It's a Graves thing (soundofwings) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2014-01-02 12:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | damian wayne, death, door: dc comics |
Who: Damian and Death
What: Death. And Post-Death.
Where: The rooftop of the apartment in Gotham.
When: Instantly following this
Warnings/Rating: Talk of death and more sads.
Timing was a strange thing. She supposed she could have thought of it as Fate, but Fate was so close to Destiny, and she knew her brother was not to be found in this world through the door. If he was, perhaps this would have been written in his book, but she was so uncertain these days (between the changes in the universe, herself, and the influence of Las Vegas) how things were actually supposed to work. She knew that stepping through the door for the first time in months brought with it a rush of sensation and information that almost prevented her from pulling back into herself, making herself small and human. In that rush, though, she was able to pick out a few certain things about the people she knew - things going on in Gotham. She did her best to shove those thoughts to the back of her mind, and instead went to take care of several things at the funeral home.
But in the back of her mind, she knew that something was coming. It was the itch of knowledge at the back of her neck, like someone watching her from across the room. She knew that even when she returned back to Las Vegas, something was going to happen in Gotham that she needed to be there for. She made it clear to Iris, who was able to coordinate more time for the day Death knew she needed, and she was back through the door in time.
She was waiting on the roof of the apartment building, not at all human and invisible to the eye, and the weight of what was going to happen pressed in on her. There wasn’t going to be a way to stop it, and she felt that she owed it to everyone on both sides of the door to be the one that did this. She couldn’t leave it to whatever other entity was out there doing her job, because she wasn’t yet entirely certain how the job was being done. Like the burials she provided for the city’s residents (like she would volunteer to do here after this first part of her job was done), this had to be done right.
She had seen many deaths. Uncountable and unfathomable to the human mind. Had been there for wars and genocide, for illness and suicide. She had taken her own beloved brother and moved him on, so that his replacement could step into his place. She had witnessed every manner of death that had ever been, and yet this one was hard to see. Perhaps it was because she knew the boy, because he was young and this mistake would lead to his end, because both she and Iris (who had retreated as far back in the mind as possible so she could hopefully miss this) knew him and the family and knew what this could mean for them. But it was going to happen. And so she was there.
The screams of the dying held a special place in the symphony of the universe, and Damian’s were no different, lost though it they were in the roar of flame. And in that moment, the hanging seconds between one moment and the next where everything holds its breath and stands still, she reached out to take his hand and drew him toward herself.
Damian’s life ended in a flourish. A bright, white heat that circled his brow like a halo and destroyed his flesh down to the bone. It hurt the way touching the stove for the first time hurt. Or, for the little bird, it hurt the way a blade wielded by his mother cut for the first time. He didn’t gasp for air when his spirit left his body, but rolled over to try and stop his own father from battling out the rest with Firefly. Damian knew that his anger was his father’s and was unstoppable when given a reason to show teeth. “No, father, please.” Was a whisper and then he looked up to see Death, a surprisingly warm, round face with bright eyes that said things about the mystical world he did not know.
“You have to-” The little bird squawked, squeezing her hand as he saw Firefly fall and his own father did nothing to stop it. A quiet across the roof sounded. No more flames, or screeching bugs or screaming birds. Only a whisper from his father he didn’t hear.
Damian could feel himself crying.
“Nevermind.”
Her hand was smaller than his, but held a power and strength to it that most fingers could never even hope to claim. It was the sort of strength that could hold a life and never fear to mishandle or drop it. She squeezed back gently when he clung to her hand, and shook her head. “He makes his own choices,” she said quietly, though her light eyes were sad and worried as she looked toward Bruce. She heard the whisper, even if Damian did not, knew that someone would have to talk to Bruce, keep him from a path that these deaths could start.
