A/N: Muchas gracias por todos sus comentarios, Haro kzoids! Me gusta leer sus pensamientos y puntos de vista. :)

Batman finished clearing his eyesight just in time to see Dick, who was running toward the dark forest, change direction. Glancing the other way, he saw Marco Rosselli. The man was holding a gun, and it was aimed directly at the hero. Quickly, the Caped Crusader snatched a Bat-a-rang from his utility belt and threw it.

The weapon flew through the air, and it would have easily knocked the gun out of Marco's hand if a sprinting Dick Grayson hadn't thrown himself in the way. Time seemed to slow down as Batman watched the twelve-year-old get hit in the front by a bullet and in the back by a Bat-a-rang. Dick dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, sending a small cloud of dust into the air as his body thumped onto the dirt.

"No," Batman whispered, horror racing through the single word.

If the bullet hadn't killed him, the Bat-a-rang probably had. One of the two men had just inadvertently killed the last of The Flying Graysons. The boy who had survived for three years by forcing himself to pretend to be someone else. The twelve-year-old who deserved so much more than what life had handed him.

"Noooooooooooooo!"

Marco's yell shook Batman out of his horrified stupor. Shaking his head, he sprinted toward the man and the fallen boy. Marco was on his knees by the small body, his hands pushing on Dick's left shoulder. Red liquid was trickling through his fingers, and Batman was surprised at how slow it was flowing.

The boy was unconscious, but the bullet had only sliced his shoulder, which meant his shoulder was only slightly bleeding. The Bat-a-rang, however, had slammed into the back of Dick's head. Neither man noticed the injury until Batman knelt down and nearly did the splits as his knees slid out from under him.

Batman pulled his Bat-flashlight out of his utility belt and shined the beam on the back of Dick's head. There was a long gash – precisely the same size as the flat end of a Bat-a-rang. It was bleeding profusely, and Batman realized that he had slipped in a puddle of fresh blood.

Retrieving the Bat-towel that he had just put away, the hero pushed it hard against the wound. So intent was he on stopping the blood that he failed to notice Marco raising his gun. Something hard hit Batman's head, and his world went dark.

Marco, after slamming the butt of his gun on the side of Batman's head, rolled Dick's limp body over so he could examine the head wound. The Bat-towel was still on it, and there was no streaming or trickling or even dripping blood, so Marco decided it would be okay to take the boy and run.

So he did. Scooping Dick off the ground, he turned around and hurried back toward the circus. The medic could take care of this new problem, and Marco could truthfully blame it on Batman. A win-win, in his book. Dominic would have to disappear for a while, but he was not on any posters or advertisements anyway. The Flying Rossellis could be a trio until the boy healed and was ready to perform.

Circus Fazioli rolled out of Gotham City early the next morning, at about the same time that Batman began to wake up in a pool of dried blood five miles away from Crime Alley. The Caped Crusader was dizzy, and slightly disoriented, but he eventually found his way to the Batmobile. He was in no shape to drive, and he knew it, so he called Alfred and asked him to remotely bring him home.

Thirty minutes later, he was in the Batcave sitting on a table in the medical area. Alfred had just finished stitching the gash on the side of his head, and was now examining the smaller slice on the hero's forehead.

"I killed him."

Alfred paused, allowed the shock to flow through his body, then composed himself.

"Whom, sir?"

"The boy."

"He's dead, Master Bruce?"

"He was bleeding out, I doubt Marco knew how to take care of that. The last of The Flying Graysons…"

"Did you mean The Flying Rossellis, sir?" Alfred inquired when Bruce paused.

Bruce had forgotten that Alfred knew nothing about last night's discoveries.

"Dominic Rosselli is – was – actually Dick Grayson. He was kidnapped from Haly's a few days or weeks after his parents died. The Rossellis created a persona, and he was forced to perform as one of them. He told me he tried to escape so many times that Marco – the head of the Rosselli family – started chaining him to the wall in their trailer."

Bruce paused again, so Alfred continued the next thought.

"That's why there's no record of him on the customs registry, sir."

The younger man nodded, then pounded a heavy fist on the medical table.

"The 'customs box'! That's why the older kid called it that! The Rossellis put him in a coffin in the elephant cage whenever they crossed a border! Nobody would look for him there, it was a perfect setup!"

