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Chapter 14
Seal
It only took a minute to reaffix masks and clip bandoliers in place, preparing physically for the upcoming fight against Ra's. Tim knew exactly where to find him. It was a short deduction really, based on the man's choice of penthouses and his proclivities. He'd want to see his handiwork.
"Several hours ago demons started attacking civilians in the surrounding area," Dick told him as they found the stairs, hurriedly bringing him up to speed. "There were only so many places within that area Ra's could keep you. We figured it would be here. The surrounding streets are havoc, but it hasn't spread far yet."
Tim nodded grimly. He was glad Dick and Jason were by his side, even if they were a shabby bunch to save the world: he, himself, panting through the hot burning of the curse, spreading crippling fingers of flame under his blackened skin where the marks had grown thicker in their chokehold; Jason, ignoring the marks spreading along his own arm, and even if he was grinning demonically at the upcoming carnage, Tim wasn't fooled. It had taken a lot out of the older boy to change him. And Dick… All it would take was one of Ra's' demons drawing his blood and Dick would be as damned as the rest of them.
Tim had never been so aware of the weight resting on his shoulders. This wasn't about saving the millions of nameless faces below them. This wasn't about stopping the demons. It was about his family. He either succeeded here, or he lost everything.
At least he wasn't heading into this in bloodstained rags. The brilliant red and black suit Jason had designed hugged his skin securely, a feeling as familiar as it was new. He'd looked through the golden yellow bandoliers now strapped across his chest. It was well armed—the physical form of his family's wish for his safe return carried with him.
Family. His family. He thrilled at the thought of it, the knowledge of it, new and old all at once.
He paused on the top step, a warm hand having gripped his shoulder.
"We're with you, Little Brother. All the way."
"What do you want us to do?" Jason asked. Tim looked down at them—his brothers, trusting him, supporting him—and he wished he had time to tell them everything he wanted to say: thank you for staying with me, I don't want to lose you, I'm sorry I hurt you.
"Keep the demons off me."
When he threw the door open, it was to find a dozen of the monsters waiting for them, silhouetted against the white stone tiles paving the terrace. And just visible through the mass of hulking black forms, Ra's stood at the glass guardrail, hands clasped behind his back, like a general coldly watching the battle beneath him. Just where Tim had predicted he'd be. Because Ra's would want to be above it all, watching the world crumble at his feet, watching his demons take Gotham in an inferno of fire and mayhem. A king on his throne.
Tim gritted his teeth and extended the bo Jason had brought him, prepared to fight through the honor guard protecting Ra's—not an easy feat in itself, to say nothing of the man waiting for them on the other side. In many ways, demons were harder to deal with than humans. Not just physically stronger, more difficult to damage, but they didn't have the same weaknesses to prey upon: he couldn't use one's overconfidence against another, couldn't take advantage of the discord between individuals. There weren't even the same muscle tells to indicate a sudden switch in direction or attack. Tim might have had Timothy's abilities now, but he couldn't predict the movements of beings with no predictable traits.
But as it turned out, he didn't have to.
When Ra's saw him, the corners of the man's mouth turned down, heavy with disapproval and irritation, like a disappointed parent. Tim knew he must be a sight: covered in tight black script from head to toe (what was visible through his suit), reeking of his own blood, trying not to pant from the curse burning him up inside. He was tired. So tired.
"If you'd just died like a good boy, you would've been safely reincarnated by now." Ra's gestured and the demons parted—a sea of black hellfire letting one damned soul pass. Tim didn't believe for a second they'd stay out of the way. That was Dick and Jason's job.
"But Jason and Damian wouldn't." Tim readied himself, shifting wearily from foot to foot as Ra's discarded his robe, advancing on him in a white dress shirt and gray pants set off by a red sash. He looked impeccable, even headed for a fight. The man drew his scimitar, a warning sching of the blade against the scabbard, and Tim readied his bo—a very special bo, one strong enough to stand up to the kind of force and abuse he could wield now. He watched the man warily, eyes sharp, calculating the seconds he had until Ra's reached him, the various paths open to him, the energy toll each would exact.
