A Choice to Make - duustrius - Batman (2024)

Chapter 1: Through The Door

Chapter Text

Tim hasn’t got an ounce of strength left inside of him. He should; he’s Red Robin, and before that he was Robin, and before that he was Tim f*cking Drake, and he should be strong. But Dick’s face is ashen and Bruce is tight-lipped, eyes fixed on Jason’s unconscious form, and Damien is hazy and half-awake, and everything’s f*cked, basically.

The villain standing in the middle of the warehouse is the only one who looks pleased. He’s a new villain, one that Tim doesn’t recognise, and he hadn’t bothered with a monologue, surprisingly, so nobody knows his name.

The etchings on the far wall begin to glow blue. Tim tries very hard not to move, to steady his breathing so that it looks like he’s unconscious while he peers through his eyelashes at Dick’s face. He doesn’t know if it works - if Batman notices his flickering eyes, if Nightwing knows that he can hear them, but he has to try. He won’t make this decision any harder than it has to be by being awake when they choose.

Because they have to choose. Dick and Bruce have to choose one person each to save, and one to disappear through the door. There’s something on the other side that the villain wants, but the dangers are clear, clear enough that he won’t risk it himself. The matter is delicate, apparently, and he doesn’t have time to waste.

“Send one of us,” Dick says, not for the first time. His face is dark and angry, fierce eyes flickering from brother to brother. “Send one of us instead. I won’t choose.”

“Neither will I,” Bruce says, his voice all gravel and grit. But Tim knows.

They won’t send Jason. They lost him once, both of them, and they won’t lose him again. No matter what he’s done or what he’s going to do, no matter his morals, it’s pretty clear that they love him, and they won’t risk losing him.

Damian is young, still just a child, for all he’s seen and done. Damian - as he often reminds Tim - is Bruce’s blood son, and therefore more important. He’s Dick’s youngest brother, his Robin. Dick’s proven before that he will choose Damian over him, and Tim’s made his peace with that. The fences are mostly mended, although things will never be the same as they were before. He agrees, in part, with what Dick did. He just doesn't like how it happened.

“The clock is ticking,” the villain says. Tim wants to punch him, but the place is rigged, and only he knows how to get out of there. That’s the deal, apparently. Send one boy through the wall to fetch his treasure, and the others get to walk free. Don’t choose, and they all die. Tim has no doubts that Bruce and Dick would be kicking the living sh*t out of the villain if they could move, but they’re currently held flat against the wall by some kind of blue force-field.

“Why won’t you send us through?” Dick snaps.

The villain grins a little. “This way is more fun.”

Tim is chained to the ground, but the cuffs around his wrists are leather, and he can work out of them easily enough if he forces his aching brain to concentrate. He needs a plan. He always has a plan, but so far, the only thing he can think of is basically suicide. He glances sideways while Dick snaps and snarls at the villain, and catches sight of Damian. He’s mouthing something - Grayson - and behind him, Jason stirs on the ground, his head wound bleeding stickily. Tim’s heart clenches painfully.

If they send either one of them through, regardless of who chooses who, then they’re going to be dead meat within a minute. They’re in no shape to fight, but Tim is relatively unharmed. He’s unharmed, and his head may ache but it's clear enough for this, and he already knows how this is going to go down.

He's just stalling now. He doesn’t particularly want to go through the big, glowing wall to his death.

So he supposes he’ll just have to live, come back, and kick the villains’ ass.

He’s up and moving within seconds of his decision, the cuffs cast aside. He doesn’t have a weapon, so charging the villain - God, maybe monologues are useful after all because the guy really needs a name or something - would be pointless, but he wants to get a good kick to the teeth in there anyway. There are no restraints besides the cuffs, which is a mistake, but the villain is still armed, and he has magic on his side.

Dick shouts something, and the villain whips around, but Tim is already sprinting for the blue wall. It looks like runes, all sketched into the grey brick, and the blue glow starts to solidify as Tim draws closer. It’s like looking at a bright tunnel with no end.

The villain starts shouting as well, and Tim has to hope, pray, that he won’t kill everyone anyway once Tim’s disappeared. He doesn’t think that will happen. All he has to do is get through the wall, find whatever it is the man wants - he has a rough description from the way he babbled about it - and then come back through. Then he can hold it hostage until his family is released.

Because it is his family. They may not show it very well, but they do love each other, in strange complicated ways. It’s all Tim has, some days. Even though he knows what the choice would have been, when Dick and Bruce finally gave in, it doesn’t mean he hates them. He doesn't blame them. Maybe he feels a little hollow, but he still loves them.

Or he wouldn’t be going through with this sh*tty, awful plan.

The blue light encases him, and the last thing he sees before he’s thrown forward is Dick’s horrified face, and Bruce’s wide, knowing eyes.

It's nothing at first. And then it’s nothing but air hitting his face and a squeezing sensation all over his body, and he’s weightless and flying and the world is rushing at him and it feels like he might not ever stop.

And then he does stop, slamming into the hard-packed ground, landing on his back with his arms and legs splayed, a tangled, breathless heap. He feels like an overturned beetle. One that just narrowly escaped being stepped on.

His eyes ache with the weight of the bright, piercing sun above him, a sharp contrast to the dark, dingy area he just escaped from. The air tastes tangy and tart, but he breathes in deep gulps of it anyway, trying to settle his lungs. It’s oddly quiet, but he can hear the wind.

After a few moments, he sits up slowly, grains of dirt shifting beneath his tattered clothes. He’d been caught out of uniform, so he’s just wearing old jeans and a threadbare shirt that used to belong to Dick, but even that feels too heavy here. It’s hot and sticky, which Tim has never liked.

He takes shallow breaths as he surveys the area, stretching out each limb and finger and toe to make sure that nothing is broken. A massive cliff sits directly opposite him, presumably where Tim was flung from, or through, if the etchings on the cliff face are any indication. The ground is unforgiving and covered in dust and dirt, and there’s no sign of any life for miles around. It’s still, quiet. Rocky formations pop out of the ground here and there, but there’s no greenery, no water, and no civilisation. It’s almost like a desert, but not quite.

He swallows thickly and stands on shaky knees. He has to get back because the others may not have much time, but there’s nothing here that looks like the treasure the villain wanted. It was an orb, apparently, made of lapis lazuli, hidden deep within a tomb and blessed with the powers of the 'Old Gods.'

If such a thing exists, then it doesn’t exist here. There’s no tomb, no opening in the ground, no great big glowing neon sign proclaiming that the orb is this way, dear sir, and won’t you sit down and rest awhile? You look like you’ve had a long day.

Tim turns tiredly, just in case he missed such a sign, and when he turns back to the cliff - he stops. Stares.

The etchings are gone. The blue glow has faded completely, and there’s nothing but smooth rock left behind. Tim lurches forward and curses under his breath, and then louder as his fingers scramble over the cliff face. There’s nothing there. His heart is in his throat. Nothing there at all. No doorway, no strange blue tunnel.

No way home.

Tim stares for a moment or two, and then he drops roughly to the ground.

"sh*tty, awful plan."

Chapter 2: Hand Of Ash

Chapter Text

The Cave is quiet. Alfred is pottering around in the background, tidying up the medical area, with Damian assisting him between muttered complaints. His scowl is rather pronounced, but he does as Alfred says. Dick watches him fondly from his seat near the desk, twisted ankle propped up on another chair. On the other side of the Cave, Jason and Bruce are pouring over old maps and case files with intense expressions.

Dick smiles sadly. If there’s one thing to be said about Tim’s disappearance, it’s that it’s brought them closer together. Jason is still on edge around them, a little, but he’ll talk to Bruce without every discussion devolving into a screaming row. He ruffles Damian’s hair and laughs when Damian hisses threats in his direction. He lets Dick sling an arm over his shoulder begrudgingly. He’s closer to Alfred than he is to the rest of them, and Dick likes seeing them converse more than anything else, likes seeing the way Jason’s face lights up and he shuffles in place awkwardly, like a small boy again, trapped in layers of bulk.

It’s good, but it still sucks in some ways, because Tim had to disappear for it to happen. Tim is gone. There’s a gap in their lives where a still-too-young, tired, coffee-stained boy should be, and Dick doesn’t know how to get him back. None of them do.

It’s been six months since Tim ran through the blue door. The man holding them all had been so shocked by what Tim did that his grip on his magic had slipped, and Bruce had knocked him out before he could get it back.

Six months is a long time, but they haven’t given up hope. Dick can’t give up on Tim, not after everything that’s happened between them. That’s his little brother, sent God knows where, and Dick isn’t going to rest until he gets him back.Dick rotates his ankle gently, sighing. Cass and Steph are out on patrol right now, keeping Gotham safe while Bruce searches for answers. Babs has every single system running constantly. Jason and Damian are riddled with guilt and strange grief, although they’ll never admit it.

Bruce will never stop, Dick knows, because Tim never stopped looking for him when they thought he was dead. And Tim isn’t dead, just gone. Missing. Misplaced.

The man who sent him through the door - Jason has referred to him exclusively as Asshead for weeks now - is in prison, and no amount of interrogation will get anything out of him. Not his name, not what he wants, or where Tim’s gone. Dick suspects that he doesn’t actually know where Tim’s gone.

Nobody does. Zatanna has examined the remains of the blue door at length, only to grimly inform them that it’s not magic of this world. Which means that Tim isn’t on earth, which means that there’s a billion possibilities surrounding his location.

A hand drops down on his shoulder, and Alfred’s tone is stern but kind. “You need to sleep, Master Richard. Your ankle needs rest if you are to venture out again tomorrow night.”

Dick drops his head back with a tired sigh and grins, slightly lopsided, up at Alfred. “No rest for the wicked, Alfred. Not when there’s so much to do.”

Alfred’s voice softens. “Master Timothy will be harder to bring home if you work yourselves to death.”

An alert pings on the computer, and Bruce strides across the Cave towards it. Dick catches Jason’s eye, and he shrugs, putting down the file in front of him. Dick climbs up off the chair, careful not to put too much weight on his foot, and comes up behind Bruce, who barely blinks. He’s staring hard at the screen.

“The man who sent Tim through the door has escaped his cell,” Bruce says.

“Oh, has he? How unfortunate.”

Bruce has the smirking villain pinned against the wall in three quick steps. Dick stares at him, shocked; he didn’t hear him arrive, or see him come in. He grimaces when he spots the blue glow around the man’s hands. It’s faint, from the magic-binding that was done while he was unconscious, but there must still be enough there to get him where he wants to be.

He doesn’t appear to have enough to fight back, though, which makes it easy for Bruce to restrain him, tying him to a chair.

“There’s no need to be so rough,” the man says. “I came to find you, after all. I’m sure you want your boy back, don’t you?”

Dick stills, glancing first at Bruce, and then at Jason. The guns are firmly kept away in the locker when Jason’s in the cave, but Dick can see his hands twitch. Rubber bullets are still painful enough to cause some serious damage.

“What do you know?” Bruce growls, and he’s not Bruce anymore, he’s the Bat. “Where is Red Robin?”

“No need to bother with formalities, now. I took him in his civilian clothes, after all. I know his name is Tim. I know all of your identities.”

Dick wants to wipe the smug grin off his face. He fists his hands and steps forward slowly, and the man slips his eyes towards him.

“Ah, Nightwing. Dick Grayson. Tell me, did you expect him to do what he did? Because that wasn’t something I had foreseen, unfortunately. But he used to be your brother, didn’t he? Surely you knew what he’d do.”

“He still is,” Dick says lowly. “Where is he?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the man says, with no small amount of bitterness. “He ran through before I could arrange the runes properly, so he could be anywhere. I’m almost certain he’s in the dimension I wanted him to land in, but I have no idea where on the planet he landed.”

“Why are you here?” Bruce says, looming over him.

“I still want that artifact,” the man explains simply. “It’s extraordinarily powerful. And I want my magic unbound. The only way to get both of these things is to work with you, to return your boy to you. If he’s still alive, of course. If not, we’re all in a bit of a pickle.”

A small figure leaps past Dick, who throws an arm out and catches Damian before he can render the man’s head from his shoulders. The villain has the audacity to laugh.

“Grayson, allow me to stab him,” Damian seethes.

“We need him to find Tim,” Dick says, and he waits for Damian to go limp before he lets go.

“Trust me, Demon, I want to kill him as badly as you do,” Jason says, reaching over to clap Damian on the shoulder. “We should see what he has to offer first, though.”

The last is said menacingly enough that the man starts to speak hastily.

“I can trace him,” the man says. “I have enough magic to trace him and show you where he is. It may take the magic a while to catch up to him. We may see where he’s been, and what he’s done, rather than where he is, and what he’s doing. But eventually we will see him as he is now, and we may be able to glean his location."

There is silence for a few moments, and then Bruce grunts. He stands up straight and beckons them away from the man. Alfred is the one to stand guard over him, and for the first time, the man actually looks a little wary. Dick grins. He can’t really blame the guy; Alfred can be imposing when he wants to be.

“I don’t like this,” Dick says, when they’re huddled at one end of the Cave.

“Doesn’t look like we have much of a choice,” Jason says, shrugging. He looks unnerved though, his expression grim. “We need to know where to look, and this guy can help, and we don’t have any other leads. We need somewhere to start.”

“This may be our only chance,” Damian adds. “I do not like it, but if he withdraws his help, then we truly are at a loss. Unless you wish to bring others into this.”

Bruce doesn’t reply. It’s been tossed around, the idea of calling Ra’s, but Dick knows that Bruce won’t go for it. This is their best shot, for the moment. Their only shot.

“Call the girls back in,” Bruce says eventually. “We’ll wait until they get here, and then try this.”

He stalks back to the center of the Cave, and Dick reaches for the comm.

“You know, he could really do with a name,” Dick says idly, as they walk back towards the man.

Jason hums. “Don’t see what’s wrong with Asshead, personally, but alright.”

The man glowers at him. Jason sizes him up.

“We’ll call you Bob. Bob the Villain.”

A short pause greets his words, and Jason looks at them all, defensive. “What? I knew a Bob once. Biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever known.”

Damian scoffs. Bob the Villain doesn’t look particularly taken with the name.

It takes twenty minutes for the girls to arrive, twenty minutes spent in tense silence. Steph demands an explanation as soon as she spots Bob the Villain, and Cass stares at him silently until he shifts in discomfort. Dick wraps her in a quick hug - he knows she misses Tim. The two had always had a strong connection, a subtle way of understanding each other. Cass hugs him back carefully, and then steps away.

"What is happening?"

It doesn’t take long to explain everything, and by then, everything’s set up. A single rune drawn on the wall in chalk, scrounged up by Alfred. Bob the Villain is dragged closer on his chair, teeth gritted, and then the magic starts.

They gather together, huddled around the far wall. The rock begins to glow, and pictures appear on the surface. Dick tugs Damian closer, and Jason stands rigidly beside them. Bruce leans in, and Alfred watches from behind them all. Cass stands with him, and Steph is practically vibrating in the chair she’s pulled up. The silence is thick with anticipation.

“There will be no sound,” Bob the Villain warns them. “And you may not like what you see.”

The pictures start off grimy and unfocused, and then suddenly, Tim is there. Dick feels his heart clench at the sight of him. Printed on the wall in vivid colour, moving and shouting and waving his arms around. It’s like looking through a window into another world, which Dick supposes is exactly what they’re doing, and then the rest of the image catches up to him, and he forgets all about that.

Tim is drenched in blood. Soaked in it, covered from head to toe.

Dick inhales sharply, mouth growing taut. Steph makes an involuntary noise in the back of her throat. Dick can’t look away.

“Jesus,” Jason mutters.

Tim is nowhere recognisable. He’s standing in darkness, and things are flying down from the crooked ceiling and batting at his face, sharp teeth and claws dragging against his skin. He’s holding an old-fashioned torch in one hand, a burning stick, and the creatures dart away when the fire draws close to them.

He’d had no weapon, Dick remembers, when he went through the blue door.

Tim keeps moving forward, and by the looks of it he’s in some sort of cavern, the air dark and musty, the ground uneven. Dick watches as he stumbles forward, uncharacteristically clumsy, and his heart clenches as Tim staggers towards the edge of a chasm, deep underground. He can see fire and wisps of energy floating above it, and it looks like it goes on for miles.

“What the f*ck is he doing?” Jason says, as Tim starts to shout. There’s no sound through the pictures, and his face is half-turned away, so Dick can’t read his lips, but he’s clearly shouting, bellowing.

Just when Dick thinks that nothing’s going to happen, darkness begins to creep out of the chasm.

A hand of ash, the size of an old oak, reaches up out of the fire and grips Tim tightly around the middle and lifts him. Dick straightens up, staring in horror as the hand lifts Tim out of sight. There’s a gasp from his right. Bruce is pale, his jaw tight, his eyes devastated. Jason grips Dick’s arm as Tim disappears.

The picture fades away.

“What was that?” Steph whispers, licking her lips. She looks deathly afraid. Cass moves forward and places a hand on her shoulder, shaken, and Alfred follows, looking grim. “What was that?”

“How long ago was that?” Bruce demands, turning to face the man tied to the chair.

“Four months after he was sent through,” Bob the Villain says, voice calm and serene. “There’s more. Much more.”

Dick isn’t sure he wants to see any more. Not if there’s a similar theme. But he drifts closer to the wall anyway, and Damian follows, for his own comfort or Dick’s, he’s not sure.

“Show us,” Bruce says.

Chapter 3: Four Truths

Chapter Text

Tim has never been one to give up, give in. It’s not in his nature.

That’s why, three months down the line, he still makes the trip at the end of each week, to the cliff-face, to see if the blue door is back. It’s a portal, as the people of this world call it, a portal which opens a pathway between worlds and can spit out and suck in anything it pleases. But you can only pass through when a portal on the other side is open too.

Which begs the question, of course, as to what the f*ck happened to him.

He’s pretty sure that he was never supposed to land here. Portals, as he learned from the Scroll-Master and the History-Keeper, each visited the previous month, need to be fine-tuned. They open once in a blue moon, on their own, and he thinks that’s what happened; the Villain, who Tim has taken to calling Dave in his head, knew that the portal would be opening on the other side, on it’s own, that day, and he made sure to open the portal on his end with his own magic. That way there didn’t have to be anybody on the other side.

But he forgot to fine-tune the runes, and Tim was left stranded in the asscrack of nowhere.

Dave the villain is a bit of a dick, and if Tim thinks about him too long, he wants to reach through time and space and pummel the guy.

He’s thinking about it now, as he stares at the blank cliff-face. The portal isn’t open, isn’t even here. It’s probably on some other end of the land, right now, but no Tim can’t bring himself to go chasing after their whereabouts, not when there’s a possibility that someone might come looking for him here, that the portal might reopen here.

There’s no guarantee, the Mage in the village had warned him, that he would land back in his world if he went through. He could end up stranded on an entirely different world, or stuck in the vast recesses of space, alone in the dark.

Tim thinks that he doesn’t really care. If there’s a chance, however small, that the portal could lead him home, he would take it.

“That’s the reckless part of you we was talkin’ about the other night,” says a voice from behind him, and Tim doesn’t turn. He knows he’ll see a gaggle of other people, people who will invite him to camp with them tonight, like they do most nights. They don’t fit in the cosy village on the outskirts of the DeadLands either - they only venture in for drink and jobs. Food can be found outside, and the company is far better too.

“You know I don’t like it when you read my mind,” Tim says, switching tongues effortlessly. He’d picked up a spell for a few coin near the Scroll-Master’s market, one that let him pick up the language pretty quickly - only a fare few spoke English here, and they wouldn’t tell him how or why they learned it. He’d had to learn theirs instead.

“Don’t leave it so open, then,” says the voice again, clapping a hand down on his shoulder and steering him away. She’s a cheerful girl, just a tad younger than Tim, with long green hair and dragon blood, called Catus. Avrin, the Mage behind her, nods at Tim as he’s dragged past them, and Brimmet, the tall lady Necromancer, rolls her eyes at him in commiseration as Catus chatters his ear off.

They’re a strange bunch. He doesn’t really know them all that well. He knows Catus has dragon blood because he’s seen her spew fire at beasts that crawl into their camp. He knows Avrin is built like a mountain and can handle almost any weapon thrown at him, but prefers to practice his healing magic. He knows next to nothing about Brimmet, other than that she’s good in a fight and doesn’t speak much, but makes excellent broth and will insist that Tim eats more than his fair share. She thinks he’s skinny and bound to get used as a toothpick one day, and she’s not afraid to scowl and say so.

“We don’t understand why you’re looking for a way through that thing,” Catus says, as they trudge towards the woods on the other side of the plain. “But if that’s what you want, then we’re going to help.”

“Why?” Tim asks, suspicious. Years of working with Batman will do that to a guy.

“You look sad,” Brimmet says. “You miss home.”

Tim doesn’t have an answer for that.

“You don’t wanna leave this area, just in case, and that’s fine,” Catus says. “We found someone nearby, at the edge of the woods, who might tell you what you need to know. But she ain’t gonna talk to you if you look like that. Only the high-borns get to go near her.”

“That must mean she’s good at her job,” Avrin chimes in, and Catus nods, like he’s said something profound. Brimmet rolls her eyes again.

“How exactly do I start to look the part, then?” Tim asks. He’s not sure this is going to work, and he’s a little wary, but there are things he needs to know, questions he needs answering.

Avrin holds up a bundle of leather with a grin. Inside, when Tim peers in, is a crinkled suit and something that looks like it could have been a pair of fancy shoes, once upon a time.

“We robbed a guy,” Catus says proudly. “Now, go get changed. I didn’t almost get stabbed for nothin’, you know.”

Incense burns in the background. The scent clings to the seams of his grey suit like smoke. Tim amuses himself by glancing at the walls, which are heavily decorated with intricately sewn tapestries and photographs encased in ornate black frames. You cannot tell just by looking at him, that he’s a desperate man. He’s impeccably dressed, down to each highly polished shoe. His dark hair has been artfully styled and he remains pale and poised on his chair, the epitome of patient.

The woman shuffles the cards one last time. They’re large cards, a little too big for her hands, although she handles them with a practiced ease. The backs are soft and velvety, but the pictures shine glossily.

Lady Lydia shuts her eyes briefly before she spreads the cards out in a fan on the table. Tim glances at them once before he looks up at the woman’s face. It’s partly obscured by a thin black veil, revealing just her mouth and pale, creamy skin. She wears her smile like a well-fitting glove. Plum lipstick decorates her full lips, which are twisted into an amused smile. A black, beaded shawl hangs from her bare shoulders. Tim smiles back politely.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He doesn’t really believe in all this stuff, but anything is worth a try, and he’s been trying to keep an open mind lately.

“Usually, I insist that the customer shuffles the cards,” the woman says. Lady Lydia, she’s called, although Tim doubts it’s her real name, the one her parents gave her. By the looks of the newspaper article that’s imprisoned in a remarkably plain frame on the brick wall, this woman has never known her parents, let alone known what they might have christened her. Lydia suits her, though.

“It helps to focus the session,” Lady Lydia continues. She has a beautiful, husky voice. “The client holds their question in their mind, and then the cards decide on their answer.”

