The Price of Heroism
By,
Aestivate
Fandom: DCU
Characters: Damian Wayne/Robin
Rating: K+
Word Count: 573
Summary: Damian's final moments when he is killed in Batman Inc. #8: "This is the price of heroism, littlest bird, little Robin. This is the price you've paid."
Your sense of hearing is typically very acute. But your ears can barely register sounds other than the roaring thunder of your blood – your father's blood – as it furiously makes its exit through your innumerable wounds. Somewhere in the distance you notice the unbridled screams ringing in Drake's and Richard's throats, even though they are merely feet from you.
They were incapacitated when you were stabbed – and so you can't blame them for being too late, because you were also too late. They probably blame themselves for your murder. But they're just being foolish; if you couldn't stop your clone, your twin, your enemy, your rival, how could they even fathom succeeding when you couldn't? After all, you are far more talented than they. Even your father, the Batman, was also too late, too late.
He's cradling you. Your father, Bruce Wayne. Son of Martha and Thomas Wayne. The Batman, whose obsession with family is something you've realized some time ago that you've begrudgingly accepted. His rough, calloused hands still manage to find trembling gentleness. Too bad even their considerable warmth is not enough for the both of you. After all, it wasn't enough for Todd, so how could it be enough for you?
You aren't even supposed to be here. Yet clearly, here you are. It's what you wanted. It's what everybody expected you to want. And now you're dying - and you know it, because you are not an idiot. You also know you've messed up – and somehow the pain of failure hurts worse than dying.
What you currently experience seems like an exercise in contradictions: On one hand, you feel like you're being tugged up, up, far beyond the spaces between despair and hope. On the other hand, your body feels so heavy that you can't find the strength (and you have strength in spades) to lift your fingers to stroke the Batman's face... or even to turn the corners of your lips upwards.
I'm not a -tt- child, Father, is the first thing you want to tell him.
The second is this: I'm sorry for disobeying orders.
The third thing is simply three words: I love you.
The fourth and final thing comes from the remorse that you manage to dig up from within even though you were really looking for rage. I just wanted us to be together.
Born and raised by the League of Assassins, you were taught never to fear Death. As the grandson of Ra's Al Ghul, you were also taught to stare directly into the eyes of Death and laugh, because Death is an enemy you were supposed to mockingly defeat.
But there is nothing remotely mirthful in the hollowed eyes that make up the remaining of your flickering vision.
Then again, bats are supposed to be blind anyway.
All you want in these final moments is to once again see those eyes fill to their brim with light. But it's your fault they never again will. It's also your fault that the final image of this life is that of your father's tormented expression; anguish that even the cape and cowl can never hide. Agony darker and deeper than the nights you shared the world together.
This guilt belongs to you, and it follows you as you fly into a world of eternal night.
This is the price of heroism, littlest bird, little Robin. This is the price you've paid.
(And earned.)
Fin.