His days are empty.
He is on auto-pilot when he trains. His mother must have noticed by now, that something was wrong with his mental state, but she makes no comment. Damian prefers it that way. He vents all of his energy, his absolute everything, into training. The only times he breaks out of his mindless stupor is when he returns to his room to enjoy the company of his animal companion.
Sunset.
That is what he names her.
Sunset seems to be the only highlight in his days. However, to have a highlight at all was strange to him because when had he ever had something to look forward to? He had done things routinely since birth. He had been told, repetitively, that he existed to succeed his grandfather's throne. Once it had settled in his head - it became the ultimate truth - and that is how it has been.
That is how it has been and Damian loathes it.
He tires of it. He is exhausted of hearing his grandfather's ideals every day and he is tired of the constant preaching. Sometimes he dares to think that his mother tires of it too because she is the one who takes charge in changing the subject when his grandfather rants on and on about the pitiful life forms that wander the Earth's surface. It is just recently that Damian began to wonder what would have happened had he born something else. Would he be a victim to his grandfather's grand aspiration to cleanse the world? Would his grandfather toss him away without a second thought?
"That man, Jason," his mother says, breaking him from his thoughts as she places her bowl of soup down on cold, dirty, ground, "you would do well not to initiate a fight with him."
Damian looks at his mother with questioning eyes before picking up the stick he had laid down on the ground earlier. He pokes and prods at the fire-spitting flames in-between them which allows his mother to continue, "He is a man that I thought had potential. I did something unspeakable."
Damian stops moving his stick.
"I brought him back from the dead."
He knew what such implications meant. She had used the Lazarus Pit.
The Lazarus Pit was something exclusive only to his grandfather. It keeps him seemingly ageless even though he should have died many centuries ago. Likewise, his mother had been blessed with the privilege to use the healing pits should his grandfather will it. Damian, himself, had never used the Lazarus Pit. He had no need of the swirling green waters.
The Lazarus Pit could also bring someone back from the dead.
It created zombies.
Except, zombies were typically mindless. Jason displayed a shocking amount of intelligence for someone who had previously been deceased. His mother must have done something to help him keep his mind after being revived.
"He stayed here for a year. He learned much under my guidance. I intended for him to…" his mother stops dead in her tracks as if she almost let something slip. She pauses for a good long moment, looking Damian straight in the eye, and continues, "That is why he knew of us and of our weaknesses. I was foolish when I thought that he would be loyal to us. I thought aiding in his revenge against his father would be enough for him to stay by our side."
"His father?" Damian asks.
She cracks a smile.
"He did not tell you?"
"I tried to kill him the last time I talked to him," Damian deadpans.
His mother stays silent in careful consideration.
"Is there something I should know?" Damian huffs.
His mother looks away from Damian and at their surroundings. They were sitting in a circle of trees, on the dirty forest ground, with two tents not too far away from where they were sitting. Their camping trip was a last minute decision, but his mother had insisted that they work on Damian's survival skills.
"You are not an only child."
Damian is blank.
"How many?" The words somehow come out.
"Three step-brothers," she informs him. "Two live in Gotham. One lives in San Franciso but he visits Gotham frequently."
"And Jason is one of my step-brothers?" Damian asks bitterly.
"Yes," his mother is straight with him.
"You did not care to inform me of this," Damian is exasperated. How many secrets must be withheld from him?
"They are not of our blood," his mother states, "and therefore are pointless additions to your life."
"I would like to decide that for myself," Damian spits.
His mother takes on an expression of warning and Damian instantly falls quiet. He does not back down, however, and returns her sharp gaze with one of equal intensity.
Apparently, his mother was feeling merciful that day because she pretends that he had not raised his voice against her. Instead, she returns to their past conversation by saying, "Jason knows much about us. Too much. At the time that I fused my shadow into your person - I was filled with hatred for him - and that reflection of my past was what must have provoked… unforeseen consequences."
"It controlled me," Damian hisses.
"I did not know how it would act," his mother is honest with him, "because I have never tried such a thing until you came into my world."
"But why?" Damian looks down at his lap, gritting his teeth.
His mother looks around the area cautiously and then settles her gaze on Damian's form once more. She takes in a deep breath and then releases, "What I am about to say to you is something I have kept from you since you were born. Your grandfather cannot hear of this."
That catches his attention.
"You know of your grandfather's dream to cleanse this Earth?"
Damian nods.
"His plan includes us, naturally, but your participation is one of tragedy."
Damian stops breathing.
"Yes, you are his heir, but not in the way you think. Your grandfather never intended to give up his throne. His true goal was to…" she pauses and a pained expression slips onto her face, "to make your body his own."
"What? But he told me-"
"He lies," his mother doesn't wait to deny Damian his claim, "and I did not want to give you up. I weaved my shadow into your body so that it would alert me should your grandfather do something unpredictable. It had other uses, too, like leaving a magical signature I could track down. It also proved to be an excellent camouflage against your grandfather's assassins, " she says the last word with a bit of venom in her voice. "They all happen to have been spying on you for him since birth."
"He doesn't know that I don't have a shadow…?"
"No," his mother begins, "but recently…"
Damian glances down at his missing reflection. The sun was supposed to cast his shadow naturally, like all living beings, but his shadowy figure was nowhere to be seen. Basic science tells everyone that it is physically impossible not to have a shadow. Damian seems to be an exception to that rule and he can't explain why. This was all new to him. Regardless, had his grandfather noticed this when Damian first reported to him? Did he spot his shadowless presence?
"I fear the worse." His mother's voice drops lowly.
Damian can't imagine it. The image of his grandfather parading in his body is something he doesn't want to imagine.
"He seeks a younger body," his mother says, "and that is why I train you. He wants a body in peak condition - with his blood - and your father's blood is a bonus."
Damian remembers looking up to his grandfather.
As a toddler, his grandfather's back seemed unreachable. All of his aspirations had circled around his grandfather. He had always wanted to like the highest esteemed Al Ghul. The man had been the perfect example of everything Damian wanted to become, and now…?
Now Damian feels disgusted.
His grandfather thought him to be a mere tool to be used? A walking body that would one day be ripe for his taking?
Ha.
Haha.
"You tell me this now? " Damian feels a hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest. "Have I no family that keeps secrets from me? At least - at least the secrets from that filthy elf were not nearly as life-threatening as these-"
"I intended no harm," his mother tries.
"But it would come," Damian laughs, "and I would not know until he plucks me like a fruit."
"No," his mother disagrees, "because you know now. "
"Does it make any difference?" Damian's laughing starting to die off in low, dark, chuckles.
"Yes," his mother replies.
Damian throws a tired hand over his face and finds himself surprised when he notices how sweaty his hands had become. Then there was the absolute dread that fills his body, shooting through his blood, and covering his bones in its ear-bleeding melody.
And he feels the tiniest hint of a different feeling. Someone trying to comfort him.
It is not his mother.
"I cannot be here anymore," Damian's laughter stops completely and his voice hits a serious tone.
"You cannot," his mother nods her head in agreement, "but there is little we can do until the opportune moment presents itself."
His mother stands up and Damian stands up alongside her. The fire is now long forgotten.
She walks around it and places both of her hands tenderly on her son's cheeks.
"I will protect you," she promises.