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Wayne Manor was far too quiet.
Not the comfortable silence of early morning, when Gotham seemed to sigh after a difficult night — but a wide, lazy, almost tedious kind of quiet. The sort of afternoon when even the curtains seemed to yawn.
Damian Wayne, twelve years old, was sprawled across the main sofa in the sitting room as if he had been defeated by an invisible enemy called boredom.
Which, to him, was nearly as intolerable as any real foe.
His father and Drake were at Wayne Enterprises, trapped in endless meetings that Damian considered a sophisticated form of corporate torture. Grayson was in Blüdhaven, far too busy being that city’s heroic darling. Todd was somewhere with his team — the Outlaws.
(Ridiculous name, he thought, wrinkling his nose internally.)
Brown, Cain, and Gordon were probably at the Clock Tower doing… girl things, as he vaguely and slightly arrogantly summarized it. And Thomas — dramatic, well-meaning Thomas — was likely rehearsing with his school’s theater group. Damian would never admit it out loud, but he was actually a very good actor.
Which left only him.
And Alfred.
The cat was comfortably settled in his lap, purring with a dignity that suited his name. Titus occupied his feet like a particularly heavy canine bodyguard, while Ace lay beside the sofa, vigilant even in rest.
Despite the relaxed position, Damian maintained a serious expression, control impeccable — as if he were there by strategic choice and not because he had absolutely nothing to do.
Colin Wilkes, his best friend, hadn’t been in contact for some time. That bothered him more than he would ever admit. But he would not verbalize it. He didn’t need to. He didn’t want to.
And Kent… since their last mission, their conversations had grown tense, sparse, nearly nonexistent. The last argument had not helped.
Damian pushed the thought away with a faint frown.
He picked up the remote.
Changed the channel.
Changed it again.
And again.
Until a sports channel caught his attention: fencing. Blades gleamed under bright white lights, movements swift, calculated, almost elegant. That, he understood. Swords were direct. Honest. They spoke the language he had learned since childhood.
He watched in silence until the broadcast ended. When commercials began, he rose with the dignity of a bored young prince and walked to the kitchen.
He opened a cabinet.
Took dark chocolate.
He would never, under any circumstances, admit that Grayson had influenced this particular habit. But it was his fault. Absolutely his.
He returned to the sofa, sat down again, and broke off a piece with almost surgical precision.
When the program resumed, the screen had changed.
Figure skating.
Damian did not change the channel.
Not immediately.
He watched.
Blades cut across the ice with a soft, almost hypnotic sound. The jumps were high, clean. The spins precise. There was discipline there. Technique. Absolute control of the body and balance.
He liked it.
He had always liked it.
He had skated before, with his mother. On missions where snow blanketed the world in cold white silence, they had taken advantage of frozen terrain. It was not only training. There had been moments… different ones. Less rigid. Less sharp.
He remembered the feeling.
The cold air filling his lungs.
The push before a jump.
The sudden weightlessness.
The world shrinking for a second.
When his feet left the ice, he felt alive. Free. Suspended between control and risk.
In Gotham, he had never mentioned it. Never said he knew how to skate. Never suggested that he missed it.
They might think it childish.
Unworthy.
Incompatible with the Wayne name. Or the al Ghul legacy.
Damian subtly adjusted his posture on the sofa, as though someone could see his thoughts. His fingers absentmindedly pressed into Alfred’s soft fur.
On the television, a skater executed a flawless triple jump.
His body reacted instinctively.
Muscle memory.
Longing.
A silent desire.
Damian Wayne was not the type to admit missing something.
But on that tediously silent afternoon, as the ice shimmered on the screen and the world felt too distant, he allowed the thought to exist.
He missed skating.
And perhaps — just perhaps — he missed the part of himself that existed when he was on the ice.
---
The restlessness settled in by late afternoon.
It wasn’t physical.
It was subtler. A light, persistent unease — as if his body remembered something he was trying to ignore.
He wanted to go.
He wanted to skate again.
The idea lingered in his mind like a forbidden thought.
When night fell over Gotham, the city did what it always did — it darkened completely, as though accepting its role in the world. Faulty lights flickered in alleys, distant sirens echoed like a constant soundtrack, and the sky remained heavy, overcast, oppressive.
Bruce and Drake were still at Wayne Enterprises, buried in contracts and endless meetings. Todd and Grayson… well, only God knew where they were. Thomas was asleep; daytime patrol always left him exhausted.
So it was, essentially, “girls’ night.”
At least that was what Brown had said with a smile far too exaggerated for Damian’s liking.
It was Robin, Spoiler, and Orphan on the streets, with Oracle in the Tower.
The streets were as always: filthy, damp, lit by weary streetlamps. Rats darted through narrow alleys. Cockroaches hid beneath torn garbage bags. Gotham never rested — it only changed the type of danger.
“Let’s split up. We’ll cover more ground,” Spoiler said over the comms. “I’ll take north, Orphan south… Robin, east. Be careful.”
“Understood.” Damian’s voice was steady, controlled.
Orphan merely nodded. They were not ones for many words. They did not need to be.
Damian moved across the eastern rooftops, leaping with surgical precision. Every movement calculated. Every landing silent. He was efficient — he always had been.
The night passed without major incidents.
A few muggings interrupted. Two dealers handed to the police. A brief chase that ended too quickly to even raise his heart rate.
Nothing extraordinary.
Nothing challenging.
Nothing that required all of him.
And perhaps that was exactly what bothered him.
When patrol ended and Oracle dismissed them, Damian did not return to the Manor immediately.
He remained atop a building for a few seconds, observing the city below. The cold wind cut through his uniform, but he did not move.
