The Kingdom

by J23K

Damian Wayne seeks the crown of the King. However, standing in his way is Jon Kent who's hell-bent on making sure he doesn't get it. Damian really doesn't like Jon, and Jon really doesn't like Damian in turn. And yet, the rebellious black-haired son of Clark Kent seems intent on changing both of their lives forever.

The Kingdom – Scene 1

Damian Wayne sought the crown of the king.

More than he wanted the air he breathed in the Kingdom of the Palisades, and more than he wanted the slaves that milled about the fountains of the palace grounds, and more than the hundred battles he loved to take part in, he wanted the crown. He could do good by it. He was made for it.

And by God up high, his father would give him the crown – as was his right. As was his charge.

The fourteen-year old prince strode towards his father's quarters through the sunbeaten corridors of the palace. His embroidered sleeves were rolled to his elbows and he marched so fast that the Robin emblem under the collar of his kurta bounced in its place. Then he approached the large door of his father's bedroom. Then he shoved it open and walked into the darkened room.

Bruce Wayne – the king of the Palisades – jolted around from his corner-desk at Damian's intrusion. His father's cheekbones were emaciated and he coughed with a sputter into his palm. Then his black-lidded eyes tightened and his fingers went back to writing in his journal next to the lit lantern. "It's more polite to knock, Damian."

Damian sterned his jaw and walked towards the window to slightly open the curtains. "The doctor told you to lie in bed, did he not?"

His father chortled. "Have you come to my quarters to check my health?"

Damian paused whilst opening the curtains. "No." He turned to his father and tried to formulate his words. "I have respect enough for you to know that you can look after yourself – even in your illness. Still, Drake should have been here to tend to you whilst I was away." He tutted. "I swear, when I see him again, I will wrangle his neck for not being …"

"I dismissed him for the day," his father said and adjusted the shroud around his shoulders. "I wanted to write out my final wills alone. And after the failed attempt on his life last week, I thought he deserved the rest." His father stopped writing and kept his eyes lowered – as if in thought. Then he turned around and the lantern light flickered off the whites of his eyes. "The more important question is where were you these past two days, Damian? No-one could find you in the Palisades."

Damian's fingertips tightened into his palm and he looked out of the large window and fiddled with the stud in his ear. "Nowhere important."

"And where is 'nowhere important'?"

Damian parted his lips and kept his eyes locked outside of the window. Then he tapped his fingertips into each other and watched the rioters gathered outside of the gates. Then he pressed his lips together. "The crowds outside the palace gates are becoming more uncontrolled in your absence, Father."

His father observed Damian for a hard moment. Then he sniffed and glanced out of the window at the crowds. Then he wiped his nose and returned to writing in his journal. "They are scared. It would appear your mother wants to declare war on us."

"They seek to ransack the food stores."

"They are scared," his father said without looking up from his journal. "They need reassurance."

"They need leadership."

"They have leadership."

"You are weak."

His father chortled and violently coughed into his palm again. "Your bluntness is becoming, Damian."

Damian ignored this quip and continued. "The doctor told me you have maybe three good days of health left in you before you pass. Time has taken its toll on you. And you are soon to expire. But I am …" Damian stopped himself and tried to frame his words. "I am …"

His father turned his shoulders towards his son. "You're what, Damian?"

Damian mouthed the words out slowly for a moment. Then he blurted them out like a hammer against a nail. "I seek the crown, Father. I think I can do good by it. I can lead the people against my mother. I seek to help them … and … and … protect them and …"

"No," his father said immediately, "not yet."

Damian grunted and sterned his jaw. "But why not?"

"Because of your harshness with people." His father kept his steady gaze on Damian. "I've told you this before. You may have the makings of a king, but you are harsh to them when they make mistakes, and that is not the quality of kingship."

"Father," Damian said with desperation, "please. Whilst you toil around this, my mother could invade our kingdoms at any point. These people … they need me. And with your impending death, I …"

"They will still have Dick Grayson in the event of my death."

"Grayson is not a leader," Damian said with a tut. "You and I both know that. He doesn't even want the crown. Granted, he's a good diplomat, and … and he is well-liked, and he can talk well … but he does not have the ability to make hard decisions when they need to be made." Damian watched his eyes. "I do, father."

His father kept his teeth together and studied his son whilst the fireplace crackled in the corner. Then he closed his journal and turned fully towards the boy-prince. "And how would you look after my Kingdom, Damian?"

Damian immediately pepped up his chest and placed his fingertips against his sword proudly. "I would halt the forwards movements of my mother before she leaves the Oasis. I can cut off her invading forces at the valley leading towards the Palisades. I can set a trap there specifically for her that will send her army back the route it came. Then we would not need to worry quite as much regarding the rest of her army." He kept his face straight. "I can hurt her as she deserves to be hurt."

His father studied his eyes. "She brings an army of thousands."

"No matter," Damian said without missing a beat. "I can destroy her forces – as I have been trained to do."

His father leaned forwards. "And how many men do-"

"I only require ten men or so," he said, "if even that. I need supplies more than I need men. Food and travel becomes cumbersome on them, and they complain to me of it often." He frowned. "I grow tired of their complaining."

His father cocked his head. "Could it be that you have heart for your men?"

"I am not unkind to their needs."

"Only harsh in the way you deal with them."

Damian said nothing for a few moments and kept his eyes on his father. "Give me the crown. Please, father. Let me lead these people to a better future. I am fit for it."

"And let's say I give you the crown." The weak king pushed his journal to the corner of the desk. Then he heaved himself up from his chair and hobbled towards the bed. Then he smoothed the bedspread with his palm and set himself heavily atop it. "Let's say that be my intent. Would you let go of your harsh streak and rule with mercy?"

That's what his father had wanted to hear from the start. Damian turned towards the king and then he placed his palms behind his back. If that's what his father wanted to hear, then that's what he would say. "Yes. Mercifully."

"And you would show Talia mercy, too, if you were to apprehend her?"

Damian narrowed his eyes. "What does my mother have to do with the crown?"

"Damian," his father said sternly, "would you show Talia mercy if you were to apprehend her?"

Damian scanned his father's face for any signs that anything was off. It could most definitely be a trick question – though his father was not fond of such games. Did he want an honest answer? And would he like Damian's honest answer? No, he would not like Damian's honest answer. Then, it would be better to lie in this situation. "I would get her to stand trial for her crimes against the Kingdom."

"You wouldn't kill her for her crimes?" he asked.

Damian deliberated telling his father the truth. But he knew that would not bode well with the king. "No," he lied.

"You wouldn't kill her."

"No."

"Are you lying to me, Damian?"

Damian's eyes scanned between his father's own. "Father, if it is your will that I should treat my mother with mercy, then I will treat my mother with mercy. I am capable of showing mercy – should the need arise." He paused for a moment and studied his father's facial expressions further. "Do you think otherwise?"

His father observed him for a hard moment, and there was a silence in the room for a long while. Then his father rubbed a lithe palm across his stubble, and then he leaned slightly towards Damian. Then he looked to the wooden floorboards for a moment before he spoke. "Earlier in this conversation, I'd asked you where you'd spent your last two days. You deigned to avoid the question."

Damian's fingers tightened and he kept his eyes on his father. His brows furrowed and he continued watching the whites of his father's eyes. Then he scanned between his father's face and the way his father was playing with the ring on his finger and then he furrowed his brows.

"I thought at first it may be an oversight," his father continued, "but now I am certain it was not. You ignored the question. So now, I posit the question to you again." He kept his shroud around himself and looked into Damian's eyes. "Where were you these last two days, Damian? Because you were most definitely not in the Palisades."

Damian's heart beat steadily in his chest and his spine instinctively straightened and his fingers stayed strained behind his back. He kept his gaze locked on his father and then he smoothed his tongue at dried lips. Then he relaxed his fingers from his palms and adopted a forcefully neutral pose. This could just be his father being curious. It didn't necessarily mean he knew where Damian was – despite the evidence to suggest otherwise. "I … took a trip to Nephylia, Father."

