This morning, it began at precisely 5:30am. A high voice, thick with emotion began the soon-to-be beautiful melody. The Winged of Gotham were quiet, allowing her the space to Sing as she wished. She Sang of mourning, of a loved one dying and being buried the next day. She Sang of grave acceptance, and the torment of loss. As she sang higher and higher, her voice nearly breaking on her tears, slowly, the Winged began to join her, bringing in a beautiful, united front on her pain. The second voice to join her followed her tune exactly, but at a lower pitch. Male. The third was another female, who sang slightly lower than the first, and soon, the inhabitants of Arkham joined in and Sang along with her. Their voices cracked and broke with every change in tune, and the Winged found themselves Singing louder and more encouraging, as they shared the similar pain. No words were exchanged, just notes held for different lengths, different sounds blending together, but at the same time, contrasting. The notes moved higher, until the whole Winged community, minus a few Winged who were in hiding, was singing at the same pitch, in one united front. Then, they all fell silent. Exactly as dawn broke from the sky, the sun shining down from it's perch on the horizon, a new cry sounded. It was beautiful, and new. The whole of Gotham held it's breath as the newborn Winged participated in her first Birdsong. She sang alone for only a few moments, as the Winged of Gotham analyzed the patterns in her voice. As a whole, an entire entity, all of them joined her. Each singing different pitches, yet the same tune, the music carrying swiftly over the city and rousing people from sleep. As dawn rose, the Winged celebrated the coming of a new day, mourned with those who were grieving, and cried for the newborn's lack of freedom within Gotham. The Birdsong continued, some dropping out of the Song as the sun rose higher, until it was at it's peak. The last few stragglers were most likely from Arkham, as Singing at the Birdsong was an easy way to get caught being a-
No. A pained, desperate, fearful cry pierced through the morning as a Winged shrieked, having been discovered. The whole Winged community cried, screaming in outrage and betrayal, sadness and pain, and the promise of revenge as the Winged screamed, man touching his wings and invading his privacy. There were no walls, the Winged could feel his pain and it burned, burned like the flame they were all forced under when they could not fly freely among the skies due to the chance of getting shot down. They all felt that familiar burning behind their eyes, but there were always two types of "burnings". One, the feeling you get right before tears are released. That sort of burning makes your throat clench, your hands roll into fists, and your wings curl around you as you try to hide your pain. That sort of burning comes from behind the eyes, and is a slick, acidic sensation. Two, the burning that comes from your heart. When you connect with someone, and see them shot down, when you feel their pain and can empathize because you have been there and done that, you've felt that pain and you survived but you know they might not. That sort of burning comes not from tears, but from your heart. The rage, the protectiveness, and the compassion burn traces in your veins, through your body and leave lasting marks for all to see. The fire will race through your blood, infect your lungs, cause the world to tunnel, and your vision to redden. It will race at speeds that are not possible for humans nor Winged. That sort of righteous fury will burn behind your eyes, but it will not physically hurt. That sort of pain is a fire, a flame that will never die as long as this injustice goes on. It is a type of comfort to those whom must be protected, and a fear that applies to every human. To see the flames behind a Winged's eyes is a promise of death, for you have crossed a line few dare to. There weren't many of them in Gotham, but the small number was enough to cause enough damage for Gotham to have to be evacuated. The last time something like that had happened, a small Winged child, a student of the Gotham Academy's kindergarten class, accidentally let her wings out while at school and was shot by her teacher. The Winged were furious, and ripped the woman to shreds before laying waste to the entire city. Every single Arkham inmate broke out and caused mass chaos and killings, and citizens were evacuated from the city to avoid the rampage. Needless to say, Winged children are not killed on sight anymore. Children were precious. So when one was mistreated, the entire community would fight to the bitter end to protect it.
Damian sat, staring out his window once more. He was still in his pajamas, and blinking softly as the wind caressed his face gently. He leaned softly into the touch, sighing as the wind seemed to ask him why he hadn't partaken in the Birdsong. He said nothing, did not answer her question, but she was okay with that. The wind was considered the first Winged, and from her drafts, true Winged were born. She was the pillar on which they flew, the breeze between their wings that allowed them to soar. She was so much more than a simple breeze, and she loved her children, the Winged, as much as they loved her. Damian thought of her almost like a mother. She was there in ways his own was absent, and she mourned with him constantly over a childhood ripped up and trampled on. Damian softly turned towards the bathroom door and slipped the silky pajamas over his shoulders. He bit back a soft noise as the silk slid over his tattoos, the shirt coming off easily. Muscle rippled powerfully behind scarred skin, making noticeable dents on his person. It bulged, especially in his biceps, pectorals, and abdominal muscles. He was sporting an eight pack, despite being only nine years old. The boy - he was not a child, he merely looked like one - stood tall as his tattoos seemingly came to life, bursting into motion onto his back. He walked into the bathroom and hung a towel on the shower rack. He stepped into the cool, beige tiled floor of the shower and turned the water on. As steam rose from the jet above his head, Damian stood underneath the spray and allowed it to flatten his hair. It dripped down his dark spikes, onto his cheeks and down his chin. The water wasn't tears this time, as he had another small river running right past his left ear. He could feel the water leaving his body as the jet beat down on him. Damian stood silent for a few moment, revelling in the relaxing feeling before demanding to himself that he stop wasting water. He grabbed his shampoo and quickly scrubbed it into his hair. As that washed out, he grabbed one of the bottles of body wash and began applying it to himself. While the soap was out of his hair, he helped the water rinse suds off of his body before turning the water off and shutting the shower door behind him as he exited. He looked boredly around at the white marble countertop, with three oak cabinets above it. On the countertop was a sink, while the jacuzzi bathtub was in the left corner of the bathroom. He grabbed the fluffy white towel he had set out earlier and quickly dried off, taking care around his back.
