feet as a court dancer. Tim followed, a whirlwind of movement. Tim tracked him with sharp eyes, parrying and blocking Dick's spurting jabs. Dick feinted left, the right, then left again trying to bait Tim into a mistake. Tim didn't bite. Instead, he waited for Dick to overextend as he tried to let his staff connect to flesh - then Tim swung his own staff forward, catching the older boy squarely in the side.
"Ouch!" Dick yelped, stumbling back and rubbing a hand over his smarting ribs. "You've been watching Bruce too much."
"Maybe you just haven't been watching him enough," Tim said with a smile.
By the time the session was called to an end, all four of them were dripping with sweat, tunics clinging to their skin in the sticky summer heat. Bruce had long shed his doublet, and his once fresh white undershirt was now dingy with dirt and exertion. Everyone's chests rose and fell heavily as their lungs demanded more air, but their eyes all spoke of the satisfying exhaustion that only came from a good bout of exercise.
Bruce placed his practice sword on the rack and moved to grab a pitcher of water. "You're all improving," he said simply.
Jason threw his arm around Tim's thin shoulders, rubbing his knuckles in the boy's hair despite his protest. "Hear that? We're improving. Next time, he won't know what's comin' for him."
The council chamber was thick with incense smoke and the faint, stale odor of too many men sitting too long in close company. Clark kept to the periphery of the room, standing in a drafty corner next to a carved stone pillar. Here he was all but invisible, just another servant in livery, but his ear caught every word spoken, every voice that rose and fell across the long oaken table.
At its head sat King Thomas Wayne, his signet ring glinting in the candlelight as he tapped restless fingers against his silver goblet. Lords and councilmen, when not conspiring with one another, leaned toward him, vying to have their voice heard.
"Your Majesty," said Lord Simon Stagg, a thick-jawed man with white hair. His voice carried easily above the others, and slowly other conversation petered out to listen in on what the Lord had to say. "We must tread cautiously as the League of Albion convenes. Not all who come to your court will do so in good faith. I speak plainly: there will be spies and ne'er-do-well's among them. And worse - sorcerers."
At the word, several men stirred and muttered amongst themselves, but Stagg pressed on, undeterred by the vulgarity he had just spoken. "Already we have heard whispers of vagabonds crossing our borders, carrying charms and hexes and Gods alone knows what else. Who can say what enchantments may be smuggled into these very halls? Or which allied nobleman's servant may carry out his master's sinister deeds for him?"
King Thomas ceased the tapping of his goblet and narrowed his eyes at the man before him. "You truly think the embassies themselves would bring such things into our lands?"
"I think," Stagg replied, his voice steady and cold as the stone beneath his feet. "That it would be folly to assume otherwise. Even our allies have much to gain from Gotham's downfall. If they cannot tear down our mighty walls with sword and axe, they will certainly do so with spells. I beg of you, your Majesty - be vigilant. Trust no one too quickly; even a welcoming right hand may be a distraction for a dagger in the left."
A disconcerted murmur rippled down the table. The kin's jaw tightened, but he gave no immediate reply. Clark shifted his weight, heart beating in his chest like a horse galloping across an open meadow. He kept his eyes on the floor, but the words rang in his mind like a rolling bell.
When the king finally spoke, it was with a tone that left no room for consideration or amendment. "Then let them come. Let them see the strength of Gotham for themselves, and know what fate awaits anyone who dares to poison her heart with Magic."
The chamber erupted in approval, goblets raised in toast and voices echoing here, here! off the vaulted ceiling. Clark pressed his back into the wall, as if it would swallow him up and hide him from the men revealing in their newfound plan. Spies and sorcerers and assassins, hidden among invited guests. He could not help but wonder how much of Stagg's warnings were true, and how many were the symptoms of the poison of fear spreading through the city.
Clark shook off the thought, and turned to exit the council chamber and make his way back to Bruce's apartments. He had to prepare the prince for dinner.
The Great Hall was alive with light and sound. Candles blazed warmly in iron sconces along the walls, and a fire roared in the large hearth at the center of the room. Raucous laughter, scraping cutlery, clinking goblets, and minstrels songs all blurred together into one solid wall of noise echoing off the hewn stone walls. Serving boys hurried back and forth between the kitchens and the benches, refilling pitchers of wine and setting down trenchers piled high with savory foods.
Bruce sat at the high table with his father, though his seat was near the far end - as always, overeager courtiers surrounded his father on all sides, demanding the man's time and attention. Bruce could hardly recall a mealtime when his father hadn't been pestered by wanting noblemen and the two of them could spend their time together uninterrupted.
Clark stood nearby, ever dutiful, with a pitcher of spiced wine in his arms. Bruce watched the man take in the sights and sounds of the evening, no doubt needing to reacquaint himself with the overwhelming insanity that was evening meal in the Great Hall. They locked eyes once, and Bruce quickly turned away, lest his expression reveal something to Clark. He needed to leave, soon, but Clark's steady presence was both a comfort and a complication.
A loud, irritating guffaw erupted from further down the table as Lord Stagg recounted some inane recollection from his youth. The king laughed along loudly, drinking his ale and eating his roast boar with no acknowledgement towards Bruce at all. Bruce leaned subtly toward Clark, lowering his voice so it would not carry to any listening ears.
