Chapter Text
He was meant to be a sword. That was the point. It had always been the point since he was in his Mother’s womb. When he was less than a sword, he had no purpose. Damian was fine with that. He was always who he was supposed to be even when the doubt clawed at him and squeezed the breath from his lungs.
Even then, he knew that he was an heir. An heir of everything fearsome and powerful in this world. An heir, a bat, a finely smithed sword that the world would bow to someday. That was what Damian was born to be and he was as sure of that truth as he was of the sky’s cerulean hue.
Then… Then he met his Father, and it was as if the sky had somehow been colored in scarlet tones overnight.
Then he was no longer treated as an heir. Just a child. Something that he had not been even when he was an infant swaddled in the green silk that designated him as an al Ghul.
Before he had a worm, a small wriggling worm of doubt in his mind that kept him guessing. Kept him wondering, ‘Will I truly live up to my Mother and Grandfather’s expectations? Will I become what I need to become?’
In his Father’s home, that worm became a roiling python, one that wrapped around his limbs and kept constricting until his bones creaked and his limbs bent at horrendous angles. Yet… No, he did not scream. He did not let a pained groan or whimper escape his lips, because the only thing worse than having a weakness is exposing it to your enemies. And even worse, exposing it to his Father.
No, he kept his python tucked away and hurt those who sought to take his position from him; he defended his heritage lest everything that he needed to be was ripped away from him. Even in the face of Todd’s burly weight, Drake’s intimidating intellect and both of their combined pull on his Father’s perception and favor. Even in the face of his Father’s clear disapproval and outright avoidance, he held fast.
Damian tried his hardest. He acted as al Ghuls should. But… they did not want an al Ghul, they wanted a Bat, and no one had ever taught him how to be a Bat before. To them it was normal, not something that they could teach as much as one could teach the act of thinking.
Still, they dressed him in the colors of their heritage, they fitted him with their weapons, they showed him their resting places and left them unprotected. It was not enough, however, to make him a Bat. He still had no justice, no doctored kindness that they so highly regarded, no hesitation in the face of ending another life.
Still Damian tried.
He dulled his most beloved blade, he stayed his hand even when it left him terribly vulnerable, he ceased mentioning his own upbringing completely, he tolerated the sensory deprivation tank that was middle school in America and he accepted their mockery with a sense of self-control he had never before needed, much less possessed.
And perhaps the greatest feat of all, he cast aside his Mother for them. His Mother who used to send him on week long journeys over the mountains surrounding Nanda Parbat without food or shelter and send her Shadows to kill him in his bed before dawn… and the very same Mother who sang to him when he was still very small and called him “Habibi” when no one was around. He let her down for them, he left behind the heritage that was rightfully his for them.
It was not enough. They still hated him. And, yes, that was the word. Hate. If they had attempted on his life, Damian would have felt more appreciated. He would have known then, that they respected his talent and thought him to be a worthy threat. But, no. He was not a worthy opponent to them, he was something as disgusting, weak and useless as a child to them.
When Father died, Damian did not feel sadness. The others that his Father had taken as his own would say that it was apathetic of him, that it was heartless. And maybe it was, but all the same Damian did not feel sadness. He only felt lost.
The Bat was meant to teach him. As long as the Bat lived, Damian was meant to follow behind him even if all Damian did was fail and disappoint. Damian was not the heir to the Demon anymore and now… he was no longer the heir to the Bat. He could never learn to be.
Damian found there to be only one question left in his mind, ‘What am I?’
What do you call an heir with no heritage? What do you call a Bat without a Father and a Demon without a Mother? What do you call a sword without a purpose?
He does not know.