Chapter 2
The next morning, Bruce spent all of thirty seconds attempting to come up with a rational, reasonable excuse to give Alfred for collecting the various things he needed for the summoning ritual. He rapidly abandoned it for two reasons, the first of which was simply that he didn't think he could come up with something plausible that would explain everything. The second was that all previous attempts to fool Alfred, going all the way back to when Bruce was four years old and trying to sneak a second cookie, had been utterly futile. There was a reason he'd never even tried to hide his mission from Alfred, and it wasn't just because he needed Alfred's combat medic skills after a bad night. Bruce was fairly certain he'd never once lied to Alfred and gotten away with it.
Instead, Bruce wrote his list on a small slip of paper and handed it to Alfred as he came to clear away the breakfast dishes. "Can you gather these items for me, at some point today?" he asked, as casually as possible. "I'll need them by this evening."
Alfred glanced over the half-sheet of paper, and then turned to Bruce with a questioning look. "May I ask what it is you need these things for, sir?" he asked mildly.
"Just a project I'm working on," Bruce said. "I don't expect anything to come of it."
Alfred stood there for a moment, looking at him. His expression didn't really change, but he got his point across just the same.
Bruce half-smiled. "Humor me?" he asked.
Alfred shook his head, and in a rare occurrence, actually smiled back. "Don't I always," he said dryly, and picked up the breakfast tray.
/~*~/
For the first time since Bane had taken the Batman out of commission, Bruce waited for the arrival of sunset with thinly-veiled impatience. The book hadn't specified a time of day to attempt the ritual, but something in Bruce was certain that twilight was the right moment. He was reasonably sure that was from his mother's stories, that idea that it was the transition from day to night, or night to day, when the barrier between the visible world and the hidden one was thinnest.
If he had to choose between dawn and twilight, he'd take twilight. It seemed more appropriate, somehow. After all, in the last two years—since he'd returned from his training and begun his mission in Gotham—dawn had meant an end to his work for the night. But twilight, that was a beginning. After dusk fell, he took off the mask called "Bruce Wayne" and became something more, something greater. Something worth being.
If Bruce was going to try to resurrect the Batman, it should be at twilight. If he had to bury the Batman forever, it should be at dawn. It was the vigil between where he'd wait for his miracle.
When the sun finally began to set, Bruce made his way to the side door in the kitchen. Alfred was waiting on him there, adding one final item from the fridge to a small duffel bag.
"Are you certain this is wise, sir?" Alfred asked, eyes focused on his hands as he zipped the bag closed.
"No," Bruce said. "But it's something I need to do."
Alfred hesitated for a moment, but he eventually nodded. "Your coat, Master Bruce," he said, and picked it up from where he'd laid it carefully across a nearby chair. He held it out.
Bruce stepped into it, transferring the cane from hand to hand as Alfred slipped his coat over his shoulders and subsequently smoothed at the collar. Before Bruce could step away, Alfred produced a scarf from somewhere and snaked it around Bruce's neck. He even tucked the ends briskly inside the coat. For just a moment, Bruce was a child again, being bundled up to go and play in the snow. It wasn't cold enough outside for snow, of course—it had been a mild, late-spring day earlier—but the temperature would drop quickly once the sun slipped below the horizon line. Gotham nights could be brutal, in more ways than one.
Finally satisfied that Bruce was properly attired for going outside, Alfred stepped back and handed over the bag. "Do be careful, sir," he said.
That was not a promise Bruce was prepared to make, and he wouldn't lie to Alfred. He chose to say nothing, simply tucking the bag under one arm.
"Very well, then," Alfred said, and opened the door. He waited until Bruce was already past him to add, quietly, "Call, if you need me."
Bruce nodded once, without turning around, and stepped out into the herb garden.
The rapidly-cooling air hit him immediately, making him grateful for his coat and scarf. The idea of spending hours outside through the coldest part of the night was not an appealing one. Usually if he was out at night he was wrapped up in several layers of reinforced armor and padding, and working up a sweat besides. Now, the chill crept through the fabric of his coat and shirt in slow, insidious tendrils. It latched onto the metal in his spine, making the surrounding bone and tissue ache more acutely than normal, especially considering that he'd endured a physical therapy session that afternoon.
The spot Alfred had prepared earlier was scarcely twenty steps from the door, but to Bruce it felt like miles. The tip of the cane caught oddly on the soft ground of the garden, and his steps were slower and more careful as a result. In the fading daylight, the vegetation laid traps for his feet. A single misplaced toe could cause him to lose his balance, and then there'd be no getting back upright without calling for Alfred's help.
Bruce had never spent much time in the gardens, even as a boy. He had vague, blurry memories of summer afternoons digging playfully in the rich soil, back when he was small enough to be carried on his mother's hip, but even those were few and far between. As far as he could remember, gardening hadn't been a particular interest of either Thomas or Martha Wayne, and so for the most part the flowers and bushes and herbs had been left in the capable hands of the groundskeeper, under Alfred's watchful eye. The result was a perfectly-sculpted, aesthetically-pleasing tangle of plant life that was, undoubtedly, beautiful—but clinically so. There had been no great labor of love here, and it showed.