“That doesn’t sound very scientific,” Tim says. He crosses his legs at the ankles and glances briefly at the clock nearby. The hands remain still. “In fact, it sounds rather ridiculous, if I’m honest.”

There is something strange about this place, something not of this land. The clock, the frames, the newspaper; all of it seems to come from another era, and Tim doesn't quite understand it. He hates not understanding things.

Lady Lydia tilts her head to the side. “Are you often honest, Master Drake?”

“I am rarely dishonest,” Tim lies, because he needs this woman to trust him, work with him. “I find it dishonourable.”

“You must not have many friends,” Lady Lydia observes.

“On the contrary,” Tim says, shaking his head slightly. “I have a number of dear friends. But as interesting as this conversation is, I find myself diverting from the point of this little visit. As even a person with as little skill as you can tell, I am firmly a sceptic.”

He’s picked up her way of speaking well enough. It reminds him of schmoozing all the high-ups back home, at parties and charity balls and meetings. He hopes he looks the part of a royal, a high-born, as they’re called here. A Lord, at least.

“That was made pretty evident when you snorted at my crystal ball,” Lady Lydia confirms. She doesn’t sound bothered, or offended. If anything, she sounds rather amused.

Tim snorts again. “I have seen real crystal before, and that is not it.”

“And I have seen real sceptics before,” Lydia says. Her voice cuts over him, despite staying as soft as silk. “Their scepticism is tempered only by their arrogant belief that they are the only intelligent creatures to grace this planet. Many of them creep through my door, searching for something that they don’t want me to find. They want their existence affirmed, their palms read, their future told. They want to put me in my place. They watch me, waiting eagerly for the moment when I slip and swallow my own tongue.”

She leans forward over the table. Her dress slips down a little, revealing a little more skin than is necessary. Tim averts his eyes. She runs her finger-tips over the velvet-backed cards that lay in wait on the table, poised.

“And I suppose I have done none of those things?” Tim asks, still looking away. The answer is obvious. “I suppose you think I am not a sceptic?”

“I think you are a man of science,” Lady Lydia says succinctly. “I think that the world is changing, but not fast enough for the both of us. I think there are creatures that crawl in the darkness, monsters that snarl in the silence. I think that you are on the edge of that darkness, peering in, waiting for one clawed hand to reach out and pull you down. That way, you can claim that it swallowed you up. You can lie and say that you weren’t hungry for it, that you didn’t go looking for trouble.”

Tim looks away.

Her voice softens. “I think that you feel guilty. You’re supposed to be finding a way home, but there is wonder here. And opportunity, too, to be something more than you were at home. I think you miss your family, but you doubt that they miss you, and that makes you want to stay.”

Lady Lydia flips one of the cards over and pushes it towards him across the well-scrubbed surface. Swallowing back his unease, Tim carefully picks the card up by the corners. Painted on the front, in swathes of black and blue, is a large wolf with a bloody, crimson mouth and eyes that shine like blue starlight.

“I think that this is your card.”

Tim places the card back on the table. The wolf watches him, the way it always does. Tim watches it back, and then he looks up at Lady Lydia.

“And I think that you are more than a psychic,” Tim says, voice hoarse.

Her smile transforms into a smirk. She carefully lifts the veil, revealing rouged cheeks and startlingly red ringlets. She has skin like porcelain. She leans back in her chair and observes him.

“Tell me about the wolf,” she says. It’s not a request. Tim swallows around the lump in his throat. It’s not fear that swims in his veins, but anticipation, the hungry satisfaction that comes with being one step closer to an answer. Tim loves a puzzle, and this one is particularly intriguing. It distracts him, too, from the deeper questions, the troubles waiting for him when he returns to the cliff.

“It haunts my dreams.” Tim licks his dry lips. “Or rather, it haunts my dream. Just the one dream, always the same one. It always begins in the same way. I’m in the forest, the one just outside of this village. It’s dark. I don’t know if I’m lost or not, but the only light comes from the moon. And it always ends the same way too, with the wolf creeping out from the trees and howling at the moon.”

Lady Lydia tilts her head, as if she’s waiting for more. And there is more to tell, but Tim doesn’t know if he can force the words out.

The wolf isn’t just in his dreams. He’s been seeing it since the second week here, always on his peripheral. He knows it’s there, even when he can’t see it. It’s like it’s waiting for something, and Tim doesn’t know what.

He swallows again, and ignores the way that Lydia’s eyes flick down to his throat. An intelligence lurks behind her eyes, masked by thick mascara and a sultry look, but it’s the intelligence that Tim needs.

“Under any other circ*mstance, I would be able to ignore it,” Tim says, brushing invisible lint from his trousers. “It’s just a dream, after all.”

“Sometimes, dreams are just dreams,” Lady Lydia says softly. “They can be more, a representation of an emotion or a memory, something you’ve either repressed or ignored. Almost always, though, they are simply what you see.”

Tim flaps a hand at her. “I know all of that. I’m out of options, now.”

Lady Lydia arches one thin eyebrow. “And so you’ve come to see the psychic.”

“Or something,” Tim says. He licks his lips again. They’re beginning to crack in the dry heat. “But not about the dream. I already know that the dream is just the dream, but the wolf feels like something else. It feels like more than a dream.”

The clock on the wall begins to tick, abruptly, as if it had been waiting for those specific words.

“Or something,” Lady Lydia agrees, amused. “Psychic isn’t quite the right word.” Her fingers twitch, and quick as a flash, the cards are stacked in a neat little pile at her elbow. Tim blinks at them, and then glances sharply up at Lady Lydia. She stares back steadily. The silence begins to grow weighty, laden with heavy mystery.

“I like you, Tim,” Lady Lydia says, out of nowhere. “Well, I like you just enough. And I can tell that you’re a desperate man, so I’m going to make a small exception. Keep in mind that should you divulge who allowed this exception to anyone, there will be severe consequences.”

Tim doesn’t get a chance to reply.

“Four truths,” Lady Lydia says, her voice taking on a brisk quality. “I will tell you four truths, and then you have to leave. You must promise me that you will leave, immediately.”

Once, Tim would have waited. He would have weighed every option, formed several plans, examined each possible problem. But it’s been months.

Now, he barely hesitates. Instead, he nods frantically, hands gripping tightly at each other. Lady Lydia takes three cards off of the pile and slaps them on the table top in quick succession.

“The first truth is already in your hand. Now, ask me for the second.”

“Will I ever get home?” Tim blurts. He thinks of Bruce and Dick and Alfred, Steph and Cass, Kon and Bart and Cassie, Jason and Damian. He thinks of his lonely house, and the Manor, and the Cave, and the Tower. He thinks of Alfred’s cooking and hot showers and the hard grit of Gotham’s rooftops under his feet.

“Home is a strange thing,” Lady Lydia says gently. “You will get there, in the end, but it may not be what you remember, and you may not expect the way.”

Tim doesn’t like the sound of that. He files it away to examine later, and presses on.

“Where will the portal open?”

“Not here,” she says immediately. “It’s okay to move, to leave. It will find you when it’s time. That was the third truth. Now, here is the fourth truth; how to survive it.”

Tim blinks at her. “Survive what?”

“This world. This change.” She pauses.

“The fourth truth is how to survive it,” she repeats, slower. “Be as far from human as possible. Be the thing that lurks beneath the bed, be the words that kiss the insides of people’s skulls, be the feeling that crawls over shivering skin. Don’t be human. Be brave. Don’t be afraid to change into something new. There really is wonder here.”

Abruptly, Lady Lydia stands up. She backs away from the table and sweeps an arm to the side. Tim blinks at her, his mouth dry. He wants to argue, to haggle for more specifics, but there’s an edge to her that he didn’t like. Something sharp, something deadly. Or something, she had said. Tim isn’t sure that he wants to know what that something is.

Numbly, he stands up and allows himself to be ushered from the room. He steps out of the crooked house and blinks in the harsh light of the sun. He’s about to leave when a thought occurs to him, and he whips around in time to place his foot in the door.

Lady Lydia glares at him. “You promised me that you would leave immediately. Don’t be human. Don’t break your promises.”

“You promised me that I would have four truths,” Tim says. He spreads his empty palms out in front of him. “The first is already in my hands, you said. There’s nothing in my hands.”

For a moment, Lady Lydia hesitates. Then, she slips something out of the pocket of her dress and places it in his waiting hands. Tim blinks down at the card in shock, and the wolf blinks back. He hadn’t put the card back in the pile, and Lady Lydia hadn’t picked it up either, as far as he had seen.

“This is my truth?” he asks. “You want me to keep the card?”

“Of course,” Lady Lydia says. “I told you, it’s your card. And remember...”

Tim looks up.

“Dreams are sometimes just dreams,” Lady Lydia says, and then her voice becomes impossibly small and low and silent, and Tim could almost swear that her lips don’t move. “But wolves are not always wolves.”

The door slams shut in his face.

He turns away from the house on the edge of the woods. Further down, Catus and Brimmet and Avrin have made a campfire, and Tim can see the flames flickering in the warm breeze.

Even further down, the wolf is waiting for him. Tim doesn’t understand half of what just happened to him, but he knows, now, that the wolf wants him to follow it.

Tim pockets his card and makes a choice.

Chapter 4: Dusty

Chapter Text

“You don’t know about the Old Gods?”

Baron looks shocked. Tim’s never met anyone with such an impressive fish-face before, although it’s mostly obscured by his grey, bushy beard. Tim begins his slow walk around the library - room, really, although it’s full of scrolls and a few leather-bound books, and it’s the only one in the whole town with such things inside, so technically it’s a library. The wolf had led him here, right up to the doorstep, and frightened the sh*t out of Baron, who was half-dozing on a rocking chair outside.

The wolf had disappeared, and Tim had been ushered inside while Baron rambled on and on about Gods and Guides and old, deep magic.

“I don’t know much about this world,” Tim says. He figures it’s better to be honest, here, if he wants answers, but he’s still cautious. This man could be anybody. He seems harmless enough, but people have said the same about Tim.

Baron looks at him keenly.

Tim arches an eyebrow. “Have you heard of portals?”

“By my beard, boy, you’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?” Baron says faintly. He shakes himself, clearly excited, and then strolls towards one of the shelves, withdrawing a scroll and unravelling it.

“This details everything there is to be told about the Old Gods,” Baron says. “There isn’t much to be found on them unless you travel further North, where they still worship them. But I think what you’ll find will interest you. You can’t take it out of this room, but I’ll let you stay and read awhile, if you answer a few questions for me.”

“That sounds fair,” Tim agrees eventually, taking the scroll. There are no chairs, so he settles on the floor with the scroll in his lap. The wolf appears again, trotting through the door and settling itself at Tim’s side.

“Phenomenal, just phenomenal,” Baron murmurs, watching them with barely concealed awe.

Tim doesn’t quite understand why, until he reaches the halfway point of the scroll. He reads the same sentence three times, before he whips his head around and stares at the wolf.

“You’re a God?”

Stupid boy, says the wolf, except the words are in his head. Tim barely stops himself from flinching back, and Baron cackles.

“She’s speaking to you?”

“She called me stupid,” Tim says, still a little stunned. The wolf leans forward and presses her snout against his arm. It’s cold, and Tim shudders.

“Her name is Via, Goddess of the Travellers, Guide to those that are lost,” Baron says, voice hushed. “When I saw her coming up the steps to my house, I damn near fainted. The good Gods, the ones of Old, they don’t show themselves much anymore. Humanity is progressing a little quicker than they’d like, I’d say.” A touch of bitterness.

“What does she want with me?” Tim asks, although he can guess.

To take you home. Via lifts her head, and her gaze pierces through him. Wherever that may be.

“I know where home is,” Tim says. “I just don’t know how to get there.”

“Through the portals, of course,” Baron says. “I assume you came through one, and you’re waiting to return through it? I’m afraid that’s unlikely. They open every five years, you see.”

Tim’s heart sinks like a stone. He feels bile rise in his throat, but his face is a blank mask. “Five years?”

Baron waves a hand. “Some people believe that portals open whenever they choose, but I’ve studied them extensively. I expect that’s why the Goddess brought you here. There’s a pattern. They open all over the world, but only at certain points, and at certain times. Each one opens every five years.”

“Could I not go through one that’s going to open in a few days?” Tim asks. “They must open at different times, like a wave.”

“Exactly,” Baron says, nodding. “A wave. But I wouldn’t risk it. I would go back through the one you came through. Higher chance that it will lead you home. Some worlds are better suited to each other, you see, and the pathways between them are stronger, less frayed.”

Tim thinks on this for a minute. He thinks and thinks, and Via watches him carefully, and Baron mutters under his breath about portals and impossibilities, and then Tim straightens.

“I am not waiting five years. Is there another way?”

Baron stares at him, nonplussed. “The portals are the only way. My dear boy, are you really that determined?”

“To go home?” Tim asks, half-laughing. “To see my family, and my friends? My city? Yes, I’m determined. I’m not staying here any longer than I have to. Five years is too long.”

The silence settles around them. After a moment, Baron pats his beard thoughtfully. “I wonder…”

“What is it?”

“You could always open the portal yourself,” Baron suggests. “It would take an immense amount of power, and months of training, but we could shorten the length from five years to one, or two.”

Via nudges him.

Two years is infinitely better than five, although it still pretty much sucks. But it’s still better, and there’s just the question of how standing between him and home.

“I don’t have magic,” Tim says. “Or power. I’m human all the way through.”

“But you’re not stupid,” Baron says sharply. “You can learn. Anyone can learn anything, with the right tools and the correct instruction. I can tell you where to go, and the Goddess can lead you there, and you can train. It will be hard, gruelling work, but something tells me you’re not unfamiliar with training.”

Tim snorts, thinking of Bruce. Becoming Robin had been no cake walk, and re-learning everything, when he became Red Robin, had been even harder, in some ways. But he had Bruce to teach him the first time, and he had Bruce’s words in his head the second time.

God, he misses Bruce. He wonders if Bruce is looking for him, the way Tim looked for him, or if he’s given up. Maybe he never looked at all.

Tim shakes the thought away. It won’t do to dwell on it.

“Well?” Baron asks, and Via nudges him again. Tim stares into bright eyes and feels a strange sense of peace deep inside him.

There is wonder here, Via says. Do not be afraid to change.

Tim knew the old man was up to something when he sent him out here. The people of Brickholm, Baron’s hometown, are deathly afraid of the forest on one side of their town, the forest that Tim walked through with Via, the forest where he left behind Catus and Avrin and Brimmet. But they’re even more afraid of the land on the other side of their town, the land of black, cracked stone, riddled with bones and the odd silver snake. Tim can’t really begrudge them their fear; it’s not exactly picturesque.

So it’s suspicious, when Baron sends him off with a leather pack and a shifty gaze, and normally Tim would dig for answers, refuse to move until he knows what he’s walking into, but Via had seemed okay with it, and Tim has learned to trust Via. Besides, Baron can be pretty tight-lipped about a lot of things, as Tim’s learned over the past few days, and it’s not like Tim can’t handle himself. He has his training, and his mind, and Via.

He still can’t get over the fact that Via is a Goddess, and part of him wants to pretend she’s just a big dog, to get rid of some of the fear, but the rest of him is not that stupid.

When he reaches the strange cluster of boulders a few miles from Brickholm town, he stops, as instructed. From above, the boulders create the constellation of Duustrius, the Old God of the Dark. All of the Gods and Goddesses have constellations named after them, but this one is on the ground, rather than written in the sky, and it makes Tim nervous.

Via trots ahead of him, leading the way to a particularly large boulder, with a crater beside it. The crater is just big enough for someone to squeeze through, and Tim stops beside it, staring down into the darkness.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says blankly. Via stares at him steadily, tosses her snout at the crater, and then settles back to watch.

“I take it you’re not coming with me, then?” Tim says drily, as he takes the pack off his shoulder and crouches down to inspect the crater. He can’t see how deep it goes. He’s not afraid of the dark, not really, but this doesn’t seem like a normal sort of darkness.

Light will take my place, Via says. Tim still jolts a little whenever she speaks, but the warmth of her voice settles his nerves. And then he registers her words, and he searches for wood for a torch, and digs in the pack until he finds what he needs, and soon he has a flaming torch in his hands.

“Probably should have lit this after I got down there,” Tim muses. It takes a few minutes for him to manoeuvre inside the crater with the torch held aloft, and when he lets go of the ridge, falling down into the dark space, his feet hit hard ground almost instantly.

Not a long drop, at all, Via says. She sounds almost smug.

Tim is a grown man, almost. Tim will not blow a raspberry at a Goddess. He’s never even been tempted by stuff like that before, so he really must be changing.

He gathers himself, lifts the torch, and steps into the darkness.

The God of the Dark is lonely. Tim can feel it pouring from his fingers, which are wrapped tightly around Tim’s waist, lifting him up into the air. He sucks in a pained breath and wipes blood out of his eyes with his free hand. The other clutches the torch like a lifeline, and for all he knows, it is.

Duustrius has the face of a rip in time and space, a gaze darker than black matter. It bores into Tim, and he squeezes his eyes shut. There’s a kind of feeling within him, the kind he gets when he stands in churches and old places, stares at the architecture of Gotham or the sun when it rises, on a particularly cold day. A feeling of awe that’s more than awe, a feeling that’s so encompassing and vast that it’s almost like fear.

He wipes more blood away; he’s bleeding all over, and the few creatures that he’d managed to kill with fire on the way in had bled all over him too.

Baron had told him to stand on the edge of the chasm, when he found it, and scream his wish. Tim had thought it was stupid, but things are different here. There is hope for the strangest of things.

So he had done it, wished for a way home, for magic, for the ability to make portals, and the hand had come up, and now he’s in mid-air, above a chasm of fire and magic, staring into the eyes of a God.

Duustrius leans down. “You are the first to come here in a long time.”

“Desperation will do that to you,” Tim gasps. “No offence, buddy, but I’m not surprised. You may want to brighten the place up a little, you know? A few homey touches, maybe a rug. Some pest deterrent. Air freshener, that kind of thing.”

He’s rambling. Snark is in his blood, as Dick says, but rambling is Tim’s thing, when he’s beyond nervous. The two combined make for a very bad time. There is a very long pause after Tim's words.

“Mortals are confusing,” Duustrius says, and he almost sounds… uncomfortable? Tim pauses, stops struggling, and squints up at the God. He’s just a mass of moving shadow and ash, but Tim can pick out his eyes, a little darker than the rest of him.

“Yeah, we can be a bit of a pain at times, can’t we?” Tim says. He has no idea what he’s doing.

“Yes,” Duustrius says eagerly. There’s something - childlike? - about his voice. “Yes, you can. You understand, I see.”

Tim pats one of the giant fingers gripping him. “I do, buddy. I’ll try not to be too confusing. I was just told to come here, and ask for something. Something I really wanted.”

Duustrius cracks a deep sigh, and a gust of wind blows over Tim, sending him reeling. He smacks his mouth a few times, coughs as ash settles into the blood on his face.

“Mortals often want things when they venture here. It is never simply to visit.”

Tim blinks. Gapes. Closes his mouth and clears his throat. “Uh, I’m sorry? We should really be more considerate of your feelings. Although, it might help if you didn’t grab people as soon as you saw them. Just a thought. It’s kind of… painful?”

Duustrius blinks at him, and then there’s a panicked, rumbling sound, and Tim is lowered carefully to the ground. He steadies himself and then stands there, completely stumped.

“I apologise, mortal. I meant no harm.”

“Tim. My name’s Tim, if you want to use that instead of mortal. And no harm done, Duustrius - may I call you that? Or can I call you… what about Dusty? That’s a bit less of a mouthful.”

“Please do not devour my name,” Duustrius says, confused, and Tim shakes his head.

“No, it’s just an expression. But Dusty, that’s a nickname, you know? Something you call your friends.”

He tries to sound soothing, and it must work, because Duustrius straightens a little, taken aback but clearly considering it.

“Friends?” Duustrius says, and as he looms over Tim, Tim feels that rush of fear and awe again. He feels tiny, insignificant, and he shivers in the face of such monstrousness. But Duustrius’s voice is small and unsure, specked with hope, when he asks, “Is that what we are, Tim? Friends?”

Tim spits out another mouthful of ash, and smiles up at him, pained. “Sure, Dusty. That’s what we are.”

It's not like he's going to say no.

Via is smug when Tim crawls out of the crater, hours later. He’s dirty and covered in ash and blood, and he’s sweaty from sitting by the fire for so long, and he doesn’t particularly want to traipse back to Brickholm.

You spent many hours down there. You must have had fun.

Tim stares at her incredulously. “Fun? What gave it away? The pints of blood soaked into my clothes? You could have warned me that there was a God down there. So could Baron - I swear he knew, or he wouldn’t have acted so shifty. You’re both on my sh*t-list.”

Via simply waits.

Tim collapses back against the ground. “Just for the record, your kind are dicks. That was the nicest God I’ve ever met, and the others ignore him because he’s young - in your terms - and destined to turn evil, according to some bullsh*t prophecy. Nobody’s destined for evil. That’s complete crap.”

Via obviously isn’t interested in him dissecting the inner workings of her and her family. She turns her nose up, and waits for him to finish ranting.

“He’s going to forge me something, to help me channel the magic I learn,” Tim says, once he’s exhausted all his anger. “He said a sword would suit me, but I asked for a staff. I know how to use those. Although I may pick up a sword anyway, as a back-up.”

How long?

“Dusty said it should take three nights to build it,” Tim says, levering himself off the ground. A light shimmers across the black plains - Brickholm, warm and distant. “I’m going to visit every day, just so he’s not alone. And then we’re leaving, aren’t we? It’s time to move on.”

Via dips her head. We go North. To the Temples and Tombs, the Palace of Old, and the Great Dragon in the Sky.

Tim lets his voice turn drier than dust. “Well, doesn’t that sound just grand?”

Chapter 5: Immune To Change

Chapter Text

The pictures return. Dick wishes he had a chair, because the sight of Tim knocks the breath out of him. He keeps himself standing purely because everyone else does. He digs down deep for the bit of him that’s purely Nightwing, and grimly faces the picture on the wall.

Tim is deathly still, lying down with his arms lax at his sides. There’s no blood on him - in fact, he looks remarkably clean, but that might have something to do with the swirls of energy hovering above him. There’s a bamboo mat beneath him, and beneath that, stone tiles make up the floor he’s lying on. The stone is painted a deep red, with black letters set into the seams of each tile. Dick can’t tell what they’re saying - the language is different, foreign, not of this earth. Dick can see intricate pillars, a glimpse of sunlit sky, and not much else.

The patches of blue beneath Tim’s eyes are deep as bruises, and he looks thinner, more gaunt. It gives him a hollow look. Dick itches to reach out, but it’s just a picture on a wall, and it isn’t even of the present. This has already happened. There’s nothing he can do for this memory of Tim, this old image.

“He looks like a corpse,” Damian snaps, and Dick knows him well enough to know that the anger is mostly a front for fear. There’s a little bit of contempt mixed in, for Tim getting himself into this situation, and anger that he can’t do anything practical to help, but it’s mostly fear.

“Don’t say that,” Steph snaps. Cass squeezes her shoulder.

