He has no clue how long he is unconscious, only that when he does regain some level of consciousness it is a half-life, aware enough to register the pain written into his bones and the vague presence of others, but no more. He is fairly certain no one directly touches or speaks to him, but that could be incorrect.

At some point he feels the tingle of magic down his spine, and the sensation is enough of a shock to drag him to consciousness again. He starts, and then hisses pain as that sends ice and fire cascading over his torso in waves. Fingers touch his cheek, sliding over his skin, and he opens his eyes with some difficulty, looking up.

"Mother?" he whispers, his voice coming out rough in the familiar way of someone who's damaged their throat screaming. He does not recall ever having heard that tone from himself, though he has from many other people.

His mother's fingers cup his cheek, thumb brushing over it with a tenderness he has not felt in… Not since he was a child.

"Oh, my son," she murmurs back, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

His breath catches, and he can't help saying, "I didn't do this. Mother, you know I wouldn't—"

"Hush." There's pain in her eyes, again more obvious than he has seen in a very long time, and her hand leaves his cheek and moves down his arm. He hears the rattle of keys, and his wrist comes free of the cuff. A moment, and then she's freed the other one as well. "What you did or did not do no longer matters, Damian. It is too late for that."

All of it comes back in a sickening rush. The brands, the pain, the— the permanent removal of his magic. He shudders and she gathers him into her arms, carefully not touching his wounds even as she holds him, guiding his head to rest at her shoulder. He closes his eyes, feels the threatening prickle of tears but refuses to let them fall. He may have been framed, he may have been crippled, but he is not weak. Not even now.

"What now?" he asks against her shoulder, keeping his voice as low as he can manage it and still believe she has a chance of hearing. If he knows his mother at all, he knows she has some form of plan. At the very least, a next step.

She runs her fingers through his hair, tilting, and speaks directly into his ear, barely above a breath. "You must escape. My sister is not satisfied with imprisoning you, she plans to have you killed while you are still locked down here. I have the key; get out however you must."

He feels the press of metal against his side, slipping down and then tucked beneath the fold of his thigh. It occurs to him that his mother is not playing; the punishment she'd invite if caught with that key, let alone giving it to him, is terrible to even consider. His gra— Ra's' wrath is not a thing that should be challenged.

He shivers, and then finds the breath to say, "Mother, I am in no condition to attempt any kind of escape. I have nowhere to go."

"Go to your father," she whispers. "He may be a fool but he will keep you safe. As for the rest…" She pauses, and then carefully presses a kiss to his temple and breathes, "There is a man in the cell across from you; convince him to join your escape and use him to leave this place, my son. As soon as you can."

"If I cannot?" he dares to ask. The thought is not a welcome one, but it is a realistic one. He is injured, he's been publicly branded as one of the worst kind of criminals, and his hopes of convincing some other criminal are probably not all that high. Even apart from the fact that whoever is in that cell they are also a criminal, and one actually guilty of whatever crime they were sentenced for, presumably.

His mother holds him a bit tighter. "I will do my best to protect you," she promises, and then pulls away. Her voice rises as she stands. "I will have someone sent down to treat you, Damian. Get some rest, my son."

He doesn't try to answer, isn't even sure what he would say if he tried and the weight of the key is heavy beneath his thigh. He attempts to just breathe, and not watch as his mother leaves the cell and it shuts behind her with the heavy thud and clunk of a lock he couldn't normally escape. Escape is a tempting thought, but he's just not sure… There are too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. If he is caught trying to escape, he will be put to death, he has no illusions there. However, he also believes his mother's information. If she has reason to believe that Nyssa intends to kill him, then it is more than likely true. So he must go.

Then the first step is as his mother suggested: convince whoever is in that other cell to aid him in his escape.

Carefully, and slowly, he shifts away from the bars of his cell enough to turn around. He keeps the key held between his thigh and calf, and that takes enough of his attention, along with managing the agony of how any movement pulls at his new brands, that when he's turned around he ends up leaning against the bars with his eyes squeezed shut and his breath coming hard. It takes him too long to open his eyes again, and then raise his gaze to the cell across the way.

The man in it is lying on the cot provided, back to the wall and a book in his hands, ignoring him. His gaze slips from the engraved metal restraints around the man's upper arms and throat, then up to the white shock of hair hanging above the left side of his forehead.

Backlash.

He almost recoils, if it weren't for the fact that the second he tenses pain sings through his nerves. He slumps a little more against the bars, squeezing his eyes shut for another moment as he tries to think why his mother would possibly believe the abomination across from him could be persuaded to help him escape.