Still, it was probably the closest thing to true nature that Bruce could reach in his current condition, so it would have to do.
Bruce found the river stones exactly where Alfred had told him they would be, resting on the smooth dirt where two of the winding paths crossed. There were twelve, each one approximately the size of Bruce's palm. Most were relatively flat, and all had smooth, rounded edges. Alfred had collected them from the bottom of the creek that crossed the southwest corner of the Manor grounds, per Bruce's instructions. They were arranged in a circle, like the numbers on the face of a massive clock six feet wide.
Bruce inspected the stones for a moment, trying to gauge their placement. The book had been adamant that the circle needed to be as close to true round as possible without measuring. Even a length of string held from a center-point was forbidden; the stones had to be placed by eye. Looking at Alfred's handiwork, Bruce almost suspected him of cheating. It was certainly better than Bruce could have managed, which was one of the reasons he'd asked Alfred to do it for him. The other, of course, was that his back wouldn't have allowed him to bend over that many times in quick succession.
Satisfied that the circle would be adequate, Bruce dropped the bag to the ground just outside the ring of stones. It took him a few minutes and one false start before he was able to find the least painful way to sit down at the inside edge of the circle, and even then he had to pause for a long while and just breathe. With his legs folded in front of him, he could lean forward just enough to take the worst strain off his spine, but it was far from comfortable. The ground was cold, still clinging to winter despite the spring sunshine that afternoon.
Bruce tossed the cane behind him—if this worked, he wouldn't need it again—and reached for the bag, eager to get started. He laid out all his tools first: a crystal bowl, pilfered from one of the Manor's parlors; a single white candle, unscented, three and a half inches in diameter and six inches tall; a small container of thick, heavy cream, chilled from the kitchen fridge; a jar of pure, fresh honey; and lastly, a deadly little knife no wider than a willow switch, with a wickedly sharp point.
The crystal bowl went on the ground in front of him, just on the near side of the circle's center. Bruce opened the cream and poured it into the bowl, careful not to spill a single drop. Once it was empty, the jug went back into the bag and he brought out the honey. He added that to the bowl as well, letting it drop languidly from the container until it formed a lump underneath the cream, gradually diffusing.
The candle he placed in the center of the circle, or as close to it as he could gauge by eye while seated inside it. A quick detour to his coat pocket produced a lighter, and he leaned just far enough forward to touch the flame to the wick, engendering a steady golden glow. It wasn't dark enough yet for the candle to actually cast any appreciable light, so it just sat there, flickering patiently.
Bruce sat back upright, thinking. He went over his tools methodically—bowl of cream and honey, candle, river stones delineating a circle. According to the book, this was all he really needed, besides a strong willpower and the correct spoken words. Around him, the last vestiges of sunlight were making themselves scarce. It was time.
The knife weighed almost nothing in his hand, and the tip was so sharp that Bruce couldn't even feel it as he pressed it to the pad of his finger. A drop of blood swelled up, and Bruce held his hand out over the bowl, upside down. The droplet clung for a moment, hesitant, until it lost its battle with gravity. It plopped lightly into the mixture, briefly creating a pale swirl of red against the white. A gentle ripple spiraled outward as the blood sank, and a moment later there was no sign that the bowl held anything other than cream and honey. Once Bruce cleaned his finger and the knife, and placed the knife in the bag out of sight, there was no evidence of the additional ingredient.
Bruce took several deep, even breaths, gathering his willpower. The twilight garden seemed to grow strangely quiet, as if it was holding its breath in anticipation. Staring intently into the flickering candle flame, Bruce began the summoning.
/~*~/
For what felt like a long time, nothing happened.
Then again, sitting alone in perfect silence in a cold, empty garden at night had a way of making the minutes drag, especially when every breath Bruce took aggravated the injury to his spine. He hadn't been comfortable from the start, and it only got worse the longer he stayed out here. The desire to fidget, to find some way of sitting that didn't cause his back to ache, was nearly overwhelming.
Bruce ignored it, forcing himself to sit still and stay alert. Discipline, in all its forms, had been a central tenant of his training. This wasn't that different from having to sit motionless for hours in a convenient shadow while waiting for a suspect to leave a bar, or forcing himself to ignore what should have been a debilitating injury and keep fighting long enough to get clear and call Alfred for assistance. It was amazing, what the body could be convinced to do with the right incentive and sufficient willpower. After all, determination—or stubbornness, according to Alfred—had always been Bruce's strongest character trait. This was difficult, but not any more so than many of the tasks his various teachers had demanded of him over the years, and markedly less so than a few.
So when Bruce caught his eyelids drooping in a sudden wave of drowsiness, he knew something was wrong. A normal person might have just assumed that the boredom had gotten to him, but Bruce knew better. He was too well-trained to drift off when he was, essentially, on watch.
Blinking rapidly, Bruce forced himself back to full alertness. The air around him felt thick and syrupy, and it was a struggle to make his eyes focus. His heart rate increased with a spike of adrenaline, and it cut through the fog that had crept over his thoughts. He blinked again, and the garden snapped back into reality with a tangible shift. The air was cool and crisp again, and he breathed it gratefully, trying to get his bearings.