They quiet down when movement draws their focus back to the pictures. Figures move into view around Tim, swathed in unusual blue robes, masks over their faces, hands lit with a velvet purple glow. The glow floats down to encase Tim, swallowing him up, and Dick watches as he jolts once, twice, and then grows still.

The room collectively holds its breath. Dick swallows back bile as Tim lays there, limp and broken-looking. And then he starts to cough, and shake a little, and his eyes open just slightly before he falls still again.

The picture fades away.

Bruce is the first to round on Bob the Villain. “Why did you stop it?”

“There was nothing else to show you of that day,” Bob says. “It continues in the same vein, I imagine. I believe that was a week or so after he encountered the hand of ash.”

“He’s sick,” Dick says, his pulse bounding along. “Really sick.”

“Great deduction there, Dickie,” Jason says, clapping him on the shoulder, although his expression is grim. “Question is, what’s wrong with him, and have they got a way to survive it, wherever the f*ck he is?”

Dick shoots him a half-hearted glare, but then Alfred clears his throat, almost hesitant, and all eyes immediately turn to him. Alfred is rarely ever hesitant.

“I do believe I may know what ails him,” Alfred says. He clears his throat again, and Dick gets this sinking feeling inside. “It may have something to do with his lack of spleen.”

The Cave falls silent.

“His lack,” Bruce says, slowly, “of spleen.”

“Master Timothy came to me a few months after he returned you to us, Master Bruce,” Alfred explains. “Or rather, he was brought to me, by his friends, the Titans. Master Timothy was rather unwilling to come of his own accord, and even less willing to divulge any information, but they explained his predicament. His spleen was removed at some point during his… time away.”

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on, which means that Bruce already has one, and Jason’s not far behind.

“He did not say how,” Cass says, crossing her arms. Alfred inclines his head at her.

“He never said a damn word,” Steph says, incredulous. “I mean, I know everything’s pretty much screwed. I know none of us are as close to him as before, but you’d think he’d mention that he was missing a pretty vital organ.” She rounds on Bruce. “How the hell didn’t you know?”

Bruce doesn’t reply. His fists tighten at his sides, and if it were anyone else, Dick would think they didn't care. Would think that their expression was stone-cold and unbothered, but Dick knows Bruce, and he knows how much he cares about Tim, despite how long it took for them to get to this point, and despite how much stuff there is between them, and despite how badly he shows it.

He knows that expression; it’s pain and guilt and a bit of shock.

“Look, that ain’t really the point right now,” Jason says, frowning at the blank cave wall, his accent thickening slightly with worry. “He’s got no spleen, no meds, no drugs, and basically, no f*cking immune system, and from what we can see, it’s a pretty primitive damn world he’s living in right now. So what the f*ck do we do? How do we help?”

“Help?” Bob the Villain laughs. “Help? If he lived through it, there will be more to see, and you can help by watching the rest and helping me bring him back, along with my artifact. If he didn’t - and he might not have, for there are many days between then and now - then there’s no help to give.”

The punch that Jason delivers leaves the man gasping in his chair. The crack echoes off the walls.

Damian makes a small noise of discontent. “You did not hit him hard enough, Todd.”

“What makes you say that, Demon?” Jason watches the blood dribble down from Bob the Villain’s nose with a satisfied nod.

“He is still breathing.”

“That’s enough,” Bruce says. “Show us the next day.”

Bob the Villain glares, but rather wisely doesn’t make a sound. Dick’s fist itches to fly at his face as well, but he’s also ready to see the next day, to check and make sure that Tim’s okay, that he’s alive.

The picture morphs into the same scene, except that Tim isn’t there. Dick sucks in a breath, his heart stopping in his chest. The bamboo mat is empty. The sky is a little darker, tinged with threads of black and grey. And then it shifts, and Tim is there, standing in a circle of the same cloaked figures, hands raised towards a vivid orange sunset.

“He’s alive,” Dick breathes, voice packed with relief.

“Sure is,” Jason murmurs, narrowing his eyes at the picture. “And he’s messin’ around with something that don’t ought to be messed with.”

“What do you mean?” Damian snaps.

Jason jerks a thumb at the picture. “Look at his hands. That ain’t natural.”

Dick looks. There’s a white, silvery glow around Tim’s hands, fluid and lithe, wrapping itself around his fingers and caressing the fragile bones. It drips down his arms and pools at his shoulders, but it’s brightest at his hands.

Tim walks off to the side, and the picture follows him. The stone tiles drop down into a small alcove, similar to the one he’d been laying in. There’s another bamboo mat, although this time, the figure laying on top of it is a young girl.

Tim crouches down, his back to the picture. A wolf appears at his side, between one moment and the next, and nudges him in the side. The same white, shivering magic laps at her paws, which are stained with dirt and blood. She leans into Tim, and shares a look with him, before turning to stare directly out of the picture. Dick can feel her gaze rip through him, and he coughs out a gasp, his lungs tight, all of a sudden.

And then her gaze moves, back to Tim, and Tim does something. He does something; he raises his palms and presses them to the girls heart and neck, and he breathes white light into her.

The girl spasms once, and then she takes a deep breath, and opens her eyes.

The scene fades again.

“That ain’t natural,” Jason says again, into the stunned silence. “It ain’t human. Something’s different, there, with him. I dunno what that place is doing to him, but it can’t be good.”

“He healed her,” Cass says. “How is that not good?”

“It’s not bad, exactly,” Steph says haltingly.

“But it isn’t Drake,” Damian spits out. “Drake does not heal. He is not magical. He is completely human.”

Bob the Villain laughs, voice stuffy with pain. “Not anymore.”

Chapter 6: Opening and Closing

Chapter Text

Via leads him North. The journey is long and hard, and it grows colder the further they go. The sky turns grey and the mountains they climb start to grow slick with ice. Snow falls down in soft flakes and drenches him in cold. Tim uses the staff Duustrius forged for him as a walking stick.

It’s a thing of beauty. Dark as ash and moulded to fit his hands perfectly. Long and well-balanced. When he taps a small notch in the middle three times, it shrinks down to the size of a wand, and Tim can tuck it out of sight if he needs to. There’s a sword too, strapped around his waist. It looks elegant, with sigils scrawled down the flat of the blade. The hilt is a vivid gold, and reminds Tim of the depths of fire in Dusty’s home. It was a gift, a little something extra to thank Tim for being his friend.

Dusty had been pretty upset that Tim had to leave. He had howled precisely once, a drawn-out sound that whipped through the air and caused cracks and fissures to form in the ceiling. And then he had hunkered down, small and pained, and spoken sadly of how lonely he was during the hours Tim was away.

Tim had felt something in him crack, and he had poured every ounce of energy he had into convincing Baron to visit while Tim was away. Baron had been surprisingly reluctant, for someone who revelled in the tales of the Old Gods, but then he had met Dusty, and his fears had lifted, and Tim was as okay with leaving as he was going to be. He had spent the first half of their journey wondering if there would be a way to talk to Dusty when he returned home.

They camp in the open, under low trees and starry nights. It’s not as glamorous as the stories and video games Tim used to consume made it out to be. The ground is rough and lumpy, and the blankets don’t do much to keep out the chill. Tim is always wet and cold and covered in dirt and frost.

On the third day of their journey, Via gets tired of his muttered complaints, and she teaches him something new.

It’s magic, she says.

Tim stops fiddling with the rough edges of his blanket and eyes her. She’s been telling him stories, this whole time, and he has the things that Baron’s taught him so far locked away tight. “The good kind?”

There is no good or bad magic. Only good and bad people who wield it. I have told you this.

He builds a shelter with his hands. He draws deep inside his energy source, at Via’s instruction, feeling the swirling mass of energy in his soul that can be transmuted into magic. It shouldn’t be possible. He’s never been able to feel his soul before, but on his first day under Baron’s roof, they performed an awakening ritual, to unlock all the little doors in Tim’s blood. It involved too many animal bones for Tim to be truly comfortable with it, but he needs to be able to open the portal, when he finds it.

The magic pours from his hands in a wave of blue light that tucks itself around and under him, creating a shield from the elements. It’s warm and quiet in the little bubble he makes for himself, and Tim breathes a sigh of relief.

It will not shield you from attack, but it will keep you dry, at least. You can hold it in place while you sleep. And then I will not have to listen to you whine.

She says it fondly, or so Tim tells himself.

The next night is far more comfortable. The one after that, Tim can’t remember at all.

The Niv’Ja are faceless people. Healers. Creepy as f*ck, in Tim’s humble opinion. They literally have no faces, and Tim’s pretty practiced at keeping his reactions internal, but he can’t help but rear back with a shout when he wakes to find them leaning over him.

“What am I doing here? Who the hell are you? Where’s Via?”

“You are in the Temples of the Niv’Ja. We are the Niv’Ja, the Healers of the North. You took ill on the road, and you were brought to us by your sacred companion.”

“Via,” Tim murmurs, glancing around. The mat beneath him is made of bamboo, yet it’s the most comfortable thing he’s ever sat on. His whole body aches, but he pushes it aside. He is quite used to aches and pains, and his training has taught him to push through it. If he can fight with a concussion and several broken bones, then he can sit up when his stomach hurts.

He sits up and almost vomits. He presses a hand deep into his side and breathes deeply, glancing up at the Niv’Ja through his lashes.

“What did you do to me?”

“We shifted your soul.”

Tim blinks at them. “Charlie what now?”

The faceless figure above him sighs, somehow. There’s no mouth, and yet the sounds come out regardless. Where there should be features, there’s just a smooth stretch of skin. More of them linger just behind the Niv’Ja that’s talking to him, a little further up inside what is presumably the Temple, although Tim’s never seen a Temple that’s open to the air before.

“An organ of yours was lost, some time ago,” says the Niv’Ja. “It should have resided here.”

It reaches down to brush its fingers over where the pain is. Tim jerks back, but there is something soothing about the touch. The pain lessens a little, and he can breathe clearly.

“Instead we found a mess of space,” the Niv’Ja continues. “That was the organ that should have protected you from the injuries you sustained whilst here. The cuts and the air have let darkness into your body.”

Tim translates in his head. The spleen should have protected him from bacteria, to help his immune system and stop him from getting sick in this new world, but it obviously wasn’t there, and Tim is without his usual meds.

“So I got sick, and you… you shifted my soul?” Tim asks.

“We moved your soul down into the space where the organ should have resided. Your magic, which lives in your soul and is now awake, will keep you safe from illness now. It may drain a little of your energy, but none so more than usual.”

Tim doesn’t quite know how he’s supposed to take that. The idea that his soul lives in the area where his fingers are pressed against fills him with a thrill of fear.

He swallows back his fear and nods at the Niv’Ja. “I owe you my thanks, then. I’m going to assume it wasn’t an easy thing to do.”

“We almost lost you,” the Niv’Ja agrees. Tim - Tim doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think about dying here, with nobody to mourn him, and leaving everyone back home without the knowledge that he’s dead. It’s probable that they’ve already assumed it, but he hopes they’re working to find him regardless. It’s stupid, to think otherwise, when he knows they do love him, but he can’t help but think it anyway, think that maybe they aren’t looking. Maybe they’ve given up. Maybe they never looked at all.

An hour later, and Tim has been treated to a tour of the Temples of the Niv’Ja, which frankly is not as glamorous as they make it sound. It’s just slabs of blood-red stone set into the mountain, complete with tall pillars, each one decorated with winding writing that Tim can’t read. He runs his fingers over the blue symbols and feels the importance of it all deep down. He just doesn’t know why.

“This is the language of the portals,” says the Niv’Ja, the one that was there when he awoke. The others are spiriting through the Temple, carrying bowls of water imbued with herbs, and cool cloths and ointments. There aren’t many patients, but several young men sit in the alcoves on each side of the Temple, and a young girl lies deathly still on a mat not unlike Tim’s. Tim tries not to look at her if he can help it.

“The portals have a language?” Tim asks. Baron hadn’t mentioned this. Tim hadn’t stayed as long as he thought Baron might have hoped, but a language related to the portals seems like a pretty big thing to mention. It’s possible that Baron just didn’t know about it, but for someone so obsessed with the ways of his own world, with portals and gods, it seems like something that’s impossible to miss.

The Niv’Ja bows its head. “The language on the pillars, written in blue, that is the language of portals. It is the language that must be spoken to open the portals, the language that must be written on walls to create doors.”

Tim sucks in a breath. It’s why they look so familiar - it’s the same symbols that were etched onto the wall when he came through, the symbols that lingered on the cliff-face while he searched for an artefact.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, f*ck. I take it I’d need to know this language, if I was going to open a portal?”

The Niv’Ja doesn’t look surprised by his announcement. It nods. “You will also need to know the Ash Language, the black sigils on the ground. The two go hand in hand. They are inseparable. One is the language of openings, and the other of closings. Blue to open a door, and black to close it.”

“I don't really need to close it,” Tim says, rubbing his temples. “I’m just trying to get home.”

“You will not be able to understand the language of openings without first studying the Ash Language. And you will not find the Ash Language unless you travel deep into the Tombs of Trachalite. It is where the old, broken Niv’Ja reside.”

Tim grimaces. “We go North, to the Temples and Tombs.”

The Niv’Ja doesn’t have an eyebrow, but Tim suspects it would be raising it if it could.

“That’s what my guide said, Via,” Tim explains. “You haven’t seen her, have you? She’s a big wolf. Probably scowling. Kind of hard to miss.”

“She brought you to us,” the Niv’Ja says. “She disappeared as you lay dying, and she has only returned once before leaving again.”

Tim blinks at it. “Lovely. Look, why can’t I just study the language here? It’s on your floor. Surely one of you must know what it means.”

“We did not put it there,” the Niv’Ja says. “Our kind did, but none that still live. That is why you must go to the Tombs, to converse with the Unliving.”

Tim eyes the Niv’Ja suspiciously. He got lucky, going down the crater and meeting Dusty, back in Brickholm, but he doubts he’s going to meet the same happy fate here.

“The Unliving, huh?” Tim asks. “Friendly bunch, are they?”

The Niv’Ja doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Tim sighs gustily. “Alright, fine. Look, I’d rather do this with my guide, but if she doesn’t show up within a few hours, I’ll have to go down into these tombs myself. Can you tell me how to get there?”

“No,” the Niv’Ja says, because apparently it lives to be bluntly, calmly unhelpful. “Only the very young may guide travellers down into the Tombs of Trachalite, so as not to tempt them to stay. The young are the farthest from death, you see, and the Tombs have a way about them to draws you in, encases you.”

Tim shudders, and the Niv’Ja nods knowingly.

“I cannot tell you how to reach them, as I have not ventured there myself. But I know someone who may help you, if you help her.”

And he turns to the alcove and points one long, gnarled finger at the dying girl.

Chapter 7: Grim Mockeries

Chapter Text

The girl lives. The silver magic inside him - the energy that flowed from his hands - doesn’t really leave him. He pours it into the girl and she lives, but it’s still there inside him too. Or maybe his body’s just making more. Tim can feel it settling in his soul, in the place where his spleen used to be, and he can feel it begging to be released. The healing sapped his strength, so he sits in one of the alcoves while the Niv’Ja tend to the girl, and recovers slowly.

A girl that was just dying. A girl that he saved with his own bare hands and the magic that lives in them now. Tim stares dazedly ahead and tries not to think about that.

Is it right, what he did? Does he even have a choice? If he saw someone facing down a gun, he would push them out of the way and take the bullet if he could. If he saw someone falling from a building, he would do everything he could to catch them, even if it meant he hit the ground instead. If he found someone ill and dying on the ground, and he had the medicine that would help, he would give it to them, no matter what the cost to his own health. That's what he did as Robin, and it's what he does as Red Robin, and it's what he will always do as Tim.

Magic, he decides, is just another form of medicine. A grapple. A shield. A tool.

Via watches him silently as he drinks water from a wooden bowl. Her eyes are far too judgemental.

Reckless, she says. You should have waited for me.

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming back,” Tim says. He puts the bowl down by his feet and drags his hand across his mouth, wiping away the moisture. He can see snow further down the mountain, but the Temple is warm despite the lack of walls.

Via pads closer and noses his cheek. I will always come back. I will not leave you. Not like they did.

Tim lifts a hand cautiously and rests it on Via’s head, feels the soft velvet of her ears beneath his fingers.

“You’re talking about my family,” Tim guesses. Via makes a sound, a light rumble in her throat that could be the beginnings of a growl, or even a derisive snort.

“Nobody left me,” Tim says, although the words land soft and shallow between them. “If anything, I left them. Not that I wanted to, but it was the only way to keep everyone else safe. But they didn't leave me. I don't know where you got that idea from.”

From your eyes.

Tim purses his lips. The Niv’Ja comes up then, distracting him from a harsh retort that Via wouldn’t deserve. He turns away and nods at the Niv’Ja, wobbling to a stand.

“Is she alright?” Tim asks, jerking his head at the girl. She stands just behind the Niv’Ja, stiff, with curious eyes that look far too black to be healthy. There’s a thick woollen cloak wrapped around her, and her limp hair has been plaited tightly on top of her head. Her face is still pale, still gaunt, but Tim reckons he doesn’t look much better. Plus, she did almost just die. Nobody would look their best after that.

“She lives, thanks to you,” says the Niv’Ja. “She has agreed to guide you, but you must recover before you step down into the Tombs. The first Healing is always the hardest, and it will take several hours before you are back to your full strength. Where you are going, you will need it.”

“That’s not ominous at all.” Via nudges the back of his knees, hard, and Tim stumbles slightly. “I mean, thank you. I’ll be sure to rest up. Does she, uh, does she have a name?”

“Not that we could uncover,” the Niv’Ja says, sounding unconcerned. “There are many children in the mountains, young and wild. Most do not survive the snow. Most are unnamed. I’m sure she will speak, given time, but for now we are calling her Girl.”

“Right. Really creative.”

The Niv’Ja bows its faceless head and beckons Girl over. She steps forward on sure feet, and if Tim wasn’t looking so closely, he wouldn’t have been able to guess that she had almost died only an hour before, not with the way she moves, stealthy and easy, as though the land belongs to her.

Girl reaches Tim’s legs. She comes up to his ribs, and she’s a tiny little thing in weight and height, swaddled in not enough cloth. Tim takes his own blanket off and bundles her up in it, and she takes hold of the edges with large, owlish eyes. The sound she makes in her throat is hoarse and pained, and Tim winces, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.

“It’s alright, you don't have to talk. Not unless you want to. I’m Tim. I know the Niv’Ja said you’d guide me down to the Tombs, but I’m not going to make you. You don't have to, if you don't want to.”

She co*cks her head sideways, thoughtful, and then cracks a yawn. She’s missing a tooth, off to the side. She looks so small, so helpless, and Tim can’t help but think of Cass, who was fierce and deadly but lonely at first, hurt by others and left to her own devices, left to grow alone. He misses her suddenly, with a wave of emotion that he can’t push down, can’t ignore, and he keeps himself very still, swallowing back tears.

He really is exhausted. So, apparently, is Girl.

Girl folds herself down onto the ground, curling up to sleep. Her eyes fall shut almost immediately. Tim stares down at her with a blank expression.

“Right. Glad we got all that cleared up, then.”

Via nudges him again, kinder this time, and then stoops until she’s curled herself around the child. Her eyes remain open, watchful, guarding Girl from unkindness.

The Tombs of Trachalite are nothing like Dusty’s home. Dusty’s home was skin-splitting heat and dense darkness, the warmth of the hearth and the thundering crack of a childish, ancient laugh.

The Tombs are almost the complete opposite. They lie deep in the base of the mountain, and it takes a full day to reach the bottom. Girl scampers ahead, clambering easily over rocks and trudging through the snow with youthful determination. She puts Tim in mind of a baby goat, her feet and hands finding hooks in the rock easily, mindless of the ice covering them. Via follows, barking at nothing, her snout shaping smiles as she scuffs up snow, running alongside Girl. Girl wavers between delight and terror at the sight of the wolf, but ultimately she doesn’t shy away.

Tim feels older than the mountain itself, and he pants as he tries to catch up. His hands are scraped raw by the time he makes it to the bottom and sits heavily on a rock. A frozen river runs alongside the cave in the face of the mountain, a ribbon of white and blue. Fish dart beneath the stony surface, and their energetic swimming seems to mock him.

He’s used to grappling his way across city-scapes and punching muggers in the face. He knows his way around a concrete jungle, across sparring bats and trapeze bars, over deserts in search of clues. His feet are at home when he’s perched somewhere high, watching. He’s always, always pushed himself to the breaking point, and sometimes beyond that. He strives to be the best, to not fall short of the shadow that Jason left behind, the one that Dick still casts, the one that Damian smugly calls his own, and he hasn’t minded the consequences of that.

Now, though, he can barely catch his breath. It’s the change, he knows, in his soul and his environment, in his diet and stress levels. It's natural to feel worse in a place like this, especially with all that's happening. It doesn’t make him feel much better though.

“Nowhere in the vigilante contract did it say I’d one day have to scale a snow-covered mountain to speak to some dead healers.”

Via snorts softly from where she’s perched near the cave entrance. It would not have stopped you if it did.

The Tombs are hidden behind a door set into the ground, inside the cave. A thick patch of snowy pine trees almost obscures the mouth of the cave, but Girl knows the way. She waits by the door, her wide eyes unblinking as she watches him curiously. She taps her chest twice, once where each lung would be, and then draws a circle around the place where Tim’s spleen used to be, the place where his soul now resides.

“What? I don't need healing,” Tim says, as he straightens up. “It’s just been a very long day.”

She taps her chest again, once over each lung.

She thinks you are dying. Via sounds a second away from barking out laughter. The way your breaths rasp is making her worry.

“It has been,” Tim reiterates firmly, “a long ass day.”

The doors have the symbols on them, the Ash language, as the Niv’Ja put it, engraved into the surface of heavy red wood.

“Cave at the bottom of the mountain, doors down into tombs, black language I have to learn, generally creepy atmosphere,” Tim mutters. “I think that’s everything on the checklist. We’re in the right place, but have you got any idea what I’m up against? Or what I’m looking for down here?”

For a moment, he thinks Via is going to be her usual cryptic self, vague and unhelpful. This time, though, she moves forward through the snow and noses at the door.

They open outward with a creak, a groan of rotting wood. A gust of stale air climbs out.

Tim takes a hasty step back. Girl scuttles away, her eyes fixed on the doors.

I was told stories of this place while the young one slept. She did not mean to come here, but the place lures everyone, living or dead. She dreams of it, at times. It is cold and unforgiving, and the faceless monsters are not so faceless here. She has seen Sigils on the walls, written in black light, at the far end of the Tombs of Trachcalite.

The words send a shudder down Tim’s spine. He faces Girl, crouching down until he’s at her eye-level, and keeps his palms where she can see them.

“I have to go down there,” Tim says, speaking carefully. “I don't want you to come with me, though. Via told me that you’ve been here before, that you’ve seen markings on the walls. Can you show me what they look like?”

Girl’s face changes, her shoulders drooping. Her mouth grows a little slack with relief, and she nods fervently.

Tim waits as she bends to put her hands in the snow beneath the trees, tracing shapes in the slushy surface. He studies the shapes, the curves and lines, and he commits them to memory.