Backlashes are violent, dangerous, unstable creatures with too much power and little to no control over it; they belong in cells like these. That, or buried beneath the ground where they can do no harm to anyone else. There have been cases of entire villages falling to these abominations and their inability to control the magic they're born with, and hundreds of deaths and injuries caused by them. That much power should only be in the hands of someone trained to control it, and backlashes cannot learn.

Then again, this backlash does seem to be the only other prisoner close enough to speak with at a volume that no guards will hear, and magical ineptitude aside, he certainly looks like a physically strong candidate. He has on a simple black vest and loose pants for clothing, comfortable but simple enough that it's unlikely he'll have any kind of weapons stored within them, and it leaves on display the hard muscle of his arms and some of his chest. If the backlash has any sort of actual combat training, he could be fairly useful. Even if the prisoner doesn't, he's large and strong enough to function as a shield.

He does not recall ever having heard of this particular prisoner before, but given the small collection of books inside the cell, and the distinctly 'lived in' appearance, he finds it likely that the man has been here awhile.

"Is there a reason you're staring?" the backlash suddenly asks, blue-green eyes flicking up to pin him to his spot.

"There is not much else to look at," he points out, and wishes his voice did not sound quite as weak as it does.

The backlash's mouth curls into a small snarl. "Find something else; I'm not your freak show."

He longs to snap back, but practicality wins over desire. "We are neighbors," he says instead, "should we not make some attempt at knowing each other?"

He gets a snort, and the backlash's gaze drops back to the book as he flicks to the next page. "Why? You'll be out of here soon enough, and I'll still be locked in; why the fuck should I care about getting to know you before then?"

"How do you know that?" he demands, mind stalling out on the fact that this prisoner somehow knows what's to be done with him.

At least, that's what he thinks until the man looks up, pinning him with a look that implies he's an absolute moron. "You don't brand someone and then just leave them sitting in a dungeon; there's no point. Branding's tricky and restraints—" he nods towards the cuff around one upper arm "—work just as well. You got any other stupid questions?"

As it happens… "Do you not simply wish to talk, to ease the silence?"

The backlash's gaze flickers off to the side, pain showing for just a fraction of a second before it shutters away and the man's gaze falls to the book again. "If you don't get used to conversation, you can't miss it. I've been doing pretty good about not getting used to it so far, thanks. Wouldn't want to break the streak."

He pauses for a moment, trying to make his exhausted brain work well enough to think of a way to convince the man he's worth listening to, without playing his entire hand right away. Whoever this is, he's clearly fairly accustomed to life down here, and he's behaved well enough that the guards have given him extra bits of comfort to encourage that. Books, fairly clean clothes, and what looks like an extra blanket. That's in addition to the fact that the man is clean shaven, apart from some faint stubble, and has a fairly neat hairstyle. He can't decide which is more unlikely, that the guards gave the man a blade to shave with, or that they're doing it for him.

He taps his fingers against the bars of the cell, twists his head to look as far down the corridor outside as he can to reassure himself there is no one else within earshot. As far as he can see, they're alone.

"What if I could ensure that you would not need to grow reaccustomed to silence?" he says, probably just loud enough for the man to hear.

That gets those blue-green eyes to rise again, looking at him over the top of the book. There's a sharp kind of interest to his expression, but the man's voice is guarded and low when he answers, "I was getting the impression you didn't have any kind of power here anymore, Damian al Ghul." His eyes must widen a little bit, because the backlash snorts. "Yeah, I know who you are."

"Were," he corrects, reluctantly. "I was stripped of my title and family."

"Does it still count as a royal fuck up if you're not royalty anymore?" the backlash says, with a vicious kind of satisfaction to his words. "Or did you just commonly fuck up? Must have done something pretty unforgivable, for you to get branded and sealed. I bet that name you don't have is the only reason you're still breathing."

He grits his teeth, wanting to rise to the provocation, to protest his innocence, to snarl at the man that he is anything but common, but he forces himself to swallow it away. The man, however rude, however cruel, however much of a freak of nature, is his only current way out of here. He has to control himself, or risk losing that way out. There's no way he can escape this dungeon with the agony that moving currently causes him; he needs someone strong enough to help.

"What I have or have not done is of no importance," he manages to say, with only a little bit of his irritation leaking into his words. "If you are interested in that promise, I can fulfill it. In exchange for some assistance."

The man flips the page of his book, still watching him. "Might be. What sort?"

"Nothing more than a little physical work." He forces himself to straighten up a bit from the bars, to reach down and slip the key out from underneath his thigh, flashing just enough of it to watch the man's gaze sharpen. "I know the palace, I know the surrounding area."