"That doesn't sound like 'nowhere important'." His father's eyes were analytical and calculating. "It strikes me that the boy that tried to kill Tim Drake last week was from Nephylia. Did you go for him?"

Damian's heart pumped hard and he kept his eyes on his father. How could his father know that? Damian had only accomplished the task last night. He immediately thought through a thousand excuses for his father in a split-second. Then he picked the most logical one in a heartbeat. "No, I-" Damian cleared his throat. He was not used to being caught off-guard. "I attended the city to garner relations with their people, and to sign a treaty of peace. We could use their numbers - should my mother attack." He mouthed out his words to himself and then looked at his father. "I did not know the assassin that attempted to murder Drake was from Nephylia."

"He was not an assassin," his father said sternly, "he was a boy."

Obviously, his father would get caught up on that detail. "A boy, then."

"And you did this trip to Nephylia alone? Without an expedition?"

Damian brushed his tongue at the edge of his lip. This was beginning to feel like an interrogation. "I … thought they would respect the tact and diplomacy of my way, should I do it as such. There was no need to shed any blood, and I didn't want the people of Nephylia to feel threatened."

"All that way without telling a single soul about your intentions?"

Damian studied his father's shoulders and shrugged. It was the first time he could remember shrugging in a very long time. "We are already on rocky grounds with Nephylia. This was the most resourceful way to resolve conflicts and …"

"You will continue to lie through your teeth for as long as I allow you to, Damian," his father said and leaned forwards. "Something your mother taught you as part of your battle strategies, no doubt."

Adrenaline seeped into Damian's muscles and he stared at his father's eyes. He shifted his feet awkwardly, and then he cleared his throat and tapped the finger of one hand against his palm. How could his father know that? Had Damian not been effective enough with his lies? Or did his father already know that Damian was lying prior to this conversation? "I am not lying."

"No, you most definitely attended Nephylia. But it was not to garner relations with their people – as would have been the diplomatic approach. Nor was it to sign a treaty of peace – as would have been the kingly approach."

His father knew. His father knew and Damian could only pretend like that was not the case. Did his father have Damian followed? "I am not certain where this is coming from."

"You went to Nephylia to kill the boy that tried to take Tim's life. And you found him as well, did you not? Don't lie to me, Damian," his father said and leaned forwards. "Did you find him there?"

Damian's eye flickered and he kept his palms tensed behind his back. He scanned between his father's eyes and fidgeted his fingers. "I did not-" He kept his eyes on his father and kept sweated palms clutched into each other. "I didn't find him there."

"You're lying," his father said, "you did find that boy in Nephylia. But you chose not to bring him back for trial like I'd asked you to. You chose instead to track him to the borders of Nephylia. Then you chose to stab him with your sword three times in the stomach until he was clutching onto you for air. And then you chose to leave him in the soil to die."

Damian's heart thrummed against his ribs and his own fingers were squeezed tightly behind his back and his shoulders were tensed whilst he watched his father. He was trying to scan his father's eyes for evidence that he could use. "But how can you-"

"Because I sent Tim to follow you." His father stood to his feet and Damian immediately took a step back. "You found that boy. I told you to bring him back. To make sure he was unharmed. I told you to …" His father began coughing violently into his palm. Then he closed his eyes for a second and then he looked at Damian. "So that he could stand trial. I told you to bring him back so that he could stand trial. And if he were to be found guilty, we could put him in a prison – rather than a grave."

"I did not do anything wrong though," Damian said sternly. "You did not expressly forbid me from going after the boy. And under the rules in your manifesto, you wrote that if a person maliciously attacks any part of the royal family, then their punishment will be decided via trial or execution, depending on the severity …"

"I know what I wrote in my manifesto, Damian," his father said, "but the world is not black and white." The lantern light made his father's eyes glisten. "That boy's aim was to gather information for Nephylia, and Tim just so happened to get in the way. That boy was scared, and in his fear he acted rashly. Tim understood that." The king stood like an unyielding force in front of his son. "You killed that boy."

"No, I made a judgement call when I found him," Damian said and felt as if he was being backed into a corner by his father's words. "I did what I thought was necessary for the Kingdom and …"

"You denied what I asked of you in your duties," his father said, "you slaughtered that boy before Tim could stop you."

Damian's heart was pumping in his chest and his fingers were clammy behind his back. "Then that is between you and Drake. I am not certain why he shared with you what should not have been shared but …"

"You knew that it would upset me, Damian. That it would displease me. And yet you did it anyway."

"No, Drake was not supposed to tell you that, he … he …"

"Enough, Damian," his father said with a stern jaw and Damian immediately stopped talking. "Nephylia will not forget your actions, when they inevitably work out that it was you who killed one of their own. You've proved today that you will rule with punishment first and mercy second." His father kept his eyes sterned on Damian. "And no matter my intentions for you, you've proved that you will be a king who is inflexible, and who will subject his victims to pain and petty concepts like vengeance. And you've proved that I have taught you nothing in the time you have lived in the Palisades." His father shook his head. "You let me down today, Damian. More than I thought you could."

A pang crushed through Damian's chest at the words and his shoulder blades tightened instinctively. His fingers were locked into each other behind his back and he straightened his neck and licked at the edge of his lips again. Then he awkwardly shifted his fingers from his back to his front and swallowed. Then he pursed his lips together and kept his eyes lowered. "I see."

"Damian," his father said solemnly, "your actions today have proved that you aren't right for the crown."

Damian's heart pulsed at the unexpected words and his mouth dropped open and his eyes darted up. Then he narrowed his eyes and took a determined step closer towards his father. Then he furrowed his brows and parted his lips. How could his father have decided that so quickly? "Father, you cannot mean …"

"Try as I might, I have not been able to remove your mother's teachings from your heart." His father kept his eyes away from Damian's own. "And a harsh king cannot be the king of the Palisades."

Damian's eyes tightened and he shook his head again. Kingship was slipping from his fingers. He needed to bring this back. He needed to do something. "No, … I am right for the crown I can … I can help these people … I can be that … I just … it was a moment of error, father … just give me another chance …"

"Stop," his father said deliberately. "Stop lying. Tomorrow, I will be announcing Dick Grayson to take my throne." He stood for a brief moment and watched Damian. Then he strolled back to his corner-desk and set himself upon the seat and flickered his eyes closed. "Now leave me. Whilst I deliberate the fate of my kingdom in what little time I have left on this planet."

Damian could not believe what he was hearing. That was too sudden of a decision. His father couldn't just base it off of this one thing. Why was he not looking at everything that Damian brought to the table? This was unfair. This wasn't … Damian couldn't lose the crown here. "You are taking the crown from me because I exercised righteousness in Nephylia?"

Damian's father whipped towards his son and his frame shook. "Go, Damian. My decision is final. And nothing you can say will change it."

Damian's jaw tightened and his fingers bunched and loosened at his sides. Then his eye flickered again and he tried to think of something else to say. Something to make this right. But nothing was coming to his head. No way to apologise, or to tell his father what he would do differently, or fix this.

Because Damian was right in his actions in Nephylia.

The boy-prince grunted through gritted teeth and immediately stormed out of the chambers and past the knights milling outside the corridor of his father's bedroom. Then he marched towards the courtyard, next to the fountain made of marble and the blossom tree where the sun beat hard on the gardens so much so that it warmed Damian's cheeks and neck. Then he paced up and down alongside the fountains.

His father was wrong about this. He couldn't prove it to his father but his father was wrong. Damian understood mercy – he did – but his father seemed to base his entire belief system on it. Damian clutched onto the Robin emblem under his collar and paced faster. People needed justice.

They needed to be kept in line.

But Damian couldn't get that through to his father. He tutted at his own inadequacy and continued to pace backwards and forwards. His father's death was impending in only three days and after his death, the rioters outside the palace walls would most certainly try to jump the walls and enter the courtyard. And then there would be nothing to stop the anarchy apart from maybe Dick Grayson – who was trying his hardest to avoid the crown.

Damian tutted again to himself and sat next to the fountain on his kurta. What an unfortunate situation this was. If the rioters entered the palace, then the Palisades would fall. And if the Palisades fell, then Damian would have failed his father.