When she’s done, Girl sits back on her haunches and blows out a breath. She does look like a wild thing like this, her hair falling free from the tightly knotted plait, her cheeks hollowed, her eyes black.

“Thank you,” Tim says softly, and then he reaches over and wipes the images away. “I’ll remember them, don't worry. Via’s going to stand guard with you out here, okay? Nothing will get you, and nothing will come out of the doors except me. Whatever happens, you don't come down there. Understand?”

Girl nods sharply. Tim leaves her gazing at the frozen water, at the skeletal leaves that skitter across the surface, caught in the wind.

“Via, will you look after her?”

I do not like this. Sending you down there by yourself is far too risky.

“I can’t take her with me, not when she’s as scared as this. And I can’t leave her out here alone, either. She might have survived worse, but that doesn’t mean she should have to keep doing it.”

Via bows her head, but Tim can feel her frustration. Then I will watch her. If you are not back soon, I will hide her and follow.

Tim can’t quite hide his relief at that. “Thanks, Via. Be careful out here.”

I will take as much care as you.

The Tombs of Trachalite consist of a gloomy maze of tunnels, creeping deeper beneath the mountain. The scent of rot and decay permeates the air, sticking to his skin, and the air is cool, the walls damp with condensation.

Tim gets turned around more than once. The third time he finds himself heading in the wrong direction, he cups his hands and holds still, thinking of light and warmth, thinking of that particular lamp in the library at the Manor, the one on the end-table in the corner. It’s beside that armchair that Bruce favours, the soft one with an abundance of cushions, and it carries a very specific yellow light that always douses the sleeping man in softness.

His hands glow orange, at first, and then that yellow softness fills his hands. He bends to press his hands to his feet, to the thick leather boots, to rub the light all over the dirty soles. He leaves behind a shimmer, and when he walks, yellow footsteps glow on the ground behind him.

He finds his way a little easier after that. More light lets him see the walls, but they’re earthen and wet, no sigils to be seen. He walks until his boots forget the earth, until his glowing footprints imprint themselves against cracked stone.

He pauses in an archway. On each side, there are grooves in the wall, going up and up until they disappear into mist and grim darkness. In the grooves are skulls; some are broken and shattered, and some are whole, grinning at him fiendishly.

“What a welcome.” Tim eyes the skulls before stepping a little further inside. “Not at all off-putting. You don't mind, do you?”

The skulls say nothing, leering at him. He’s sort of glad about that, but the silence still makes him drop his pathetic attempt at humour.

“These are the Tombs, then,” Tim whispers aloud, glancing around.

The tunnels have opened up into a cavern, a towering cylinder right in the core of the mountain. The air feels thicker, dusty. There are tombs in the walls, plaques adorning each one. Some lie out in the open, turned on their sides, their coverings cracked in half. Pieces scatter the floor. Tim breathes in carefully and steps through the cavern, feeling restless and alert, his body tense with energy. He carefully unhooks his staff where it’s strapped across his back.

Across the cavern, the light on his hands catches on a wall of white stone. Just a patch of it, almost consumed by moss and mould, but there, in the centre, are etchings. Sigils.

The people of this world bless the Gods when fate smiles upon them. Tim might be travelling with a Goddess, but he’s still a boy from Gotham at heart. One who spent plenty of time with a grudging, spitting-nails Jason Todd.

“Thank f*ck for that,” Tim says instead, and he steps quickly over a mound of cloth to get to the wall.

The mound of cloth moves. A gagging sound emerges from within it, and a bony, brittle hand grips his ankle, jerking him back.

Tim cries out and swears as he falls, tucking his body in and rolling off to the side. His staff skitters in the opposite direction. He manages to absorb the fall despite his shock, popping up again and whirling around.

The mound of cloth becomes something far, far worse than he could have imagined as the thing inside it stands up.

“What are you?” Tim utters, his voice caught in his throat.

A hundred voices speak at once, falling from the mouth of the monster in front of him.

“We are the Aj’Vin,” it says. “We thank you for our awakening.”

The Aj’Vin are grim mockeries of their brothers above. Rather than a faceless creature, he’s confronted with something twisted, ugly.

Their faces are inside out.

Tim recoils at the grotesque sight, close to retching, and then steadies himself with a heaving breath, fingers gripping the nearest damp, stone wall so that he doesn’t fall to his knees. His staff is just behind the Aj’Vin.

“I didn't wake you,” Tim says, trying to keep his voice from fading into nothing. “I didn't do anything. I’m just here for a language, for help.”

“You like to help,” the Aj’Vin says, in a rasping voice. “We have seen. Try again, little bird. Try to help.”

Tim jolts at the name. Jason calls him Baby Bird, sometimes, and all the Robins have little names between them, all wing-related puns. It’s not possible for these things to know about that though.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tim asks, taking a careful step to the side, trying desperately to make himself look like he’s afraid, like he’s trying to get away rather than get towards his staff. It’s not hard to fix his face in grim horror.

The Aj’Vin twists one hand out of its robes. It’s the same bony hand that gripped him, and if the face is anything to go by, then it’s possible that all the flesh is on the inside. He wonders distantly why their skulls aren’t visible, like the rest of the bone structure seems to be, and then he remembers the skulls in the grooves along the walls on the way in, and he shoves the thought back. He doesn’t want to know.

"Try to help her."

Tim follows the hand, his eyes flickering nervously to the floor where the blunt, thin fingers are pointed. He blinks as his eyes adjust, and then he sucks in a shallow breath. He told her not to follow.

Girl lies on the floor just a few feet behind the Aj’Vin, convulsing slightly. Her hair spills loose and her frame shudders, small and close to breaking.

“What did you do to her?” Tim demands, snarling as he stands up straight. His fear isn’t quite forgotten, but there’s an edge to it now, an urge to protect that’s halfway to overriding everything else.

“When?”

Tim stares, nonplussed. The horror of those mouths moving, the exposed teeth gnashing and bloody gums dripping all over the floor doesn’t quite dampen the confusion Tim feels at the mocking question.

“What do you mean, when? She’s on the floor! What did you do to her?”

The grin he gets is ghastly, repulsive enough to rival even the Joker’s. “When?”

“You…” Tim trails off as he thinks. His eyes flit to Girl, on the floor. He didn't hear her come in. He didn't hear anything. One minute she wasn’t there, and the next she was. Via isn’t present either, and Girl is missing Tim’s blanket, the one she’d tied around her neck like a cape.

Tim licks his lips. All around him, things are waking up in the walls. He can feel it, the change in the atmosphere as more of the Aj’Vin claw their way out of slumber.

The Aj’Vin’s eyes are flat slits. It’s stalling him.

“That isn’t her. This is from before. You hurt her, before. You were the reason she came to the Temple. You almost killed her for no reason.”

“No reason,” the Aj’Vin scoffs. Spit flecks Tim’s chin as the monster surges in close, looming over him, eyeballs rolling. Tim fights a wave of terror and plants his feet.

“Yeah, no f*cking reason. She’s a child!”

“Children are not welcome here,” the Aj’Vin snarls. “They are cruel.”

Tim’s hand scrabbles along the wall as he backs up suddenly, remembering to look afraid. He skirts around the Aj’Vin, which watches him with something amused buried in its cruel expression.

“A cruel reminder, maybe,” Tim snaps. “She's young, and you don't like to think about what you used to be. You don't like to think about what you’ll never have again. Look at you. You’re disgusting. You know why?”

A flash of red in the Aj’Vin’s eyes. It grinds its teeth, and Tim can see where they connect, where they touch. Bony hands pound on the walls all around, dislodging bits of earth and lumps of stone. Dust rains down from above.

“Why?” The Aj’Vin says, clearly taunting him, humouring him. “Because we are decaying, rotting down here? Because we are ugly and disfigured?”

“Because you’re clinging to life, but there’s none left in you,” Tim replies coolly. “You’re pathetic. You’re old and broken, and the world is moving on without you, and you’ll remain down here, convinced that you’re not dead, until one day you realise that you have always, always been dead. You are dust. You are nothing like you used to be, and no matter how long you cling here, you'll never be alive again.”

The image of Girl flickers and then blinks out, like a bulb bursting.

“We used to be the Niv’Ja!” cries the Aj’Vin, in a howling voice that echoes all around the room, its face twisted in rage. Hands pry their way through the walls. A coffin slams into the ground and cracks, spilling bones onto the floor.

Tim dives for his staff, snatches it up, and the Aj’Vin is so furious, so caught in its anger that it doesn’t notice, or maybe it doesn’t care. Tim backs up towards the white wall, the only wall that isn’t shaking, falling apart.

“We were powerful, fearless!” the Aj’Vin howls, eyes manic. “We had magic in our soul, and we could play with death and life as we wished. We could bring people back from the brink of the abyss, or send them hurtling over the edge! We were unstoppable! We were Gods!”

“I have a few friends that would disagree,” Tim says, and he throws himself the last few feet, hands slamming against the wall. His fingertips touch the sigils.

Nothing happens. His fingers race along the walls, tracing the shapes frantically, but nothing changes. He whips around, and the mountain still quakes, and there are more of the Aj’Vin now, climbing down from their dark spaces, their leers livid and bloody. Tim pushes fiercely on the swell of panic inside him, but he can’t think. His pulse thunders in his throat, jumping and stuttering.

The first Aj’Vin stops speaking, and chuckles instead. It echoes off the walls. A laugh that haunts the minds of children.

Children. Tim flicks his gaze to where the image of Girl was. That was no illusion created from a dark mind. It was the past, brought to the present. Girl had really been here, shaking and afraid, dying in the gloom.

He doesn’t know how she got out, but he knows it wasn’t at the Aj’Vin’s mercy.

Anger looks different in everyone. With Jason, it’s always there, simmering, waiting to boil over, and it exhausts him and enrages him further. With Damian, it spills out in harsh lashings of the tongue, in soft-spoken derision that cuts just as sharply as his well-placed blades. Bruce is single-minded, undistracted, undeterred. Dick is happy until he isn’t, cheerful until he’s not, bright until he’s burning mad with fire that won’t be contained.

Tim is cool, calm, collected. Fear makes him a little clumsy, a little desperate, eager to get it right and save people. Anger turns him cold and careful, meticulous in his rage.

He knows he has it in him, to be the kind of thing he’s spent his life trying to stop. Not to innocents, but to people like these. Monsters like these.

“You have stopped,” the Aj’Vin laughs. A few stumble forwards, laughing too, the same laugh echoing from their inside-out throats. “You know the truth of now. You know your end is near. There is more than one type of God, Drake, and we are the kind that linger in your foolish cautionary tales. We will not be swayed. We will not be stopped. If you break us, we will put ourselves back together again. You have stopped because you know the truth of now.”

“And what would that be?” Tim asks, in a voice much calmer than he feels. The use of his last name unnerves him, sends his mind grasping at possible reasons, answers. The rest of him is focused. The Aj’Vin think he’s given up. The staff in his hands feels hot against his palms, and he can feel his soul inside him, and he knows, even if these monsters believe otherwise, that he’s far from giving up.

“The truth of now is your end, and our awakening.”

The Aj’Vin lunges forward, its grin opening wide, teeth gnashing at nothing.

Tim slams the butt of his staff into the Aj’Vin’s face. It howls as it careens backwards, surprised at him fighting back, but it shouldn’t be, not if it knows Tim. Tim whirls, kicking and dodging as the others surge towards him, swinging his staff in one hand and withdrawing his sword with the other. It’s not impossible to fight with both, but it makes things harder. Luckily, that’s not what Tim has planned.

He swings his sword in an upwards arc and brings it down into the ground in front of him. It cleaves through the stone like butter and wedges itself there, glowing. The Aj’Vin stumble back as a thin wave of magic pushes them away, their faces contorted with fury.

“If you hadn’t hurt her, I might have considered letting you live,” Tim says.

The first Aj’Vin begins to talk, frustrated, but Tim sends another wave of magic towards them, feeling it rip the energy from his toes.

“Oh, I was listening,” Tim assures it. “I was listening when you talked of not being stopped or swayed. But everything has an end, no matter how hard we try to avoid it. You’ve been abusing the power in this world for too long, and I think it wants to stop you whether you like it or not.”

The sigils on the wall still don't glow, or do much of anything really, not until Tim lifts his staff. He presses one end to the middle sigil, the one that looks a bit like a crescent moon. The black sigil glows briefly, then, and Tim feels his soul shift restlessly, searching.

“It’s the Language of Closings. The Ash Language. I thought that this looked a bit like ash, this staff. And my friend, the one who made it, might not be well-loved among his family, but he’s still a God. I know he would agree with me. Maybe he even knew I’d come here.”

The Aj’Vin shift as one, suddenly unsure.

“Do not--”

Tim cuts the first Aj’Vin off with a sharp movement of his wrist, digging the staff into the surface of the sigil. It glows, now, the glow never-ending.

“Ending a life is sort of like closing one, don't you agree?” Tim asks, and he savours the look of horror, the look of fear on the Aj’Vin’s face as the glow brightens. The magic in him snaps.

It roars through the room. Tim throws himself against the staff, keeping it pressed against the wall, against the sigil. Black light bursts forth, eating everything in sight. He can hear the screeching storm of voices as the Aj’Vin are devoured, their lives ended. Closed.

It’s violent and quick. The black light fades, snuffed out suddenly. Tim wobbles, and turns to look at the room, feeling suddenly drained.

There are mounds of cloth on the floor, and bits of stone and rubble, clumps of earth. No bones, no blood, no bodies.

He can feel something in the air as the dust settles. Light peeks in from above, sending a shaft of gold over the room. The green seeps away from the walls, and the moss reveals white stone. He can smell grass and earth. Water trickles down the walls. There is still decay, deep in the earth, but not the kind that shouldn’t linger, not the unnatural kind.

The skulls are still there, but their grins are lifeless. Solemn, rather than mocking.

“Oh,” Tim says, exhausted. “You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t know who he says it too. The mountain, perhaps, the mountain that can breathe again.

He glances down at his staff, feeling his energy waning. Supposedly he’ll get stronger soon, but even if he does, that was still a strong blast of magic. The staff shifts in his hand, shrinking down to the size of a wand. There, etched in one long line down the staff, are the sigils on the wall.

He raises it in the air, twirls it in his fingers as the golden light catches it. There is a small groove on the other side, where another line of sigils would fit.

Footsteps bellow outside the cavern, down the twisting pathways, following his golden footsteps. He can hear Via in his head, her voice saying, We sensed it, the change. The river is unfrozen. We’re coming.

Instinct grips him again, the way it had when he raised his sword, when he touched the staff to the wall, when he spoke to the mountain. He searches blindly with his mind for a moment before he stumbles on what he’s looking for.

Take your time, Via. There’s no rush.

Tim grins slowly at Via’s breathless jolt of shock, and passes out just before they round the corner.

Chapter 8: The Wrong Choice

Chapter Text

Bruce sits down carefully at the nearest workstation. The world takes on a hazy sheen, the familiar kind that allows his mind to distance itself, to think clinically rather than emotionally. Everything about him is careful right now, from the breaths that move steadily through his lungs, to the muscles in his face that refuse to twitch. He must be careful. Partly because he feels older than he’s felt in a long time, like his bones are brittle and may fade and crack with the wrong movement, and partly because he needs to look fragile.

The bastard in the chair just a few feet away is trying to look solemn, his mouth pliant and saddened, but the smugness radiates off him like foul perfume. It’s a stench of satisfaction, pleasure at a job well done.

“That’s not-” Dick cuts himself off abruptly, looking lost. The image on the wall of the Cave is gone, faded out of view, but Dick keeps staring at the rocky surface, like he’s willing it back. Like he’s willing for it to change, for the truth to remake itself.

“I’m afraid it is as it appears,” says the man. He sighs, long and drawn out, as though he truly regrets what they all just saw. Bruce grips the sides of the seat tightly.

“Calm yourself, Grayson,” Damian says stiffly, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I find it… unlikely that Drake would resort to something quite so drastic.”

Dick’s hand brushes Damian’s shoulder, light enough that the man in the chair doesn’t appear to notice. A computer beeps in the background, and up above, the bats screech and sing their shrill songs.

“Oh, but he did,” says the man, clearly enjoying the moment. His face is still red with blood from where Jason punched him, his voice claggy and thick. “I find myself wondering if that was the only option, even. I would hate to cast aspersions on your relative, but he seemed to quite enjoy it.”

Damian makes an ugly sound in his throat, holding himself tighter. Bruce knows that he would never usually verbally support Tim, unless in dire circ*mstances, but he also knows that there’s no hatred there. If there ever was any hatred. Arrogance and hurt, insecurities and fear, a little doubt and some begrudging, seething admiration, perhaps. All of that combined created quite a co*cktail, an explosive co*cktail that seemed to be simmering rather than boiling these days.

“Unless you want another punch, Poppet, I wouldn’t say much more,” Jason says. There’s an undercurrent of threat in his voice, as there often is, but not enough that Bruce is outright worried.

Bruce flicks his eyes over to where Jason is. He’s removed himself a little, and he’s leaning against the wall of the Cave, further back, watching the situation unfold. He’s tense, but not to the point of exploding, which likely means he’s noticed all the things that Bruce has noticed. Bruce feels safe enough letting his eyes wander.

Alfred is pale-faced but stoic, though his eyes seem sad. Stephanie throws herself out of her chair and moves to the shelves near the med-bay, muttering under her breath as she starts sorting out bandages and suture kits with sharp, jerky movements. Cass leaves her to it, staring thoughtfully at the wall. She makes eye-contact with Bruce for a moment, and her nod is sharp, agreeing. Bruce inclines his head back.

“You saw it, plain as anything,” says the man, unaware that most of his audience can see right through him. “The boy’s been in that world too long, it would seem. The images don't lie.”

Perhaps they don't lie, but they don't show the whole truth, either.

“Nobody asked your opinion, Bob,” Jason grits out, his voice packed with fake-cheer. Losing his patience, fast.

Bruce is very aware that the man isn’t called Bob. If Zatanna is to be believed, his first name is actually Byron, but nothing else is known about him, barring the fact that he’s not from this world. She only extracted that small snippet of information before he threw up an impenetrable wall of magic around his mind.

It’s possible that Byron allowed her to have it, his name, but either way, Bruce isn’t inclined to share what he knows just yet. It doesn’t seem relevant, not just yet, and information is power, in Bruce’s opinion. He might need it later.

“I do wonder if we saw the situation as it was meant to be seen,” Damian ventures, still rigid and unmoving.

“Or perhaps we saw it exactly as it was meant to be seen,” Bruce intones. He turns his head to stare at Byron. Byron’s placid smile doesn’t slip, but the smugness drops from his brow. He shifts a little in his chair, caught and not willing to show it.

“You don't honestly think Tim killed people, do you?” Dick snaps, looking aghast. He bounces on the balls of his feet, a show of restless energy, but his body is tightly wound like a coil, ready to spring.

Bruce knows that Dick is cleverer than that. All of his children are, and he can only take a very small amount of credit for how they’ve grown and matured, for how their minds have developed, become sharp and as agile as their bodies. Usually he doesn’t think he deserves any credit at all, but he loves them, and he’s selfish enough to want to claim a part of them.

He knows Dick, perhaps a little better than the rest. He’s a complicated boy - a man now - but easy enough to read. Either Dick is very, very emotional at the moment, which means he isn’t quite thinking beyond the next few minutes and his temper isn’t far from rearing its head, or he’s on the same page as everyone else, and he’s playing it up for their company.

Bruce knows what they saw in the image.

What they saw was tombs, dark spaces and skulls on the walls. Dust and dirt and cracked stone. They saw runes on the walls, too, glowing with black light, and those seem infinitely more important.

What they saw was Tim facing down an army of people, all of whom were somewhat indistinct, as though blurred. Bruce never saw their faces, just the backs of their ragged cloaks as they threw themselves at his son. No noise, just as with the last images, although he wonders if that’s less about magical limitations and more of a tactical decision on behalf of Byron, to not let them hear the context of the situation. It would make sense.

What they saw was Tim unleashing magic on the small army, and what they saw was the army disintegrating into nothing.

What Bruce saw was the fear and terror, the disgust and revulsion on his sons’ face. The downside of only showing the backs of the so-called victims was that it left the real victim in plain view. And the only reason that Byron might have shown them only half the truth was because showing the faces of the attackers wouldn’t solidify them to his cause. It would put them firmly on Tim’s side.

Bruce has fought many villains. Some with a looser definition of the word than others.

This man, Byron, is clever, but not as clever as he thinks he is. His sleight of hand is too obvious, his attempts at subterfuge too clumsy. It’s always possible that it’s simply another layer of his character, and there’s a darker, more amused version of him, even further beneath all of this, but Bruce doesn’t think so. Byron is powerful, even with most of his magic bound, but the only reason he caught them off guard before was because he was an unknown factor.

He didn't exist before now. Not here in Gotham, not anywhere else in the world.

It makes sense that he came from the world that Tim resides in now. It makes sense, and yet there’s… there’s something. If he could make a way through, if he could come from that world to this, then why not return? If he doesn’t want to return, then why not? If he wants something else to come through the portal, like his artefact, then why leave it to the hands of others?

And why choose them, of all people?

He doesn’t like not having answers, but at least he’s got one for the moment: the things they’re seeing are based in truth, but not to be trusted.

Bruce wishes he could say, wholeheartedly, that Tim hadn’t killed those people, if they were even people. He wishes he could believe it, with all his heart, that Tim was innocent, that nobody died, that if someone did die, it was a monster of another land.

Mostly, he’s sure. There’s still a part of him, the part that compartmentalises problems and poses possible answers as statistics, that isn’t sure. It has to be an option, a possibility, so that it can’t break him later if it’s true. So that he can plan for that event.

“He didn't kill them,” Dick reiterates. His voice is like stone, but his eyes, when Bruce glances up, are fond and knowing, tinged with exasperation. The words are a gentle reminder, a prod, a nudge. He knows Bruce just as well as Bruce knows him. Bruce doesn't want to think badly of any of his kids. He regrets it, whenever it happens, regardless of whether he was right or not.

He regrets many things, where Tim is concerned. He regrets keeping him at arms length, regrets letting him go when he should have clung tightly. He regrets that Tim seemed to think his life less important than those of his family, that he went through the portal so that nobody would get the chance to throw him through. He regrets that his expression was so still, so calm, when Tim glanced back at him, just before disappearing.

“Whatever helps you to sleep at night, I suppose,” Byron says, waving a hand blithely.

Bruce quirks an eyebrow at Dick, just the barest hint of expression. Dick quirks his mouth back, just the barest hint of a grin.

“I know what would help you sleep at night, and it isn’t a bedtime story,” Damian snaps, eyeing Byron like he’s examining him for convenient footholds, for later, when he’s going to climb him and break his jaw. Jason chuckles behind them.

Dick’s grin becomes a full-blown thing, and then drops just as quickly, before Byron can see. The man wants them to break apart, to fight amongst themselves, to mistrust Tim.

They’re being manipulated, badly, and for the moment, Bruce is going to look fragile and angry, and he's going to let Byron think that he's winning. Bruce isn’t sure why Byron chose their family - perhaps for the abundance of trust issues - but he knows one thing: they’ve let each other down far too often to let the same thing happen again if they can help it, and with Tim missing, all that matters is getting him home.