Sitting across from him, just inside the circle of river-smooth stones, was a boy.
He was perhaps eight or nine years old, with perfect golden skin and glossy dark hair that reflected the ambient moonlight. He was seated cross-legged, either mimicking or mocking Bruce's posture. His chest was bare, showing the faint impressions of his ribcage and the sharp lines of his shoulders. So were his feet, letting his toes dig gleefully into the dirt of the garden path. Between, he wore pants of some soft, thin material that came down to his knees. Bruce couldn't place the color; one moment it seemed a simple green, and the next it was a sun-dappled field, with shades of gold and brown and even silver, borrowed from the starlight. His features were small and sharp, his mouth a deadly little blade, curved and eager. His eyes were dark, at first, until the boy tilted his head and the moonlight struck them. Then they were a bright, inhuman blue.
No, something in Bruce said immediately, recoiling. This was no boy, despite its shape. This creature was something else entirely, something older, something ancient and inscrutable. Something dangerous, if Bruce forgot for an instant what it really was. The book had been clear on that.
"Hi," the boy—the creature—said. It smiled, showing brilliant white teeth that almost glowed in the darkness. If the cold bothered it, under-dressed as it was, it didn't show it. It seemed perfectly at ease, calm and curious. It even let out a high-pitched giggle, albeit one unlike any other Bruce had ever heard. The sound echoed through the empty garden, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Every hair on Bruce's arms and neck stood immediately upright.
The creature's grin grew wider, as if it could somehow sense Bruce's discomfort. "Aren't you going to say hello?" it asked, in perfect English. If there was a discernible accent of any kind, Bruce couldn't place it.
"Good evening," Bruce said automatically. His voice came out even, in his polite-but-distant CEO tone, as if this thing was simply a minor stockholder he'd happened to encounter at the annual Christmas party. Thankfully, the social graces of the Bruce Wayne persona came so naturally to him that he could employ them on instinct alone, even when shocked. "Thank you for coming."
The creature rocked forward and back once, still grinning, child-like and eager. "Do you have a gift for me?"
Bruce hesitated. The book's instructions were clear, and he had no reason to doubt them—not now, not after the ritual had actually worked, absurd as that was—but he still found himself unsure. This had gone from an academic exercise, a hypothetical scenario, to something frighteningly real. If even half of the book's warnings were as accurate as the summoning ritual apparently was, then a single misstep here could be catastrophic.
The most important thing, then, was to secure the binding. According to the book, it would protect him. Somewhat. If he was strong enough to hold it.
"I wish to make a bargain," Bruce said. He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on the child-shaped thing in front of him, and picked up the bowl of cream and honey. "Will you accept this, as a gesture of goodwill, before we negotiate terms?"
The creature's eyes were fixed on the bowl, wide and hungry. "Is it a freely-given gift?" it asked. It licked its lips and leaned forward almost imperceptibly, transfixed.
"Yes," Bruce said. He held out the bowl with both hands, ignoring the spike of pain from his back as it was forced to carry the weight; between the half-inch thick crystal and the liquid inside, it was much heavier than it looked for its size.
When the bowl passed over the candle at the circle's center, the creature reached out eagerly and grabbed it. Despite its slender arms and child-size hands, it held it easily, with no apparent effort.
"Freely given and freely accepted," it said, its high child's voice at odds with its formal tone. "Let us bargain, and if no accord is struck between us, go our separate ways in peace."
"Agreed," Bruce said.
The word had barely passed his lips when the creature grinned again and lifted the bowl to its mouth. In moments, the entire contents of the bowl had disappeared. Bruce saw only a few flashes of red lips and white teeth, and then a raspberry tongue as the creature searched for every last drop, like a boy determined to clean out a mixing bowl of cake batter. It was almost disturbing in its intensity, more inhuman than anything the creature had done so far, excepting the hair-raising giggle.
Eventually, the creature lowered the bowl and rocked backwards. Its pale blue eyes were heavy-lidded and glazed, drifting in ecstasy. A slow smile spread across its child's face, and it hummed briefly in appreciation.
Bruce took advantage of the thing's distraction to lean forward and inspect the bowl. As he expected, it was as clean as it might have been if Alfred had meticulously hand-washed it. There was no sign of the cream and honey mixture, or of the drop of Bruce's blood that had been hidden inside.
Bruce took a slow, deep breath. This was the dangerous part, according to the book. He gathered his focus, narrowing it down until all his thoughts were of the creature sitting in front of him. He tried to convince himself that he could somehow feel that drop of blood that the thing had swallowed. Concentrating, Bruce did his best to put a tone of power and command into his voice.
"Shall we proceed with our bargain?" Bruce asked.
The creature froze, like a deer that has spotted a predator. It dropped the bowl to the ground, forgotten, and stared at Bruce with slightly narrowed eyes. "What did you do?"