And that was to say nothing of the forces still awaiting his father's passing like vultures. His mother … the Oasis … Nephylia … they all had plans on the Palisades after his father's passing. And the Palisades would need a strong leader to steer them through the trials and tribulations that were to come. And he only had a short while before his father passed to convince him of this.

He clutched onto the prayer beads of Bart Allen around his neck and watched them. He could not fail anyone again. His father did not understand that the kingdom would be in disarray after his passing. It would be … and he needed to …

Did the king truly not believe Damian worthy of kingship?

Damian's chest trembled and his eye flickered. Then he smoothed his thumb over the beads and listened to the tranquil flowing water of the fountain. It was no matter if his father believed him worthy of kingship or not. He should have known to expect nothing from his father. He shouldn't expect anything from anyone. He needed to remain cold and unflinching – because that is what the people needed.

Damian sterned his jaw and wiped at any building tears with his sleeve and looked to the flowing water of the fountain. People didn't know what was good for them. That was Damian's experience, anyway. People didn't know what they needed to be better. To be better people. But Damian did.

They needed Damian Wayne.

He had been successful in every military expedition and every negotiation and every council meeting he had partaken in. He knew politics and finance and trade and power. The only thing he lacked was 'forgiveness' – and he did not need forgiveness to run a kingdom.

And Damian had not committed a crime. It was part of his father's manifesto – that a person who attacked the royal family would be charged with trial or execution, depending on the severity of the crime and the decision of the executioner. Damian was right in his expedition to Nephylia.

The prince grit his teeth and stood and wiped the rosebush petals off of his kurta with his embroidered sleeve. He had let his father's outburst hurt him far too deeply. He shouldn't have done. He shouldn't allow his father to be close enough to hurt Damian. He should have been stronger than that. He wouldn't go through the trials of trying to earn the love of his father, as he did with his mother.

Damian steeled his teeth and breathed against the blossom tree.

Inadequacy. His father had been inadequate. And in his inadequacy, the Kingdom would fall. The king would not for much longer be able to protect the Kingdom from the world outside. Because the world was a very cold place. His father hadn't been strong enough.

Damian steeled his chest and grit his teeth. His father should have been stronger. And had he been stronger, he would have been able to protect his people from his mother.

Now, Damian Wayne would be stronger.

His father was wrong. And Damian would take the crown – even if he had to spend every final moment of his father's life convincing the king to make the right decision.

"Unhand me!" shouted the voice of a random boy from the other side of the courtyard.

Damian's heart pulsed through his arteries and he immediately pivoted towards the shriek that came from across the gardens. Somebody had made their way onto the palace grounds? Did the boy who was screaming not know that the palace grounds were off-limits to protect the king? The sound was high-pitched. And shrill. It almost hurt Damian's ears.

"I said let go!" the boy shouted again.

Damian's frame shook and he sterned his teeth together and immediately began marching towards the sound. If the boy was one of the rioters and had somehow managed to make it onto the grounds to threaten the king's safety, then he'd break the boy's ribs. He would beat him so severely that the boy wouldn't be able to walk – for breaking the laws - and then he would hurtle him back in with the rest of the mob. He really wanted that to be the case – so that he could vent all the steam from his father's words. Damian turned the corner and saw the boy.

The struggling boy was being grabbed from the scruff of his tattered shirt by a slave owner. The slaver had only a few hairs on his head and his teeth were a greyish-yellow. The smell emanating from the slaver's body was pungent.

Damian's teeth clenched so hard into each other he felt like they would smash. This slave owner was so casually disciplining his slave in the courtyard of the palace at a time like this? And this was coupled with the fact that the slave-owner did not smell nice. The stench of body odour wafted through the air even from underneath the myriad of cloths he was wearing. Damian did not like bad smells. "What are you doing in the courtyard, slaver?" he demanded with his fingers clenched into fists.

The slaver immediately floundered around towards Damian as if shock had just killed him – as did the boy. It took the slaver a while to turn – on account of how fat he was. "The prince?" he murmured.

Damian's frame shook harder. He was physically repulsed by the bad smell coming from the slaver, and only sheer willpower stopped himself from covering his nose. Damian did not like bad smells. "I do not have time for this. Answer my question or I will beat you."

The slaver's mouth dropped open and he grabbed onto the scruff of the boy tighter and tried to speak – as if he was struggling to get his breath back from running. The blistering sun had caked his skin in a grimy layer of sweat. "Prince, I was merely disciplining my slave for having stolen from me. He was the one who ran into the courtyard. I merely chased him. The crime would not be mine if I merely came to reclaim my property."

"You are not my keeper!" the boy shouted and punched against the slaver's fat wrist with wrapped knuckles. "And if we were fed more, then I wouldn't be ransacking your stores for that filth you call food every …"

Damian growled so violently that it vibrated through his chest and then he pivoted towards the boy with his jaw steeled together like it was held by wire. "So you admit that you stole?"

The boy looked at Damian with his face red and flushed from the exertion. He had extremely striking features – jet-black scruffy hair and his cheeks mired in what appeared to be dried tears, but a flush to them all the same. His clothes were tattered – the normal garb for an unkempt slave, and his eyes were a striking blue. Deep and pensive and thoughtful. He was wearing wraps around both of his hands, showing only reddish fingers through the wraps, and struggling at the slaver who had him by the scruff. "What about his crimes?"

"That is an inadvertent admission to your own crime," Damian said and stepped towards the boy possessively. He did not have time for this, but he needed to pour out his rage like a faucet. He pointed towards the fat slaver. "He has not committed a crime in his treatment of you - much to my chagrin. My father's manifesto keeps slaves and their wellbeing as the responsibility of the slaver – under section forty-three marked 'The Ownership and Trade of Slaves'. The slaver is within his rights and has not broken any laws, and so I am not able to beat him like I was hoping to." Then Damian pointed his forefinger towards the boy. "You, on the other hand, have just admitted to stealing – and that is in direct violation of section thirteen of my father's manifesto."

The boy's eyebrows disappeared behind shaggy bangs and then he stuttered over his words. The soles of his feet grounded into the soil beneath him and he pushed at the slaver's grasp. "I … I did not!"

This was dredging up memories of Bart Allen for Damian, and it made the boy-prince tighten his fingertips into his palms until the colour bled out of them. This boy shouldn't be allowed to instigate such memories in him. Damian opted to keep his wits for just a moment longer before he lost his temper – so that he could assess exactly what was happening here. The people could call him a heartless bastard all they wanted, but let it never be said that Damian was an unfair bastard. "What happened, slaver?"

"This runt stole foodstuffs from me earlier today," the slaver said and shook the boy's shoulders and the boy grunted. "He took some portents of bread and some fish oils from my stores without my knowledge or consent."

Damian's lips were clamped together and he watched the boy. Now, he would be able to exact punishment. "And then he fled from you?"

"Towards the palace grounds, my prince. Perhaps thinking he might find refuge within her walls." He shook the boy again and the boy screamed through gritted teeth and punched fruitlessly at his fat wrist. "It was only by sheer luck I caught him climbing over the fences before you came."

The boy stomped the sole of his foot into the soil and shouted at the slaver. "The palace is a safe grounds. You're committing a crime by laying your filthy hands on me you disgusting …"

Damian's lips parted and he stopped the boy with an outreached palm and then levelled the boy with a stare. Then he moved his feet into spitting distance of the slave and encroached on his personal space. Then he locked his own fingers into fists by his sides. Then he studied the boy's face with his eyes focused and his jaw sterned. "Do you think the palace is a safe grounds for you?"

The slave's shimmering eyes watched Damian and the slaver's gaze followed straight afterwards. Then the slave boy's eyes flickered between the slaver and Damian and then he rasped. His white teeth were parted and then his brows furrowed. "The king has made it so. Anyone can seek refuge in the grounds of the palace with no fear of reprimand. That's the king's rule."

Damian's temple was thrumming and his thumb smoothed over his closed fist. That was his father's rule. And this criminal was using it to his advantage to seek refuge for his crimes. And no matter how many times Damian had told his father to change the rule, his father would still not change it.

