{the forlorn ghost}

-But a well−formed child is not very amusing; a hunchback is better fun-

He was a ghost. That was what he was often called by his grandfather, who found it very difficult to speak his name. He could not be blamed. After all, when a monster's name was spoken, bad things happened. It was the truth. Or, maybe it was not. He could not be certain, because he had trouble understanding. He was not allowed outside, and he was not allowed to speak with anyone that grandfather had not sent specifically for him.

If he must be truthful, he liked it this way. Else he might kill someone without meaning to. Not that killing was bad— grandfather made sure that he was able to kill, and that he was good at it. No, that was not it. It was the fact that he had no idea what this was, this monster that he was. If he looked a person in the eye, who was to say they wouldn't, say, turn to stone?

"I read about it," he had told his grandfather once. "About the monster who no one could look at. Medusa. Anyone who looked at her turned to stone. Am I like that, grandfather?"

His grandfather studied his pale face, and his eyes flashed away for a moment, deep in thought. Then he looked back at the little ghost.

"Yes," he said. "If anyone looks into your eyes, they will turn to stone. So do not take off those glasses. Ever."

He wore dark tinted glasses to spare the rare visitor from him, and to spare his eyes from the light. His eyes were very sensitive. He had trouble reading and writing at times, because everything was incredibly out of focus, and no matter how hard he tried he just could not see properly. Too much light often hurt him. Whenever he tried to overcome it, his grandfather got angry.

"You are a weak child," Grandfather said, looking down at him with utter disdain. "You are too frail to possibly be an heir of mine. And yet, you are all I have."

Damian felt a stir of shame and frustration inside him. And sadness. Sadness too. "But, Grandfather," he beseeched, "if I do not go outside, how will I get stronger?"

"By training."

He was good at training. But only when he stopped trying to see his opponent attacking, and relied on feeling him attack. Damian's vision was poor enough that it was more of an obstacle than anything else. He didn't rely on it much. Instead his sense of hearing was impeccable, and he felt things that others might easily miss. He could go an entire fight blindfolded, but do not ask him to search for something. It is likely he won't find it.

"But," Damian said, sinking a little in his seat. Grandfather never called for him to dine with him. He always came to Damian. "I train. I always train. I love training, but I want to go outside. Grandfather, if I am to be stronger, shouldn't I be able to go outside?"

Grandfather looked irritated. And his patience was wearing thin. His nostrils flared, and he stood, turning his back to Damian. The ghost's eyes widened, and he just couldn't fathom what he had done wrong. "If you think you are ready," his grandfather said, his voice sharp. "Then fine. I will arrange for someone to take you outside to train. But it must be a cloudy day, and you must cover your skin."

"Yes, grandfather."

Outside proved to be startling. A wake up call, really. Everything was so… so bright. His eyes stung within a few minutes, and despite the fact he was covering all but his face, his skin was itching. He trained out there, but he struggled. He was distracted by the trees, the shrubbery. He fell to his knees, gasping as the sword sliced through his sleeve and flesh.

He saw his grandfather watching by the entrance to the courtyard. His eyes were disappointed. His lips were pulled into a disgusted scowl. Damian's heart sank. And then it hardened. No, he thought, pushing himself to his feet. No, I must become stronger. I want to be stronger, and I'm going to be stronger. He whirled, feeling his opponent's sword whistle beside him. Damian's own sword buried itself deep into the man's chest. He felt that too. He felt the man shudder, gasp, and he felt his blood seep through the wound, blooming like a red rose across his breast.

He kicked him away, and decided he liked it outside.

"Grandfather," Damian said one night at dinner. Grandfather was coming less often now. Damian was eight. "You never told me about my father."

His grandfather looked at him with cold eyes. He set down his fork, and Damian leaned back, apprehension knotting in his stomach. "I do believe that was intentional," his grandfather said, his eyes narrowing. "What brought this on?"

"Nothing." Damian blinked in surprise. "I… merely was wondering… I mean, I know… I know that a child must have a father and a mother, that's genetics." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "But… I know nothing of my father."

"I suppose not." His grandfather's green eyes were hard and dull. As sparingly as he spoke about Damian's mother, his father had never even been broached before this moment. And Damian was so curious, he couldn't keep quiet. "Very well. What do you wish to know?"

Damian tingled with excitement, and he raised his chin high. His glasses were sliding, and he pushed them back up. "What was his name?" Damian asked eagerly.

Grandfather did not look happy. But he had known it was coming. Damian could sense that. "His name is Bruce Wayne," Grandfather said.

Damian was surprised. "Batman?" There was an uncertainty to learning this. He was told of the Bat, of course, but he'd never thought… "But… I thought…"

"You thought what?" He could feel his grandfather's glare, and he looked away. "Speak up, you little ghost."

"I thought that my father would be an assassin," Damian admitted. "Someone of your choosing."

"Batman was of my choosing."

That was strange to hear. He took a deep breath, and he looked down at his food. He suddenly was no longer hungry. "But if my father is Batman," Damian said slowly, "surely he doesn't know about me."

"That would be a correct assumption."

He stood up. He didn't know why he felt angry. He felt ashamed, and he felt disgusting. He was a monster, after all. Bruce Wayne would be disgusted with him too, if he ever found out. He was shaking, his white fingers grasping the edge of the table, and he bit his lip to keep himself from snapping something that would only get him a beating.

"Does he know?" Damian asked quietly. "About my mother? Does he know what happened to her?"

"What you did?" His grandfather scoffed. Damian's stomach twisted with guilt and shame and confusion. It's not my fault, he wanted to say. I didn't ask to be born. "No. It's best he doesn't know. He might ask questions."

"And find me." And see what a disappointment I am. He thought he might understand now why his grandfather had kept it from him. "I see."

His grandfather studied his face intently. And he looked just as disgusted as he usually did when he had to look at Damian for too long. "Do you?" he asked.

"Yes." Damian gathered his plate and utensils, and placed it in the basket his grandfather had brought to his room. He turned around toward his bed. "I'm not feeling well, grandfather. Please leave."

His grandfather seemed happy to oblige. Damian knew he hated to look at him. He was a ghost of the mother he had killed the day he was born, and a ghost of what he could have been. And Ra's al Ghul hated him for that. He hated him because he was a weak product of something so mighty. And yet, looking at him? He was nothing but a very, very frail child who could barely see, let alone be the warrior he was expected to be.

Damian laid down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and he imagined life might have been like if he had been born normal. If his mother had lived, if his eyes were not cursed, if his skin was warm hued and healthy, if his hair was rich and glossy and black. Instead, he was a pasty, red eyed ghost, with pallid hair and lies to feed him.


Note: Damian's backstory is a bit different. Obviously. Aside from the fact that Talia died giving birth to him, Damian is also albino. Might not seem like a big deal until you remember that Ra's had a son that was albino. And if you're like me (most people tend to know more about comic books, but this was a huge shock to me at the time of writing this chapter) YOU HAD NO IDEA SAID SON EXISTED. Ra's al Ghul's son? What the fuck happened to him? Well, he died. I'm not even sure what his name was, the wiki just said, "White Ghost". Now, special note to Maggie. DID I CATCH YOU OFF GUARD, MOTHERFUCKER? Happy Birthday, please take this adorable white haired bby dami and enjoy his sweet innocence.

Once again, the cred goes to Victor Hugo for the quote.