Bruce refused to feel nervous. The book had several stories of bindings gone wrong, of what happened when one was attempted but not fully established, but he forced himself not to remember them now. Instead, he tightened his concentration and kept searching for the right tone of voice. According to the book, he'd know it when he found it.
"Bargain with me," Bruce said, attempting to make it an order.
The creature shrieked. It leapt to its feet, impossibly graceful, and peeled its lips back in a feral expression. "You laced my sweetcream with your mortal blood!"
Bruce felt sweat on his forehead, sour and cold. He gritted his teeth. "Calm down," he said, firm and even. "I summoned you to make a deal, nothing more."
The creature hissed, falling into a fighting crouch. "Liar! You said it was freely given. You tricked me!"
Bruce had been in too many fights not to know when an enemy was about to attack. He could see the creature's muscles coiling, like a snake about to strike. He didn't know how strong those small hands were, or if those perfect white teeth were capable of ripping out his throat, but he had no intention of finding out.
When the thing lunged at him, Bruce put all his desperation and determination into a single, shouted word. "Stop!"
The creature halted immediately, as if it had struck an invisible wall between them. It actually bounced back slightly, recoiling as if from the impact. It shrieked again, an inhuman cry of frustration and anger.
Bruce's hard-won combat instincts were clamoring for him to fight, but he knew that would be suicidal. He wasn't sure if he could have beaten this thing, unarmed as he was, even if he had been at full strength. As it was, in his current condition, there would be no contest. This thing could rip him to shreds, if he lost control of it even for a moment.
"You dare," the creature said, low and threatening. It began to pace back and forth, although it remained inside the boundary of the river stones. "You would dare to bind me, mortal man? I am a creature of air and shadow!" It walked back and forth, back and forth, turning with fluid ease and brimming with restless energy. It reminded Bruce of nothing so much as a predator trapped in a too-small cage. "You cannot hold me. You haven't the strength."
Bruce felt his heart racing and took a moment to slow it down, determined to show only perfect control to this creature. "Free yourself, then," he said, nodding to the edge of the circle. "If you can."
The thing hissed at him again, less snake-like now and more like a cat that has been backed into a corner. It continued to pace, but it made no move to step over the river stones or to come any closer to Bruce than the circle required. Between them, steadily flickering, was the golden candle flame.
"Sit down," Bruce said. "And let's bargain."
The creature shook its head, still endlessly pacing. "Release me."
"No," Bruce said.
"Release me!"
"No." Bruce wasn't about to let go of his miracle without getting what he came for. "Sit down."
"I will not," the creature said. Even as it paced, turning after every few strides, it swiveled its head to keep a constant gaze on Bruce. "I am wylt-faedn, free-born, and I will not be controlled by a human." There was a sneer on the final word. "You cannot understand the simplest piece of what I am. How could you possibly hope to bind me?"
Bruce, growing sympathetically dizzy from watching the thing stalk back and forth in such a small space, interrupted with a short, sharp, "Be still."
The creature stopped mid-pace and faced Bruce, motionless and yet somehow still giving off the impression of restless energy. It was nearly vibrating in place, as if it took a monumental effort for it to stand still. Its lips parted in an animal-like growl, but it made no noise. It just stared at him.
Bruce watched it, warily, but the creature didn't seem to be faking. As before, it had been compelled to obey him. Why now, and not when he had told it to sit down? Was it dependent solely on the tone of his voice, the level of authority he was able to imbue in his words? Or was it, as the book claimed, something more ephemeral, a result of focus and concentration? Either way, he needed to learn to replicate it on demand, and quickly. If this thing attacked him again, he needed to be ready to stop it.
Bruce narrowed his focus, trying to remember what it had felt like when the commands had worked. "Sit down," he said, the way he might when scolding an employee caught stealing from the company—impersonal, absolute, authoritative.
The creature did not move. "Release me," it said again. Strangely, the earlier arrogance had faded. It sounded almost plaintive now. "Before it is too late."
Bruce adjusted his tone, shifting from "angry boss" to something more like "confrontational cop," harsh and unyielding in the face of resistance, with a hefty dose of implied warning. "Sit down," he tried again.
"Please," the creature said. Now there was no doubt; it was upset, on the verge of afraid. "Let me go."
It was hard to hear those words spoken in a child's voice, or to look at the wide blue eyes of the thing in front of him, and not see a scared little boy. For the barest instant, Bruce hesitated. He had to remind himself again that, appearances aside, this thing wasn't human. The half-complete binding was all that was keeping the creature from attacking him. If Bruce released it, the first thing it would do was tear out his throat. Until the bargain was sealed, with safe passage secured, Bruce had no choice but to keep it under his control.
"Sit down," he said one more time, and he knew immediately that he had found the right tone—low, firm, intimate. It was the voice of a disappointed father or a favorite teacher, warm but stern. The words carried a gentle hum of undeniable power, one that was felt rather than heard, like the vibrations caused by loud music with the bass turned up too high.
The creature's knees folded immediately and it fell, landing in a sprawl that might generously be called a seated position. The moment it did, it let out a cry, half despair and half what sounded like pain.
