They arrived to the city at the break of dawn, while merchants and other commoners rose from their beds to start their days and the tallest buildings created a plethora of shadows that any enemy could easily hide in.

Damian felt uneasy as he rode his horse – and yes, he had insisted they walk, but his godfather had already procured rides for them and sure, it was less inconspicuous than going on foot, but then again, their enemy already knew they were coming, wasn't he? – into the cobblestone streets, the feeble sunlight of spring doing hardly a thing to warm his skin at the same time as Timothy's ice-cold hands clung to his robes in an effort to keep himself upright on the mount.

The half-ling sighed.

Since their departure from Austria, the merman's usually warm disposition had declined to the point he hardly spoke unless spoken to, and slept most of the night practically clinging to Damian's hand.

His skin had lost its usual pink-ish hue and his eyes were dull, cracked in ways the young hunter had yet to see in any other creature.

The looks Jason was throwing their way throughout the duration of their trip were not helping Damian's anxiety and the nagging knowledge at the back of his head that something was definitely wrong and he was so close – too close – to finding out what, if only he could see a little farther beyond what he already saw.

Yet the answer remained beyond his reach.

He huffed.

"The city is too quiet," Jason hissed, his one working eye surveying the dim streets mistrustfully.

"It is early," Tim reasoned back, his pale hands reaching to pull back his hood from his head and peek through his hair to survey their surroundings.

"We should split," he said softly, his voice a whisper that barely cut through the air.

"Timothy?" Damian asked, turning to stare at the smaller young man.

"They know we are here," Timothy explained, his shaking body slowly lowering itself from the mount. "Most likely expect us to arrive together, attack, if you will."

"And by splitting we would give them a broader target!" Jason protested, easily jumping down from his own horse and wrapping careful arms around the merman's waist to help him to the ground.

"Together we will be sitting ducks," Tim argued back. "We can cover more ground separately. We can even find the lair, and most league members will be going to sleep. They will be weakened by the dawn."

"It does make sense," Damian added, nodding.

The undead seemed to hesitate, his arms still gently wrapped around Timothy.

Damian scowled, knowing that once again this was something that his family was keeping from him.

"I will check the churches," Timothy snapped, removing himself from the undead's embrace. "You could check the piers, Jason."

"Don't you dare use that against m-…"

"I am not doing such a thing," the merman interrupted. "Damian, you are their target, and we all know it. Please keep to the market place and all open areas, it will be harder for them to ambush you there."

Damian raised an eyebrow, amused.

"It makes sense," he agreed, dismounting his horse. Without Timothy holding onto him during the ride, the animal seemed superfluous. "If anything were to happen to you…"

"I'll let you feel my ah… mock-heart?" Timothy promised, a small smile on his tired face.

Jason watched him go with a grimace of both anger and despair. Tim's steps were paused, measured, his hand relying far too much on his cane for comfort.

Tim was dying and he had sworn Jason to secrecy.

He turned to warn his godson to be careful but the half-ling was already gone as well, his zeal pushing the young man to move quicker than usual, his goal so close he could almost taste the Demon's Head's old blood in the morning air.

Jason sighed, walking away himself and making sure he checked every nook and cranny, every single place as close to the waters as possible but never stopped long enough to be spotted by an enemy if the need be.

Just as he was to give another step the burning of his undead skin stopped him, forcing his body backwards with a hiss of pain.

He looked up, scowling when he was met with the grey-brown bricks and ancient vitrals of the church.

"Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari," he read outloud, his frown deepening as he observed the nuns activelly working inside to keep the place clean.

Holy ground.

Most probably sprinkled with the soil of the Holy Land and blessed by the faith of thousands if not millions of the faithful.

The kind of place that would turn him into a handsome pile of ashes should he dare enter, him being undead and all.

He rolled his eyes as he made his way over one of the smaller bridges over the canals to get as far away from the Basilica as possible.