He knows one thing. Byron chose wrong.

Chapter 9: Silver and Gold

Chapter Text

Tim rams one Guard in the gut and slams his staff into the back of the others’ head. The second one goes down easily, crumpling like wet paper, but the first lands a punch in his stomach that knocks the breath out of him. He doubles over, panting, as the Guard raises his hand, fist clenched and wrapped in gold, metal gloves.

Tim ducks to the side when the fist sails towards him again. The Guard stumbles forward. Tim jerks his staff up directly between his legs. The howl that bursts forth is cut off abruptly when Tim slams upward and punches him directly in the face. The clatter of armour as it hits the floor is a sweet, sweet sound.

He stands, silent for a moment, before the faint noise of the world rushes in.

“f*ck,” Tim says, breathing hard. “f*ck. Were you going to help me, or do you like seeing me bleed too much to get involved?”

Via, sitting primly to the side beside a stack of crates, doesn’t reply. Her eyes hold a wealth of words, but she won’t share them.

“Right, the silent treatment.” Tim doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “How could I forget your mature, wise, oh-so-clever decision to stop talking to me?”

The bitter desperation seeps into his tone, soaking his voice.

Via leaps nimbly over an overturned crate and dips her snout to touch the first Guard’s head. His face is slack, blood pouring out of his nose. Tim grimaces, crouching down to rifle through his pockets. His armour gets in the way, and Tim grimaces again at the noise of metal grinding against the stone floor.

“I need to hide them,” Tim says, glancing around. They’re in an alleyway, wedged between a tavern and a high wall that looks cleaner than everywhere else. He can hear the chatter of crowds just further on, and surely someone must have seen him being chased further back, but nobody’s come looking. The alleyways twisted away from the heart of this place, where the crowds were, but someone could still have followed them.

He was running and fighting for a good ten minutes, though, and the alleyways are still empty of pursuers. Either they have faith in their guards, or they just don't care. Maybe they know better than to stick their nose into Palace business.

Gold will be hard to obscure.

“Oh, are you talking to me now?” Tim can’t hide his relief, even though his words are dry in his mouth. His hands shake. Via trots towards the second Guard, splayed across the floor, and doesn’t respond to his sarcasm. Tim sighs and surveys the knocked-out Guards. She has a point: the armour is a brilliant, shining gold, and stands out starkly against the dirty ground.

Use your magic. You do not have to transform the gold. Simply moulding it into something else will do.

Tim lets out a breath, shaking his shoulders loose, and then bends to touch his fingers to bright gold. He works quickly to undo the clasps and hooks, wrestling the Guards out of their armour, leaving them in a tight, plain black uniform. It still takes him a few minutes of grunting and shifting before everything gold is piled up on the ground.

“I could always wear some of it,” Tim says, staring doubtfully at the heap of armour.

It would not fit. You could shrink it, but the plan was not to attract attention, although you’ve done an excellent job of ruining that plan. If you wear this, you will be treated like a Guard until you are discovered. You will be called upon eventually, either to answer summons or to help someone in need. Mould it.

It’s not my fault that they saw me and my giant wolf sneaking around and decided to ask some questions, Tim thinks, sending the thought in Via’s direction.

Via recoils at the first brush of his voice, snapping her jaws once. Her eyes glint. Tim feels a frisson of fear, like a shock of static, but he doesn’t back down. He sets his jaw and focuses on his staff until it shrinks, growing wand-sized. It’s easier, he’s found, to use it when it’s wand-sized for smaller, more concentrated bouts of magic. It gives the magic a direction, somewhere to go. It feels more like a tool than a weapon.

He wonders how Dusty knew.

Duustrius is a God, whether you remember it or not. A dangerous God who could shape many futures, and who will one day rule the darkness. You would do well not to forget.

“Oh, so I can’t think at you, but you can go digging through my mind at will?” Tim grips his staff keenly. “Dusty liked his name. And he’s only going to rule the darkness, or whatever the hell you guys think he’s going to do, if you treat him like sh*t. If that’s the only thing you expect of him, if that’s what you tell him he is, what he’s going to be, then that’s what you’ll get.”

Via snorts, disgusted, and looks away, padding to the end of the alleyway to keep watch in the shadows.

Morph your gold, child. Do not speak of things you do not understand. We will talk when we reach the Palace.

Her voice fades as she retreats back into herself. Tim feels her loss keenly. It’s like an ache, a bruise that keeps being prodded and poked. He hunches his shoulders and stares down at the pile of gold armour. Via hasn’t spoken with him, not properly, since they left the Tombs of Trachalite, over four days ago. He woke outside, near the river that had unfrozen, as Girl splashed icy water on his face and Via trembled with fury.

Girl had touched his face when they arrived in Aurumadis, her eyes wide and grateful, before settling at the Inn they’d found to sleep in. Coins had been stuffed in the coffins in the Tombs, coins to accompany the Aj’Vin when they passed over. Tim hadn’t felt more than a pinprick of guilt when Girl led him neatly back inside the Tombs, stuffed a handful of the coins into his pockets, and then watched as he gave them to the Innkeeper when they reached Aurumadis. It got Girl a place to sleep for the night, a proper bed.

The whole time, Via hadn’t said a word. She’d stayed as silent and still as she is now.

He’s still not sure what he did wrong. He touched the sigils, as he was supposed to. The Ash Language sits, embedded in his staff, just as it was meant to. The Aj’Vin are gone, ended. Dead, he thinks, with a distant, clinical horror. He killed them.

It’s that last fact, and the way he spoke to Via through his mind, that has to be what made her angry.

If he thinks about it for too long, if he looks too closely at the memories of the Tomb, he’s going to get angry too.

He can’t undo what he did and, if faced with the option, he’s not sure that he would anyway. The Aj’Vin were unnatural, their lives stretched on too long until they weren’t lives at all. They hurt children, and they were monstrous. There was something else, too: they had an ominous feel to them, as though something deeper was at work. They tainted the world, and Tim feels mostly peaceful at having ended it all, but he knows of many, many people who wouldn’t agree.

Bruce, in particular, has a no-killing rule. He despises it, loathes it. Tim has always been iron-clad in his support of Bruce’s ideals - he’s not afraid to go against Batman, but for the most part, he doesn’t need to. He agrees.

Tim grips his staff and breathes out slowly. He can feel Via somewhere behind him, not watching but not ignoring him either. He can also feel her with his mind. She is a cluster of light, just a little ways away. Deep violet light.

He can feel her rage, her anger, and it’s all directed at him.

“Gold,” Tim says quietly, squaring his shoulders. “Focus on the gold.”

The armour takes three attempts to mould. He uses his hands in the end, pressing them into the plates of metal until it melts under his burning skin, molten gold liquid shimmering in his palms. He cools his hands gently until he’s holding a heavy metal ball of gold, lumpy and cold to the touch. He has to use two hands just to hold it, and it won’t fit in his pocket, so he warms his fingers again and cleaves the ball in two, shaping it into two smaller spheres of gold.

He pockets them, adjusting to the weight on either side of his jacket, and then shakes his head as he starts hauling the two men over to the other end of the alley. He’s got nothing to tie them up with, but there are handcuffs in one of the Guard’s inside pockets, and he fastens their hands together with a small click, digging around for the key and dropping it into a drain as he passes.

“They’ll wake up soon,” Tim says, when he reaches Via. “There’s bound to be more guards around, and they’re probably going to have the same reaction to a wolf as those ones did.”

Via bows her head in agreement, but doesn’t look at him. Her voice is distant when she replies.

Make your way to the building to the side of the Palace steps, and request the help of a Librarian. You will know what to look for inside. I will reconvene with Girl, and meet you outside when you are done.

“And then?” Tim asks, his voice perfectly level.

And then, we shall talk.

Nobody stops him on the way to the building that Via mentioned. The streets teem with people, but nobody looks his way, barring a brightly-dressed woman who shouts unintelligible things in his face and eagerly waves some kind of crystal lump at him, hoping to make a sale.

He makes it to the building without being chased by anymore Guards.

A dog sits at the steps outside, half-asleep, one eye open, watchful. It opens the other when Tim approaches. Black fur, silver eyes, and a lolling tongue. Its tail wags, thumping against the ground when Tim ruffles its fur as he passes.

He always wanted a dog when he was younger. He’s more of a cat person now, having suffered through Titus’s drooling and shedding. Alfred the Cat is sophisticated and dignified, and a much better lap-companion than Damian’s wilful, dopey dog.

There are lots of steps to climb, and he does so slowly; Via’s words, heavy and tired, echo around his mind. He’s not sure if he should be worried or not. He’s worried anyway. He likes to think that she won’t abandon him, leave him without a guide or a friend, but he doesn’t know. Perhaps she never considered him a friend in the first place. She’s a Goddess, even if he forgets sometimes.

Perhaps that’s why she’s angry. Perhaps peering into the mind of a Goddess is an offence, something worth punishing. She can’t send him home because that’s what all this has been for, on the surface, at least. He knows there’s more going on, more behind the scenes, more just out of his reach.

He doesn’t know the rules of this land, so he’s not sure what’s going to happen. All he knows is that Via wasn’t pleased, and her voice was tired.

There are Guards about, but they pay Tim no attention, not now that his staff is shrunken and his heels are undogged. He snorts quietly to himself at the internal pun and keeps climbing up the steps to the building.

The Palace, beside it, resides up a further three hundred steps, each one made of solid gold. The Palace itself is beautiful, even if Tim can’t look at it for too long. The walls of the Palace are gold as well, the towers shining in the light. Magnificent arches and doors glint and beckon further up. Purple flags flutter in the breeze. The sky is grey, but the sun is out full-force. If he turns, he can see the mountains towering over the Kingdom, hidden in the valley, but the snow that frosts the peaks doesn’t come down this far.

He doesn’t turn. He keeps walking up the slightly more modest steps to the cylindrical building. Not gold, but silver. The building is a small tower, still big enough to comfortably fit a hundred people, but not as intimidating as the spires and turrets behind it.

The double doors are a dark blue, painted with silver, winking stars. Etched above the door are silver sigils, ones that he doesn’t recognise.

Via said to request the help of a librarian, so he can reasonably infer that this is a library. He saw Scroll-Keepers near Brickholm, near the Cliff, but there were no libraries. Just sparse shelves and the occasional chest of weathered scrolls.

He raises a hand to knock, but before he can, the stars on the door begin to melt. Silver paint drips down the doors, coalescing near his hand before he can jerk it back. Tim stares in horror and fascination as the paint squirms around his wrist, forming a thin circlet. He rubs at it frantically with his other hand, but it doesn’t budge. He backs away, but the damage is done.

“What the hell?” Tim says, still digging his fingers into his wrist.

When the light hits it, the silver circlet shimmers. It doesn’t sting or burn. It feels, more than anything, like part of his skin. He rubs it again, gentler this time.

“If I was just magically tattooed by a big door for no good reason, I’m going to be extremely pissed,” Tim says aloud, quite calmly, considering the circ*mstances.

When he looks back up, the stars have blinked back into existence on the door, but the circlet remains on his skin, silver and shining. It’s always possible, he thinks, with rising panic and a cautious hope, that it’s not permanent. Maybe it’s just protocol at the library. He’s not going to think about it.

He’s never wanted a tattoo. Sure, they look cool, and sure, sometimes they look hot, objectively, but he doesn’t want one. He sure as hell doesn’t want this one.

He inhales deeply, steadying himself, and shoves open the door.

It’s musty and dark inside, but not the gloom of tombs. It smells of wax and parchment. The wooden floor creaks as he moves, and dust motes fill the air, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. The walls are painted an inky black, and there are silver shelves in every available space. Silver shelves full of books and scrolls and small boxes.

A balcony rings itself around the inside of the room, spiralling up and up in a gentle slope so that the shelves nearer the ceiling are reachable. Tim cranes his neck as the doors slip shut behind him with a quiet snap, but he can’t see the top. For a tower that looked quite small on the outside, it seems impossibly endless now.

Tim sidles towards a heavy oak desk, near the door, tucked into an alcove. He taps his fingers against the surface, waiting, but there’s nobody there. He can see people around, rustling the pages of various books, but nobody looks explicitly like a librarian.

He considers just wandering in and yelling for help, but that’s more of a Jason Todd approach, and as much as they get along a little better now, he still doesn’t want to emulate all of Jason’s qualities. Especially not the ones that might get him killed in a strange land.

Not to mention, Via will be even more pissed if he gets himself captured for disturbing the peace.

“Don't draw attention,” Tim mutters. “Right. I’ll just do this myself then.”

He tries to look interested as he moves through the room. The books can’t be reached unless he climbs onto the balcony, and he doesn’t particularly want to get to the top and spot help at the bottom and have to sprint back down like an idiot. He follows the inky black walls around instead. Silver stars dot the surface, and here and there sit trails of gold. When he squints a bit closer, he spots the possibilities of pictures in the faint gold swirls.

Stories, he realises. Stories of the stars.

Via said he’d know what to look for. Tim thought that was cryptic bullsh*t and passive-aggressive Goddess speech, but maybe not. He feels something inside, where his soul lives, and it hums and writhes, tugging on his blood.

He follows the trails of gold.

They lead him halfway around the cylinder, until he finds a set of steps. The opening is so dark that it blends into the wall, but he ducks, and he finds a corridor, and even in the darkness, he knows where he’s going.

The circlet on his wrist glows faintly as he walks. There were no protrusions on the outside of the tower, but he appears to be walking out.

Gold fills the walls now, spears and grazing antelope and fire and rushing waterfalls.

The corridor opens up into a room. A cluttered, messy room. There’s a desk, several odd lamps that sputter with light, and strange contraptions made of thin wire. If it was Tim’s world, he’d call it someone’s attempt at modern art, but these have a little something else about them.

They aren’t the most noticeable thing, however. Hanging down, there’s a large golden orb suspended in the centre of the room. It’s bigger than a fireplace, made of sheer gold. Metal rings rotate around the outside of the orb with a gentle grinding sound.

Tim skirts around it, unwilling to test his luck and get crushed walking beneath it. Even looking at it causes pressure to build up in his chest, like he’s staring into the heart of something very important.

He tears his eyes away and keeps walking.

There’s a map on the far end of the room, taking up one half of the wall. It’s brown and faded, made of thick parchment, but the ink and charcoal on top of it is stark, like it’s been freshly applied. When he reaches it, that’s when the tug in his soul stops. The silver glow fades from his wrist.

Tim blinks down at his wrist. The circlet is still there, but the glow is gone.

“I can take a hint,” Tim says, and he gathers the nearest box until it’s under the map, steps on it, and starts to look.

The map contains absolutely nothing helpful. He spends roughly thirty minutes pouring obsessively over every little detail, and by the end of it, he’s frustrated and his head is aching, and he’s no closer to whatever he’s supposed to find.

He’d picked up a spell near the Cliff, back when he first arrived, that let him understand the language of that land, but the people this far North speak in different tongues. He caught snippets of conversation, here and there, when he walked through the streets of the Kingdom and when the guards that chased him shouted out for him to stop. But although he knows some words, he doesn’t understand most of it, and the map is no exception.

He was lucky that the Niv’Ja and the Aj’Vin spoke words he knew, but even then, their wording was a little stilted.

“Different dialects,” Tim murmurs, tapping his fingers against the silver circlet. “Different languages, overlapping. I know some of it, when it’s similar enough to the language from the Cliff, but hardly any of the rest of it. And there’s more out there, I expect. This… This is a whole world.”

His exclamation takes on a soft, awed tinge. He’s known, the whole time, that wherever he’d landed obviously wasn’t anywhere on Earth. Perhaps not even on a few of the closest surrounding planets, which Clark has some way to keep tabs on. It was unlikely that Dave the Villain would have needed outside help if his artefact was somewhere on Earth, and Clark said that the closest surrounding planets, the ones with life on, were mostly peaceful.

He had known that he was somewhere else. Possibly somewhere far out in the universe, unreachable. Possibly in another universe altogether, an alternate one. None of this is new information, and yet.

Somehow, seeing each intricate line on the map, seeing the borders and villages and regions and cities and kingdoms, makes it all that more real. This is a whole world that he’s fallen into. There are rules here, religions, history, cultures that overlap. Societies have been created over thousands of years. Wars have been fought, battles lost, milestones reached. Beautiful things have been invented and destroyed. People have been buried, monsters birthed, and magic bathes every inch of the land.

He leans against the wall, one hand braced against the map, and tries to push down a sob that claws its way up his throat.

It brings it home, that he’s not home.

He sucks in harsh breaths and traces the delicate ridge of the Mountains of Narvjinia, the home of the Healers, with a trembling finger. He knows that word, Narvjinia, saw it on the pillars in the Temples, heard it whispered from the mouths of the Niv’Ja. A little grey sketch that looks like a bundle of pillars is nestled in the middle of the mountain range. The pillars remove slowly, bobbing as they turn, but Tim thinks they’re supposed to be the Temple. A miniature skull rests at the bottom of the mountain, it’s mouth opening and closing in a laugh. The peaks rise and fall, as does the sketched snow that hovers above the mountain ridge on the map. The pictures undulate, rippling softly, an image caught in a loop for a few seconds.

The line of the mountain ridge falls, naturally, to the small Kingdom of Aurumadis. Names, it seems, he can understand easily enough. Nothing else makes much sense.

Brickholm is there, if he goes further South. The village is tiny, and there are birds sketched onto the surface of the map, flying gently over the clusters of houses, never getting very far. He doesn’t remember seeing many birds, but he’d been looking for answers, not wildlife. If he goes to the North-West, away from Aurumadis, he finds a steep line. Not quite a mountain.

Above it, a grey dragon sleeps, plumes of charcoal smoke filling the sky.

Behind him, the orb grinds to a stop, plunging the room into silence.

Tim whips around and ducks towards the other desk, intent on diving beneath it, but it’s too late. There’s a woman there, startled, staring at him. She’s cloaked in velvet blue, the hood pulled up over her white curls. A silver net covers her eyes, a veil of sorts, but the netting doesn’t hide her expression.

“Who are you?” Tim asks. He didn't hear her. He’s always been the one to sneak up on others, rather than the other way around. Bruce taught him how to move like the night, creeping and enveloping, light on his feet and deadly for it.

The woman hisses, a soft susurration of curious sounds that send a shudder down Tim’s spine. His grimace brings her up short. She takes a step back, her face apologetic.

“I’m sorry if I’m trespassing,” Tim says, trying again. “But who are you?”

His fingers itch to reach for his staff, but he keeps them still. The woman isn’t a threat, not yet, and technically, she may have more right to be here than him. If she starts launching fireballs at him, then he’ll worry.

The woman clucks her tongue for a moment, and then she speaks.

“You are lost,” she says, in Tim’s tongue. Not English, but the one he learned before he came to Brickholm. “I am Lady Luna, the Second. I am the Librarian, the Observer, and I own the Cylinder.”

Tim jolts, and then cautiously unwinds his hands where they grip the desk.

“Not many people are capable of finding the Corridor of the Celestials,” Lady Luna continues. “Not many people will willingly stroke a hellhound, either, and yet you somehow did both in the span of a few minutes.”

Tim’s eyes flick to the dark space behind her. “In fairness, I didn't know it was a special corridor when I walked down it. I also didn't know that was a hellhound outside.”

Lady Luna tips her head slightly, her eyes twinkling. “I think that knowing would not have changed your decisions.”

“People keep accusing me of similar things lately,” Tim says, his voice light as he edges around the room.

“I will not harm you, Drake,” says Lady Luna, sounding firmly amused as she watches him move.

Tim stiffens at the use of his last name, hand flying to his staff, but her next words draw him up short.

“That would be counterproductive, considering I, and the rest of my world, have waited a long, long time for you to arrive.”

Chapter 10: When You Build A World

Chapter Text

On Earth, coffee kept Tim alive. It was the only thing that allowed him to function after nights of endless patrols, cases piling up around him, the stress of keeping WE afloat and dodging random Ninja attacks. His hands shook and his pulse was always quicker than he’d like it to be, but coffee kept his mind sharp and staved off collapse when sleepless nights crowded in.

The first two weeks in this place that wasn’t Earth—although Tim hadn’t quite believed it then, had thought that perhaps there were other alternatives than being stranded on a different planet—without coffee were hell. He had the worst headache of his life, he found himself snapping when he should be coaxing information out of potential allies, and he could barely breathe around the fast, insistent beat of his heart. It was actually harder to sleep, without coffee.

He would have given his right leg for one glorious mug of coffee, when he first arrived.

Lady Luna lifts a cylindrical pot made of glass and pours a thin stream of dark, hot coffee into a shallow cup. Tim can smell it, the roasted beans and the bitterness tempered by sweet cream that sits in a jug just out of reach. He has to fold his hands tightly in his lap to keep from reaching out. If he reaches out, he’s not going to stop until he’s drunk every last drop of coffee in this place.

“Help yourself,” Lady Luna offers, gesturing gracefully with her gloved hand. More shallow cups appear on the table, each one more akin to a bowl than a mug and patterned with curls of midnight blue. One shifts closer to Tim as though pushed by a gentle, invisible hand, and remains there, waiting patiently.

It’s tempting to accept. Not just because it's not every day that some kind of Goddess offers you coffee. Tim can think of nothing better than hot, sweet coffee. Not just because it would taste amazing, and would probably kick-start his brain into figuring out a thousand solutions to problems he didn't even know he had, but also because it’s the first thing he’s found that connects so deeply with home. But if he reaches out, and he drinks coffee, and he grows sharper and quicker, and then it’s taken away again—well, Tim just doesn’t think it would be a very good idea. At least not for the people around him.

“So can you make anything appear, or was coffee already around and I just couldn’t find it?” Tim asks, leaning forward slightly in the chair he found himself in a few minutes ago. He’s tried standing, and he can’t, so leaning seems to be the limit. “Is it conjuring or summoning? If you don't mind me asking.”

It’s the least of his questions, but considering a few minutes ago he was standing near a map in the middle of a library, an orb hanging from mid-air above him, and now he’s sat at a round table in a glass room, unable to stand, he figures it’s best to start with something simple. And perhaps get an idea of the limits to Lady Luna’s power along the way.

“Neither,” Lady Luna says simply. She lifts her cup and drinks from it, savouring the taste with a thoughtful hum. “Hmm. I’ll admit, that’s not what I expected. It’s much less kind on the tongue.”

Tim narrows his eyes, leaning back on the delicately-wrought chair. He must have hit his head at some point, or perhaps this whole thing has just been a really long, tiring, annoying hallucination. Maybe he’s at the Manor, struggling to wake up from a dose of fear gas gone wrong, or some kind of altered pollen, courtesy of Ivy. Maybe he’ll wake any minute now, once Bruce administers the antidote, and be greeted with Dick’s hugs, Jason’s brash brand of comfort, Damian’s scathing retorts and an Alfred sandwich. Steph will have his favourite yogurt and Cheezits waiting, and Cass will hold him carefully.

Maybe Tim shouldn’t think such things, if he wants to stay sane.