"Thrice commanded, thrice obeyed," it said through a clenched jaw. "Your blood compels me, mortal man." It paused to gasp for breath, struggling to speak evenly. "I am yours. Name me."
Bruce waited for a moment, but nothing else seemed to be coming. "Name you?" he repeated.
"Yes," the creature said. It was trembling. Its small hands were tight fists, pressed into the dirt. "Quickly."
"I don't know your name," Bruce said. "Can you tell me?"
The creature looked at him, pain writ clearly across its face and deep inside its inhuman blue eyes. "I was free-born, unnamed, untamed. Now I am yours. Name me as you will."
Bruce felt a flash of absurd panic. He had never named anything in his life. He'd never had a reason to—no children, no pets, and his company had been inherited after it was already formed. Even his alter-ego had been ultimately named by the press, once the rumors started circulating in earnest. How exactly did one go about naming a supernatural creature?
"What sort of name would you like?" he asked, falling back—as always, when he was in doubt of what to do—on Alfred's ingrained politeness.
The trembling had become full-blown shaking, now. "You have started this," it said. There was a suppressed sob hidden in its voice, contained but still obviously present. "Finish it."
Bruce was many things, but he'd never been sadistic; the book hadn't mentioned anything about a binding causing pain. It made him uneasy, and not just because this thing had the appearance of a child. He needed the creature's help—hurting it had never been part of the plan. If he came up with a name, would that stop whatever was wrong with it?
What had it called itself, earlier? A creature of air and shadow?
Bruce's first thought, of course, was of a bat, but that didn't fit. For all that there was something dangerous and frightening about this thing, it was also brightness and curiosity, a wild giggle and a feral grin. Free-born, it had called itself, and untamed. Certainly no human name would do justice to such a creature as this.
"Please," it said. It had started to cry. Its tears shone faintly in the moonlight as they slipped across its angular cheeks. "It hurts."
Bruce leaned forward, looking down across the candle flame and into those inhumanly blue eyes. As far as inspiration went, it wasn't much, but it was the best he would get under the circumstances. The creature's eyes were pale blue, true, but now that Bruce looked closer he could see that they were also lightly speckled with darker hues—the effect commonly known as robin's egg.
"How about 'Robin,'" Bruce offered.
The creature shook its head, breathing now with difficulty. "Name me," it hissed, anger mixed in with the pain.
Finally, Bruce understood. He took a moment to focus, to recall that perfect tone. "Robin," he said, as if the name itself were a command, and this time his voice positively sang with power. The whole garden thrummed with it, as if the night was leaning in close to listen, trembling with excitement.
The creature screamed. Its back arched once, in a massive convulsion, before it fell limply to the ground, breathing hard.
At the same moment, Bruce felt something snap neatly into place in his chest.
/~*~/
It was several seconds later before Bruce was aware of his surroundings again. The first thing he noticed was dizziness, a sense that the world beneath him was spinning. A moment later, it occurred to him that it was—the surface of the planet was of course rotating around its core, slow but steady, progressing endlessly from day to night and back again. He had just never been able to feel it, before.
Bruce reached out with one hand and laid his palm flat on the cool earth of the garden path, trying to orient himself. He opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—and blinked rapidly until the dark garden came into focus, lit only by the single candle and the ambient moonlight. The shifting shadows seemed somehow raw, as if the edges of reality had become too sharp, liable to make him bleed if he wasn't careful. At least the pain in his back had retreated for the moment, with so much else to draw his attention.
In front of him, still within the circle of river stones and exactly where the spasm had left it, was the creature. It was breathing hard, but no longer shaking or tense with pain. It seemed almost boneless, there in the dirt, eyes closed and small chest heaving.
Bruce tried to speak, found his mouth unbearably dry, and licked his lips. "Robin?" he asked, tentative.
The creature shivered once, even though there was no power in the name this time, but otherwise gave no indication that it had heard him.
Bruce frowned. "Robin," he tried again, still careful to avoid making it a command. "Are you all right?"
The creature hissed slightly, but there were no teeth in it. It was more a sullen sound than a threatening one. "What do you care?" it asked bitterly.
Bruce hesitated briefly. He wouldn't apologize—it would have rung false, because in truth he didn't regret tricking it into swallowing a drop of his blood, not if it had saved his life—but the creature didn't have to know that. In any case, having the thing furious with him wouldn't make bargaining with it any easier, so he might as well try to mitigate the damage.
"I didn't know the binding would hurt you," he said eventually, which was true.
Robin finally opened its eyes and turned its head just enough to look at Bruce across the candle flame. "Then why do it?" it asked him, looking puzzled.
"There are … stories," Bruce said, not wanting to mention the book by name. "About what can happen to mortals who try to bargain with your kind, if they don't take measures to protect themselves."
The creature huffed once, a dismissive sound, and began to laboriously roll itself up into a seated position. It moved slowly, gingerly, as if its whole body was sore. "Only to the stupid ones," it said. It gave Bruce an appraising look, namesake eyes cool and distant. "You are not a stupid one."
Bruce found himself oddly flattered. "I'm careful by nature," he said neutrally.