This was also the rule that allowed Tim Drake to almost be killed by the assassin from Nephylia when the boy made his way onto the palace grounds, undetected.

Damian's lips were parted and he kept his eyes on the boy. "You thought to seek refuge in the grounds of the palace for protection?"

The boy's fingers were tight around the slaver's wrist and his brows were furrowed. He stirred on the balls of his feet and grunted and then his eyes flickered between the slaver and Damian. "What?"

"Answer my question, slave." Damian's ears were flushed and his shoulders trembled and he stepped even more into the boy's personal space and kept his fists clenched at his sides. "Did you seek refuge in the palace grounds for protection?"

The boy fumbled backwards at the force of Damian's presence and studied the prince's eyes. Then he bared his teeth and furrowed his brows at the prince. "It's written in the King's manifesto that the palace grounds are a safe place where no violence can happen in …"

Adrenaline surged through Damian's body and he narrowed his pupils and then he growled through gritted teeth. Then he tightened his knuckles and marched directly into the boy's personal space. Then he smashed the boy across the face with the back of his hand.

The slave boy yelped and lumberingly crashed towards the floor. Dirt kicked up onto his tunic and his fingers immediately went to his reddening cheek. Then he palmed at his face and rested the fingers of his other wrapped hand in the soil. The slaver's jaw dropped at the same time and he stared at the prince as if he had just committed a crime against God.

Damian's wrist was ringing at the force of the blow and he sterned his jaw. "The laws of my father are protecting criminals. This is what my father's mercy is doing to the people. It is causing them to take advantage of him." Damian's frame was practically trembling and he was finding it hard not to tear up in his rage. "You took refuge in the palace grounds because of my father's ill-thought-out rule to protect you. You, a criminal who has committed a crime, thought that you could hide in the walls of the palace because you read it in the manifesto?"

The boy looked up with cobalt-blue eyes and tears were welling in the corners. Then he stared at Damian with heavy breaths. He clutched onto a red-marked cheek and bared white teeth again and looked extremely fragile all of a sudden. For a brief moment, the raw hurt in the boy's eyes was laid bare to Damian. "Why did you do that?"

"It is these kinds of rules that my father has put in place that allows criminals to get away with their actions." Damian's jaw was sterned and he was only focused on the thief and he rolled his embroidered sleeves further up his elbows and marched towards him. "You sought refuge in the palace because my father has protected you before when you've committed a crime, has he not?" Damian's steps were heavy and deliberate. "You committed a crime in the Kingdom, and then you thought you could find refuge in the palace grounds, because that is what you have been taught by my father."

The boy breathed with a rasp – like he was hyperventilating. Then he immediately screamed and then he sprinted towards the prince and launched his full body into Damian. His shoulder barged into Damian's pelvis and he tried to tackle the prince to the dirt.

A surge of adrenaline burst through Damian and he wrapped his forearms around the boy's throat and grounded his knees and stopped the forwards movement of the boy's tackle through the dirt. It bothered Damian immensely that the boy reminded him so much of Bart, and he kneed the boy hard in the solar plexus.

The boy cried out and sputtered and then his own knees turned to jelly in Damian's grasp. Damian unclasped his arms from the boy's neck and the boy sagged to the floor and clutched onto his own stomach and began heaving laboured breaths out of his body.

It didn't bother Damian so much that the boy had just attacked royalty, as he was angry at the way he was being treated, and Damian could understand that. It was still a crime but it was not the centre of Damian's attention. However, it bothered Damian immensely that the boy thought he could get away with his crimes by hiding out in the palace. Damian wrenched him up by the collar and lifted him back off the ground and the boy clawed at Damian's wrists. "You committed crimes knowing full-well that you would be able to get away with them, were my father in a fit condition." Damian's voice was high and raspy. "You have tried to take advantage of my father's slack rules. And I will not stand for it."

"What you're doing is illegal," the boy shouted in indignation and the sun shimmered off the boy's watery pupils. "The king has made the palace a no-violence zone and you're violating that. What you're doing is … is …"

The words made Damian's fingers tighten in their grip around the boy's collar and he shook the boy violently. The boy screamed out loud and grabbed onto Damian's wrists harder. "I never break the law, you petulant runt. Laws manage the strings of society, and they must be upheld. The palace grounds are off-limits to the general public whilst my father recovers. Therefore, in order to protect my father, the palace staff have been authorised to use force should the need arise." Damian's teeth were grit together. "I am within my rights."

The boy shoved Damian backwards with both his palms and the prince staggered backwards. Then the boy sprinted towards Damian and launched a clumsy fist at Damian's jaw and roared at the top of his lungs. Damian's instincts kicked in and he punished the boy with a jab to his jaw that was quicker than the boy's own strike.

The boy was rocked backwards at the force and he crashed to the floor onto his rump and the tears trickled from his eyes. Then he grasped at his jaw with his wrapped fingers and watched Damian's eyes with his teeth bared and his brows furrowed and his chest moving heavily.

"Prince, please!" The slaver shouted. "My slave is worth much to me …"

But Damian didn't hear this. Because this wasn't Damian beating this boy for his crime. This was Damian beating his father's ideology in the shape of this boy. This was Damian beating his father's want to constantly allow people forgiveness for crimes that should not be forgiven. This was rage – unfiltered and unbridled. He wanted to beat the boy for his crime, and for the fact that he reinforced his father's misguided ways of ruling, and for the fact that the boy reminded Damian too much of Bart Allen, and that was too painful of a memory.

The boy's tears were streaming down his face now and his breaths were hitching and he bashed his fists into the soil of the courtyard and grunted through gritted teeth. Then he launched himself up to his feet and bared his teeth. Then he lifted his fists up in the rough imitation of a fighter's pose and watched Damian. "You will not own me!"

The boy was not a fighter, however he had fighting spirit. He would make for a good soldier one day, should he want to go down that route. The boy's mental strength was admirable. But it still didn't excuse the fact that the boy had stolen. Or attacked a prince. So Damian would immune himself to sentiment, and he would immune himself to the boy's proactivity at the moment – which would normally inspire him. The only thing that concerned him was to hurt his father.

The boy growled violently and then sprinted towards the prince again and Damian threw his knuckles so hard into the boy's jaw that the boy rocked to the side and then toppled forwards at the force. The slave dropped to his knees and grasped onto Damian's kurta and kept his tears heaving down his cheeks. "You don't …." His blue eyes were weeping tears of resentment and he tried standing to his feet with his glimmering eyes scanning Damian's own. "You don't own me."

Would Damian's father allow such acts in the Kingdom of the Palisades? And why would he not? This boy had stolen, and he deserved punishment. His father needed to see this. His father needed to understand why it was so important to enforce a regiment across the lands. Then his father would know exactly what his rules did for others. He immediately grabbed the scruff of the boy's shirt and yanked him full-bodied towards the marble stairs leading up to the foyer.

The boy tripped over his own feet and grappled against Damian's grip but he was also being choked by the hem of his own shirt. "Unhand me!" He croaked whilst the tears streamed from his eyes. "Let go of me what are you …"

"Oi, oi prince," the fat slaver shouted from the fountain. "That's my property you're taking away from me, Prince!"

Damian's fingers clawed into the boy's tunic until he was practically tearing it at the irritating voice. Then he drove the boy's neck into a tight headlock and the boy hiccupped and grunted in Damian's grasp and punched at the prince's sides meekly. Then Damian whipped around to the obese slaver with the boy in tow and his own face red and furious.

"I mean ah …" The slaver grinned a yellow-grey grin and bowed his head slightly with his fat thumb pressed into his middle finger in a pleading motion. "If you wish to take my property from me, then surely you would agree to purchasing him?"

Damian saw the logic in this even in his anger, and he wouldn't deny the slaver his right. The boy still punched at his side and tried to yank himself out of the prince's grasp and Damian tightened his lock around the boy. "How much for the boy, then?"

"Five silver bits."

Damian's fingers reached into the pouch next to his sword. "You can take a gold bit. For your troubles, and for the stolen foodstuffs." He flicked the bit towards the slaver.