He quickly dressed, in a red long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and dark denim jeans. His brown boots were downstairs, and was planning on adding them to the outfit. Around his neck hung a silver chain, with a small pendant attached to it. It was hanging in between his pectorals, and shone. It was a five-pointed star, surrounded by a circle, which was surrounded by flames. The al Ghul family crest. The star was the sign of the demon, the circle a symbol of their eternal life, and the flames a symbol of the fire that burned within them, a fire that would consume anything in it's path. Clasped around his left wrist was a silver watch, which had been a gift from his mother when he was eight. It appeared to be an ordinary, everyday watch, but when a specific button was pressed, a poisonous spike shot out from the middle and had a paralyzing serum within that would inject into a body upon contact. It used to be lethal, but Damian had switched it out after he discovered his father had a severe… distaste, for that sort of action. Damian looked at himself in the mirror, before pulling off his shirt. Today, he couldn't be more careful. He went to his suitcase, given to him by his mother, and pulled out two long stripes of adhesive designed to look exactly like the bronze colour of his skin. He taped both pieces onto his back, effectively covering the wing tattoos. The adhesive, once on, felt like real skin. It was designed in the way so that no one could see the tattoos and identify Damian as a Winged, even if they touched them. Damian had found that if he activated his Winged ability, the adhesive would come off, burned from the power flowing from Damian's wings. As soon as the boy had made sure that the tattoos were completely covered, he put his shirt back on and rolled up the sleeves once more. Damian looked himself in the eye in the mirror and internally sighed. The Winged needed to have their wings out - locking them away was crippling. It caused you to feel naked, and exposed. You still needed all the extra nutrients and oxygen, but you weren't using it. Damian's skin, once a healthy bronze, seemed faded and dull in comparison. Pennyworth had once mentioned that perhaps Damian was not used to Gotham's cooler and rainier climate, and Damian was sticking with that. There were bags under his eyes, and his whole face just seemed to droop.
Damian could feel a heavy stone in his gut, weighing him down. His throat felt tense as well, and the look in his eyes spoke volumes, as if he were preparing for a fight. In a way, he was. Today was the day where Grayson, Drake, and his Father were supposed to school him on the Winged. Obviously, there was nothing he didn't know… but according to the texts he had read about Winged, a lot of the information was warped to seem as if the Winged really were deadly beasts. Damian sighed, and looked out his window, the wind ruffling his hair in an attempt to soothe. He had not participated in this morning's Birdsong. He hadn't since he had come to Gotham, but it was getting harder and harder not to call out with the others. When the first Winged had sung about her grief, Damian had wanted, desperately wanted, to share his own grief of being forced to conceal himself. He wished to sing of his problems, and allow the other Winged to take comfort in that she was not alone. Every day, the temptation to sing was getting harder and harder to resist. One day, Damian was sure he wouldn't be able to, and would eventually just sing with his kind. However, it would be simple for him to be discovered if he did that. Grayson could come in, wondering what all the noise was, or Father could have wished to give him a new book recommendation. Or, the most probable, Pennyworth would come in to get him up and dressed or need to clean, or announce breakfast and Daian would be busted. He would get thrown from Gotham, if he were not killed first. Damian sighed as that stone in his belly sunk lower, taking up his conscious thought. He liked it here in Gotham. He missed the beautiful deserts, that went on for as far as you could see. He missed the lush green around bodies of water, surrounded by sand, and he missed the mountains one could sometimes see on the horizon. He missed the smaller towns, homes beige and shaped differently compared to the odd just-square-and-angles of the Western houses. There were villages scattered outside the League's base that were like that. Housing the cannon fodder or less important officials or servants. He missed the large cities, with towering skyscrapers and reflective glass upon every surface. He missed the palm trees, the gorgeous palaces, and the beautiful culture. Most of all, he missed how clear the sky was at night, how one could see every single star. Gotham's night was merely filled with blackness, rarely a drop of light to be found. He also missed the clean, fresh Saudi air, compared to this polluted mess that Gotham was.