"Caution is admittedly not a part of mine," Robin said, wincing slightly as it rotated first one shoulder and then the other, like an athlete warming up. "Even so, to be summoned by a mortal with the foresight to prepare a hidden binding and the temperament to enforce it …"
Bruce cocked his head slightly, considering. "Is that rare?" he asked.
"Knowledge of my kind is fading from this world," Robin said dispassionately. It finished stretching and sat cross-legged in front of Bruce, once more either mimicking or mocking his posture. "So much so that even those who do stumble upon it do not believe, not with the kind of conviction required to make a summoning or a binding work."
Conviction, Bruce thought. Was that what he had?
Robin tilted its head slightly, almost like the bird it was named for, giving Bruce an inquisitive look. "What is it?" it asked, openly curious. "What could be so important, that a man whose very nature is caution would forfeit his life on the chance that my power could grant it?"
Bruce opened his mouth to answer, but found that he had no words. The physicality of it was simple—his spine was broken, and he needed it healed—but now that he was faced with actually making the bargain, he wanted to be careful. Was it health he wanted? Or was an intact spine simply the means? It was power he was after: the power to help, the power to fight, the power to save his city.
"Is it one life for another?" Robin asked, leaning forward. For the first time since the binding fell on it, it smiled, suddenly eager. "Mortals are always trying to die for their loved ones. A sick wife, perhaps? A dying child?" It narrowed its eyes. "Or is it an aging parent you fear to lose too soon?"
Bruce shook his head. "No—"
"No, of course not," Robin said, interrupting him. "Love, terrible as it can be, is a hot emotion. There is no warmth in you." It tilted its head again, the other direction this time. "Your bargain is a cold one—logic, and … fear." It smiled again, showing teeth. Those blue eyes flicked up and down, assessing. "You seek something for yourself."
Bruce nodded. He wasn't so self-deluded as to think that his mission was truly about Gotham rather than himself, no matter how many lives he saved. It was about finding a way to exert control over a world that had been wrenched out of his, in one awful moment when he was eight years old. He could, perhaps, be lauded for channeling that obsession into something with good intentions, but the mission itself was fueled by something darker than simple altruism.
"Now here is a mystery," Robin said, rubbing its palms together in excitement. "What gain in binding me is worth the life of a selfish man?"
The book had warned against lying, at least directly, so Bruce said, "I've been injured. Badly." He swallowed, finding the words themselves difficult. "My spine was broken, and it will never heal completely."
Robin, watching him carefully with those speckled eyes, made a little go on gesture with one hand.
"I need it fixed," Bruce said, speaking slowly to give himself time to pick his words with great care. "Healed, not just so that I'm functional, but so that my skills all return at the same level they were."
Robin waited, still watching him. When it became clear that Bruce was finished, it gave him a puzzled look. "Is that all?" it asked. "One trivial healing?"
Bruce's mouth had remained dry since the binding had snapped into place, but if it hadn't, it would have gone that way now. "It doesn't seem trivial to me," he said. "The best surgeons in the world couldn't heal my spine, not completely. Not so that I can be who—what—I was."
"The best surgeons in the world," Robin said, dark and gleeful, "are not me."
Bruce's heart began to pound, and he took a moment to calm it. Binding or no, he didn't think it was a good idea to show this thing any weaknesses. "Then you can do it?"
Robin sniffed and waved one dismissive hand at him. "It is already done."
Bruce went suddenly, instantly cold. The book had been clear—there was no bargaining with the fae without giving up something valuable in return. Even the most successful negotiations, by which he meant the ones in which there didn't seem to be any dead bodies afterward, still had a cost. Had Bruce unwittingly promised something to this creature, something he'd overlooked?
"How?" Bruce asked, phrasing his question delicately. "There has been no price paid."
Whatever goodwill Bruce had managed to earn over the last few moments abruptly vanished, the eager smile and curiosity fleeing from Robin's childlike face and leaving it once more cold, angry, and startlingly inhuman. "No price?" it demanded, its tone brisk and its words clipped. "Is my freedom not a cost worthy to be counted, mortal man?"
Twin threads of memory drifted across Bruce's consciousness, vivid and immediate. The first was Robin's voice, rife with arrogance, saying, "I am wylt-faedn, free-born …" The second, from only a few minutes later, once the binding had descended but before Bruce had named him: "I was free-born, unnamed, untamed. Now I am yours."
Bruce blinked away the after-images, unnerved. He'd always had a good memory, and training had honed it to a razor's edge when he needed it, but this was something else entirely. He had almost been reliving those moments in time, a sort of reverse déjà vu. It was as if the entire sequence of events, from the moment Robin had appeared inside the circle until the binding had snapped into place in Bruce's chest, was seared into his memory, indelible and immersive. How had that happened? Was it something to do with the binding?
"This is supposed to be a negotiation," Bruce said, still stepping lightly and ensuring his voice was courteous and calm, with not an ounce of command. The last thing he needed was to make the creature even angrier by inadvertently making it obey him. "Your healing to restore my spine, in exchange for a price. I have a right to know what I'm sacrificing."