The God of the Humans was not kind to those who refused his heaven.

In between the holy ground that was most likely to incinerate him and all the running canals that easily led to the ocean, he and Tim were close to useless in the city, their movements limited, their abilities stunted.

Damian was then, practically on his own here.

Venice was really the perfect city to hide, and the Demon's Head knew it.

With one last tired sigh, Jason closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer not to any god but to his mentor in the afterlife, hoping Bruce would watch over his son in this time of need and that he would use his legendary stubbornness to keep their resident merman away from the canals and hidden in the narrow pathways that formed the labyrinth that was the city.

He could only hope.

As he furrowed even deeper into his cloak and resigned himself to follow the water for the rest of the day, he never noticed the shadow slowly descending upon him until strong hands had grasped his neck and the blue glow enveloped him.

And then he knew no more.

On his own end, Damian walked the streets with narrowed eyes and tensed shoulders, knowing that at any moment the shadows would leap at him with the face of one of his enemies and try to stop him from completing his mission.

But he couldn't let them.

Not when he was so close.

Not when he had travelled over a year throughout the continent, half of it alone, half with Timothy and his godfather by his side, and he was finally in the one city where his enemy resided.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of moist morning air and imagining the Demon's Head was breathing the same stale dew himself, at that very same moment.

"Not for long," he whispered to himself, a cruel smirk curling his lips. "I swear it to you, Father."

Tonight he was bathing in the dead blood of the Demon Head.

And then…

He stopped.

Then he would become Timothy's sword and shield. He would become his shelter, his home.

He would return Timothy's pearl – his heart – to him and slay whoever had initially taken it from him.

And after that…

His fists clenched.

After that he would either force himself to smile as that amazing creature disappeared into the ocean – away from him, away from his life. Or he would have enough time to convince Timothy to stay by his side even when he was finally able to return to his own home, to his own kind and family.

Did he dare?

As his Godfather had told him, did he have the right to ask that of his merman?

… Was Timothy actually his?

He swallowed, ignoring the way his throat was drying and his body became even tighter with stress.

Timothy was like the tide, swinging from his usual cheerful calmness to that painful melancholy that marked his every step since they'd left the golem back in Prague. His hand that usually wrapped around his arm in sleep now hesitated and kept their distance, his steps were measured, his whole posture one of exhaustion that no matter how many stops Damian's godfather demanded, never changed.

It was as if the merman was slowly inching away from them both, unreachable, unstoppable, like the ocean from which he hailed.

He shook his head.

No, he could not afford to become distracted, not now, not ever now because Timothy and his godfather had worked so hard to bring him here, because his Father had to come first to whatever insecurity he felt plagued by.

Because Timothy was not going to leave him.

Not yet.

And it was then, with his heart once again settled – not yet appeased, but calmer, as it was becoming customary for him – that he noticed the way his own shoulders ached, how his spine felt colder than normal.

How all sounds from the awakening city had ceased to reach him.

His hand reached for his sword, his eyes frantically searched his surroundings for any shadow.

His heart beating madly inside his ribcage was the only hope he felt that at least Timothy would be able to come to his aid.

Finally his gaze landed on the lone figure standing relaxedly over the Ponte de San Nicolo, completely decked in dark robes as green as their glowing eyes.

Those eyes he could remember glowing in the shadows as his house fell apart, as his father screamed his dying words.

"You…" he snarled, one hand grasping the hilt of his sword and the other tight against the sheath.

The man on the bridge smirked like a snake, all fangs and malice.

"I have been waiting for you, Mr. Wayne," he said, his voice a hiss in the air that echoed over something in Damian and made him shudder involuntarily. "But I wasn't sure you would actually dare to face me alone. Did your companions abandon you?"

"Quit the chat, Al Ghul," Damian snapped, his knees flexing.

Ra's Al Ghul laughed, straightening himself and pulling his robe open and over his shoulder, unconcerned.