"Master Damian?" Pennyworth knocked on the door while calling, before opening it softly. The butler took his hand off of the doorknob and stood straight, posture absolutely perfect. Damian side-eyed the man, finding no flaws. He was wearing black ironed dress pants, with black dress shoes and a white dress shirt with a black tie. Around his shoulders was a thick butler's coat, with the buttons done up to the bottom of his ribcage, and the tail of it going down to the back of his knees. The suit was pressed professionally, with white gloves adoring Pennyworth's hands as the old man trained his light blue gaze upon Damian. Damian raised an eyebrow, not trusting himself to speak at the moment. Pennyworth merely stared coolly at him for a moment before clearing his throat. "Master Bruce has requested your presence in the living room. I believe he wished to test your knowledge of the Winged. I will bring your breakfast to you." Pennyworth recited, sounding emotionless and his face giving away nothing. Damian nodded and turned his head, a clear dismissal. Pennyworth turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind him. Damian sighed softly and prepared himself for another day with little food. Today, he'd have to go out and purchase some more. Pennyworth seemed like a decent person, but was all too aware of his status compared to those he served, and was much more… distant. Damian sighed softly, closing his eyes for a moment before schooling his expression into a blank, disinterested one. He swiftly crossed his room, the wind whispering goodbyes as he grabbed the door handle and twisted it, pushing the oak door open. He stepped into the hallway, dark brown carpet underneath his feet and beige walls surrounding him. He began to feel closed in, caged, as many Winged tended to when faced with an unknown situation in some sort of building. The wind was unable to reach him as he was, knowing that if she stirred in his presence she may give him away. Unfortunately, here, the wind knew that her child could not be himself without serious consequences and stayed quiet as her beautiful little bird went willingly into the lair of the bat. He was a broken bird, wings clipped and destroyed at the hands of his biological mother, and unknowingly, his new bat family. Blood scattered across his skin, scars telling a thousand stories with no words, wounds dotting every pore, every cell across him. The wind could see those scars, could hear those stories, and could taste the blood. Only because he was her child, and only because she had cared enough to look.
"You called for me, Father?" Damian asked after entering the living room. Bruce Wayne sat down on one of the large sofas in this living room. This one was mostly formal, three large sofas with black fabric with a diamond pattern where buttons met in the corners of the diamonds. One sofa was facing the wall, the other two diagonally facing the wall, with a small end table between each of the sofas. Large portraits dotted the walls, while flowers bloomed beautifully on the tables. On the wall was a large screen, as if Damian's Father had intended for a presentation. Bruce nodded, almost hesitant, and gestured towards the sofa beside himself. Damian took a seat elegantly, sitting back against the sofa without one single twitch, despite having the overwhelming urge to get the pressure off his back and it was crushing his wings and it hurt but he couldn't say anything- Damian stayed at attention, his face a mask of pride and arrogance.
"Uh, yes. I did call you." Bruce spoke hesitantly. He was never sure how to act around this child, this child that was half of his own flesh and blood. Damian was different from anyone he had ever raised, and even though Bruce had raised children before, he could not even fathom how to speak to Damian. Out of all of his children, Damian was closest to Jason. Jason, when he arrived at the manor, was brash and violent, not understanding of compassion. He was arrogant, but soon mellowed out when he realized he had absolutely nothing to fear from Bruce. Damian knew he had nothing to fear, but was still arrogant. Still lashed out. Was still afraid of kindness, took hugs as attacks, and refused to allow anyone to touch him. When he was scared, he would hide and deal with his emotions himself by locking them up deep inside, a place where no light could reach. A place Bruce couldn't be in, because Talia and Ra's ruled it and Damian was merely a toy for them to play with. It hurt Bruce to see his son sometimes, especially knowing that he wasn't able to speak to Damian and hold the boy close like he wanted to. Bruce had long since decided that maybe acting as he normally did would be best with Damian's temperament. Bruce squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, staring in his son right in the eyes. His soul internally hurt at the way the boy shifted slightly, eyes boring holes into Bruce's, and his muscles tensing as if he were preparing for a confrontation.
"I-" Bruce began, only to be cut off.
"Father, if this is nothing important, then I must be going. I have better things to be doing." Damian said, shortly. He was still tense, eyes still narrowed. If it were Dick or Tim or even Jason, Bruce would have hugged them by now, but the man knew all too well that Damian's hands were deadly, and had proved themselves to be such before. Bruce opened his mouth to retaliate, to tell Damian what he wanted the boy to hear, but-
"It was nothing important. You can go." the words slipped out of his mouth before he could give a conscious decision to allow them, and inwardly, Bruce cursed himself violently. His son nodded shortly, before standing up and turning on his heel and leaving, the tension only increasing as he turned his back to Bruce.
Does he think I'm going to attack him? Bruce wondered sadly, a rock sinking down into his gut. Bruce watched as the door shut soundly behind Damian, and he sighed heavily. He had called Damian over today to maybe talk to the kid, get to know him… see what his favourite movies were, so they could watch them together. What sort of popcorn was his favourite, or did he prefer chips? Bruce wanted to know. His favourite colour, animal, and type of clothing. Bruce was Damian's father, he should know these things. The fact that he didn't was horrible, and honestly… Bruce didn't know if he could do this.
So he allowed Damian to leave. A father would not know his son, and his son would always be wary of his father.
Far away, in the desert of Ad-Dahna in Saudi Arabia, ears perked up and caught some sort of sound. A goliath-like head raised from a bed made of tree leaves, that was in the middle of his enclosure, and turned towards the sound.
His boy needed him.