The greedy slaver immediately snapped it up as if it was the last food left on earth. Then he nodded like a dog and grinned. "Thank you, Prince it is much obliged thank you."

Damian tutted and marched up the marble stairs with the struggling boy in tow, then he looked to the armoured guards at the top of the stairs. "Escort that man off the premises."

He then heaved the struggling slave boy towards the palace and shoved open the large doors of the foyer. Then he proceeded to drag the crying and battered boy across the spacious foyer through where the palace slaves resided. The boy kept tripping over himself and Damian would have to right him with a tut whilst the boy was mumbling curse words at Damian. The servants working in the palace concernedly watched the prince drag the struggling slave towards the marble stairs and Damian paid them no heed. Then the boy tripped on the marble stairs, and Damian grabbed him around his solar plexus to drag him better towards his father's chambers. The boy was warm in his grasp - especially in the sunbeaten hallways of the palace - and for a moment Damian remembered Bart again and warmed to the touch. Then he immediately snapped himself out of it and marched faster towards his father's door with the intent of shoving it open. Then he remembered what his father had told him about knocking and he tutted and rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles.

"Whom?" came his father's weak voice.

That was permission enough. Damian barged open the door with his shoulder and stormed into the room. Then he launched the slave into the foot of the bed.

The boy practically crashed into the wooden bedframe head-first and then squeezed at his head with a grunt of pain and tears still streaking down his cheeks. Then he hiccupped and kept his eyes scrunched closed and his knees in towards his chest.

His father lurched up from his desk at the sight. "What is this, Damian, what are you doi-"

"This boy stole from his slaver, father." Damian's jaw was sterned. "Then he sought refuge in the palace grounds because he thought to find safety here." Damian's eyes were scanning between his father's own. "And he did so only because he expected mercy from you."

The boy sputtered and looked to Damian with teary eyes and he was still squeezing his head with wrapped hands. "What about my slavers' crimes?" His tears were making his chest heave and he was struggling to get his words out. "Making us work in the cold nights when we …"

"Speak when spoken to," Damian said sternly. "His treatment of you is not illegal. I am neither for nor against the act of slavery. But it is legal in the Kingdom. Stealing is not. You have committed a crime. He has not."

"I have not made slavery legal by choice," his father said and looked at the slave boy who was crying and battered and bleeding and staring daggers into Damian. "Are you okay?" he asked and beckoned the boy with lithe fingers from his chair. "What did you do to him, Damian?"

Damian steeled his eyes on the boy's cobalt-blue ones again. "Nothing he did not deserve."

The boy's gaze flickered between Damian and the king and his eyes were rife with tears. His chest was heaving where he was seated and he was breathing heavy and his cheeks were streaked with dirt and redness and his eyes turned to Damian. "I'm not going anywhere," the boy said in defiance and over stuttering breaths. "I'm not … you …" It was as if he was so angry that he couldn't get his words out.

Damian growled and his fingers tightened. "You will do as you are told in the presence of the King."

The boy looked to Damian with his teeth bared. Then he staggered to his feet again and shook the impact of crashing into the bed from his soil-streaked face. Then he harked spit at Damian's feet and levelled his fists in front of his face again. "Make me then!"

Damian's heart pumped blood around his body and he marched towards the boy. "I will."

"Stop," his father said quietly, "Damian. Stop."

Damian stopped his stride and looked towards his father.

His father breathed out his nose and struggled to keep his eyes open. Then he rose from his seat with a lurch. Then he began walking towards the boy. This caused the boy to immediately stagger away from his father and the boy crashed into the silverware on the table behind him which then clattered to the floor. Damian tutted and shook his head and his father shot him a look. Then his father turned back to the slave boy and crouched down and used his palms to calm him – as if he was a wild horse to be tamed. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The boy dragged the back of his hand across a red nose. Then he watched the King's hands and sniffled and hiccupped. The king took this as permission and placed his open palms into his shroud. Then he reached his palms over to the boy's cheeks and rested them directly on top of the reddening cheeks. The boy's eyes instinctively fluttered closed for a moment at the touch, and then he opened his eyes and watched the king's own and took a deep and shuddering breath outwards.

Damian's lips were pressed tightly during this time and he watched the boy with his own teeth sterned. This boy was so apparent in his feelings, so in tune with his emotions. He was just like Bart was. And that was something Damian couldn't be. Not if he wanted to be respected.

"Are you okay?" the king asked the boy.

The boy nodded so violently that his scruffy hair shook, and then he tried to stop the heaving of his chest and control his breathing. "My jaw hurts a bit but …" He kept his eyes lowered and his brows furrowed. "Sorry for disobeying you earlier, sir. And … sorry for the silverware."

"No, I'm sorry for the way my son has been with you. I can imagine that kind of treatment would make anyone angry." His father looked to the tray next to his bed. It held some grapes and some dates and some berries on a glimmering tray. "Go and eat something."

"Father," Damian said, "do not feed the crimin-"

"Enough, Damian," his father said and turned his face to his son. "Haven't you done enough damage today?"

Damian squeezed his palms tightly together behind his back and he watched the boy and his father without saying anything further.

His father turned to the boy again. "Eat, please. You're in the house of the people, and it would be a disservice if I weren't to feed you."

The slave's eyes were wide towards his father's own. Then he immediately nodded and his shaggy hair shook and then he scrambled over to the fruit and practically tripped over himself. Then he smoothed his palms over the fruits like they were treasures. Then he devoured the fruit in a matter of seconds and barely even chewed, and then he licked off every single one of his fingers. Then, without Damian's father's permission, he also swiped the glass of milk from the other desk and drained it down in one gulp.

Damian watched the transgression and growled and began to walk towards the boy again. "You took more than your fill …"

"Leave him," his father said with an edge to his voice. "I cannot imagine when he ate, but it would have been some time ago – judging by his thinness."

Damian's fingers tightened at the words and he stopped. Why was the king letting this boy get away with so much? Did he not realise that this was teaching the slave poorly? He was only reinforcing the boy's actions, and the boy would do it again afterwards. He grimaced and watched the boy with his father.

His father strolled over towards the boy. Then he crouched down and put a shrouded hand on the boy's cheek again and the boy's eyes fluttered close for a moment again. The king used his shrouded palm to wipe the boy's tears from his hitching face. "What's your name?" he asked.

The boy opened his eyes and scanned them between his father's eyes and hiccupped, then he turned to Damian.

"Don't worry about him," the king said and kept his eyes on the boy. "He will not harm you in my presence."

Damian's fingers were scrunching up and loosening at his sides and he paced backwards and forwards like a motor. This was wrong. His father should not be feeding the criminal. This was why they took advantage of him.

"Jon," the boy said and turned to Damian's father. "My name is Jon Kent."

"How old are you, Jon?"

"Fourteen, sir."

"Then you're the same age as my son." His father chortled and looked to Damian, who had the expression of a dead fish on his face. Then he turned back to the boy. "Do you have family, Jon?"

Jon shook his head. "They're all dead, sir." Then his eyes studied the king's own for a moment longer. "Do you perchance remember me, sir?"

His father narrowed his eyes as if in thought. "Excuse me as my memory is not what it was in my illness. Vaguely. You're Clark Kent's boy, am I right?"

Damian could not believe what he was hearing right now. His father was going to forgive this boy. Why was Damian expecting anything different? His father was weak to the plights of others – especially young orphans. And yet, for some reason, Damian still wanted his father to have some sort of revelation about how wrong his ways were when he brought the slave to his father's chambers.

He should have known better. His father was never going to change. And Damian would not stand for this any longer.

The slave boy's eyes shimmered and he grinned a toothy grin. "That's me, sir. I was hoping you'd remember." The slave boy's smile became white and bright. "You really helped me there, sir. I never forgot it and I've wanted to repay you for so long and now that I'm finally in front of you, I … I … well, I don't even have anything to give you but …"

"Is this how we treat thieves in the house of the Palisades?" Damian said.

The slave turned to Damian at the outburst, and his father quickly followed suit.

"Do we treat them as welcome guests," Damian continued, "when he so clearly deserves punishment for his actions? He stole from a man, and he should get his penitence for the deed."