"Of course, you were never a man of many words," he said simply, as if reminiscent. Slowly, gracefully, he pulled twin swords from behind his back, the metal glinting against the morning sun as he crossed them in front of his chest.

Damian nodded to himself, recognizing the pose as one his Father often taught him against and he decided to prepare his own offensive, as it seemed Ra's Al Ghul wanted a duel. He pulled his own sword from the sheath at his side and rising it to his neck, knowing that the Demon's Head, as a master Vampire, would attack his main arteries first and foremost.

The old Vampire laughed once more, his own shoulders relaxing, assessing him.

"You are so predictable," he said, almost fondly. "Then again it is only proper to start a duel with an appropriate position."

Damian did not reply, not caring to indulge in the old vampire's sense of ettiquete as he dashed forward with a snarl of rage, thrusting his sword towards his enemy's and narrowing his blue eyes when he was thwarted by his opponent.

Ra's suddenly seemed to move to the side, a circular movement making one of his blades push Damian back while the other cleanly slashed at his hair, making the half-ling twist his back in an unnatural angle to escape the edge of the sword.

With a clash of steel against steel, both separated and assessed the other once more.

Damian didn't waste a second, forcing his legs to the maximum of their power to propel him over the older man, aiming at his head in a downward cut, but Ra's was faster, once again turning in place to block his attack with one blade and then attack with the other.

And so they continued, Damian attacking with his strength, fueled by his youthful rage, Ra's moving around him gracefully, like a dancing snake before delivering the final strike.

The half-ling had to admire this creature, this vampire that was his grandfather. He had never met him before, but had heard enough from his Father and then Pennyworth to respect and fear the famed Demon's Head.

And now that he was finally face to face with him he understood his fearsome reputation, the respect and awe the old man inspired on his minions and how each and every member of the League of Shadows would die for this man.

And he felt fright.

His father had fought this powerful monster and lost.

His Father had told him over and over again not to engage the League of Shadows on his own.

And now here he was.

Sparks of friction lighting the sweat on his face, his muscles protesting as a blade cut his cheek, his side, his hand.

How he felt he was been toyed with, he was no threat to Ra's.

But how he still had to try because this was the man who destroyed his life and he had sworn.

He swore it to his Father!

Suddenly Ra's Al Ghul's right sword was on his neck, and his left one was deepening on his foot, forcing him to the ground with an agonized scream as he swung his own blade wildly, feeling a small sliver of satisfaction as he caught the older vampire on the forehead and then realizing it was the only blood he would draw, because he was about to die.

He mentally sent a silent prayer to his Father in Heaven, begging the man forgiveness for he had failed to avenge him. And then set his heart to say goodbye to his Timothy, who would most likely be crushed by his early demise and idly wondered whether his godfather would help Timothy return to the ocean in his stead as he closed his eyes, ready to accept his fate.

But, despite his readiness to accept, fate seemed on his side that early spring morning, as a piercing shriek broke the stillness of the city and what seemed to be the whole Rio Dei Tolentini was pushing Ra's Al Ghul off him and slamming his ancient body against the Church of San Nicolo, making the wooden doors protest loudly at the pressure.

Damian gasped, his eyes widening as he managed to hoist himself upwards and turn.

Timothy was standing at the edge of the bridge, his body almost slumped against the stone railing, his face pale and soaked in sweat and his breathing ragged and weakened. Damian could easily tell the only thing holding the merman standing was the wooden staff his Godfather had given him before they left Austria.

"Timothy!" he cried, limping his way towards his companion, his heart shuddering at the pathetic sight.

"Stupid boy," Timothy gasped, reaching with a trembling hand for him. "You should have waited for me."

"Don't move!" Damian snapped, wrapping his uninjured arm around the merman's waist and hoisting him protectively against his side. "What happened to you? Were you attacked as well?"

Timothy stared at him, his pale eyes watery, unreadable and otherworldly as nothing Damian had ever seen, as if the merman could read him in ways he had never before.