Lady Luna sighs, smacking her lips gently as she puts her cup back down. “You must have more questions.”

“Are you going to actually answer these ones?”

“Oh, a few, I imagine.” She sounds disinterested, her voice airy and light, but something about the way she keeps so still betrays her fascination.

“Fantastic,” Tim mutters. He drums his fingers against his leg before stilling. When he glances down, his clothes are different, and he can’t believe it took him more than five minutes to notice. Bruce would be disappointed. He glances sharply at Lady Luna and says, “I wasn’t wearing this before.”

His clothes from before were somewhat ragged. He had lost the clothes he had on when he went through the portal, lost them to animal attacks and dirt and filth and blood. It still stings, losing Dick’s old shirt, the one he’d been wearing when he burst through a door of blue. He had been dressed several times over since then in loose, comfortable clothes, robes and tunics that didn't quite fit, trousers that were too short or itchy. All of it old, passed down, given him to by Baron or the Niv’Ja—or stolen, he remembers, thinking of Catus with some fondness—and all of it close to unravelling, falling apart thread by thread.

These clothes feel new. His cotton trousers are thicker than before, dyed an earthy shade of brown. Pockets travel down his thighs, and there are loops for a belt around the waistband. His boots are dark and moulded perfectly to his feet, the laces tied neatly. Socks cushion his sore feet. He’s wearing a tunic that sits comfortably around his body. It’s a shade darker than Nightwing blue, with a black belt around the middle and a warm, black jacket.

“How am I wearing this?” Tim asks, plucking at the jacket.

“Do not worry,” Lady Luna says in a voice that echoes, peeling off the netting over her eyes, “I did not peek.”

Tim sucks in an inaudible breath, careful to keep still. He peers at her, just barely hiding his surprise. The netting was just that—netting, hiding almost nothing, and yet apparently it hid much more than it pretended to. She looks so different without it. Somehow, even that thin shard of fabric had obscured her true face.

Her white curls are soft, tendrils of moonlit hair curving around her oval face. Her eyes shine like stars. There are silver marks all over her deep, dark skin, like the gold whirls on the walls of the Library. He can’t make out any specific pictures, but they seem to glow like his circlet.

He rubs at his new tattoo, which hasn’t shone since it first stopped, back in the library. He can’t settle on a question of importance, so he asks, “What do they mean? Your marks?”

The silver marks travel down Lady Luna’s hands, visible when she eases off her white gloves. She holds one hand up to the light, her mouth a wistful curve as she rotates it gently. There’s plenty of light to see by. The walls and the roof surrounding them are all made of glass, and through it Tim can see nothing but the sky, a vision of bright, bright, endless blue, almost as though they’re an island in the middle of the sea. Thin mist hovers around the triangular room, perched high in the abyss, but there’s still light enough to make the marks glint.

“These marks are the only way to keep track of history these days.” Lady Luna lowers her hand slowly, cupping it with the other as her voice turns soft. “When you build a world, generally you begin small. Just a few things here and there, you know. A landscape, a beautiful deadly flower, an ant with wings.”

A seed of fear takes root in Tim’s stomach. When you build a world.

Lady Luna sighs, shaking her head as she rubs one thumb over a mark on the back of her hand. It seems a shade darker than the rest, a shape made of three points.

“Of course, it never stays that way. Things grow, and with it, the element of control begins to shrink. No matter how many worlds I have created, I never seem to learn.”

Tim shudders. He feels the same way he did when Dusty lifted him from the ground, encased him in a fist of ash and held him to his mournful, cracked face, full of aching fire. It feels like staring into the mouth of the universe, only a thousand times worse, a thousand times more powerful, more terrifying.

Bats do not feel fear. Birds have to, sometimes, because Bats refuse to cave. They don't listen to the sensible mutterings of their stomach and soul, telling them that this way of living isn’t safe, that fear is healthy, that you must look before you leap.

Bruce is meticulous is his planning, ruthless and careful, but even if the driving force behind it is arguably fear, he doesn’t feel it anymore. Not when he is the Bat. That’s what the birds are for. That’s why Batman needs a Robin; not just to play light to his darkness, but to remind him that fear is necessary, that in its absence, nothing good can grow.

Tim has never felt fear quite like this. It’s a shuddering thing that tells him not to bother existing, because existence is something to be decided by the very being in front of him.

Lady Luna’s eyes, Tim realises, could very well be stars after all.

“It is easier to remember with my companions around, but they were absent this time, and there was nothing to stop me from creating what I desired,” Lady Luna continues, seemingly oblivious to the weight crushing Tim’s soul. “But from the minute I painted the first intelligent, thinking mind into my canvas, the pictures began to run away from me. Sometimes quite literally.” She looks up at him, a wry glint to her eyes. “Humans are the worst of creation, in my opinion. You are cruel, vicious, and unthinking. But you have the capacity to be so beautiful, if you would only choose such a route. The burden of free will, I suppose, is that often you choose wrong.”

She sounds sad, beneath her semi-nonsensical rambling. Tim isn’t sure that he understands all of it, and quite frankly, he’s not sure that he wants to. But he gets the gist. It’s not a gist he likes. He’d rather give it back, if he’s honest, because it implies that he’s sitting in the presence of a being that created the very world beneath his feet.

“But you asked about my marks, originally. As societies began to grow and form, as things began to change and evolve, I decided I may as well keep track of it the only way I know how. It came from me, you see, so I decided to keep it with me.” Lady Luna spreads her hands. On her left palm, a mark begins to glow brighter than the rest, brought to attention.

“Do you see this circle? Goodness, I hate circles. They seem so harmonious, but the balance is false. It is one perspective, acting for the good of all, pretending to know best. Ridiculous shape. That’s why I used it as this mark. This circle is one hundred years of strife in the Western region of this world, one hundred years of famine, death, plague and suffering.” Her eyes flicker as though she’s watching it, a reel of film, the past brought briefly to the present. “A horrible time, really. And quite boring.”

Tim chokes back a terrible sound, beginning to grind his teeth. Once again, rage cools his fear. “A hundred years of suffering is boring?”

Tim doesn’t have his staff. Lady Luna didn't see fit to bring any of his belongings with him into this place, wherever they are. He’s not sure he could do much even if he did, but the fact remains that he wants it in his cold hands, wants to clench his stiff fists around it and feel like he could fight her if need be.

Not that Tim needs a weapon to be deadly. But with Lady Luna, he feels as though he needs every possible edge he can get his hands on.

“Nothing happened. Everyone was so predictable.” Lady Luna waves a hand. “You cannot learn anything new if you’re stuck watching the same day over and over. That’s the horror of a circle, you see. The people began to stagnate, and so a hundred years were wasted, and I learned nothing. That is my definition of boring, not learning anything.” A silence descends in which Tim steadies his breathing, and Lady Luna takes a sip of coffee before lacing her hands in front of her, watching him keenly. “In any case, that’s not the sort of question I thought you’d ask.”

Tim keeps silent. He has a thousand questions, a thousand answers that escape him at the moment. He wants to know exactly who this woman is, and if there are any more people like her. He wants to know more about the marks. He wants to know why she seems so passionate about shapes, of all things, and where she got coffee from. He wants to know where they are, in this glass room so high up in the sky that the rest of the world is invisible. He wants to know why he has a tattoo that looks almost like her marks, why she was hidden away in the library, and what the hell he is supposed to do next.

He wants to know if she, with all her infinite power and wisdom, can send him home.

“Do you know who I am?” Tim asks, instead of all those things. “When you found me in your room, you said that you’d been waiting a long time for me. You and this world, the one you apparently created. So you must know who I am.”

“I don't know about ‘must’ but yes, I know who you are, Drake.”

“You know my last name.” It’s nothing more than a statement of fact, really. But there’s something there, something hidden beneath cryptic words that needs digging up. “You’re not the first to know it. The Aj’Vin knew my last name too. They called me a little bird.”

He tilts his head. Lady Luna stares back solemnly.

“If you know who I am, then you must know where I came from,” Tim presses, careful to keep his voice soft even though the urgency shines through.

“I do,” Lady Luna says, and for the first time she sounds sympathetic, as though she feels for him. “And I cannot give you what you require. I cannot interfere, Drake. I am already doing too much, just by speaking with you now.”

Tim swallows. “I just need a way home.”

Lady Luna shakes her head very gently, a movement that is barely there. “If you find one, it will not be because of me.”

Tim takes a moment to digest that. It takes longer than he’d like, precious seconds slipping by as he sits rigidly, tempted to down every last drop of coffee on the table and then smash the glass pot. The threat of a headache is what keeps the first urge at bay, and the threat of the glass floor shattering too holds the second urge back. But it’s still crushing, to hear it. He swallows thickly again, feeling a vice around his heart squeeze tightly.

“It really is a beautiful day,” Lady Luna says, sighing as she stares at the window. Tim doesn’t know if she’s giving him time, or if she’s simply insane. Or perhaps those that exist the way she does have a different version of sanity.

“How did they know about me?” Tim asks abruptly, clinging to another question. “The Aj’Vin.”

Lady Luna waves her hand, dispelling her cup and saucer. In its place, a creamy cupcake takes its place, dotted with pink curls and white icing. Steph had some like that on her birthday, a while ago. Tim tries not to look.

“I told you that people are the worst creations of all,” Lady Luna says, after a moment, unpeeling her cupcake wrapper carefully. “They are tricky to get right. The Aj’Vin were not really people by the end, but they come close enough that the label still applies. When they were kinder and younger, they were the Niv’Ja, and the information they had was used for good. But after, as they decayed and rotted in their rooted caves, they began to relish the thought of what they could do with that information.”

Tim listens intently. Lady Luna takes a bite of her cupcake and screws up her nose delicately. She swallows without chewing and sighs.

“It’s all the free will, you see,” she says blithely. “No matter what I create, if it has a thinking mind, then it must be allowed to act without my say-so. I can drop a boulder in the middle of a path that was not there the previous night to divert the route of the traveller, but I cannot control how the traveller will react to the boulder. Do they turn back? Do they climb over it, or dig beneath it? Do they blast it to smithereens with magic they ought not to have, or have only just discovered? Are they helped by other travellers?” Lady Luna makes a sound of soft disgust. “Variables. So many of them. It makes it hard to predict the way the world will progress. Ordinarily, that is something I strive for, but at times like these, I find it simply frustrating.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tim says, even though he sort of does. “Just so you know.”

Lady Luna sighs, steepling her fingers. “Years ago, perhaps two thousand or so, my sister and I created a prophecy on a whim. We were bored, you see. Our suitors had bothered us all day, and we finally found a quiet spot in the cosmos to rest, only to be struck down by boredom of all things. She taunted me with her lyrical prowess, and I simply had to respond with a touch of drama. It’s not usually my style, but there we have it. A Prophecy was born.”

Tim can feel his left eye twitching. Suitors, prophecies, and sisters. f*ck, he has a headache.

“Prophecies aren’t much good for entertainment on their own, so a while later, after I created this world and the Gods that rule it, I plopped the Prophecy in their lap.” Lady Luna shrugs elegantly. “From then on, it was their decisions that ruled how it would be viewed, how seriously it would be taken.”

“And what decisions did they make?” Tim asks, quite certain that he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Oh, this and that, you know how such things can be,” Lady Luna replies vaguely, flapping a dismissive hand. “Gods can get in such a tizzy over the smallest things. Goddesses are a little better at keeping their heads on straight, and those that don't confirm to labels at all tend to be the most level-headed of the bunch, in all honesty. But there was a great big hullabaloo regardless. Quite entertaining.”

Tim pictures her sat, cross-legged, with popcorn, watching the chaos of the Gods. Like Jason whenever he lobs an emotional bombshell into a room at the Manor and sits back to watch the arguments unfold. It calms him very briefly, and then the twitch in his eye comes back.

“So there was a Prophecy that you created, with your sister, who I assume you’re not going to tell me about,” Tim says, pausing in case she wants to prove him wrong. She smiles mysteriously, and he barrels onward. “You gave the Prophecy to the Gods of this world, thus thoroughly f*cking them all over, and they did something with it.”

“Incorrect.” Lady Luna fixes him with a piercing, starlit stare. “Gracious, Drake, do not give me more credit than I am due. The Prophecy would have been nothing more than a passage of excellently constructed literature had they only decided it was meaningless. It was their choice to interpret more from it. When the word spread to the humans—Gods are notorious gossips—it simply amplified the belief that it was true.”

“So it might not be true?”

Lady Luna spreads her hands, an indulgent lilt to her mouth. “That depends on what you choose to believe, of course.”

Tim chooses to believe that this is all bullsh*t. But he doesn’t say that aloud.

“I don't even know what this Prophecy is,” Tim says, frustration coursing through him. “But I’m going to take a wild guess and say that I’m in it. And the Aj’Vin must have found out about it when they were the Niv’Ja, after the Prophecy was… released to the public. And recognised me later on when I charged into their little lair.”

“If that was your wild guess, then what does your tame, controlled guess usually lead to?” Lady Luna muses.

Tim shrugs. “Grappling across the city in spandex, usually.”

Lady Luna opens her mouth to reply, but then her gaze drifts suddenly to a point just over Tim’s shoulder. She nods sharply. Tim tries to turn his head, but his neck won’t cooperate. He’s forced to watch, instead, as she smiles at him, all sweetness. “How sad. I was quite enjoying our time together, but it seems that all good things must come to an end, even in a Being’s dreams. Would you like to take some coffee with you when you leave?”

Panic surges through him, and right on the heels of that is incredulity—this is a dream, she said, a Being’s dream, which explains the clothes and the lack of movement—followed quickly by a cold shiver of fear at the back of his spine.

“I have more questions,” Tim says, but even as he speaks, he knows he won’t get anything else out of her. She already looks dimmer than before, her eyes less bright. “I don't even know why I was supposed to meet you. Why did Via send me to you? Do you know each other?”

Lady Luna laughs gently. It is a sound like a thousand shimmering jewels shattering against the ground. Around them, the glass begins to break, cracks spider-webbing out from every corner.

“Drake, I created Via. I created her to be the Goddess of the Travellers, the Guide to those who are lost. And she did an excellent job.”

“I don't know what that means,” Tim snaps, rigid in his chair as the ceiling begins to fall. “You were supposed to help me!”

“You will, and I did,” Lady Luna says, a mix of sad and amused. “And I must thank you, Drake. I didn't care for the cake, but I rarely have such pleasant dreams as this. I could not have done it without you.”

The glass shatters, and the bottom drops out of Tim’s stomach as he lurches downwards, the ground vanishing. The dream fades.

When Tim snaps his eyes open, Lady Luna and the dream room is gone, but the sickening lurching feeling in his stomach is still there—as is the bright blue sky, rising up all around him as he falls, faster and faster, breathless and terrified, towards a glimmering ocean of gold.

Chapter 11: A Monstrous Burden

Chapter Text

Tim signed up for a Wayne Charity Auction once. Or rather, he was pushed into a Wayne Charity Auction once, after much exasperated negotiation and tempered growls from someone with the emotional capacity of a grape, and suffered through the event for three stuffy hours. One of the prizes was a fully-funded Skydive, and he’d scrolled through the details on his phone at the back of the function room, growing steadily paler with each newly unearthed statistic.

He’s used to free-fall. He’s used to leaping from towering buildings. He knows that breathless jolt in his stomach, the lurch of his lungs as they frantically adjust to the weightless sensation. Gotham is a familiar playground, and there is nothing more joyful than grappling across wide open spaces, crowing with delight as his feet hit the roof racing.

The fully-funded Skydive had boasted heights of roughly 18,000 feet. On average, it would take Tim one second to fall 200 of those feet. That added up to about one and a half minutes of falling freely through the air, and led to him quietly withdrawing his name from that particular bid while Dick snickered behind his back.

Clouds streak past him. The wind whips his clothes into a frenzy, slapping his face with stinging ferocity.

The amount of time spent in free-fall is easy enough to work out, but Tim isn’t sure how long he’s got left, because he’s never jumped from a plane at 18,000 feet, let alone flung from a dream tower that could have touched the heavens, for all he knows.

Gasping for breath, Tim widens his arms. He thinks he saw something like this in a film, but he can’t remember which one. But they spread their arms and legs out wide, presumably to distribute weight--Tim just hopes it gives him more time, slows him down, although his brain is frantically insisting that it’s pointless.

He’s going to hit the ground. He’s going to hit the ground and crack and shatter. Beings or Gods are going to have to pack his broken body up in a tic-tac box and mail it home. Dick’s going to cry, and everyone hates it when Dick cries; it always sounds like it’s being wrenched from him. Bruce will grow cold for a while. Alfred will be sad, which is a f*cking crime. Someone’s going to have to tell Dusty.

Tim sucks in another aching breath as the ground creeps closer. The ocean below is truly gold, like a vast molten expanse of riches. A hoard of treasure. He pictures coin-shaped fish and krakens fashioned from glittering rubies lurking beneath. There’s mist here and there, blotting out large portions of gold, but he very much doubts there’s going to be a large trampoline sitting helpfully beneath it all.

“f*ck,” Tim wheezes out, wobbling in the air. It’s harder than he thought to stay still and flat, to not tilt with the wind. He tries to steady his breathing but the air feels thin. He’s panicking, and f*ck, f*ck, now isn’t the time to panic, but there’s nothing else to do. There’s no safety net here.

“Oh, please, f*ck,” Tim gasps out.

The tip of a mountain rises out of the mist. Tim flails in surprise, jerking to the side and twisting in the air. His surprised scream gets caught in his throat, and he fights to right himself, twisting desperately around to see the mountain grow. The peak slips past him slowly as he inches further down, as gravity does its job. He can see craggy folds and dips in the mountain up close, and the wind is deeper here, angry and swirling the mist in vague patterns.

There must be land here, under the mist. Tim grasps the thought wildly. Mountains can rise out of the sea, sure, but he hopes he’s wrong. He hopes it’s an island, a rocky formation out to sea. He hopes it’s land.

Not that it’ll make much difference if he hits it at this speed.

Via! Tim yells in his head. He figures he’s got maybe half a minute now. Via, I know you said not to do it again and I’m sorry, but please! I need you!

He sends a wild thought of the mountain, the sensation of falling. He pushes it through his mind and he hopes that Via catches it. If this works, if he can do this, then hopefully she can come and find him, but it’s going to knock him for six.

Twenty seconds.

Tim keeps his eyes wide open. He watches the mist shrink and catches patchy flashes of green beneath it. He reaches uncertainly for the weight where his spleen used to be, his soul in all its restless, searching wonder. He feels warm. He feels light spread through him, creeping through his limbs.

Too slow, he thinks, with dawning horror.

He can see the ground know, see it roaring towards him. Grass and bracken and hard rock.

Twelve seconds.

He wrenches at his soul, pushing until the heat and light shoots from his stomach to his fingertips, encasing them in a bright glow, until he burns with it. It spreads through his veins like fire, and for a minute, he thinks--

Tim cracks into the ground.

Little by little, the dusk fades to day. The monster, so named by his Creator, sleeps. He curls up in the roots of the forest, burrowing beneath the soft earth, and he snores. The air is as sweetly sticky as molasses, pulling him back into sleep whenever he tries to wake. It drags him into the past, into his dreams. There, his memories are a haze of rose-gold and honey, filled with the sweet song of his children as they play in the forests, catching birds in the cages of their fingers. He sweeps them up in his dream. He holds his children in hollow hands and the co*ckles of his heart grow warm.

Tim aches from toe to the tip of his nose. He sleeps with a scrunched up face usually, but now it’s slack and exhausted, far too tired to make even one muscle move. He knows he’s sleeping, but part of him is eager to wake. It listens, that awake part of him, to a story told by someone he cannot see.

The day snaps into dusk, and the monster wrenches himself free from sleep. The cold is back, or perhaps it never left, cracking through his heart like a spear of ice. Winter here in the forest is a terrible thing, but it isn’t just the brisk air that chills his wooden bones. His own hoarse cry is swallowed up by the wolves, and the Winter Moon smiles down on their harmony, indulgent but firm; She will not lead him home. This is the monster’s hunt, and his alone. He shakes off his cloak of pine-needles, untwines his crown of nettles, and begins to walk. He lumbers across the earth at night, in the slumbering moments, when the mortals close their waxy eyes.

The bed beneath Tim is soft, but he barely feels it. His eyes flicker open once or twice as whines of pain flit through his lips. He sees visions of rock and curtains of moss. He sees smoke from a small fire when he turns his aching neck. Pain lances through his body, gripping him tightly, and the soothing, distant voice weaves a story once more until he succumbs to sleep.

The monster travels far and wide. He does not know this world anymore, and that is partly why he feels cold. His monstrous feet coax creaks from the floorboards as he traverses houses, searching. His eyes glint like shards of black glass as he peers through windows, always searching, always hoping. He is a towering creature of white bone and hawthorn, but even monsters such as these have hopes. His chin sweeps along the nearest thatched roof as he stands, knees quaking. He does not make a sound when he moves on, and the earth sleeps on.

Tim sleeps on too, nestled deep in the heart of a cave. It must be a cave--he figures so with every inched-open eyelid, every glimpse of curving rock above him. He thinks he hears bats too, screeching in the darkness above, and it warms him even as the story soothes him deeper into sleep.

He walks the earth, searching, as monsters are meant to do. He is the last of his kind. He is the last to grace the worn paths of the world with the footprints of Giants. Once, he was less alone. Once, there were others. There were monsters that flooded the dimples and the crevices of the earth, howling at the dappled skies, and there were monsters that dived beneath the foam and the salt-spray, mouths sewn closed, and there were monsters that soared in the winds, dancing furiously, their toes ghosting along the ground.

Once, there were others. Now, there is just the monster.

Someone smooths Tim’s hair out of his eyes. He leans into the touch, muttering nonsensically under his breath. He’s far too hot, sweat beading at his temples, and he pushes at the scratchy blankets wrapped around him. Someone hushes him softly.

“Bruce?” Tim mumbles, eyes shut tight. “Bruce, s’that you?”

The monster’s hunt brings him along the line of fire that bracelets the earth. He lingers in the desert, its dusty fingers wrapped tight around his oak throat. There is warmth soaked into every grain of the baked ground, hidden in the shivering, shaking sands. It’s not the same warmth he used to know. When he bows his monstrous head in defeat, the heat beats against the back of his neck. The sun has always been kinder than the moon. She, at least, will grant him a small reprieve. She, at least, will let him feel warm even if it is not the right warmth. It is so close to the pictures in his dreams, the jagged memories of his past, that he almost weeps with it.

“Bruce? Bruce, it’s too warm. I’m too hot, Bruce.”

But there is harshness here to temper the warmth, and eventually the monster’s resolve melts beneath it. Before he knows it, he is waving at the thin, prickly structures that spring from the ground, saying farewell to the creatures of cold blood that slither along the sand. He walks again. The heat slides off of his bones in rivulets of salty water. The monster is on the move again, whisper the birds. They carry the message up to the sun, and she nods, pleased.

Tim catches a flicker of movement when he opens his eyes. He hears the creak of a rocking chair. He aches less, and when the story picks up again, it takes longer for him to close his eyes.