"Clark," he said. "I'm giving you the evening off early."
Clark blinked, shifting the pitcher in his hands. "Now, sire? Surely you -"
Bruce cut him off, keeping his tone sharp enough to brook no argument. "You've had a long day, Clark. I'm sure I can manage with only Alfred to keep me company." Both men turned to look at the Steward, keeping his own post behind the king's seat. "I'll be fine. I'll see you in the morning."
Clark hesitated. There was a flicker of something in his eyes - confusion, concern, maybe even suspicion - but he inclined his head in deference anyway. "As you wish," he said briskly, and he turned to weave his way through the throng of people to the servants entrance at the edge of the hall, and he vanished out of sight.
Bruce exhaled slowly, tension leaving his broad shoulders. A quick glance confirmed his father and the council were too absorbed in their own merriment to notice him slipping away from his seat. He stood, casually as he could while pointedly ignoring Alfred's knowing gaze, and left through an unremarkable narrow archway that led to an unused portion of the castle. The music and laughter of the Great Hall diminished as he went further down the passage way, replaced by the echo of his footsteps in the stone corridors and the beating of his own heart.
He allowed himself a small smile, one not created in performance for a courtier or petitioner: his Robins were waiting for him, and the real work was about to begin.
The narrow corridor emptied into a disused stairwell, spiraling down into the bowels of the foundation of the Old Castle. Bruce's well worn leather boots barely made a whisper against the worn stone, his hand trailing along the chilly wall as he descended further and further down. At the base of the staircase was a heavy oak door, impossible to open unless you knew how to twist the knob just right. Bruce pressed against it with practiced ease, and it swung inward to reveal the fain glow of lantern light.
The chamber had once been a storage cellar, forgotten by all save the rats and the occasional disoriented servant. Now it belonged to them. The boys had transformed it into their own secret hideaway: crates stacked into makeshift seats, blankets stolen from laundries draped against the damp stone to keep out the chill, numerous candles placed precariously on the tops of barrels and crates with long wax drippings melted into niches in the walls, and a cracked wooden table in the center cluttered with scraps of parchment, charcoal pencils, and a scattering of hand drawn maps showcasing different parts of the city proper.
Dick was already pacing along the length of the room, his anticipation barely contained. Jason sat with his boots propped on a crate, spinning a dagger between his fingers. Tim sat hunched forward, studying one of the maps by the dim light, his brows furrowed in concentration as he scribbled his notes of the night's accounts with pen and ink: who they had stopped, where they had been, and how word of their deeds would spread.
"Late again," Jason drawled, humor glinting in his bright blue eyes.
"I had to make sure Clark wouldn't follow," Bruce replied gruffly, stepping fully into the light and closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Dick grinned. "We were starting to think you'd let the feast keep your time."
"Not tonight." Bruce moved to stand at the circular table, his eyes pulled to the spread of maps before him. They were covered in messy notations and observations: neighborhoods, markets, taverns, storehouses, stables, shipyards, dark corners of the city where crime and desperation festered like rot in an old wound. "There's too much at stake. How did your patrols go?"
"Depends on who you ask," Dick answered smugly. Now in the light, Bruce could see a shallow cut along his jawline. The dark-haired boy tilted his head and caught Bruce's eye with a roguish grin. "We made sure the East Quarter won't be bothered by Maroni and his lackeys for a while. The goons ran with tails between their legs once Jason started swinging that sword like he actually meant it."
Jason smirked and mimed slashing his dagger at an imaginary foe. "They won't be back, not after I defaced their stupid little guidon."
Tim huffed, re-inking his quill. "You should have just left it alone, Jason. Someone might have seen you."
"Yeah, but that isn't as fun," Jason shot back.
"Tim makes a good point," Bruce said (Tim looked decidedly smug with satisfaction, and Jason scoffed in annoyance at the boy's expression). "Did anyone see you?"
All three boys nodded, and Tim finished his report with a flourishing signature before sliding it across the table to Bruce. "We overheard two guards talking as we were making our way back. They said someone swore they had seen cloaked figures, but by the time they had arrived we were gone."
"Good," Bruce said, relaxing his posture. The lantern light around them threw sharp edges of shadow across his pale face. "But we need to make sure we're cleaner. Every time we're seen, every whisper of us in the taverns or the marketplace, we risk discovery."
Dick folded his arms. "Maybe that isn't so bad. People should know someone is out there watching their backs when the king's men won't. The gangs already fear us."
"And so will the crown," Bruce countered, voice low and dangerous in its certainty. "If my father learned about what we've been doing, if the council were to discover it, there would be no forgiveness. Not for me, and not for any of you."
A thick silence fell over the cellar. It was Tim who spoke first, calm and firm. "But that's the point, isn't it? To pick up where the King's Men fall off, and to help the people that actually need it. People need to know we exist out there in the night."
Dick nodded. "It's like you told us, Bruce. People need hope, and to know there's someone out there fighting for them."
And Bruce looked at them - really looked at them. The three King's Wards had become more than, they had grown into his brothers in arms in ways he had never imagined. They had grown up, and though they were still young and inexperienced, they more than made up for that with their enthusiasm and integrity.
And in the old cellar beneath the castle's foundation, they began to plan.