"Damian," his father said and looked to his son. "I've asked you to stop …"

"No, you continue to deny me though I am right," Damian said – louder than he intended and his father looked stunned at the outburst. Damian's fingers bunched together and loosened by his sides and his teeth were grinding against each other. "I do what I do for these people. What will they do with your mercy other than throw it back in your face, as they have on so many occasions before?"

His father stood from his crouch. "Damian …"

"Do you think they riot outside because of your mercy towards them, Father? Or do they riot outside because they know they will be able to get away with it under your rule?"

"That's not why they riot."

"That is exactly why they riot, Father." Damian's chest was trembling and his fingers were tight at his sides. "And when their restlessness becomes too much, they will attempt to jump the wall and seek at the food stores and devour us all and you can see it just as I can see it ... that your way has caused the people to become spoilt." Damian was breathing through his nose. "That your way has caused the people to become soft. They demand of you, rather than accept what they are given. And you let them."

Damian's father walked towards his son and he watched the boy-prince. "I protect anyone who enters the Palisades, Damian, and allow them home in my home. That is the way I run this kingdom ... that is the way we run this kingdom and …"

"The way that would have killed Drake," Damian said, "because the assassin who attempted to take Drake's life should not have been permitted to enter the grounds in the first place, and strict rules should have been in place to stop people as such from entering the grounds. And were there rules in place …"

"Damian."

"… Were there rules in place …" Damian said quickly, "that stopped people from meddling in the grounds, then he would not have been able to enter and Drake would not have been hurt."

"He was not an assassin," his father said sternly, "he was a boy …"

"Father." Damian's frame physically shook at those words and his finger accusingly pointed towards the door. "Your laissez-faire attitude to this allowed your ward to be hurt." Damian's eyes were beginning to tear up and his chest was heaving hard. "You allow the castle grounds to be a 'safe haven' for all, and you thereby invite the enemy into our headquarters." He pivoted towards the slave and his sword jangled against his side. "Rest assured that when you pass, Father, I will take the crown. And I will conquer all those who oppose us, and I will rule people like this with an iron fist. And should these people step out of line, they will be punished and in that way, they will be aware of the rules in place, and respect the powers that be and ..."

"You will not do that, Damian." His father's eyes were steady but his fingers were clenched by his side and he walked further towards his son. "You will not take the crown without mercy. Mercy is the most important symbol I uphold and …"

"Your mercy is a crux, and your symbol almost killed Drake." Damian's fingers were trembling against his sides and his lips were parted. "My rule will ensure the people live in a Kingdom where safety is prioritised over contentment. People need to be disciplined in order that a safe environment be maintained and their safety matters to me and in order to regulate their safety I must do what needs to be done." He stepped towards his father and sterned his jaw. "Your old age and senility has made you weak, Father. And in your weakness, you have opted to relinquish control to people who take advantage of you."

His father's eyes tightened and his fingers flickered by his sides. "Damian, stop this …"

"And I will be far stronger than you when I tear the crown from your cold and dead hands …"

"Damian, stop."

"And I would kill that assassin from Nephylia a million times over if it stopped the Palisades from being harmed any more than needs be. And I would pick to be in Nephylia a million times over in your dying days rather than here with you because what good will a dead king do me …"

His father smacked Damian across his face with the back of his hand.

The shock reverberated out into the boy-prince's cheek and he staggered back wordlessly at the slap. His lips parted and he clutched onto his stinging cheek and kept his eyes on the floor with his eyelid flickering. Tears seemed to be as if they were ready to overflow – even though the boy-prince had been hit with far worse injuries on the battlefield. But it was his father that did this to him. His palm was rubbing slowly over his cheek and he swallowed back a clump in his throat. The slave boy was also watching Damian during this time with both his wrapped palms slapped in front of his own mouth.

"What did your mother do to you, Damian?" his father asked.

The question immediately threw Damian off guard and his teary eyes came up to his father's own and he swallowed back his tears. Where had this question come from? And how could Damian say anything in his present state without the tears threatening to break from his eyes like opened flood barriers? "What?"

"What did your mother do to you … before I found you in those forests? You've never told me, try as I might to get it out of you. What did she do to you that has made you this unforgiving?"

Damian kept his eyes lowered and made his shoulders smaller. His breaths were slow and shuddered. "Nothing happened …" He cleared the block from his throat and shuffled on his feet and kept his eyes focused on the floor. "Nothing happened to me."

"No, she did something." His father crouched in front of Damian and sniffed. He was so close to Damian now that he was almost touching. Then he moved himself slightly further into Damian's personal space. "She did something terrible to you to make you like this."

Damian's heart was in his throat and he stumbled back out of the space of his father. His father was too close to his body right now, and it was dredging up memories of a time before he began living in the Palisades. He kept his eyes lowered and his brows furrowed. "Do not," Damian said weakly.

"I may very well pass away in three days," his father said, "and I have yet to see you shed a tear for me. In fact, during my final days, you opted to go to Nephylia to resolve a petty matter. Why is that? Why do you find it so hard to get close to people?"

Damian said nothing and tried to process the proximity. He kept his eyes scrunched closed and didn't look at his father's eyes. "Father," Damian said in desperation but did not open his eyes. "This is … he was stealing … his crime is … I need to exercise justice."

"And that is the reason you disrespect everything that I ask of you?" His father cocked his head. "Is that why you so vehemently disagree with what I'm trying to teach you?"

Damian's eyes remained on the floor and the tears slightly trickled from his eyes and he heaved in a breath to stop them and wiped them off with his kurta sleeve. He would not show weakness in front of the boy. "It's not why I disagree."

His father touched his arm then.

Damian's heart pulsed and he immediately recoiled back at the touch and gasped – as if a snake had just injected venom into his arm. He rubbed at his arm as if it was infected and kept his teary eyes lowered and his lips pressed together. His feet were close towards each other and he was scanning the Persian rug on the floor. "Please do not."

His father remained with his hand outstretched where Damian had recoiled away from it. "I have tried reinforcing words, and loving touch, and now even corporal punishment on you and yet I fear that nothing will change." His father's eyes looked solemn. "I don't think I can change you, Damian."

Damian's heart was beating and his eyes were narrowed and he scanned between two points on the rug. His shoulders were hunched together and he was watching the floor in front of him closely and he said nothing.

His father stood to his feet now, towering over Damian and the slave boy in the corner. "Damian, they don't riot outside because they're scared of Talia." His father's eyes were resolute on Damian's form. "They riot outside because they believe you're going to take the crown. And they're scared that you will be harsh with them. And they're scared that you won't be fit for kingship."

Damian's feet grounded and his eyes shot up to his father's own and he attempted to speak and immediately stopped. He had heard rumours that was the case, but he did not know that to be true with absolute certainty. Until now. Did the people really think so badly of him? "What …"

"But I held out belief that you could change. I held out belief that you did not need to be that person that your mother made you." His father stepped towards him and Damian took another step back until his lower back bumped into the wall. Then his father stopped walking forwards. "And now I fear I was wrong in my beliefs."

Damian said nothing and kept his eyes darting between two points on the floor.

"And now," his father continued, "I have lavished my Kingdom with love and adornment, to turn it into something the likes of which the loftiest gardens may rival. It is precious to me. And the people are aware of this. It is a refuge for all, and a solace for all." His father looked resentful and kept his eyes on Damian. "And I will not let you turn that into something other. And if I must protect my Kingdom from even my son himself, then so be it." He kept his eyes steeled on Damian. "I will protect my people from you."

Damian's tears were welling near the corners of his own eyes and he kept his eyes on his father's own and his fingers still clutched onto his cheek. It was as if this was the first time Damian was truly hearing what his father was saying – even though his father had told him these things before. But it was the gravity with which he said it now that made Damian's heart swell. "I am right for king, Father … I am …"

"And right now, Damian," his father interrupted and pointed to the boy in the corner. "This boy is more dear to me than you have been in recent days."