"Good heavens, Master Bruce!"

"And then I killed him."

Alfred shook his head as he placed a thin piece of gauze across the small slice.

"I don't know how you think you killed him, sir, but…"

"He threw himself in front of the bullet," Bruce interrupted.

"When…"

"We took a walk, almost all the way to Crime Alley, and he told me a lot about his life. Marco Rosselli showed up with a gun, and Dick threw himself between me and the bullet."

"Then it is not your fault, Master…"

"I threw a Bat-a-rang, Alfred! I saw the gun, grabbed a Bat-a-rang, and threw it perfectly. And Dick got in the way."

"Sir, the bullet…"

"Sliced his shoulder," Bruce finished, his voice filled with sorrow. "But my Bat-a-rang sliced open the back of his head. If Dick didn't receive proper care last night…I killed him."

Alfred, for one of the few times in his life, didn't know what to say. Silence reigned, a heavy stillness that was threatening to swallow the men whole.

"It was an accident, Master Bruce," Alfred finally stated quietly.

"He's still dead."

"Perhaps Mr. Rosselli was able to take him to a hospital…"

"Dominic Rosselli doesn't exist, Alfred, they can't take him to a hospital!"

"Perhaps it was not as bad as it looked, sir. It was, after all, extremely dark last night…"

"STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER!" Bruce thundered as he shoved himself off the table. "I know a fatal head wound when I see one," he finished angrily.

Alfred didn't respond, choosing instead to begin cleaning up the medical area. Bruce felt slightly bad that he had just yelled at his butler, but he justified it by telling himself that Alfred didn't know enough about the situation to give a valid opinion. It was a stupid justification, and Bruce knew it, but it was all he had.

"I'm going back," Bruce finally stated.

"That will be rather difficult, Master Bruce, since the circus has already left."

"What?!"

"It was on the news this morning, sir. They left one day early, and everyone is assuming that it's because of Dominic."

"But they don't…"

"Because of Dominic's multitude of mistakes and subsequent cutting from last night's performance, sir," the butler uncharacteristically interrupted. "That was in the report."

"Dick Grayson learned to fly one-armed when he was six," Bruce snapped, repeating the boy's earlier words. "There was no valid reason to cut him in the middle of the performance."

"Be that as it may, Master Bruce, Circus Fazioli is gone. I don't know how fast a circus travels, but they left early this morning. It was the lead story in the newscast; I heard the fact about an hour before you called me, sir."

"Gone," Bruce echoed flatly. "Just like last time."

Alfred nodded, but remained silent.

"Except this time he's dead," the younger man whispered despondently.

Dick Grayson wasn't dead. He was lying on a cot in Circus Fazioli's medical trailer, pale and weak, but very much alive. And, currently, wide awake.

"How are you feeling, Dominic?" the medic asked when he saw the light-blue eyes slowly appear.

"T'rd, head hurs," the twelve-year-old replied.

"Yes, well, you were hit in the back of the head with some kind of weapon. You've been asleep the whole morning. We've been worried about you," the man stated.

"Happen?" Dick asked.

"Your father knows the details. Do you want me to get him for you?"

"Yeah," the boy whispered, exhaustion in his voice.

The medic disappeared. Three minutes later, Marco appeared.

"Hey, Dom," the man said softly. "Mizo told me that you don't remember what happened last night. Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yeah," Dick whispered again.

"Okay, well, you ran away…"

"What?!" the boy exclaimed quietly, his eyes wide with distress.

"Sh, calm down, it's okay, you're back now. Do you remember anything at all about last night?"

Dick carefully shook his head, so Marco decided to start again.

"A criminal snatched you after our performance. You were several miles away when I finally caught up with you. He saw me and knocked you in the back of the head with a weapon. I think he knew I would stay with you instead of going after him."

"Thanks for saving me," Dominic responded quietly.

"Of course, son, I will always save you."

"Are we…safe?"

"Yes, we packed up and left as soon as I brought you back. I was worried that he might come back for you."

"Can I go to sleep?"

"Yes. Your mother wants to see you, but she can wait until you wake up again."

"Okay. Dad?" Dom said when Marco turned around to leave, causing the man to look back at him.

"Yes, son?"

"Will you tell mom that I love her?"

"Of course."

Marco turned to leave again, but was stopped again by the young voice.