Robin was glaring at him, its small mouth pressed tightly together until its lips were barely visible, thin and dark against the golden sheen of its skin. "An exchange is made between equals," it spat at him. The high pitch of its child's voice didn't dampen the pure fury underneath the words in the slightest. "You didn't want to bargain. You laced my sweetcream with blood, and by so doing bound my powers to your own desires. You didn't want a partner. You wanted a tool." The thing hissed at him again, although the implied threat was still absent. Maybe it couldn't actively threaten him, not when bound. "And that is what you have made of me, mortal man. An extension of your will, little better than a blunt instrument." It waved a hand, mockingly. "Enjoy it while you can."
Bruce hesitated again. He desperately wanted a chance to retreat, to barricade himself in his father's study—twenty years, and it was still his father's study, to him—and spend time thinking over all the implications of what he was doing. This entire endeavor had been an impulse, a hopeless, helpless fantasy. He hadn't expected it to work, and so now he was unprepared to deal with it. He hated being unprepared, possibly because he handled it so poorly when it happened.
Bruce had lied when he said he was careful by nature; the fact was that he had made himself that way, through trial and error. He knew he made his worst decisions when he was rushed, or caught by surprise. Many of his teachers had despaired of him, preaching of the value of intuition and adaptability. Bruce had only ever passed their tests through faking it, cheating at least in spirit by meticulously controlling the environment and anticipating all probable outcomes in advance. This situation couldn't be controlled, it certainly couldn't be anticipated, and that put him at a serious disadvantage.
Unfortunately, he didn't have the luxury of time, or second guesses. For once, his intuition and adaptability were going to have to carry the day.
"Does that mean I could make it a command?" Bruce asked, trying to gather as much information as possible. "Tell you to heal my spine, and you would have to do it? Without taking anything from me in return?"
Robin's cold fury slipped just a fraction, diluted by what seemed to be genuine confusion. "The healing began the moment you completed the binding," it said. It sounded strangely hesitant, as if afraid Bruce was drawing it into a trap of some kind. "Three days, perhaps, and you will be as you were."
Bruce couldn't help it, then; he took a sharp breath, making a soft sound like someone had punched him squarely in the gut. Even in the midst of his miracle, he had hardly dared to hope. To have his mission given back to him so effortlessly, stated as a matter of fact and not couched in warnings or probability statistics, was an overwhelming thing. For a moment all he could do was sit there in the cold, dark garden and breathe, trying to find his balance in a world that had shifted underneath him without warning, for the second time in as many months.
When he had regained some semblance of control, Bruce returned his attention to the creature in front of him. "Is it desire-driven, then?" he asked. That strange reverse-déjà-vu effect kicked in again, this time of Robin's words from just a few moments ago: … and by so doing bound my powers to your own desires. He shook it off more quickly this time, and continued, "Somehow, the binding knew what I wanted from you, and gave it to me?"
Robin shook its head slowly, still puzzled. "So long as your blood compels me, my life and yours are bound together." It sounded mildly annoyed, like someone having to explain simple arithmetic to a banker. "As I heal, so will you. From now until your binding on me is broken, you share my strength, my resilience, and my immortality."
Bruce sat very still for a long moment, digesting this. It sounded like everything he had ever secretly wanted: not just improved healing for his injuries, getting him back in the field faster after a bad night, but an actual shift in his baselines. If he was stronger, he'd have to adapt his training routines to compensate; his blows would be harder, which could be a blessing in a fight with more powerful enemies—like Bane, with his drug-induced enhancements, some part of Bruce's brain whispered enticingly—but he'd have to be even more careful than he already was not to lose control and go too far. Increased resilience would improve his ability to shrug off hits, maybe even the effects of drugs—no more worrying about Ivy's manipulative poisons, or having to carry antidotes for fear toxin or the Joker's laughing gas—or allow him to train harder and longer without wearing himself down.
And immortality … What did that even mean? Eternal life? Eternal youth, so that he would stay at the peak of his physical abilities forever? Immunity to weapons and other physical dangers, never again to fear that he was one well-aimed bullet or unlucky fall—or broken spine, if Alfred hadn't gotten to me in time—from ending up unmasked in a Gotham morgue? He didn't think he'd want the immortality to be permanent—even if he was comfortable in his solitude, eternity was a long time to be alone—but in the short term it would certainly be an advantage over his enemies.
Bruce took one long, deep breath and held it. As he let it out, he forced his frantic, buzzing thoughts to calm down. Whatever gifts he had or had not been given, he would have time to understand them later. The one thing he knew for sure was that nothing was ever truly free, and especially not something that seemed far too good to be true. There was a catch, here, a hidden price to pay.
He went over Robin's words again in his head, searching for a truth buried between sentences. A moment later, he found it. So long as your blood compels me, my life and yours are bound together.
"So long as my blood compels you," Bruce repeated, watching Robin carefully. "How long will this binding stay intact?"
Robin nodded slightly, seeming just a little bit proud of Bruce. "I knew you were not one of the stupid ones."
"How long?" Bruce asked.
"One year," it said. "At midnight on this day, one year from now, your hold on me will be broken."
