The Demon's Own
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Bruce considered it highly ironic - while the League saw it without doubt as poetic justice - that he now occupied the same cage that had held the peasant prisoner before.
It was far too small to allow him any comfortable position so he huddled down intent on preserving body heat. The shed they had placed the cage in offered only meagre protection against the elements. The open side allowed him an unhindered view of the row of fresh graves and the one corpse hung from a pole and left for the scavengers. The accusation of that burnt and broken body didn't lessen during his waking hours and followed him into his feverish dreams.
"Don't lie to yourself, Bruce. It was cowardice, not a moral high ground that kept you from meting out justice," Ducard had told him, his voice harsh and tight with anger and hurt. "Your peasant has escaped justice but not death. A beam shattered his legs and he died in the flames while trying to crawl to freedom. His death was slow and far more painful than if you had beheaded him. What would have been more merciful, Bruce?"
These had been the last words uttered to him so far, days ago when he regained consciousness.
He had lain on the floor of what he recognized as a storage cellar in the basement, stripped of armour, gauntlets, boots and even belt. Ducard had stood over him. His one attempt at rising was cut short by a kick.
Several times Ducard had started to speak only to press his lips together before a sound could escape and shake his head. The slow clenching and unclenching of his fist spoke volumes. With a sinking feeling Bruce had realized that he had screwed up big time. The silent fury in his usually stoic teacher had frightened him more than a vicious beating would have.
The few words Ducard had finally forced out left no doubt in Bruce that his little rebellion had gained him nothing but the loss of a friendship and probably the enmity of a man who was as important as a father to him. Silently, Ducard had left. Later some guards came and put Bruce into the cage.
Except for the delivery of a daily meal he was ignored and left alone with the graves and a rotting corpse as company.
-----
So it came as a surprise when one day the cage door was thrown open and he was dragged out. Every muscle in Bruce's body screamed in protest after remaining so long in that cowered position. His guards showed no sign that they had even noticed his discomfort. His arms were wrenched behind his back and bound. Then Bruce was led around the shed to the open place that had once been a training ground.
Now it was covered with packed supplies and equipment. The League was ready to leave. Above the scene stood the burnt out ruin of the monastery. Bruce blinked in shock, he had difficulty connecting the extent of the destruction with the shortness of his mutiny. He had no time to contemplate this further. Black-clad ninjas milled around, trainees and initiates alike. They all turned at his approach. His guards propelled him forward into the crowd. They descended upon him.
Bruce remembered witnessing similar scenes in the prison. Men cursing and taunting while beating their victim to pulp. In contrast to those memories there were no sounds now except those of boots and fists hitting his flesh and his own groans of pain. With his hands bound behind his back he had no chance of protecting himself. He stumbled forward step by step. Whenever he fell hands dragged him up and the assault continued. At last he blacked out and this time they left him on the cold ground.
When he became aware of pain once again he heard gravel crunching beneath heavy boots, boots that stopped next to him. He looked up into Ducard's disgusted face. Ducard leaned down to pull him to his knees by his hair. The ninjas had backed off into a rough half-circle to one side.
Ducard turned his face to the graves. "You see here the consequences of your rash actions," he said gravely. "Did you believe that the lives of your brothers in arms are of less worth than that of a murderer?"
"No," Bruce whispered. Shame choked him. Half a dozen were dead because of him. For what? I didn't want this, a childish part of him wanted to cry. He locked his throat against those words. No excuses.
"We didn't hear you."
He worked his jaws to gather spit for his dry throat. He tried his best to make himself heard. "No, they are not." He blinked back the tears. That's it, Bruce thought. Maybe another initiate will prove himself worthy today with a quick sword stroke.
As if Ducard had read his thought, he gave him a rough shake. "There will be no easy way out for you, Bruce. Admitting your error is only the first step back onto the right path. You will earn our forgiveness, in time."
-----
Forgiveness wasn't forthcoming. They had taken Bruce with them when they had abandoned the destroyed monastery. Apart from the fact that he was able to walk on his own he wasn't treated that differently from a sack of supplies. During the journey he had taken stock of his numerous bruises and pains. Any of his fellow Shadows could have killed him with a single punch or kick, he knew that too well. But everything he had suffered had obviously been designed to cause pain rather than to do lasting harm. There was no place on him that didn't hurt.
When they reached their destination at last Bruce felt as if he had stepped back into the time when he had just left Gotham. Their new base was a big cargo freighter.