"I know the cells," the backlash counters. "Underneath the back right corner of the cot there's a loose stone; put that away before you get caught with it."

He looks back into his cell, across the rough stone floor and the distance of what feels a bit like miles, given how much pain moving currently causes him. The thought of attempting to drag himself over there, pull up the cot, and pry loose whatever stone is out of place is… daunting. It may just be a symptom of his injuries, but there is a crazier idea taking hold in his mind. Risky, perhaps, but certainly far less painful, and perhaps even just the edge needed to push the backlash across from him to really agree to help.

He turns back to the other man, twists to peer as far down the corridor as he can and confirm no one is within sight, and then takes just half a moment to breathe in and brace himself. Then, before he can talk himself out of it again, he judges the distance and throws the key across the corridor and through the bars of the backlash's cell. The motion hurts, but his aim is true.

The man jerks, reaches out and snatches the key from the air as if on automatic, before staring down at it in shock. "Are you insane?" the man hisses, quickly pushing the key down beneath the nearly flat pillow he has.

He manages something like a smirk, letting himself rest against the bars again. "It is in your hands now, neighbor. Whatever you choose to do."

The man glares at him, snapping the book shut and getting off the bed in a fluid slide of movement. "Why do I even need you then?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Unless you somehow have intimate knowledge of the palace's guard schedules and layout, you will never make it past the walls. I know ways out that even the guards do not know; I know how to slip past them."

A harsh snort, before the backlash scrapes a hand back through his own hair with clear frustration. "Fuck, you are insane." Blue-green eyes look back down at him, sharp and considering, before there's a second snort. "You're also probably right. Alright, Damian; when?"

"As soon as is feasible," he answers, "when the opportunity arises." The man shakes his head, turns away and paces to the other side of the cell, and it finally occurs to him to ask, "What is your name?"

The man stops, facing away from him, and is silent for a long moment. Then he says over his shoulder, "Jason."

Manners somehow make it to the forefront of his mind despite his exhaustion, and the pain present in every breath and twitch. "It is good to meet you, Jason."

"Liar," the backlash says, voice even quieter for a moment. Then Jason turns around, looking at him head on once again. "Why are you trying to get out? You'll be released sometime soon anyway; isn't that good enough? Why take all this risk? Why even involve me?"

"I have been informed that my aunt is going to attempt to have me murdered while I am trapped down here. Understandably, I would rather avoid that, so I cannot afford to wait until I am healed and released. As—" He has to pause, swallow and look down at the stone beneath them. "As unpleasant as this new life may turn out to be, it is still preferable to being dead."

Another moment of silence, before an almost inaudible, "Yeah, been there." He looks up, but whatever Jason was feeling it's been locked away behind a mask that is equal parts steel and anger. "Your mother had the right idea, you know. Get some rest. I don't want you completely useless when this actually happens."

He turns his head to look at the cot again, winces, and then takes a moment to brace himself before he painstakingly starts to move towards it. Even crawling is difficult, and that is about as far as he can go; standing would take more strength than he is currently capable of. It takes him far longer than he would like, but he does eventually reach the cot. Though the brands give him little choice but to lie carefully along one side, which is not entirely comfortable even without the fact that he is still in so much pain; worse, now that he's aggravated it by moving.

He still refuses to waste thoughts on wishing for anything better. He has not yet sunk that low.

—

Despite the pain, his exhaustion makes it easy to sleep, even if it is fitful. He does not know how much time passes before he's fully woken again, by the servant sent down to treat the brands, but he does feel moderately better afterwards. He's wary of the servant, and even more wary of the mixture of herbs she wants him to eat to help deal with the pain, until she leans in and says one of the specific phrases his mother and he have agreed upon to signify trust. Then he submits to the treatment, and eats the herbs without complaint even though they are painfully bitter upon his tongue.

With the possibility of glamours, even as well as both of them are trained, it is difficult to be too careful.

He keeps his gaze away from Jason's cell, apart from occasional glances that confirm that the backlash is lying still on his cot, sleeping as far as he can tell. If the servant questions those glances, she doesn't say anything. In fact, she doesn't say much of anything to him, apart from what's necessary. She wraps his chest, back, and the affected parts of his shoulders with bandages, and by the time she's finished the herbs have just started to take effect. He appreciates the faint numbness that eases the pain, but less so the bit of drowsiness that comes with it.