"Dad?"

With a sigh, the man looked back and said, "Yes?"

"Love you."

"I love you, too, son. Now go to sleep."

Dominic nodded as his eyes drifted closed.

You love me? That's new.

Dismissing the thought, Marco left the medical trailer. Maria needed to know that Dominic was conscious. She was so concerned about him that she had been crying for almost three hours. However, the woman would have to wait until the boy woke up to visit him. Marco wanted him to rest as much as possible. The sooner Dominic healed, the sooner he could begin performing again.

One week later:

Dominic Rosselli – Dick Grayson – was constantly in both Bruce's and Batman's thoughts. The man knew the boy was dead, and he knew he needed to move on, but for some reason he couldn't. He had known Dick for less than two hours, but he couldn't push the memory of their conversation out of his mind.

"He was a very talented kid, and way too old for his age," Bruce commented to Alfred as he sat down at the table for dinner.

"Yes, sir. From what you have told me, he was strong in more ways than one."

"He had so much potential, so much life ahead of him. And I took it all away."

"You had no way of knowing, Master Bruce. It is my opinion, sir, that Mr. Rosselli is the one who took it away. Dick Grayson would not have died if Marco Rosselli had not been preparing to shoot you. Nor would he have died if the man hadn't kidnapped him, sir."

"I agree," Bruce replied quietly, "but it's still my fault. If it had just been the bullet, he would not have died."

"Sir, you have trained yourself to react in a certain manner when faced with certain dangers. A Bat-a-rang negates the effectiveness of a gun, and it has worked for you many times in the past. There is no way you could have predicted that the boy would throw himself in front of the bullet, Master Bruce. And he knew next to nothing about you, sir, so he never could have guessed that you would have something to protect yourself."

"You're right," Bruce stated. "I wish I could have saved him three years ago. Then we wouldn't even be talking about this."

"I am sorry, Master Bruce. This is a difficult thing to deal with even though you only knew him for a brief period of time."

"I feel like I can't move on, like his ghost is always going to be haunting me, asking me why I didn't save him."

"Sir, Batman has seen people die before. What makes this boy different?"

"I don't know, Alfred. I really don't know."

The bullet wound in his shoulder was almost completely healed, and the arm that had been roughly twisted was no longer painful. Dom still had a constant headache, but he was doing his best to hide it. He didn't want his family to worry about him more than they already had – and were.

Marco had discovered something important when he had questioned the boy the day after "rescuing" him.

"What's the last thing you remember, son?"

"Getting chalk on a guy's hand. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that."

"You don't remember anything after that?!"

"No, sorry. Did something important happen?"

"It's fine, Dom, don't worry about it."

Dominic had lost an entire day. The medic had called it 'post-traumatic amnesia'. He said it might come back, or it could be gone forever. But one day didn't matter that much, so the medic said the boy would soon be back to normal.

What neither of the men knew was that Dom had lost more than just the one day. He couldn't remember very much about the first nine years of his life. His earliest memory was an image of Maria hugging him, and telling him that everything was going to be okay, and that she loved him, and that she wanted him to be able to fly. But Dom didn't tell anyone that his first memory was from when he was already nine, because they might not let him fly anymore.

That was one thing he knew for certain – Dominic Rosselli loved to fly. He remembered how to fly, and how it felt to fly, and he wanted to get back up in the air as soon as possible. Dominic didn't want to rest in the medical trailer, and then rest in his family's trailer, but everyone had told him that the more he rested the sooner he would get better. So, he rested, although it was extremely frustrating to watch his brother and parents practicing without him.

"Dad, can I fly today?" Dominic asked when Marco entered their trailer after a morning rehearsal.

"Your head needs time to heal, Dom. I don't want you to start until you're completely healed."

"But my head feels fine!"

"It's only been a week, Dominic. Give it another week, and then I'll think about it."

"But Daaaaad," the twelve-year-old nearly whined.

"I'm not taking any chances. Give it another week."

"Fine," Dom replied grumpily. "Can I at least do some kind of workout?"

Marco thought for a minute, then nodded.

"A light workout, son. The sooner you are fully healed, the sooner you can fly again."

"Okay," Dominic agreed.