He shook his head.

"Don't worry about that," he hissed, as if every word was an effort he was loath to extend. "We need to get out of here."

"So the rumors were true," Ra's snarled at them both as he stood, his body bruised, his clothing torn but mostly intact as he glared at the pair. " I never wanted to believe you could betray me for my own biggest enemy, Principessa."

Timothy glared back, a high-pitched whine low on his throat.

"Don't call me that," he panted, his hand holding onto Damian for balance. "You don't have the right anymore."

"I don't?" the ancient Vampire said, his weapons ready for another attack, his posture tense. "Yet Wayne is deserving of your devotion now? Of your sacrifice?"

Tim coughed, his hand covering his mouth as he struggled to hold himself, feeling secure when Damian tightened his hold over his waist, using his own diminished strength to protect him, his own now broken sword held before them, ready for any movement the Demon's Head could make.

"You broke your oath, Ra's," he snapped, whipping his lips with the back of his hand. "You slaughtered innocents in the one place you knew was sacred for me. Damian has been nothing but honorable while you have become a monster."

Damian felt a bead of sweat roll down his face as he held onto Timothy for dear life, too afraid to aknowledge his beloved's praise yet still cautious of their enemy.

Ra's lowered his blade one at a time.

"…Damian?" he asked, his eyes widening by the second. "Is that what he told you his name was? Principessa, I expected more of you. To be fooled by the likes of Bruce Wayne."

Damian couldn't help himself then, he snarled, feeling his fangs glint in the sun.

"Don't you dare use my father's name, you scum!" he hissed, his grip on his sword tightening. "Not after you murdered him."

Ra's eyes widened, his posture one of open curiosity.

"But I didn't…" he stopped, finally relaxing his tense muscles.

Tim stared at grandfather and grandson, his own eyes widening as he struggled to stand on his own, his hand reaching to rest on Damian's blade pleadingly.

"This is Damian Wayne," he whispered, eyes locked onto Ra's. "He believes the Demon's Head destroyed his home and killed his father a long time ago."

Ra's shook his head, a frown curling his brow.

"I know my daughter had a son with the human Wayne," he admitted. "But I heard he killed the baby and then disappeared. I hadn't heard from Wayne and his kin until I caught whispers of his approaching this city… with you."

Damian's snarl did not diminish.

"Why should I believe you," he growled, his hand reaching for his merman once more. "You deceitful snake, my Father told me not to trust you."

Ra's pursed his lips, the lines of his face making him finally look his age as he sighed.

"If you don't believe me, then believe I have the best interest at heart for Timothy," he said evenly, his eyes narrowing. "I want to believe myself, that you haven't told my grandson you are dying, have you, Principessa?"

Damian's eyes widened, despite all reservations as he turned to watch Timothy's already pale face lose all color, a sliver of sweat rolling down his cheek and getting lost on his collar.

"Timothy?" he asked.

Tim's eyes narrowed.

"You have no right…" he panted.

"Is he saying the truth?" Damian snapped, his hand tight around the merman's arm. "Is he!"

Timothy did not reply, his already weakened body swaying with the effort it took him to keep standing.

"He's melting," Ra's continued, his pose one of non-threatening curiosity.

"Don't…" Tim pleaded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

"He's too close to the waters, so his body is turning into sea foam," the old vampire continued, uncaring. "He has no heart, the ocean punishes his proximity."

Tim felt Damian's hand on his arm tense, the half-ling's claws dig into his shirt and then into his skin as slivers of sea water soaked his clothing. He wanted to tell Damian that Ra's was lying, that he could not be trusted, but he could see the understanding and horror on the younger man's face, the betrayal on his eyes.

He watched as Damian's lips parted, an accusation at the tip of his tongue.

But he never got to hear the treacherous words because the effort, the strain, the sea-air and the months walking on land finally became too much.

And darkness enveloped him.