She leaves without a word, and he doesn't attempt to make her speak. It's quiet, and out of lack of anything better to do — given the fact that Jason is sleeping — he moves back over to his cot and attempts to get a bit more rest. He's going to need every inch of energy he can manage, if he wishes to escape these dungeons as well as get away from the inevitable hunt that will follow.

His father is… It will be safe, he trusts his mother on that despite never having met the man, but it is a long journey to get to where his mother has previously told him that his father lives. A long, difficult journey, and the chance he will be greeted kindly at first is negligible.

He does not believe his father even knows that they are related; his mother kept the information as contained as possible. She only told him because she thought he may need to know someday, be that to use as a weapon or to seek sanctuary. The latter was vastly more unlikely, and yet here he is preparing to do just that.

Bruce Wayne, leader of the rebels, who vex his former grandfather at every turn. Smaller things mostly, supplies stolen and redistributed without a trace, armies sabotaged, hundreds of small acts of defiance that tax his resources and his patience. He's learned quite a bit about them, but the knowledge has always sat heavy in his head that he knew where they were based, and the withholding of that information was one of the only things that stood between them and their destruction.

He's considered giving that information a hundred times, but never did. Now, he's thankful for that.

He's eventually woken by footsteps, heavy and confident, and slides his eyes open before he considers moving. It's two guards, and both of them go to Jason's cell and unlock it. One is carrying a couple things he can't quite see, and Jason is already standing, hands held open and to the sides and a small, crooked grin on his face.

"Hey, guys."

Jason spins in a slow circle without prompting, and then sinks down to his knees, hands coming up to lace behind his neck. One guard grips those laced together hands, as the one carrying the things sets them down in front of Jason and then steps back. It's a bit strange to realize that it's everything necessary to shave; a mirror, water in a small bowl, and a small blade. His heart jumps a bit, and he pushes up from his cot to watch.

The guard holding Jason's hands lets go, stepping back, and Jason settles more firmly back on his feet and reaches down to angle the mirror a bit better. "How's your wife?" Jason asks, with a glance up towards the guard in front of him and that same grin.

To his surprise, the guard answers, "Good. She just got a job inside the palace, we're getting quarters in here too."

"Nice," Jason comments, picking up the blade and dipping it into the water. The backlash's gaze slips past the guard, to him, and the grin slips for a second. "Did you have to give me a neighbor?"

The guard twists, looking back at him, and he sees Jason's fingers curl more firmly around the blade's hilt. "He'll be gone soon en—"

Jason is fast, standing and spinning in a single movement, and the distance is judged perfectly because the blade goes right across the second guard's throat and he's still turning, going after the guard just starting to turn back towards him. There's half a moment of panic, the start of hand gestures as the guard jerks away and tries to cast all at the same time, but it's too late to stop Jason. The blade sinks home beneath the guard's chin, and he thinks he's about to have to join Jason in running for their lives. Someone will hear.

But then Jason's head turns, other hand lashing out and grabbing the front of the uniform of the guard still bleeding out before he can fall. The hand holding the blade lets go, grabs the same on the other guard, and then Jason slowly, carefully, sinks down and lays both guards on the floor with hardly a sound. He stares, sort of shocked at the sheer effectiveness of it, at how precisely it was all done. Distracting the guards with him to start with, and then the grace of the actual strike, and finally ensuring that neither guard fell and made enough noise to alert any others. Not to mention the strength it takes to hold the dead weight of a person with a single arm.

Jason calmly removes the blade, wiping it off and then pilfering the keys from one guard's belt, fingers linked between them to make sure they don't rattle. "Guess I don't need your key," comes the comment, as Jason tugs the boots off the guards, looking entirely unaffected by the deaths. "You ready to get out of here?"

He pushes up off of his cot, standing as Jason tugs on one pair of boots and then backtracks to grab a bundle of cloth that looks like a spare version of the top he's wearing. That gets tucked underneath his arm along with the second pair of boots, before he heads for the door of the cell, circling around the two bodies on the floor, and the accompanying pools slowly forming around them.

"Could you have done that at any time?" he asks quietly, as Jason unlocks the cell door and slips out, taking one glance down the corridor before crossing to his cell.

"Yes," Jason answers plainly, opening his door. "No reason to. Might not have gotten out of the city in time, and it's not so bad in here." Jason slips into his cell, handing him the second pair of boots and the shirt. "Here."

The boots are a bit loose, and the shirt is definitely loose — he does not often feel small next to people, not since his growth spurt left him just under six feet tall — but does not threaten to fall off of him, so it is good enough. It exposes more of his bandages than he is comfortable with, but until they get a chance to find more suitable clothing this will have to do. He laces the boots as tightly as he can to ensure they won't hinder any attempt to run, and then Jason wordlessly grips his arm and pulls him back to his feet, apparently not willing to wait for him to more slowly rise.