Then Ra's lunged, scimitar extending his reach spear-like, and Tim danced away from the assault, blocking with the bo when the strike turned into a swipe. He used the block to push back, put more distance between them, angling to get behind the man, but Ra's simply used the push to give him the momentum to swing into a reverse round kick. There was no going under it. Tim sprung up instead, pushing curse-weakened muscles to leap over the attack, bringing the bo down hard with both hands. It hit. The bo struck bruisingly hard into Ra's' shoulder, just as the scimitar sliced a neat line up Tim's arm.
He landed gracefully despite the injury, already whirling backwards, finding that distance again and evaluating the situation. In the post high of expended exertion, with the fatigue crashing in, the world seemed just a bit paler than it had before, sights and sounds and impressions washing out into ringing silence. He couldn't hear Dick's quips or Jason's snarls as they distracted the demons somewhere behind him, engaged in their own battle. He couldn't hear the car alarms down below or the shriek of twisted metal as other vehicles slammed into their predecessors. He shook his head, trying to clear it, straining past the reeling nothingness into the bright world of sound and sensation again. It came back in a rush and he breathed heavily into the relief. Only the worry lingered: worry over the cause of the lapse, worry over the consequences of it happening again.
"The Detective won't be able to stop the full might of my league." Ra's gestured expansively, scimitar hanging idly at his side. "My demons spread the curse beyond his control even now. The world you know is falling into darkness, Timothy. The curse is eating you from the inside out. What do you hope to gain?"
"Even if we can't save this city, I'm not letting you have what's left." Tim rotated his arm in its socket—a full circle—the burn of the scimitar's cut nothing compared to the curse and already healed by the time he completed the circle.
"So stubborn." Ra's strode toward him again, all regal and deadly grace.
Tim palmed several of the bird-encrusted shurikens from his bandoliers—"You're one of us," Jason had told him when he'd showed him those—flinging them at Ra's. They made little metallic distressed sounds as the scimitar deflected them, but Tim had already launched into the opening created by the assault.
Ra's was faster than someone of his age and size would seem, strong as the demons he commanded. Tim had lost the last time he'd fought this man—lost the physical fight at least. That had been… lifetimes ago. Ra's had only increased in knowledge and experience since then while Tim held still, locked in cycles of incarnations, unable to move forward. But he didn't need to beat Ra's outright. He just needed to sever the man's connection to his demons. If nothing else, it would contain the curse.
But he had to get close to Ra's first.
He danced back as the scimitar came plunging toward him again, and his thoughts narrowed to calculating speed and distance, force and energy, the weave and spin of the fight. Survival became a whirl of dodging and blocking, kicking and spinning. Ra's' blade sliced repeatedly into arms and calf and chin, drawing sharp lines of blood from black-marked skin, draining him of strength and stamina one cut at a time. Tim landed his own kick, but couldn't get past the man's guard. Behind him, he could hear the hot hissing sounds of demons as Dick and Jason worked in tandem to take them out. Somewhere below them, on the streets, he knew Bruce and Damian were fighting too. All of them depending on him.
Color and definition paled again suddenly, edges blurring worse this time. He could barely feel the staff in his hands, could barely move muscles in a body from which he felt more and more disconnected. Even the fire-bright flare of panic felt distant. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head, gripping down harder, trying to push through…
Ra's knocked the bo up before Tim could work past whatever force had hold of him, leaving an opening for his foot to connect solidly with Tim's chest, and Tim flew back, crashing into the white stone tiles paving the roof with a deafening crack. The impact against his upper back knocked the breath out of him, but he'd barely hit before he was using the momentum to flip back onto his feet, pushing off with his hands to land with a tired wobble among the demons ringing them, chest heaving. He just managed to keep from collapsing to one knee before the demons reached out with cinder-black claws. He ducked the solid swipe of one on his left, blocking a second swipe with his bo. Then Jason and Dick were there, pushing them back with escrimas and salt, unmindful of the tears nightmare-sharp claws had already torn through Kevlar.