His gaze shifted.
In the opposite direction of home.
Toward a less frequented part of the estate.
He knew he shouldn’t.
It wasn’t a mission. There was no strategic need.
But his body had decided before his mind did.
Without announcing anything over the comms, Robin disappeared across the rooftops.
He crossed several blocks, descended into quieter alleys, staying in the shadows. When he reached the edge of the property, he removed his hood and breathed in the cleaner air of the secluded grounds.
The old pavilion stood there.
Dark.
Forgotten.
Waiting.
Damian paused before the side door for a few seconds. His gloved hand pressed the handle.
It gave way.
Inside, the cold was different. Purer. The ice reflected the faint light like a dull mirror.
Damian crossed the pavilion in silence.
Each step echoed softly, blending with the distant sound of wind outside. He pushed the inner door and stepped further into the structure.
And then he saw it.
The ice.
Intact.
Shining beneath the slivers of light filtering through the tall windows. Above, the old central glass panel allowed the moon to spill silver light over the rink, casting soft, almost ethereal reflections. The space felt suspended in time.
It was beautiful.
Almost magical.
But in a world of flying men, Lazarus Pits, and cities rising from ashes, perhaps it was not so impossible.
Damian walked slowly along the edge of the rink.
The air was cold, but not unpleasant. The kind of cold that awakens.
He remembered his mother.
Snow-covered mountains. Long missions where silence was an ally. The rare pauses when she allowed him to be merely… a child.
He remembered skating together. The instructors hired during extended operations — discreet men, often too inexperienced to realize where they were truly involved. Temporary technicians. Replaceable.
If they needed to disappear… it would not be difficult.
That was how her world worked.
And yet, on the ice, there had been moments that did not feel like training. There had been lightness.
Damian continued walking until something beneath the small side bleachers caught his attention.
A box.
Forgotten.
He tilted his head slightly, analyzing. The gesture was almost feline.
What could that be?
He approached cautiously. A batarang was already firm between his fingers — precaution, not fear. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use it.
He crouched.
Pulled the box out.
Opened it.
Inside was a pair of skates.
Black.
Worn by time, the leather lightly marked but intact. The blades showed signs of use, yet were protected by guards that had preserved the metal. No significant rust. Only history.
He lifted them carefully.
Weighed them in his hands.
Old… but functional.
Damian remained kneeling for a few seconds, staring at them as though facing a decision greater than it truly was.
Should he try?
The silence of the pavilion seemed to answer for him.
There was no one there to judge him. No one to ridicule him. No one to measure his dignity.
And if he were honest with himself — even if only there, in the dark — he was eager.
Very.
Damian slid the batarang back into his belt.
Sat on the bench.
Removed his boots.
And began tying the laces with firm, meticulous movements, as though preparing a weapon.
Perhaps he was.
Damian stood carefully.
The blades touched the ice with a thin, almost shy sound. He kept his posture straight, shoulders aligned, chin slightly raised — old instinct, ingrained discipline.
The first glide was cautious.
The second, steadier.
His body remembered.
Not as a rigid command, but as a gentle memory — muscles waking, joints finding their axis, balance returning millimeter by millimeter. He pushed lightly with his right foot and let the left guide.
The sound of ice being carved echoed through the empty pavilion.
It was a clean sound.
Honest.
Damian gained more speed, tracing wide curves along the rink’s edge. The cold air brushed his face, stirred his hair, slipped beneath the fabric of his uniform still partially hidden under his hoodie.
He inhaled deeply.
And pushed.
His arms opened almost instinctively — not in combat stance, but for balance. The movement was more fluid than he expected. More natural.
He attempted a simple spin.
Entered well.
Exited off-center.
The blade faltered for a fraction of a second, and he had to open his arms abruptly to regain control. A small mistake — but noticeable.
His brow furrowed.
He tried again.
Better.
The ice seemed to accept his feet once more.
Damian increased his speed. The straight line through the center of the rink beckoned. He knew what would come before he consciously decided.
He prepared the takeoff.
Bent his knees slightly.
And jumped.
The world suspended.
For one exact, precise, absolute second — there was no weight. No ground. No legacy. Only air.
The landing was too hard.
The blade scraped unevenly and he nearly lost his balance, sliding sideways before recovering his posture.
He exhaled through his teeth.
Frustration.
But not anger.
Not this time.
He tried again.
More focus.
More control.
He jumped.
Turned.
Landed.
Not perfect — but clean.
And then something shifted.
He was no longer executing technique.
He was moving.
The curves grew wider. His arms were no longer merely tools of balance, but extensions of his body. He cut diagonally across the rink, then back to center, spinning with greater confidence.
He could be light.
He did not need to be a blade all the time.
He did not need to be heir, soldier, strategist.
Here, he was only motion.
He attempted a larger jump.
Fell.
This time he truly fell — knee striking the ice, hand bracing to avoid hitting his face. The impact echoed through the silent space.
He remained there for a few seconds.
Cold seeping through the fabric.
Breath uneven.
And then… he laughed.
Low.
Barely audible.
He stood on his own.
Unhurried.
Unirritated.
Adjusted his posture and pushed off again.
One more lap.
And another.
The ice gleamed beneath the moonlight, reflecting each line drawn by his blades. His movements began to align — fluid, continuous, almost elegant.
He jumped again.
And this time, when his feet touched the ice, the landing was soft as a promise.
Damian glided to the center of the rink and allowed his body to continue forward in a straight line, arms open, eyes closing for a brief moment.
The cold air filled his lungs.
And he felt…
Free.
Light.
Whole.
As if, for a few minutes, he did not have to be strong all the time.