"I'm assuming we have to get out of this place before we can use any of your secret exits?" is the next question, as Jason's fingers linger on his arm as if ready to steady him. He does not appreciate the silent comment on his current weakness, but that does not mean that Jason is wrong about it, though he will certainly not be saying that outloud.

"That is correct," he admits. "We will need to leave the dungeons."

"Could be worse," Jason breathes, mostly to himself. "Two guards here, two at the entrance. They come down here at the start of their shift; we've got about five minutes before the others think something might be wrong, and a couple hours after that before anyone is supposed to come down here; that'll be breakfast. That enough time for you to get us far enough away?"

"That shall work fine." Jason steps away from him, crosses back over to the other cell and crouches down by the two guards, reaching out to pat them down for other weapons. He gets to the door of his cell, looking down the corridor — no one in sight; they're in the depths, around a corner from the entrance to the dungeon — before grudgingly admitting, "I will be of little physical help."

"Never would have guessed," Jason says, with a snort. He scowls, as Jason stands up holding two longer knives, apparently having decided to forgo both the swords as well as the original, smaller knife. One blade gets raised, flipped into the air and caught again. "Stay behind me; I'll handle the guards."

Jason comes back out as he does, heading out of the dungeon on careful, nearly silent footsteps. He follows, studying the way Jason moves with both confusion and a reluctant kind of respect. It's practiced, skilled. Perhaps… Perhaps he should have questioned exactly who his mystery neighbor was before offering this way out. Then again, what does he care what it is that he unleashes on this kingdom, as long as he is not caught in the wake of it?

Jason slows towards the end of the corridor, crouching low and peeking around just the very edge of it. Then, in the next breath, he's edging farther and then bursting into motion. Around the corner and gone, and he speeds up as much as he can manage to get to the corner and step around it. Jason's halfway down it, and the guards at the far table are jerking to their feet, already casting. He sucks a sharp breath in at the bursts of light made solid, almost silver in color, and how they lash out towards Jason's sprinting form.

For a moment it looks certain that they'll hit, and then Jason is sliding down, legs going out from under him and he skids beneath the light, one arm snapping out and throwing a blade that finds a home in the eye of the guard on the right. Like with the two in the cell Jason's still moving, pushing up on his other arm and getting back to his feet, slowing for just a moment as he rebalances before he's lunging again. The remaining guard snarls, casting with one hand while drawing an almost identical knife with the other, and then Jason's crashing into him. The knives clash with a ring of metal, and Jason's shoulder slams into the guard's chest, knocking him back a few steps.

He almost thinks that the guard's cast is going to go off in time, until Jason winds up and slams a forward kick into the man's gut. There's a rush of expelled air, the guard crashes back into the table, and the almost-completed cast fizzles out with a faint spark from the man's fingertips.

Jason pushes forward, batting aside the desperate slash of the knife at his head like it's nothing — bad angle, not much force behind the strike anyway — before slashing open the guard's throat. He steps back, lets the guard's own weight send him sliding to the floor as he chokes, fingers releasing the knife.

By the time he's gotten down the corridor Jason is collecting knives, stealing the belt off one guard and buckling it around his own waist, along with the sheath and sword hanging on one side. There's a spot for one knife too, and he puts that away and keeps a second held in his hand. He draws even, looking at the guards — the one with the cut throat will be alive for minutes longer, if that — and then back at Jason.

"I was not aware I had freed some sort of… assassin."

Jason snorts, crossing to the exit and pressing an ear to it, eyes closing. "What, you thought I was just going to be some kind of meat shield or something?"

He leans down, pilfering one of the knives for his own use since he has no desire to be entirely defenseless, even if his options are very limited. "The thought crossed my mind," he admits. "Where did you learn any of this? There cannot have been many who would teach…" He trails off, unable to quite think of a way to phrase the end of that sentence without it being an insult.

Jason's eyes open but they're narrowed as they look back at him, his accomplice's mouth set in a thin line. "Go on. Backlash, that's the word you were looking for, right? You're right, there weren't, and yet here I am." Jason snorts again, turning back to the door. "You think I care about your words?"

He chews over that for a moment, as he crosses the room to Jason, and then answers, "No. I imagine you would not be alive if you were not used to the disgust and fear of others by now; I am not certain I have ever seen a backlash as old as you before."

Jason grunts, and then pushes the door open. A look in either direction, before he's being beckoned forward. "Your turn, Damian. Get us out of here."