"We've got you, Little Brother." Dick grinned. Behind him, Jason cursed vehemently in confirmation. It was very heartening. The two of them took out the hulking monsters bearing down on them with flicks of salt and consecrated soil, but for every one they sent howling back into the darkness, another took its place. They couldn't win like this.
Tim pushed through the demons to throw himself back into the fight with Ra's, despite the burn of the curse dragging at his limbs and sapping his stamina, despite the blackness gaining solidity at the edges of his vision. That same force that had caught him earlier, distancing him from sights and sounds and perceptions, was still there too, held temporarily at bay but gaining force and closing in. That was the curse too, he realized with sudden clarity, clambering for control of him. He'd reached the end. That cold, black end.
The fear of that thought gave him the incentive to fight harder for these last few precious seconds, throwing himself into the battle with all his might. The little shadows at his feet flickered questioningly, worriedly, but he didn't have any time for it. Ra's was merciless, coming after him. It was all he could do to keep from getting his head cracked open, to keep that hairsbreadth margin ahead of the man, let alone find time to retaliate. But he didn't have time to keep dodging and ducking and blocking either.
The next time the bright blade reached for him, he bent over backwards, knees bent, hands finding the ground in a perfect arc as the blade split the air above him. Then, hands braced, he swept his feet up, kicking the scimitar out of Ra's' hand. It flew away, scraping against the paving stones. Tim had a moment to think, "yes," and then Ra's' other hand wrapped around his shin, jerking him upward. Gotham spun wildly around him, and then Ra's slammed him down into the glass café-style table by the railing. It cracked under the impact, spider-webbing and falling through in a shower of glass shards.
He barely had time to suck in a breath and kick at the twisted metal frame bent around him before Ra's' hand tightened around his neck with all the strength of a demon, lifting him out of the twisted remains of the table, holding him above the ground. One of the demons appeared at his side, returning the lost scimitar. "Your comrades haven't saved you, Timothy. They've damned you. But you can still be killed. You can still escape your fate."
"Not…" Tim growled through the pain—pushed through it, just as he pushed at the man's hold, "as your puppet."
"I can feel the curse in you, taking control little by little. How long do you think you can hold out? Let me free you from its corruption…"
Tim dug in with his nails, drawing blood. He had to cut off Ra's' means of spreading the curse quickly, no matter what. But he was losing reality one piece at a time. Losing control. The growl in his throat didn't feel completely his anymore.
The hand at his neck dragged him in closer until his back pressed up against Ra's, held trapped against the man's chest, still dangling in the air. The demons swarmed around his booted feet, black claws raking at the suit, holding his legs immobile as he struggled. The heat of them licked tongues of fire up his shins, his calves. He couldn't think for the heat.
Then Ra's picked up the scimitar with the hand not pinning him in place, and the glittering tip of the sword angled toward them.
"Be a good boy, die this time." Tim grunted as the large blade thrust through the soft flesh of his abdomen—a new memory over the old scars—driving him farther back into the large, supporting body behind him. He threw his head back, arching against the intrusion, but Ra's' hand on the hilt kept it pressed in tight even as his other arm made a solid bar across Tim's chest, keeping him in place. He could feel the cold metal buried inside him, and it was almost a relief from the hot, smoldering of the curse. But he was losing blood again now. It seeped through the red of the uniform. While bleeding out wouldn't kill him—there were times it would have been a mercy if it had—even changed as he was, there was only so much abuse his body could take before it became unusable.
Ra's made a displeased sound, pulling the scimitar out a couple inches and angling it upward, thrusting in again. Tim's eyes flew wide as his body seized.
"Tim!" That was Dick's panicked cry.
"Get away from him!" And Jason. Neither able to reach him through the sea of black demons holding them off, overwhelming what meager defenses they had left. They tried anyway. Tim could just see obsidian claws slam through Dick's shoulder as the older boy struggled to reach him, the demon taking advantage of the distraction. He could see Jason's mouth open in a silent snarl. He could see it all, just for that second, even as his focus frayed out against the sword tip.
