Chapter Text
The cell was dimly lit. Faint red light pouring in from the cracks on the door. It the worst cell that Tim could ever be placed inside, simply for the fact that it was not a cell at all. There were no bars on the doors. No chains around his wrists. No iron around his feet.
It was a bedroom. A beautiful, rich, and decorated bedroom.
It was a gilded cage of his own creation.
“I have something that you want Detective,” Ra’s purred
Bruce scowled, hands clenching the batarangs tightly.
“Stay away from my children Ra’s.”
Ra’s paid him no mind. Ra’s looked at him. Tim was draped in the shadows, hidden in the rafters, so quiet and invisible not even Bruce had sensed him. Bruce, poor naive Bruce, still thought Ra’s Al Ghul was after him. Still thinking he was the one his mind was clawing after. It wasn’t. It’ hadn’t been in a long time.
“I have...” Ra’s paused, grinning a smile that made his back shiver, “Someone. You want.”
Tim froze.
His mouth went dry.
“You know exactly where to find me when you’re ready.”
Tim swallowed thickly, staring at himself in the perfect golden framed mirror. He had come of his own choosing. He had left the bats. Left Gotham. All in a blink of an eye. No backup. No notes. No com. No weapons.
Last contact he had was hearing the bats frantically head counting their friends and allies over the coms as Oracle tried to track down wherever the hell Ra’s was. Tim had known. Tim had known where Ra’s was. He knew he was going after someone Tim loved.
If the League believed in anything normal, it was an eye for an eye.
Tim had destroyed his beloved bases.
Ra’s had tried to take WE in return.
Tim had destroyed his pride.
It was time for payment.
Tim hadn’t had time to head count his own allies. Or his friends. Or his loved ones. He left. He left within minutes. Taking the Drake private jet and landing in a place that sang of death and bad memories.
The Cradle.
Rebuilt in all it’s glory.
He was told to change. Given robes. Given silks and sheer fabric that placed his entire body on display.
Tim clenched his jaw, still staring at his reflection.
It was disgusting. The way his surgery scar was the easiest scar to see through the fabric. There was no doubt that it wasn’t intentional. A trophy. A mark. A claim Ra’s believes he has over him.
The golden accessories he was forced to wear glints under the faint light. Two along his wrists, easy breakable golden bracelets. Each adorned with green jewels that could feed half of Crime Alley. One holding back the long hair that always fell in front of his eyes. A golden guillotine disguised as a strange crown.
One along his throat.
A necklace.
A collar.
The light hits it so the red and gold reflect perfectly on the large scar stretching across his neck.
Tim forced himself to look away from the mirror, feeling bile rise up in his throat.
The door opened and Tim tensed, stepping backwards falling into a subtle defense position.
Pru.
She stood there, wearing League garbs. Formal black wrappings around her, like a woven armor and mummification. She had sworn to Tim she would never wear them again. Talia had promised her as Pru pled allegiance to her.
Her chin was lifted, gaze adverted away from Tim and the clothes that could easily shift and show him without anything on. That never bothered Pru. She avoided his gaze because of where she stands. And where he stands.
Same floors that they had bled on.
Same floors they swore never to return too.
Pru as the guard.
Tim the willing prisoner.
“The Demon Head requests your presence,” Pru said mechanically
Tim nodded.
He followed her through the twisting and turning underground hallways of the Cradle. Each turn unveiling unguarded halls and rooms. It was unnerving, seeing it empty. Tim felt horror gnaw at his stomach, as Pru and Tim’s shadow walked black against the red lighting.
He hoped it was Kon that Ra’s had.
As fucked as it was, Tim hoped it was Kon.
Because Kon could fight. With or without powers. Kon would escape. Clark would come for Kon. And so would Kara. And Cassie. And Bart. They would come for him. They could get him out. Bruce would notice Superboy’s absence and immeadility step in. Kon would live and fight.
They reached the grand hall, doors shut. Pru turned to Tim, visibly hesitating. Tim pleaded with his eyes.
Pleaded her to tell him who Ra’s held in his clutches. Pleaded her to tell him what Ra’s was planning. Why she was here. Why she wore the ceremonial draping she hated. Why she was under Ra’s thumb and not Talia’s.
“I’m sorry,” She whispers, begging, voice hoarse, a reminder of the matching scars they held on their throats, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Tim stared.
Pru looked away.
There was one thing that Pru didn’t have to say and Tim didn’t have to ask about.
How this would end.
Death.
And resurrection.
She turned away from him.
And opened the large doors.