She already knew that Damian was crying when she looked back to him, looked up as he was taller than she was by several inches at least. Young, but growing into the body of a man, a growth that stopped in that moment. With her free hand, she reached up and laid her palm to his cheek, thumb swiping firm but gentle over the skin, warm as it wiped away his tears. Her smile was something small, filled with comfort and warmth even as there was sadness in her eyes. She wouldn’t (couldn’t) let them linger here. There was a protocol, and unless a soul was given to someone else - tucked away in the absent Dreaming of her brother, for example - they had to move on.
“We should go, Robin. ...Damian.” She sighed softly. “It’s your time to go.” But still she stood, hand to his face, the first soul she’d taken since she’d returned from her own strange rebirth.
Damian tried to fight that overwhelming sense of calm that Death brought him, fingers struggling in her gentle grasp before he finally gave up with an angry sigh. “What about my family?” He asked, voice tight and bright blue eyes more childish than the grown teenager before her. He stared at her for a moment as if he were answering his own question. Helena came around eventually, but it was too late. Jason could make it on his own, couldn’t he? His father would try to shut them all out. Stephanie would turn to violence in a fiery snap.
“They need me, don’t they?” He pleaded, tugging her hand like they were leaving an amusement park too early. “They need me to keep the family together.” Damian didn’t sound convinced. Once, a long time ago, Selina had told him that he wasn’t the one to keep all the eggs in the nest. At first he didn’t believe her, but she was right, wasn’t she? What had he done for them besides cause more problems?
The baby bird lifted a gloved hand up to wipe his eye. He shook his head and sniffed a few times. “Will they be fine without me?” Damian asked, still looking to where his father was, though feeling as though the rooftop wasn’t quite there. As if the world around him was already fading into the next scene.
Her fingers didn't crush his when he struggled against the grip, but neither did they let him go. Simply held, anchored, stayed. "Of course they need you. Each one of them will struggle without you, and their worlds and lives will change with you gone." He may not have sounded convinced, but her soft words were weighted with truth in a way that made it seem as if she couldn't lie. Not in that moment. “They’ll have to choose if they stay together or not. ‘Fine’ is…” She trailed off, searching for the words she wanted. They were honest, not meant to be an empty comfort. “‘Fine’ is relative. But they will carry on. As they must.”
She watched him wipe at his eye, and followed his own fingers with her bare ones. The rooftop was still there, but they were more present to each other than to it. She slowly stole him from the world, but it was still there. And then they stopped, everything stopped, as she studied him. And then she frowned, eyes intent on him. The next words were difficult, pulled from her out of obligation. She had to take a breath before she asked, fingers tighter around his, her other back to his cheek, forcing him to look down at her. “Your grandfather’s legacy provides another ending to today if you would take it.”
Damian had been guilty of using the Lazarus Pit to save someone he loved and saw the damage that it had done first hand. Returning from the grave as his grandfather did would bring him back a changed bird. A selfish, al Ghul instead of a honorable Wayne. The answer was no, it was always no, but in the face of Death he still considered it. The little bird closed his eyes and nodded as if he understood exactly what the weight of resurrection would bear down on himself and his family.
“No.” Damian said softly and then repeated himself firmly as if he were reciting a code of honor. “We can go now.”
For all her faith in the Waynes and the family, she was still uncertain what his answer would be. When it came, her sigh was filled with audible relief. She kept her fingers held around his, but the hand on his cheek drew him down, down farther, until she could press a kiss to his forehead. It was maternal in a way she knew his own mother was not, and when she whispered, it was warm against his skin. “Thank you.”
Then she stepped closer, fingers finally leaving his, and embraced him. It was warm and comforting, and there was a sound that started as barely a whisper before it solidified into the rush of wings. “I’ll keep you from that fate,” she said against his shoulder. “Fly safe, little bird.”
Though Damian still had much to accomplish, there was no denying the warm comfort of finally being safe. Damian’s worries flittered away with the roar of wings in his ears and with it went the anger. The little bird had never fully let go of his rage, even when he tried so hard for his family, but here it evaporated into nothing. Damian felt nothing but the envelope of light that held him like morning sun on his shoulders. And then, he was gone.