A light workout was better than sitting on a mattress in a trailer doing absolutely nothing. Marco left, and Dominic heard the quiet 'jingle' of the metal bracelets above his bed. What they were, he didn't know, nor did he know why they were there. But, it was calming to watch them sway around when he couldn't sleep at night. Which happened most nights.

That was something else Dom kept to himself. At night was when he felt closest to his lost memories. There were always shadows drifting around the edges of his brain. Silhouettes of people that he desperately wanted to identify, but couldn't. Smells he knew he should recognize, and a woman's voice softly singing a song in a different language.

Pushing away the shadows, Dominic stepped out of his family's trailer. It was a sunny day, but the air was crisp and the slight breeze was refreshing. He decided to take a walk around the outskirts of the circus. Where he could easily be seen and heard, just in case.

The fact that he had been kidnapped wouldn't leave his thoughts. It was strange, though, because he felt like it had happened a long time ago. But, it had only been a week since he had woken up in the medical trailer.

"Dom, you get to fly today?!"

Rob's voice startled the twelve-year-old out of his musings. His brother sauntered over and joined him. Dominic shook his head in answer to the question. To his surprise, Rob huffed in what sounded like frustration.

"Dad ever going to let you come back?" the sixteen-year-old practically demanded.

"He said to give it another week," Dom replied with similar frustration.

"Another week?!"

"Yeah, he said he has to make sure my head is completely healed. It doesn't even hurt anymore, Rob! I want to fly so bad, I feel like I haven't flown for years!"

"Hey, Mom and Dad are at an 'adults only' meeting. Let's go in the practice tent and I'll set you up to fly. But I have to make it half-height, because we can't put up a net by ourselves."

"I don't know, Rob, I don't want to get in trouble."

"Eh, nobody will know. It'll take five minutes to set up, you can play for ten minutes, then another five minutes to take it down. Twenty, twenty-five minutes tops."

"But what if Dad is right?"

"You don't want to fly? Fine by me. Have fun waiting another week."

"No, wait! I want to, I really want to, but…"

"Dom, I'm not going to stand here all day waiting for you to make a decision. It's 'Yes, I want to fly' or 'No, I'm scared of getting in trouble'. Which one?"

"I…yes, I want to fly."

"Let's go," Rob said with a grin.

The boys raced to the practice tent. To their surprise, the platform had already been set up. It was at performance height – thirty feet in the air – and there was no way they would be able to move it down by themselves.

"Dang, sorry, Dom. I guess maybe we're having a rehearsal this afternoon."

"I'll just swing," the twelve-year-old replied. "I won't fly, and you can stand down here. It will be easy to catch me if I fall, because I'll only be swinging."

"You sure?"

The younger boy nodded, so the sixteen-year-old shrugged.

"Okay, but only swinging. Slow swinging, so I can stay underneath you."

Dom nodded again and went to the ladder. He climbed up to the platform and turned around as if surveying the audience. And then he froze.

There was no net. People were flying, and the crowd was cheering, so it was a performance. But there was no net. And then the aerialists, whomever they were, began to fall. Their elegance became awkwardness as they flailed around in the air. Dom stared at them as they fell, wondering why this felt so real. He couldn't see their faces, so he didn't even know who they were.

Anyone who fell from that height wouldn't be getting back up – Dominic knew that. He also knew that he had two parents and a brother who were all alive, so obviously they weren't the ones falling.

"Hey, Dom, you okay?" Rob called.

Dominic didn't hear the words. He was lost in what must be a dream, because he was sure this couldn't be a memory.

"DOMINIC!" Rob finally yelled. "Maybe you should come back down!"

The loud sound of his name finally pulled the twelve-year-old back to the present. Rob's voice had a tinge of concern, and Dom felt bad for worrying him.

"I'm okay," he yelled down. "Ready?"

"I don't know, Dom, this might not be a good…"

Ignoring the uncertainty in his brother's voice, Dominic grabbed the trapeze. He unhooked it, wrapped his hands firmly around it, and slowly stepped off the platform. A rush of momentum grabbed him as his feet left the wood, but he easily slowed it down. Dom gently glided back and forth, not doing anything to increase his speed.

Roberto was nervous. Dominic had looked frozen, and the sixteen-year-old thought that maybe he should have just climbed up and brought the boy down. But now the twelve-year-old was swinging, and all of Rob's focus was on the lithe body thirty feet in the air. Until…