Damian's chest fluttered at the words and his eyes looked to the dirt-streaked boy with his brows furrowed. Then his eye flickered and he stared at the boy. Then he immediately turned away and wiped at the budding tears with his embroidered sleeve. "I'm sorry, Father …" Damian said meekly, "If that is how you feel … I was just … I …"

"Go and reflect on this," his father said, "we need to talk through what steps to take with regards to your mother's impending declaration of war. She hasn't left the Oasis yet, but when she does, we will need to be ready. I am holding a meeting about this in these chambers with my small council in some hours – and I want you to be present."

Damian kept his eye flickering and his gaze on his father. Surely, he couldn't be thinking to keep the boy in his chambers whilst Damian left? The prince looked at the boy from the corner of his eye.

"Don't worry about him," his father said – as if he could sense what Damian was thinking. "He isn't going to harm me. You can leave him with me."

"That would be ill-advised, Father ... given the current circumstances and …"

"Go and reflect on this." He watched Damian with his face steeled. "And take this time to think, Damian. Then come and see me for the meeting. You are still part of my small council, and so I will still want you here on decisions we undertake with regards to your mother. But it will not be in a kingly capacity."

Damian's eye flickered. Then he nodded solemnly. Then his eyes went to the boy's own. The slave met his eyes with sparkling blue ones and Damian kept his face straight and watched him. This slave held a higher rank with his father. He studied the slave for several moments. Then he nodded again and stumbled out of his father's chambers and into the corridor outside.

The walk out of his father's chambers was a blur to Damian. Not just the physical reprimand or the beating he gave to the boy or his father denying him of kingship but just the entire thing had made Damian feel like he was floating on air. He didn't remember walking through the palace halls beaten by the sun, and he didn't remember walking through the kitchens billowing with steam and he didn't remember walking past the huge foyer with the grand clock. He didn't remember anything at all – his mind was blank.

And when he clambered up the stairs and arrived at his own quarters, there was a blonde slave-girl crouched on her knees against the glass panels overlooking the foyer. She had a bucket and sponge next to her legs and she was fretting against her nails and looking through the frosted glass panes of the balcony into the grand foyer underneath.

There was always laziness in the palace under his father's rule. Damian's jaw sterned and he turned towards her. "If you are not going to do the work you have been assigned," he said hazily, "then why have you sought employment in the Palace?"

The girl yelped in surprise and scrambled to her feet at the voice and then stumbled in her place. Then she turned to him and then began playing at her hair with both hands. "P-pardon, my prince?"

"You can gaze at the foyer as long as you wish," he said and pointed over the balcony. "Once you fulfil your duties for the day. After that, you are free to do as you please – as is in your contract." His fingers tightened. "Why are you not fulfilling your contract?"

"My prince," the slave girl said and heaved up her water bucket and kept her eyes lowered. "I'm sorry. It was an error, is all."

"You have not answered my question." Damian stayed where he was standing. "Why are you not fulfilling your duties?"

She kept her eyes lowered and her chest trembled. "Prince, it is … it's my mother." She tapped her fingertips into each other even whilst holding the bucket. "She's been ill for some days now. And she shows no signs of recovery." Then she went back to playing at her hair with her free hand. "And I am scared of what is to happen to her."

Damian kept his eyes on her and studied her facial expression. "What is her illness?"

The girl's eyes were now flickering and she kept her eyes on the floor and shrugged with both shoulders. "I am not certain. She showed signs of deteriorating health some weeks back. Now her condition only seems to be getting worse." She kept a closed fist against her chest. "I do not know if she has long left."

Damian watched her for a long moment. Then his eyes darted to the floor for a moment. Then he looked both ways across the smooth marble floors of the palace and the paintings of the Palisades that adorned the walls. Then he turned back to the slave girl and thought carefully about his next words. "Go and be with her," he said to the slave girl, "I will take your duties for the day."

The slave girl looked up with wide eyes. "Do you really mean so?" she said. "I mean … no, I couldn't make a prince …"

"I am not asking you, I am telling you," Damian growled with his patience now wearing thin. "Go and be with her."

She pounced back on her feet and smacked her palms in front of her mouth. Then she brushed at her building tears with her sleeve and then she nodded. Then she turned in her place and sprinted down the corridor.

Damian looked at the sponge and bucket she had left near the glass. This was what he needed to do right now. He needed some work to forget his father's words. He rolled up his sleeves again and squeezed his fingers into the sudsy sponge in the bucket. Then he crouched down onto his knees and slapped the wet sponge onto the floor and got to work vigorously scrubbing the marble floors from one corner of the corridor to the other. He ground the sponge across the marble in linear motions, and he used both palms to streak the sponge across the floors over and over. The hours soon began dragging by until Damian's fingers were sudsy and his wrists thrummed and the water sloshed inside the bucket and he continued to clean the floors until the marble glimmered under the blistering sunlight. Slaves would pass him and request him to stop doing such a menial job, and he would grunt and return to his work without paying them heed. He did not mind the work. It was therapeutic to him, and it allowed him to clear the webs from his head. Work allowed him to feel useful. It allowed him to escape. And whilst he waited for the meeting, he could reflect – as his father had told him to do. He streaked the sponge across the marble and his mind continued to go back to his father's words.

The king liked that slave boy more than he liked Damian.

Damian's chest heaved and he flickered his eyes closed and squeezed the sudsy sponge in his hand. Why was his father so hell-bent on becoming close to people like that boy? Even though they played an important part in the Kingdom's community and still needed their rights fulfilled in the walls of the Kingdom, they should be secondary in terms of closeness to the king's own family.

They should be secondary in terms of closeness to the king's own son.

Damian did not remember how many times he refilled the bucket with sudsy water after that, but his fingers were drenched to the bone and he had scrubbed almost the entire corridor until it glimmered under the afternoon light. Then he took a few seconds to appreciate his work solemnly. Then he immediately went straight back to it.

"Damian?" Dick's voice came eventually. "What are you doing on the floor?"

Damian's eyes darted up to find Dick Grayson standing over him from behind. The eldest ward of the king wore a white kurta over his body today, with a dark red scarf around his shoulders, and he smelled good – like apples and musk. He had a giant dimpled smile over his face, like he hadn't seen Damian in months. Damian went back to his scrubbing. "I am cleaning the floors, Grayson."

"Okay ..." Dick settled his gangly limbs down onto the floor and avoided the wet marble underneath him. "Maybe my question should have been why are you cleaning the floors?"

Damian stopped and watched a spot on the floor. Then he squeezed his sponge into the bucket without breaking his gaze from that spot. "There was a slave girl who had some personal issues to attend to, so I dismissed her for the day. And in dismissing her, I undertook her duties." Damian solemnly looked downwards and mouthed out his next words before saying them. "My father doesn't want to give the crown to me, Grayson." His eyes were solemn and his shoulders sagged. "I think he wants to give it to you."

Dick's eyes scanned between Damian's own and his lips were parted. "Did he give you a reason why he doesn't want to give it to you?"

Damian went back to scrubbing. "He says I lack tolerance."

"Well," Dick said and chortled. "He's not wrong there. It wouldn't hurt you to be a little kinder in the way you speak to people every now and again."

"My kindness won't protect them, Grayson," Damian said and turned his body towards the elder prince. "My mother is plotting to attack us whilst the king is weak. Now that word has reached her that the king is in his dying days, she will attempt to take the palace by force. And we are only waiting on the signal from our scouts that she has left the Oasis to begin preparations for war. And our forces cannot hold a siege for more than a few months." Damian's brows furrowed. "Kindness will not win us that battle. Weapons would do a far better job."

"We'll be able to handle your mum when she attacks."

"No, we will not," Damian said and didn't look up from his scrubbing.

"Look, I'm not saying to not keep doing what you're doing, Damian," Dick said, then he lowered his voice when two knights passed the princes sitting on the floor. "I'm just asking you to be a little more tolerant. Look, Damian." Dick stopped him with his fingers. "I am really scared. And I think you already know that. Your dad might very well pass away in three days and me and Tim are trying to keep the Kingdom running in his absence. But I don't know how to handle this. This is a lot." Dick's eyes were sullen and flickering. "And the way he's going is … hard. So if his final request to you is to just be kind, then why can't you just do that?"

Damian kept his eyes on Grayson's own and said nothing.