Bruce sat back. "And what happens then?"
Slowly, Robin smiled, showing every one of its teeth. They glinted in the moonlight, small and sharp. "Then? Then I will be free," it said. "And a river of your blood will not protect you from me."
A chill crept down Bruce's spine. He had been threatened before, by crime lords and villains much more physically intimidating than this child-like creature. Somehow, this one was harder to ignore. Perhaps it was because Robin didn't speak the words as a threat, precisely. It was a foregone conclusion, simply waiting for its due time.
One year, Bruce thought. One year, and the thing he'd summoned to help him would return to kill him instead. Was it long enough? Would he have enough time to save his city, to get it on the right course? He'd been back two years already, and while Gotham was cleaner and less corrupt than it had once been—especially the GCPD, thanks to a mutually-beneficial information sharing campaign with Captain Gordon from Homicide—it was nowhere near the city Bruce knew it could be. Would one more year be enough to make a difference, to turn the corner once and for all?
Then again, did it matter? What were the next fifty years of his life worth, if he couldn't be the man his city needed? Either way, the binding was already in place. The insult, relatively unintentional as it had been, was already given. Releasing Robin now would only mean Bruce would die tonight, instead of next year. He was in too deep to back out now.
And one year, short as it was, was still one more year than he'd have had without the creature healing his spine.
"Very well," Bruce said quietly. "One year, then."
Robin blinked, for the first time that Bruce had seen. Obviously, whatever reaction it had been expecting to its calmly-stated threat, resignation and acceptance had surprised it.
Bruce reached out a hand, as if this had been a business deal rather than an occult ritual. "Is there anything else I should know?" he asked, not really expecting an answer; the creature had no reason to give him any more information than it had to.
Robin watched Bruce's hand warily, as if it might suddenly sprout a weapon. It did not seem to know what to do with it. Perhaps handshakes were a mortal invention.
"I suppose I'll see you in a year," Bruce said as he pulled his hand back into his lap. "Do I need to break the circle, to let you disappear?"
Robin blinked again, looking more confused than ever. "Disappear?" it repeated.
Bruce waved his hands in a vague, mysterious gesture. "Or whatever it is you do," he said. "To go back where you came from."
"I can't leave," Robin said.
Bruce glanced around the circle. "Do I need to remove a stone, or blow out the candle?"
Robin stared at him for a moment. "I can't leave," it repeated. "I am bound to you."
It was Bruce's turn to look surprised and confused. "What do you mean?"
Robin's blue eyes narrowed, as if it wasn't sure whether Bruce was playing with it for some reason. "I mean, I am bound to you, to do with as you will, for as long as the binding lasts." It shook its head slightly, as if in disbelief. "I am yours, mortal man. Where else could I be but here?"
"You can't stay here," Bruce said immediately. "What would I do with you?"
Robin made another slight hissing noise, which Bruce interpreted as equivalent to a human sighing. "Whatever you wish," it said, petulant as any human child could ever be. "That is the point of binding me, after all."
"I can't just … keep you," Bruce protested.
For one thing, how could he possibly explain it to Alfred? For another, it would be unsettling. How was he supposed to let this thing follow him around for an entire year, knowing all the while that when his time was up, it would kill him? It would be like being stalked by a personal grim reaper. And what would people think? Billionaire playboys suddenly turning up with mysterious children from nowhere might not be unheard of, but it would be all over the gossip columns within a few days. There'd be no way to hide it, and it would get complicated in a hurry even without considering that the "boy" wasn't exactly human.
Robin just stared at him, unflinching. Either Bruce was getting better at decoding the creature's body language, or this message was simply too universal to be lost in translation: You should have thought of that before you bound me.
Bruce sighed. "Well, I suppose I can have Alfred make up a guest room, until we can figure something else out."
Robin continued to stare at him. "I am not your guest, mortal man."
"Bruce," he replied.
"What?"
"My name," Bruce said. "You can't keep calling me 'mortal man,' not if you're going to stick around for a while." He stuck out his hand again. "Bruce Wayne." He resisted the automatic impulse to turn and look toward a flashing camera, biting back the pleasant-but-vacant smile that had been gracing the covers of magazines and web articles off and on since he was sixteen.
Robin transferred its gaze to Bruce's hand rather than his face, but kept staring.
"You shake it," Bruce offered. "Here, just—hold out your right hand, like mine."
Clearly dubious, Robin nevertheless complied.
Bruce grasped the creature's palm, surprised that it was smooth and alive under his fingers just like a human palm would be. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the sheer normalcy of warm skin hadn't been it. Then again, perhaps warm skin without the benefit of warm clothing—or, really, much clothing at all—on a cold night wasn't all that normal, after all. Robin's fingers were slender and tiny in his grasp, but he could feel the strength in them just the same.
"This is a handshake," Bruce said, gently pumping their hands up and down once, twice, and squeezing firmly before releasing. "It's how we introduce ourselves to each other."
"Bruce Wayne," Robin said slowly, as if trying the name on for size. "You are very strange."
Bruce smiled with one half of his mouth. "Welcome to Gotham," he said dryly.
/~*~/