"That's your heart I just pierced." Ra's whispered it into his ear like a lover, loosening his hold just enough for Tim's feet to slip to the floor somewhere in the mass of black swallowing his legs, letting Tim's own weight drive the blade deeper even as he tried to push up futilely with his toes. "I realize this won't outright kill you," Ra's continued, "and it must be excruciating." Tim gasped wordlessly for air, entire body shaking and seizing, knees giving out. He didn't know where Dick and Jason were anymore. He couldn't see. "But time is short to keep you from the clutches of the curse, and if I keep your heart from functioning long enough…" It was only Ra's keeping him upright now. Rational thought had scattered, and he reached, stretched, couldn't… gather the shards of coherency. Every second the blade was still inside him was another second his body couldn't heal itself, heaving halfheartedly around the foreign object.
Amidst it all, Tim's gasps turned to huffs of mirth, wringing the air from his burning body. It was all that he could manage. He could feel the curse's fingers scrabbling at his mind now, raking out splinters, taking control.
"Thank you." It eked out with the rest of his air. He palmed one of the circular, stylized shurikens from his belt with numb, shaking fingers—the blood in his body couldn't circulate, couldn't give his muscles the oxygen they needed. Memories flickered, fading into the night like dying coals—family, smiles, brothers, Dick's hand warm over his heart. "It's here."
With the last of his ebbing strength, he raked the blade of the stylized bird across the chest behind him. There was an abrasive sound of ripping cotton, the smell of blood, and stunned silence from his adversary. Silence from the demons all around them—immobile, watching—all having stopped as one.
Beneath the fluttering edges of the tear through Ra's' shirt, there was a circular brand seared into the skin, the lines inside it crisscrossing intricately. A seal. The kind inscribed in flesh and blood to bind demons. Now broken by the gash Tim had cut through it.
"Find the seal." Words he'd hastily written into his report in his own cipher all those years ago when he'd made the decision to go to Ra's, words scratched out on a stick-it note by the lost and confused boy he'd become, then crumpled and carried and pressed into his hand by Dick. All of his planning, his weaving of a veritable web of variables spun out through time, come down to this.
Tim slipped from Ra's' arms completely as the man staggered backward, still staring down at the bloody line dividing the seal on his chest. Freed, Tim collapsed to the ground amid the immobile mass of demons.
"What have you done?" Ra's demanded, and then livid, "What have you done?!" He started to lunge at Tim, but the demons got there first, closing in from all sides. Freed from their bindings, they converged on Ra's en masse—a black wave of rage and revenge. Tim felt the blast of heat as they whisked past him. Where he'd fallen to the broken, white paving stones, he could only watch through exhaustion-hazed, hooded eyes. He didn't have the strength to keep them open, didn't have the strength to care about anything beyond them. The world was failing, falling away in broken shards. That might have been the last heave of his heart giving out or the curse finally sucking him under, stealing what was left of his broken, abused body.
He heard the screams, but by the time the heaving shadows thinned—did they thin? He thought they thinned, it was hard to tell—dispersing back into the darkness, there was nothing left of Ra's. It hardly mattered, because the world had gone black anyway.
Author Notes: "…heaving halfheartedly around the foreign object." Terrible pun, I'm sorry. I had to.
The next (final) chapter is over 6000 words long, still not finished, and I blame half of that on Jason alone and a good portion of the rest on Dick. *headdesk* I wanted to post it by next week to make up for the delay this round and the fact that this chapter is purely battle, but alas, we'll have to see if I can get those last paragraphs out.
I went round and round on villains and plotlines with this fic. There was at least a month where I was making lists of pros and cons for Dana being Janet, Timothy's real mom, who had also been the one to stab him (not Talia initially) in a bid to keep the dagger from Ra's, and hadn't realized it was cursed. She then made her own deal to follow her son to make sure he was safe. I still feel there was a lot of merit in that idea. But I'd already written and posted Dana as struggling with PTSD like in the comics, and I couldn't come up with a reason for her faking that.
A few notes: the Ty Warner Penthouse doesn't actually include the rooftop (I combined penthouses). I've been trying to find specs on Robin's suit for sometime, something that tells me what everything is made out of. I hear a lot of spandex jokes, but I can't believe for a second that Bruce would let them fight without more substantial protection like Kevlar or Nomex.