"Look, when Bruce took me in," Dick continued, "it was as an act of goodness. It was to show the people he was there for them. That's why he attended my parent's final circus show in the first place, and that's why he publicly adopted me. My parents' deaths at that show rocked the Palisades. And Bruce attended that show to let the people know that he was from the people. And when he declared to take me in on that sandy circus floor, that was to show the people that they would be able to rely on him when they needed it. It was a sign – an olive branch – to let the people know that the King was for the people." Dick's jaw sterned. "He won their respect, Damian, they don't fear him. It was all symbols and acts of kingship. And Bruce helped Tim in the same way, and he helped Jason in the same way - even though he never appreciated it." Dick levelled him with a look. "And he helped you in the same way. Even though you haven't shown at all that you're even bothered by the prospect of your dad's death."

Damian opened his mouth to object and Dick stopped him for a moment.

"Look, the way I see it is you've got two options in front of you." Dick shrugged his gangly shoulders and stretched out his legs across the hot marble and leaned against the frosted glass. "You can either change course on the journey you're going now, and you have it both ways – you get to be king and honour your dad's final wishes by being more tolerant. Maybe you become the person he wants you to be. Or you can have it your way, where you eventually run the Kingdom into the ground."

Damian's jaw sterned and his eyes lowered towards the tiles of the marble floor. He was bothered by the prospect of his father's death. Grayson was wrong in that. Was Damian dealing with his father's imminent death poorer than he thought? He did just relieve that slave girl when he heard her story was so similar to his own. And maybe he opted to trek to Nephylia in his father's final days to avoid the lingering sense of death that seemed to pervade through the palace? He shook his head and slapped his sponge back into the bucket again. "Perhaps I have not been vocal enough in showing my father that I am perturbed by his passing."

"I can one thousand percent promise you that you have not," Dick said solemnly.

Damian kept his eyes lowered for a moment further. Then he looked up to Dick. "Tolerance?"

Dick nodded. "All I'm asking is for you to just think about it. Your dad might actually be right. You need tolerance. People won't respect you if you can't show a little forgiveness every now and again. And if this is all he's asking of you, then just do it, Damian."

"But what good would that do me?"

"Other than getting you the crown?" Dick shrugged. "I mean, you probably need to learn a little tolerance in case you eventually decide to have children." Dick's face dropped as if the thought had just hit him hard. "God, what a horrible thing that would be if you ever decide to have children."

Damian tutted. "Desist your jokes, Grayson. They're terrible."

"You're terrible." Dick span around and gazed out towards the foyer. "Anyways, I'm going to go to this meeting your dad has called. Will you be coming?"

Damian kept his eyes on Grayson. "I take it, from your ramblings just now, that you aren't going to be accepting the crown?"

Dick outright guffawed. "No thanks. I wouldn't even know where to start with that. You can take it if he offers it."

Damian nodded. "Then I will take your words into mental registry. They have been useful." Damian kept his eyes steady on Dick. "You can actually be wise when you choose to be, Grayson."

"Wow, do you really mean it?" Dick said in sarcastic dumbfound.

"Your sarcasm is not appreciated, Grayson." Damian watched the floor in front of him. "I will be at the meeting in ten minutes – once I finish these duties."

Dick nodded and smiled a dimpled smile. Then he bid his goodbye to Damian and eventually departed for the meeting. And Damian was left in the corridor to ponder on his words.

Tolerance.

Perhaps that was the missing key that Damian needed? He slapped the sponge back onto the floor and then finished this job. It was certainly what his father was looking for. Once he finished, he cleaned up his work tools and stood to his feet. Then he strode towards his father's bedroom and eventually approached the door. Then he stopped directly in front of it.

Tolerance.

He could be tolerant. He could be a person who exercised tolerance.

He immediately pushed open his father's door and walked into the large bedroom.

His father was standing in the middle of the room and he turned towards the door at the entrance of Damian. The slave boy was also standing next to the bed and his eyes glistened in the lantern light. His face was attentive and his cheeks were dry-streaked. His hands were behind his back and he looked to Damian and tightened his eyes. Grayson was also in the room – and he smiled wide when he saw Damian.

Damian's throat was hoarse and he couldn't bring himself to meet his father's eyes. He just needed to be tolerant with his father's decision. He could do that. He could be tolerant. "Father," Damian said, "I have arrived. As you requested."

His father turned towards Damian slowly. "So you have. And how are you feeling, Damian?"

How was he feeling? Damian's brows furrowed and he watched the bedpost with increased focus. What an odd question. Why would his father be asking that after he just denied him the one thing he'd always wanted? And why had his father suddenly become a counsellor? Whatever, it did not matter. Damian would just focus on being tolerant. "Better, now that I have taken some time away."

"Good," his father said, "I am pleased to hear that. In your absence just now, I have given a lot of thought to what I would like to do next. I've thought through several options, and now, I know what I want to do with the crown."

Damian's eyes faltered for a moment. Then they flickered up at the dominant voice of his father and then he looked at the king and his palms went behind his back. Damian took a deep breath through his nose and studied his father and the slave boy – Jon. Dick Grayson stood at the window with his arms outstretched and watched Bruce Wayne as well. Then Damian's brows furrowed. "And what have you decided?"

"I've been speaking with this boy," his father said and sniffed. "For all his youth, this boy has sage advice on matters of kingship and the kingdom." His father pointed to Damian with a weak finger and sniffed. "You aren't right for the crown in your current state, that is true."

Damian's jaw clenched at the words and he kept his eyes on his father. He should have known that the boy would talk badly about him whilst he was gone. But his father was supposed to be kingly enough to not be influenced by the boy's words nonetheless. At least, Damian would have hoped. His eyes flickered downwards and he kept his fingers pressed behind his back. "Then, if that is your request …"

"But I see the potential, nonetheless." His father rapped his fingers against his side. "I think you can be king, Damian."

Damian's heart leapt and his eyes immediately perked up. He leaned forwards and his gaze became attentive on his father. Had the boy actually spoke sense to his father? Did he tell him that Damian should be King? It was unlikely considering the boy probably held nothing but contempt for Damian. Regardless, Damian did not need to question this. He would just accept it. "Is that your wish, father?"

The king walked over to the slave boy. Then he patted the boy's bangs and the boy smiled. "But I want you to take this boy under your wing first, Damian. I want you to spend some time with him."

Damian suddenly felt like his skin was being dunked in cold water and his brows furrowed and his fingers dropped from where they were clenched behind his back towards his sides. "What?"

"In fact, I want you to remain with him for at least twenty-four hours – perhaps longer if needs be. And if you harm even a hair on his head again, you are no longer allowed the crown. He is to come to no physical harm, Damian. You will look after him until he is content with you."

No, this couldn't be happening. Not this boy. His fingers were tight at his sides. What even stupid way was this to get Damian to take the crown? Was this some kind of condition to prove himself? What was his father expecting was going to happen? Was he trying to hurt Damian? "What?"

"And he will have power over you, Damian. Because the only way that you will be king is if he gives me the go ahead that you are good for the crown. You will spend at least a day with him whilst he allows it – maybe more days if he deems it fit. And when, and only when, he tells me that you are fit to be king will I allow you to be the king."

Damian's heart was hammering in his throat and he looked at the boy with his jaw agape. No no no what could this boy have possibly said to the king to incite such a decision?

The boy smiled from the corner. It was a childish and toothy grin that shimmered under the window light.

"How does that sound, Damian?" his father asked.

Damian's stomach felt like it was about to heave out its contents and his fingers trembled at his sides. "It sounds like suicide would be a better alternative."

Dick wheezed into a chortle at the words, and Bruce Wayne kept his eyes on Damian. The boy then grinned a toothy grin and stepped towards Damian.

"I'm going to really enjoy this," the slave boy said softly, "Prince Damian."

---

It's been a very long time since I've posted anything to this website, and it's mostly due to work and life getting in the way, I'll be honest with you. I'm sorry for all of you who have been waiting on hold for EWTRTW Ch. 4 for like ... four years now. There's no way I can really say sorry enough, but it's coming soon, I promise :P

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