He finds himself among the fish before long. Narrow, finned things flit here and there in the coral. He bathes in cerulean and aquamarine and cobalt, and his heart grows heavy, weighed down by the water, but it does not grow warm. When he clambers out of the ocean, water cascades from his monstrous form in streams and rivers, rushing back to whence it came. He envies water. Oh, if only it were so easy to find home again, to return to where you belong, thinks the monster.

Tim pulls the blanket closer, shivering. The heat is gone but he feels drenched in sweat, and the bed vanishes beneath him. He is airborne for a moment, lifted by gentle hands. An image slinks through his mind of misty skies and glittering oceans. It steals his breath. He shuts his eyes willingly this time.

The monster wrings his heart out until it is wrinkled and dry, but the heaviness does not leave him. A heart will always be a terrible burden for the terribly lonely, after all. He sinks to the ground, weighed down, and finds fresh powder beneath the petals of his fingertips. Snow. He flinches away from the cold.

He has been searching, all of this time, for the warmth. The warmth of two little brown eyes, smooth acorns in a head of moss and moon-coloured bone. The warmth of two big amber eyes, like drops of honey in a hive of white. Two sets of hands and two sets of ears and two lisping lilac laughs. His children, long since lost. He longs to discover them, to feel the cold place in his chest fill with tenderness.

This place is not warm, nor is it tender. The creatures here bare their teeth at each other, their stark white fur stained red with greed and death. There is a harshness here that rivals the desert. The monster is beginning to learn that there is harshness everywhere; that sweet, faded place inside of him remains untainted by the bitterness of the wild world, but for how long?

Tim shouts when ice bathes him. It’s a shock enough to rip his eyes open, and he finds himself in water, his teeth chattering. He can’t tell where he is, but it’s cold. He hurts all over. His hands don't move when he tries, and his head thumps with pain, and his legs tremble. He shuts his eyes.

He skims along the crisp, starched edges of this bleached land, kicking up halos of snow. There is a whisper in the wind now, a kind of urgency that thrums through him, and he knows he will not find his answer here. This place, this frigid place, has frozen any hope he has.

But there is a whisper on the wind, and it speaks of Giants. Giants like him, made of bright bone and flowing forests and capped with ice, with cold. Mountains, the mortals call them, but the monster knows better. Monsters, Giants, graves of the Gods.

He does not wait for the moon.

Tim opens his eyes and stares at the cave ceiling. “Bruce?” he calls, but there’s less heat in his mind now. There’s still a voice in the shadows, muttering to itself, but it stops when Tim calls out Bruce’s name again. He feels better. Less like a living ache. But sleep still takes him again when the voice rises, picking up the story like the thread of a jumper.

The monster sprints across the world in leaps and bounds. In years to come, mothers will brush their children's hair and weave tales of a monster that circles the earth, running and sprinting, leaving caverns in the ground with its monstrous feet, leaving rips in the air with its monstrous claws. They will speak of his voice, which booms across the earth like claps of thunder, of the way his eyes shine with anticipation, like balls of flame and hope, and the children will scoff or squeal or laugh.

The sun will grin fiercely, and the moon will turn a blind eye to the birds that whispered to the wind, once, about how only mountains could house monsters. Birds are such gossips, and the monster was desperately sad. The moon does not mind their interference this time.

The monster will not hear these tales. Beneath the mountains, on a bed of lilac, his search is long since over. His hands will no longer be hollow, and his arms will be full of amber and acorns. He will have found his warmth.

Outside, the stream where Tim was dunked in his feverish state ambles by slowly. He dips one bare foot in and shivers. It’s cold, but it’s nowhere near the icy temperature it was before. That had felt like a pick-ace lancing through him. He draws his foot out and dries it on the grassy bank, nodding in satisfaction. He’s healing.

“It feels like all I’ve done since I got here is get hurt and then heal from it,” Tim muses aloud. A rabbit twitches in the undergrowth at the sound of his rough, scratchy voice. Tim briefly contemplates catching it, ensnaring it in a blue web of magic for dinner, but the thought turns his stomach. He could do it, if he needed to, and he has done it before. But he finds he doesn’t want to. Via was the better hunter between the two of them anyway.

At the thought of Via, his heart turns to stone. Scowling, Tim abandons the river and the rabbit, trudging back towards the mouth of the cave. It’s not too far from the river, a strategic decision no doubt. There’s a ledge of rock that leads up away from the flat, grassy ground, and deep into a cave set in the heart of the mountain. On the ledge, Tim pauses, and stares through the haze of trees to his left, away from the mountain and out to sea.

Via is a wolf, he reasons. Tim is on an island in the middle of a golden sea, with no earthly way off it. It’s not as if she can swim to him, and it’s not as if they could swim back if she did. His message might not even have reached her.

The scowl creeps back as he turns away from the view. Via only looks like a wolf. She’s a Goddess, specifically the Goddess of Travellers and the Guide to those that are lost. If Tim is anything right now, it is lost.

“You were not gone long.”

“I was gone for three hours,” Tim says. He steps inside the cave and sheds his blanket, the one he’s been wearing as a cloak for the last few days. Seven, to be exact, although he doesn’t really remember the first four. Those had been spent in a sleepy, painful haze as he fought against his own broken body.

“Ah,” says the man in the rocking chair, putting down his book. “Time passes differently for me.”

“I know. You’ve mentioned that before.”

“Conversation passes differently for me also.”

Tim grunts in frustration, lowering himself onto the bed near the mouth of the cave. It’s his, as long as he needs it, or so the Mountain says.

“You don't have to do that,” Tim says, jerking a hand at the rocking chair as he sinks into the mattress. “I know you’re not really here, and you can still talk in your usual form, so you may as well cut it out.”

“Perhaps,” the Mountain says, still with the face of the man. “But I think you need the company, however much of an illusion it may be. Have you reached your friend yet?”

“She’s not coming.”

The man’s form flickers. The rocking chair stills, and the man vanishes and reappears on the other side of the cave, humming thoughtfully as he approaches a nook of shelves cut into the wall.

The cave is cosy. There is a station of bracketed sticks and metal above a flaming fire, ready to hold bowls that need heating. All sorts of things shine on the walls, things that have washed up on the shore on the far end of the island; a bit of an anchor, bitten clean in half by a creature with very sharp teeth, is by far the most striking adornment.

“You only woke up a few days ago, and your body has taken a tremendous battering,” the man admonishes, though he does it kindly, almost absently. “Your magic too has suffered. You treated it unkindly in your last moments of wakefulness, before you hit the ground. I imagine it will need some tenderness before it is ready to do your bidding with ease.”

Tim likes the way the Mountain talks, as though it has all the time in the world and will not be rushed. It takes a lot of effort not to lean against the wall and beg for a story, to sleep.

“Here,” the man says, suddenly close again. He drops a thin book into Tim’s lap, one that he must have missed when he combed through the shelves on his first day of waking up, searching for answers. The binding is worn and the title is faded beyond readability, but it doesn’t smell of mould like the other books did.

“What’s this for?” Tim asks. “More stories?”

“Of a kind,” the Mountain says. “I think you will like these tales more, though.”

Tim doesn’t remember hitting the ground. He remembers Lady Luna in her glass tower, and the way she smiled at him before ripping the floor out from underneath his feet. He remembers falling, sucking in fearful breaths and knowing it wasn’t going to end so happily this time around. He’s thought that before. He’s taken tumbles and beatings and stumbled into so many sticky situations that second-guessing his survival is almost second-nature by now. He has plans for it, back home. Contingencies.

But this had been different. This had been a bone-deep sureness, in the last few seconds, that he would not survive. Tim’s only human. He’s not ashamed to say that it’s shaken him to the core. He’s not ashamed to say that he doesn’t quite remember the pain of hitting the ground, but he knows he did.

If the Mountain had not saved him, Tim would be dead.

Swallowing thickly, Tim says, “I liked your stories just fine. They were like an extra big dose of NyQuil.”

“I have absolutely no idea what that means,” the Mountain says. The man grows a bushy beard slowly, suddenly, all at once. His wavering smile disappears behind it, and his beige shirt turns forest green.

“You really don't have to keep that shape, you know,” Tim assures him, a little unnerved. “You said it takes energy to appear like this. And it’s not like I can forget you’re here.” He waves one hand around tiredly. “I’m literally sitting inside you, and wow, that didn't come out the way I wanted it to.”

The Mountain Man tips his head to the side, and nods. “Perhaps a small rest will do me a world of good, then. Read, and take heart, Tim. Your friend will come. A Mountain knows these things.”

Tim blinks and the Mountain Man is gone. But the cave walls feel warmer, and there is a softer glow about the fire. He’s not alone here, no matter how much it might feel like it.

He knows why the Mountain appeared as a man in the first place. It was much easier, it had explained, to help Tim recover with human hands to do small chores. It was easier to bind wounds and splint bones and smear poultices with hands. After, when all he needed was watching over, the Mountain had explained absently that Tim seemed to think he was someone else, and drew comfort from it. Comfort was a large part of healing, the Mountain had said. It was why the story had helped.

The story had helped a lot. He has no doubts that he was on death’s door, that he must have broken most of his bones when he collided with this small island and its kind mountain, and yet it’s only been a week. He can walk, talk, eat and jump around just fine. He ran to the shore yesterday morning, just to see if he could. Sure, he’s tired and sore, but he’s not smashed to smithereens.

The blankets bunch around him when he arranges himself more comfortably, picking up the book. There’s soup for later, and he’ll make that strange berry tea, and he’ll heal. It’s irritating, and he wants nothing more than to get up and go, but it feels… like he’s come to a stop. Like everything is too much. Like a car stalled on the side of the road, engine overheated.

Sighing, Tim puts the book down again. It’s frustrating, being like this. He’s had many moments where he spiralled, where he stopped being him, but he never stopped doing things. He kept going. He followed his plans and did what needed to be done. Now he’s stuck on an island, with a kindly mountain that might once have been a giant, or a God, and he has no choice but to rest. It should be a relief, considering he’s not done much stopping or resting since he jumped through that stupid f*cking blue glowing door, but it’s not.

It just feels like he’s not doing enough.

Tim.

Choking on a breath, Tim surges upright. His hands grow still in his lap.

“Via?”

Yes, Tim. Are you hurt?

Tim clears his throat roughly, shaking his head before he remembers that she can’t see him. Out loud, he says, “I was, but I’m healing now.”

The voice that reaches him is still Via’s, but she’s clearly frustrated. Tim, I cannot hear you properly. There is some sort of interference. You will need to speak to me in your head.

Tim widens his eyes at nothing, staring blindly across the cave. He gets up and moves, pacing across the mouth of the cave, eyes flickering to the stream in the near-distance.

I thought that was frowned on, Tim thinks carefully. I seem to remember you getting pretty pissy when I did this before.

The frustration washes away, and Tim almost reels at the sheer relief flowing through him. He closes his eyes, stilling in his pacing, and smiles. There’s fondness, and worry, and a deep purple relief.

Aw, Via. I didn't know you cared.

There is a snort, a huff of breath. Yes, you did, although I have not shown it well recently. I have not been honest enough with you lately. Many people on this world and above it have not been honest enough with you, Tim. But I do care. And I am deeply happy to hear your voice, no matter how irritating it might be.

Tim has to clench his fists. He clears his throat to stop the tears from coming. He knows Via can sense the storm inside him, the lingering betrayal and hurt, the sadness, the soreness in his skin.

I’m just glad you’re here, Tim thinks. Although not here with me, literally, you know. I’m not sure you’d like it, what with it being all the way out in the sea and everything, but if you could find a way to get around that, I’d be really f*cking grateful.

Via’s tone takes on a thoughtful air. The sea?

An island, technically. There’s a mountain here. I kinda… fell from a very great height, thanks to that Librarian you told me to find, and crashed on this place. I don't think I would have made it - okay, I know for a fact I wouldn’t have made it, actually, but the Mountain saved me. Like the actual mountain.

The Mountain? Via repeats, sounding stunned. How can that be?

Tim shrugs, leaning against the mouth of the cave. He said something about a favour for a friend, and how it’s all connected. I don't know though. He’s hard to get information out of. After a moment while Via clearly turns this over, Tim swallows and broaches the question that’s been on his mind. Via, why did you send me to the Library? Did you know what Lady Luna was going to do?

In his head, Tim hears a sharp inhale. Fear floods him briefly, but it’s not his. He stands upright, alert again, and steps away from the cave entrance, but there’s nothing out there.

“Do not worry,” says the Mountain Man, reappearing in front of Tim. “Your friend is not scared because of what is here with you, but because of what you have encountered. Now, I will make soup.”

Tim, whose heart is roughly in the vicinity of his ass and thumping desperately like a bongo, swears viciously under his breath. “Could you please not do that. I thought you were resting, anyway.”

“I did.” The Mountain Man blinks. “Time passes differently for me.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Tim says, as his pulse gradually returns to a slightly healthier rhythm. “You’ve said that.”

“Ah. Conversation passes differently for me also.”

“Oh my God, please go and make some soup. Over there, where I can’t hear you.”

The Mountain Man bumbles off pleasantly.

Tim tunes back in to find Via panicking, her thoughts riled up like a swarm of bees.

Tim, you must find a way to lift the interference around your island, but only do so in precisely one hour, do you hear me?

“Woah, yes, I hear you.” Tim frowns, retreating back to the bed on quiet footsteps. I hear you. Why one hour? What’s wrong?

One hour is long enough for me to escort Girl somewhere safe. We have been travelling together in search of you this past week, since she refused to leave until we found you. There is transport nearby, but I will need the hour.

“Send her to Brickholm,” Tim says without thinking. Then he repeats it in his head and adds, Baron will look after her, and she can meet Dusty. It’s a nicer place than anywhere else we’ve come across, and I don't want her to go back to the Niv’Ja.

Very well. I will see what I can do. Tim, one hour. No more, no less, understood?

Tim braces his elbows on his knees and frowns at the floor. Understood, but you’re freaking me out, just so you know. Why one hour?

Wherever you are, you have been cloaked from Gods, and from Beings of Immense Power. As soon as it is lifted, your existence will be exposed again. We must be ready for when that happens. I do not want you to deal with that alone, understood?

Beings, Tim says, with an old, familiar dread. Like Lady Luna? And her sisters, whoever they are. She said she was a Being. I didn't understand half of what she was talking about, but she said she wasn’t going to hurt me, that she’d been waiting for me to fulfil some kind of prophecy.

I will explain when I arrive, Tim. I promise. But think very carefully… did she promise not to hurt you before or after you were taken very high up into the sky, where I could not possibly find you, and where you were entirely helpless?

Tim lifts his head. His eyes meet the Mountain Man’s, standing near the fire with his kind smile tilted Tim’s way. The beard is gone, but the shirt is still green. It suits him.

“I will lift the mists when your friend requires it,” the Mountain Man says, stirring the bubbling soup. Tim doesn’t ask how he knows. He thinks of the mist that wrapped around him as he fell, and of how very long the fall was, and he shudders.

I wasn’t supposed to meet Lady Luna at the Library, was I, Via?

No, Tim, Via thinks sadly. No, you were not. Fifty-eight minutes, and we shall have that talk I promised you.

Tim blinks. The faint purplish light that clings to Via’s voice fades away. He shudders through a breath, and then another, and then gives in to the hot prickling in his eyes. Tears fall down his face, and he swipes at them at first before letting them flow. Great big gasping breaths rip through him, and he shakes with it.

Dick would be proud of him for crying. It’s a weird thought, and it makes him laugh through his tears, but it’s true. He’s always advocating for better emotional release in their family, although Jason likes to mention that Dick’s coping mechanisms ain’t exactly healthy, Big Wing. He laughs again, sniffling.

When Tim looks up, the Mountain Man is there, pressing a clean rag into his hands.

“Comfort is good for healing. Sometimes tears can be a comfort, and sometimes a story is better suited to the moment. I think this may be a time when both is required, don't you?” The Mountain Man pats his hand as more tears dampen his cheeks. Tim sniffs, embarrassed, and hides behind the rag.

“Sorry,” Tim says thickly, when he can speak again. “I didn't mean to… to do that.”

The Mountain Man shrugs. “I see no need for shame in this moment. Perhaps a story, though?”

Tim laughs wetly. “You’re really into stories, aren’t you? Does this one have you in it too?”

“No,” the Mountain Man says, standing with the crack of old knees. “People have been spinning stories around you since you walked into this place. I think perhaps you should know why, and how those stories might end. Only then can you make the choices you need.” His voice grows even gentler as Tim stares up at him, heart thudding in his shocked chest, rigid. “No, Timothy Drake. This story does not have me in it. This one has you in it.”

With that, the Mountain Man turns back to his soup, and Tim lets his eyes drop to the mysterious, faded book on the bed.

Chapter 12: The Prophecy

Chapter Text

Gibberish.

Twenty-two precious minutes wasted deciphering gibberish. Tim throws down the book with a scoff, dragging his hands through his unruly hair while he counts to ten. The Mountain Man hums in the background, his sleepy voice weaving a calming tune that fills the cave. Tim grunts. It’s going to take more than that to make him feel calm.

The moment he opened the book, he knew it was going to be a long fifty-something minutes. The pages were littered with runes and writings and scribblings, and he glimpsed etchings and sketches that made little to no sense but prompted endless questions regardless. Now, after coming through the thread-bare pages and coming up empty, he can’t help but feel like treasure has been snatched from right underneath his nose.

“Nothing is ever simple, is it?” Tim mutters into his hands, his voice muffled. “I mean, seriously?”

The humming stops. When Tim resurfaces from his hands, he catches the curious eye of the Mountain Man.

“Seriously?” Tim asks again, gesturing at the book.

The Mountain Man puts down his bowl with a purposeful, apologetic motion. “You are having trouble.”

“Just a tad.”

“Ah. Well, that is my fault. I had not anticipated that you could not read.”

“I can read just fine,” Tim says flatly. “You saw me reading earlier.”

“Oh! So you did.”

Tim makes a great, billowing motion with his arm towards the nook in the cave filled with books. “I read every single thing on those shelves, and no, I didn't understand all of it, but none of it gave me as much trouble as this book. What language is this? And why give it to me if it’s not one I can read?”

The Mountain Man settles his fingers against his chin. Waits, with an ancient patience that people like Ra’s can only hope to display.

“Please,” Tim adds, in case that happens to be the miraculous word that finally gives him answers. It can’t hurt to try. And there’s no sense in disappointing Alfred by forgetting his manners; it doesn’t matter how far away the offence takes place, Alfred always knows.

The Mountain Man makes a sound that could be amusem*nt. “There is no need for a please. My voice when I speak in stories or riddles, or songs, can turn words into a powerful audible ointment. Quite without my say-so. I am thinking of a way to tell you the story inside that book without sending you to sleep. It takes time.”

“I thought time passed differently for you.”

The Mountain Man doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he toddles off to the far side of the cave, vanishing and reappearing again with a blip. There’s something in his hands.

“Here,” the Mountain Man says, holding it out. “I cannot speak the tale to you, but I have a way for you to read it. This may help.”

“You can literally teleport to anywhere in this cave, and you chose to go all the way over—oh, fine.”

Tim pushes himself up off his bed, leaving the book on the mossy covers. He crosses the cave and takes the long, cylindrical object from the Mountain Man, feeling cool metal beneath his fingers. He holds it up to examine it closely.

“Is it a telescope? Some kind of magnifier?”

“I called it the Illuminator,” the Mountain Man says. “It brings certain hidden things to light, unless they are better left to the dark.”

The Illuminator weighs no more than a feather, and yet it fills both of Tim’s hands. Even with the new information, it looks like a long, bronze telescope, made of portions and metal rings that protrude slightly from the slim exterior. But when he pushes gently from each end, the portions don't retract. There are familiar runes etched into the surface of the metal, not unlike the runes that border his staff. At one end, the eyepiece is thin and clear, polished to a shine. But at the other end, there is nothing but an empty space.

“It’s hollow.” Tim pokes the hole. “No wonder it’s so light. Shouldn’t there be a lens here?”

“A lens? Perhaps in your world that would make sense, but not in this one. It used to hold a great, ancient power.” The Mountain Man’s voice echoes gravely off the cavernous stone sky. “There is none other like it. Where your hand is, there was once a sphere of brilliant green, such as this island once teemed with. I suppose you could call it a lens, if you wanted to.”

“Where is it now? The sphere?”

“Lost.”

Tim waits, but the Mountain Man seems lost too, in an unfathomable sadness. His form flickers and moss grows on his shoulders, swallowing him up in creeping increments. When it reaches the Mountain Man’s face, the sorrow fades into soft relief before the moss covers him entirely.

This has only happened once since Tim fell from the sky and met this indescribable creature. The Mountain Man was leaning over his fire-pit, tending his ever-bubbling pot of soup, when a gust of unkind wind blew the fire out. He still isn’t sure why, precisely, the fire made the Mountain Man adopt this stance of sorrow, but the only thing he can liken it to is grief.

He saw Bruce standing in front of a grave one winter. The grief started in his shoulders, pushing down the strong, enduring bones until they hunched beneath the weight. Tim recalls the rain falling like mist, and the way Bruce bowed like an old, rotten tree. He showed no sign of moving even as he crumbled. It looked as though he might stay there until he was part of the earth beneath his feet.

Tim steps away from the Mountain Man and makes his way back to the book, taking it to the rocking chair beneath the bookshelves. A small round table of stone is covered in a thin fabric, torn at the edges. An hourglass mocks him on the table. The time inside is cut cleanly in half, sand trickling at a steady rate from one side to another. Thirty minutes has passed since he last heard Via’s voice, and he’s barely learned a thing.

With that in mind, Tim flips open the book to a random page and lifts the Illuminator to his eye. It works much like a telescope would, in that he only has to look through it. At first he sees only a narrow spot of light, surrounded by gloom, and then his eyes adjust to the narrow corridor of vision, and the gloom lifts to reveal—gibberish. Tim clenches one hand on the table. He rifles to the next page, and the next, growing more irate as the scribbles remain as they are. Just spots of ink on the pages.

Tim wrenches the Illuminator away from his eye, a frustrated snarl working its way out of his throat, but something touches his shoulder before he can throw the instrument aside. He glances up with his heart in his throat, only to find the Mountain Man staring down at him kindly. His face is free of moss, though some lingers on his neck.

“Perhaps those stories are not for you,” the Mountain Man says, squeezing Tim’s shoulder gently. “Perhaps they are examples of things best left in the dark.”

The thought makes Tim wrinkle his nose. He’s not accustomed to finding a piece of knowledge and not immediately chasing it like a dog with a bone. Facts and figures and the wonders of learning are how Tim operates: he hated school from a young age, far too impatient and lazy to bother with what he already knew, but he always wanted to know things. Solving puzzles gave him a sense of exhilaration. Sucking in knowledge and pulling situations apart to learn how they worked, and why they worked, and what exactly happened here; that was his bread and butter.

He’s not felt smart since he arrived here. An entire new world full of impossible things, and he’s hardly ever known which way is up. The minute he finds some thread of possibility, it leads him to a tangled knot of things he could never hope to understand. It’s not possible to feel smart here.

But he also hasn’t behaved in a smart way, and that’s on him. Tim can begrudgingly admit that he’s not acted like someone who studied under Bruce here. He’s let his panic and fear and emotion rule him ruthlessly.

There is no room for that, not now. Tim takes a deep breath and nods shortly. It’s not what he wants; he wants to pull this book apart page by page and learn every secret, and use them to go home, but he won’t. If the knowledge isn’t for him, then it can stay there in the book and rot.

His mouth curls into a smile. He’ll try it this way, and if that doesn’t work, then he’ll act like Jason.

“Here,” the Mountain Man says, as though sensing Tim’s lulling anger. “I do believe this is your story.”

A breeze flows through the cave, bringing with it a hint of lemongrass. It ruffles the pages of the book. They turn almost absently, as though trying to remember exactly where the right page number is, and then they burst forward with a sudden excited rush. The book falls open on a page stained with ink. A chunk of cramped, indecipherable text sprawls across the length of the right page. It seems to have been written in a hurry, judging by the blots of ink along the margins, and the shaky handwriting.

On the other side lies nothing but a mess of lines and symbols. Almost like a diagram. Tim has a strange, uncomfortable feeling that nothing will happen when he looks at the left page, but he also has a feeling that it’s just as important.

“Read, Tim,” urges the Mountain Man. “The sand wills it.”

The hourglass shudders with the retreating breeze, as if in agreement. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Tim lifts the Illuminator and holds it to his eye, staring down at the right page. At first he sees only that thin spot of light again, a perfect circle to match the shape of the hole where the lens should be. He feels bile rise in his throat, but then the light softens and smooths out. It blankets the page.

Instead of gloom or gibberish, words appear on the page, scrawled there by an unseen hand.

‘When the bird flies the nest, the darkness will rise…

Brothers in one world; an old door divides them…

Strange is the shifting from three into two…

Swallowed by moonlight, the circles undo…

West to the Dragon, asleep in the sky…

Awaken, third Being, and let darkness die…’

The Illuminator feels heavy in his hands. It lands with a rattle on the stone table, nestled in the arms of the book that now reads like nonsense. Brothers in one world. Tim bites his lip. Then he picks the Illuminator back up and reads the passage again, and again, trying to sear it into his memory.

“You called it a story,” Tim says, when he can’t look at the words anymore. “But this is a prophecy, isn’t it? It’s the prophecy Lady Luna was talking about.”

Another rocking chair seeps up out of the ground. Vines of wicker overlap until the Mountain Man can sit easily opposite Tim, the stone table between them. He plucks the Illuminator out of Tim’s hands and holds it gently, like a spark of life pulses inside it.

“She said that she wrote it with her sister. They were bored.” Tim drums his fingers against his thigh, tapping out a mindless beat. “She mentioned something about suitors, too, but it’s all a bit fuzzy.”

Like a dream.

“Lady Luna did not expect you to live,” the Mountain Man says. “Even now, she imagines your broken shape lying still on the bottom of the sea. She would not have told you anything of use if she thought for one minute that you might survive. That you remember anything at all is proof of her ignorance.”

“How the hell does that work? Her whole deal is that she can’t intervene. She can throw obstacles at the people here, or make things happen to the world, but she can’t force anyone to do anything. She’s not allowed to interfere with free will.”

“Is that what she told you?” The Mountain Man sits back with a curious hum, and for a moment, something dark flickers in his eyes. “In essence, I suppose that is true. But there is more to her. More than she will ever admit to.”

That’s not promising. He’s not relying on anything here, but the truth is, the knowledge that Lady Luna couldn’t rifle around in her creations too much was something of a relief. A comfort, after being thrown from towers made of glass and dreams. Tim sorely needs comfort right now.

He rakes a hand through his hair and says, “Right. Well, that’s horrifying, so we’ll come back to that later. Her sisters, and the suitors. What can you tell me? Do I need to worry about them?”

“You presume that I know.”

“I’m sort of doing a lot of presuming here, Mountain Man,” Tim tells him, with a helpless roll of his wrist in the air.

The Mountain Man stares at him for a beat, and then he blinks, chuckling to himself. “It is strange to hear that title. Once I had many others. Once I had people that spoke them freely. Now I have only you, and the name you have given me. Do you know something, Tim?”

Tim shakes his head slowly, a little wary.

“I think I like this name better than any others I have answered to.” The Mountain Man offers him a soft smile. “Now, to business. You know your story. What do you plan to do with it?”

Chapter 13: In The Wake

Chapter Text

“Oi, oi,” Jason says, sounding more and more panicked, though he’s clearly trying to hide it, “what the f*ck is this?”

Dick can’t do anything more than stare in numb horror. He’s aware, distantly, that Steph is screaming blue murder, and that Bruce is standing when before he was sitting comfortably, tense but alert. He’s aware, in a vague sort of sense, that Jason has rounded on the bastard sitting smugly in the chair, and that Damian has stiffened like stone beside him. He’s even aware that Cass is making this low, confused, pained noise, and that Alfred inhales sharply.

But he can’t do anything about any of it. All he can do is stare while Tim falls through the sky.

“You better f*cking explain what we’re seeing right now,” Jason swears darkly, viciously. “He was sitting pretty in a library a minute ago, and now you’re showing us this. What the f*ck--”

Cass makes a noise, a horrid, visceral noise as the top of the mountain appears, slicing through the image, and Jason cuts himself off. He’s silent then, unmoving and speechless.

It’s worse with no sound, Dick thinks, watching Tim fall. It’s worse because he knows that Tim must be breathing hard and fast, and shouting things, and muttering as he grasps frantically for a plan, and maybe he’s even calling for help. Maybe he’s calling for them, but they can’t hear it, and Dick can feel this awful feeling rising in his chest like bile, cutting through the numbness, and there’s nothing he can do except stare and stare until Tim hits the ground.

Cass moves before she thinks. She’s always thinking, always putting one thought in front of the other the way feet are supposed to go, always darting forwards in her head and her heart. She moves now, wrapping an arm tightly around Steph’s waist when she explodes forward, screaming and cursing, using every ounce of her strength to break free.

Cass is stronger.

Tim is strong too, Cass thinks. Strong enough to survive awful, dark things. Strong enough to stop bad people, and bad things from happening, and strong enough to keep good people safe.

“Oh, good lord,” Alfred breathes, one hand pressed tightly to his chest. “Oh.”

It isn’t right, seeing Alfred this way. He is the backbone of this family, the spine of steel that keeps the Manor standing tall. He isn't supposed to tremble like that. Cass thinks she should look away.

The picture on the cave wall fades into nothing.

Bruce stands, and his voice does not crack, even now, but Cass can hear the vast space growing in his words, the darkness, the absence. He says, “Bring it back,” and Cass hears: this is a man at sea.

“There’s nothing to bring back. He’s gone.”

Steph lets out another stream of vicious, angry words, but Cass can feel the splash of hot tears on her wrist, where it’s tilted up around Steph’s chest. She pulls Steph close and buries her face in her hair, so she won’t give in to that dark impulse when the villain speaks.

Tim is strong, but she isn’t sure that he’s strong enough to survive this.

The kitchen is stone-cold and silent when Jason pushes open the door. There’s a heavy weight to the air that he doesn’t like, and it makes him grimace when he spots Dick hunched over the far counter, his shoulders forming a rigid, straight line.

Jason’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be riding his motorbike through the streets of Gotham, whipping idiots into shape and clearing the scum out of his territory. He’s not supposed to be comforting the family that he spent years seething at.

“Don't,” Dick says, before Jason can do more than open his mouth. “Just don't say anything.”

It takes a lot to make Dick snap, but when he does, the fire and fury that pours out of him is gloriously vibrant. Jason lives for that moment when the precious golden boy reaches the end of his tether, or he used to. Not so much anymore. Not since he lay prone on the floor of some hovel and watched Tim Drake run towards a pool of blue light, and vanish.

“f*ck,” Dick says, hunching even further into himself. “f*ck it.”

The heavy weight isn’t a weight at all; it’s a sound. It’s the sickening thump and crack of Tim’s body hitting the ground. They didn't hear it; they can’t hear anything through the f*cking pictures plastered all over the cave wall, but they didn't need to. Jason knows what it sounds like when someone hits the floor like that. He’s been too slow on more than one occasion, and the noise haunts him.

“I think Dami saw,” Dick says, swiping a hand across his face desperately, still refusing to face Jason. “I tried to turn him away, but he wouldn’t listen--”

Tim had fallen for a long time. There was enough time for them all to work out, in a state of horror, what was going to happen, and for Dick to wrench desperately at Damian’s arm, trying to move him from his stony stance. But it hadn’t worked. Steph had screamed, and Cass had let out this little broken sound, and Bruce hadn’t moved an inch. Alfred had not turned away, but his eyes glittered with tears long before the fog closed over Tim’s body.

“Alfred’s got him,” Jason says. “He’s alright, Dick. Damian’s fine. I’m more worried about you.”

It takes a lot to admit that he’s worried. He wrenches the words out of somewhere deep, somewhere painful, and throws them out like poison. He makes it sound harsh because he can’t afford to sound soft.

Dick chuckles. “I’m fine. You know why? Because Tim’s not dead.”

“Dick,” Jason says, trying not to sound too gruff, trying not to sound too much like Bruce. “Dick, he said there wasn’t anything left. Asshead, or whatever he wants us to call him, he said that was where the images cut off. No more pictures, no more visions or whatever the f*ck he was showing us anyway.”

Dick whirls around, and Jason is surprised to see that he isn’t crying, not yet. Dick’s never been afraid to show tears, but now his face is clear, and his eyes are dry. A little red, maybe, and glazed over with shock, but dry.

“There was fog,” Dick insists. “It could have been part of his play, to make us think Tim’s dead. We didn't see--”

“We f*cking saw him fall for hundreds of feet and hit the ground--”

But Dick shakes his head, spitting fire now, and storms towards him. “We didn't see a body. There was too much fog to see it. We know he hit the ground, but the fog covered him up. For all we know it could have been magical healing fog, considering where the f*ck he is.”

“It might also have been acidic f*cking fog, but who cares?” Jason grabs Dick’s arm and stares at him, hard. “You don't survive a fall like that.”

Quietly, Dick says, “You don't survive a grave either.”

Jason lets go like he’s been burned. The look in Dick’s eye isn’t cruel, but it is hard, and there’s a hint of a plea in there. An apology, maybe, too. He doesn’t know. It’s been a long time since he knew how to read Dick Grayson, if he ever did.

“You don't survive being lost in time, or stabbed, or shot, or anything else that we’ve been through. But we’ve all been through it, and we’re all standing here. I’m not going to believe it until I know for sure.” Dick swallows, and now the tears fill his eyes as he looks away. “I owe him that much. There’s been times when we didn't--when I didn't look for him. When I just assumed he was fine, and he wasn’t, and he needed our help. He looked for Bruce for months, and he was right, and nobody believed him. I’m not going to stop looking for him now. There’s no body, so he’s not dead.”

Jason lets the silence sit in the wake of Dick’s statement. He feels roiled and confused, and like he badly wants to fight but he doesn’t f*cking know why, he never knows why. Things have been better recently. There’s a destructive part of him that wants to rip it all up and spit all over it, but the bigger part of him misses the Manor like an old bruise. It hurts to be here, but he can feel the skin healing the longer he stays. He doesn’t want to punch Dick or storm out or let this ruin it.

He thinks of Tim’s face, pasted over with fear no matter how much he tried to hide it, grasping at clouds and falling and falling and he thinks of that sound that just isn’t there, but that he can hear echoing in his chest like another heartbeat. He looks at Dick, at the determined gleam in his eye and the tear-tracks on his cheeks. He thinks of Alfred, and how frail he had looked in that moment.

He thinks of the lost look on Bruce’s face, the utter despair.

“Alright,” Jason says quietly, and Dick inhales sharply. “Then I guess we’re gonna have to find a way into that world, aren’t we?”

One way or another, and no matter what state he’s in, they’re bringing Tim home.

Chapter 14: Ladies

Chapter Text

The Mountain Man lifts the mist.

He rocks himself back and forth in his chair, mumbling under his breath, his eyelids pulled halfway down over flickering eyes. Tim retreats to the cave mouth, fascinated, and watches as the mist rolls away. The whole island is awash with verdant green and rain-specked ferns. For the first time he sees it in its proper, lush form, and it ignites a spark of comfort inside him. This is the place where he almost died. This is the place where he was sung back to life. Then, just as quickly, the mist rolls back over the land, devouring everything in sight, eating the river up drop by drop.

But one thing remains that the mist cannot devour.

Tim feels it, the minute when Via’s paws hit the earth. She must come out of the air and land on her feet, burying her claws deep into the mud. He senses it in his mind, in his soul, in whichever part of him has a fragile grip on the magic gifted to him. He stands taller and waits in the cave mouth for Via to move towards him, but she doesn’t.

“She will not come here,” the Mountain Man murmurs, in a voice as solid and steady as the rock he inhabits.

“Why not?”

The Mountain Man chuckles. “Would you walk up to your God’s door? It is a matter of respect. This, Tim, is where I must leave you. Or where you must leave me, if that is the way round you wish to look at it.”

Tim steps further into the cool recess of the mountain, where another pot of soup bubbles on an open flame, and there are books waiting to be discovered. He feels like he could spend a thousand years here and never quite understand the mountain, or the man within it.

“Either way round works, I guess,” Tim says. “It’s all one big circle in the end, isn’t it?”

“I have never been fond of circles. Triangles, on the other hand… what a beautiful shape.”

That sparks familiarity in Tim, nagging at him like the last remnants of a dream. He thinks for a minute, but nothing more comes. Instead, he frowns, and pushes it aside. There are more important things to do right now.

“Why won’t she come here?” Tim asks, unwilling to leave. “Even just for a minute. It wouldn’t do any harm.”

I would never dare to approach him. There are eyes on me, Tim. There are eyes on both of us, watching us from the heavens. The moment they follow me to that Being is the moment his security cracks like glass. I would never dare to do that to someone I respect.

Via’s voice settles something in Tim, and he breathes out, long and slow. He presses the heels of his hands firmly into his eyes, determined not to cry again, and nods even though he doesn’t understand who could be looking for the Mountain Man, or why someone so steady and strong might need protecting.

“Via,” he says aloud. I’m glad it worked.

There is the faintest ripple through their minds as Via adjusts to the intrusion, and Tim waits, still unsure of where he stands. But when she talks next, her voice is softer than usual.

As am I, Tim. Come and meet me by the stream. I have news to share with you, and I am not sure you will like it. But we will face it together.

Tim frowns again. Bad news is… well, bad news, but he’s come too far now to let it stop him. He picks up the Illuminator, and the scrap of paper boasting the prophecy. His prophecy, if he believes such things. He’s still not entirely sure that he does, but the Mountain Man called it his story, and the rest of the world seems to believe in it. That makes it important.

He pockets both things, and glances arounds for his staff, before remembering that he doesn’t have it. A stone sinks in his stomach. He doesn’t have his staff. All the breath leaves him at once, and he remembers it hitting the floor in the library, among gold spheres and stars on the walls.

“sh*t,” Tim says. “Well, that’s going to be a problem. Via? I don't have my staff.”

There is a somewhat stunned silence through their link, before Via says, urgent and low, Come and find me, Tim.

Tim nods again and crosses to the Mountain Man. He sits still in his chair, no longer rocking, but his eyes are still half closed. There’s a fluttering behind the mossy lids. Tim hesitates, before kneeling down and pressing one hand to the Mountain Man’s knee. Wicker from the chair has wormed its way around the Mountain Man’s legs; it’s hard to tell where he ends and nature begins.

“I owe you my life,” Tim says. “We don't take that lightly, where I come from. You saved me, and because of that, I’ll get to go home. I can’t ever thank you enough for that.”

The Mountain Man peels open his eyes slowly, and stares at Tim with forest-green eyes, heavy with sadness. “Haven’t we had this story before? It all gets so turned around.”

“I don't think--” Tim shuts his mouth and pats the Mountain Man’s knee. “Maybe. But I wanted to say it again.”

“It all gets so turned around,” the Mountain Man murmurs softly.

Tim leaves him behind with one last smile, and heads out into the mist.

The island is thick with fog, and it’s hard to see. Tim’s heart aches as he walks, part of him desperate to turn around again and retreat to the warm safety of that cave, and the Mountain Man who guards it. But it won’t do any good. He won’t be warm and safe until he gets home to his family, and he can’t do that if he sits in a cave and pretends that everything is fine.

“Via?” Tim calls, stepping over clumps of bracken and twigs. The grass is wet and the mud feels churned, as though there was a violent rainstorm in the night. “Via, where are you?”

Close by. I can almost--

Something launches itself out of the mist, tackling Tim to the ground. He raises his arm to cover his face, preparing to roll, but then he registers the tiny, muffled sobbing from the weight on his chest. He pushes himself upright, and Girl falls into his lap, her hands covering her face.

Her hair is a matted mess. There’s dirt on her arms and her face, and scratches covering her cheeks, bleeding weakly. Tim stares in surprise and slow-dawning horror.

“Via!” Tim roars, closing his arms around Girl and lifting her. She weighs nothing, no more than a leaf or a feather, and she fits easily in his arms. “Via, where are you?”

HERE.

Via skids through the mist, snarling. Her eyes shine with relief when she spots them both, but Tim can’t help the broken noise that falls from his mouth; Via is in a worse state than Girl. Her fur is streaked with blood, and there is a soot-like substance worked into it. Tim cradles the back of Girl’s head carefully, aware of the tears soaking his shirt, and more soot falls from her hair.

I thought I lost her for a moment, Via says, panting harshly. She must have heard your voice and rushed to find you.

“I thought you were going to take her to Brickholm. Via, what happened? Are you hurt?”

I did take her to Brickholm, Via says darkly. I took her personally, under the Oath of the God of Travellers. But when we arrived, we were attacked by dark creatures made of ash. They tried to take her, Tim.

Girl shivers, shifting impossibly closer. Tim tightens his grip around her frail, shaking figure and kneels in the mud, watching Via’s intense eyes burn with rage and fear and a thousand other things that he doesn’t have a name for. It feels like heat, like fire.

“Creatures made of ash?” Tim repeats, quietly.

He won’t think it, not until Via confirms it.

Baron’s house was torn apart. There was nobody inside it, but his scrolls were wrecked and ruined, and the place was burned to shreds. I could find no hint of a body, so I ran with Girl on my back to find Duustrius, and they were there. Creatures made of ash pouring out of the crack in the ground. They turned the sky dark and filled it with acrid heat. And then they turned their eyes on us and tried to take her.

Tim shakes his head, holding Girl closer. “It’s not him. Dusty wouldn’t do that.”

Tim, the prophecy that you hold in your head was made for you. It is written into your very blood. There is no changing it.

“So what? What does that have to do with anything? I haven’t even figured out what it’s talking about yet, and it doesn’t matter. Lady Luna wrote a prophecy because she was bored, and then because people were stupid enough to believe it, here I am. Dusty’s prophecy - I don't know where that came from, but it was probably because of some stupid reason too. If people just stopped believing it, it wouldn’t come true. If people stopped being cruel to him--”

Via’s eyes soften from brimstone to molten lava. Oh, Tim. Haven’t you figured it out yet?

Via strides forward and presses her cold nose to Tim’s throat, nudging beneath his chin. Girl turns her face and hides it in her fur. They shake and shiver together. Tim’s words break away, and he stops speaking.

You share a Prophecy. Your Prophecy and the Prophecy of Duustrius are one in the same.

The Oath of the Traveller is a complicated piece of magic. Tim scours the scroll absently, taking in words here and there. As far as he can tell, the Oath can only be taken once by each person under the God of Traveller’s care, and it may be used precisely three times, to take the person wherever in the world they wish to go. Tim had asked, briefly, if it crossed worlds, but Via’s power was not quite that great. He had asked, then, why Via couldn’t use it to send him to where he needed to go to learn the languages, to shorten his journey and get him home, but she had simply looked at him.

It had taken them safely away from the island and the mountain, and to the Kingdom made of gold, so Tim supposes he can’t really complain. He still wants to, though. On principle.

She sleeps? Via slinks in through the Inn door, silent as a mouse.

Tim glances over his shoulder at the figure on the bed. Girl lies still and silent beneath a rough quilt, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. Her eyes are closed, but Tim isn’t sure that she’s sleeping.

“The Healer said she should be out for a while,” Tim says. “She took care of most of the wounds. They were superficial, for the most part, but she bandaged some of the deeper scratches and gave her something for the shock.”

Via inclines her head and lopes towards him, resting her head on his knees. He winds his fingers in her fur and keeps quiet.

The Inn is a quiet place on the outskirts of Aurumadis, smaller than the last Inn they stayed in. Tim stole several thick gold coins from a passing man’s pocket to afford the room, and he doesn’t have time for the guilt that still sits heavily in his chest. Girl will have a place to sleep for three nights, a place to recover, while they think on what to do.

“Lady Luna,” Tim says. “She’s watching us, isn’t she? Right now, I mean. She must know I’m alive now that we’re away from the island.”

Tim had argued against leaving at first. The mists that shrouded the island kept the inhabitants safe, and it took so long for Via to reach him because she couldn’t find him. Via was the God of Travellers. She could go almost anywhere she wished. If there was a place that could keep her at bay, then Tim fancied it might be safest for them to hide out in.

She is dangerous, but she is clever. And she knows the rules. She will not lay a finger on you yet, child.

“You and the Mountain Man both implied that she could do whatever she liked to me, no questions asked, and that she lied when she talked about not being able to interfere. If I’m wrong about that, please say so now, because that’s the kind of thing that could make a guy lose some sleep.”

She can kill you in a dream, Via says, silencing him. She is strong and unstable. She has been out of balance for too long, working alone in the sky, watching everything turn out wrong for her. That is how worlds begin to collapse. When the Beings that built them become too enamoured with their destruction, with the idea of crushing it all and starting over, that is when they crumple like paper thrown over a shoulder.

Tim swallows back the bile in his throat. He doesn’t want to know if his world is like that, if he’s going to have to live with the knowledge that one day, something magnificently volatile and ancient might wipe it all away simply out of boredom or frustration.

She is not there yet. It will take aeons for her to reach that point, in our measurements. The descent is slow. She can kill you in a dream, and she can push you in the direction she wants you to take, but she cannot actively make you go down it. It is still up to you. She cannot infringe upon free will without the world crumbling, and right now, she has too much invested in it.

“Her sisters,” Tim guesses. “Or her suitors? Or something else, I don't know. Whatever it is, I don't trust that it’s enough to keep her occupied for long. I still don't understand why we didn't stay there with the Mountain Man.”

Precisely because you care for him. Just as you care for Girl, and Duustrius, and Baron, and every lost soul that you meet. I would have kept us there a while longer to explain things, and to figure out a plan, but things have come to pass that I thought would take more time, and we are rapidly running out of it.

A dark feeling settles over Tim. “You mean the Prophecy. Explain it to me, Via.”

Via pierces Tim with her gaze, settling on her haunches. When the bird flies the nest, the darkness will rise. Brothers in one world; an old door divides them. Strange is the shifting from three into two. Swallowed by moonlight, the circles undo. West to the dragon, asleep in the sky. Awaken, third being, and let darkness die.

It sends a brief shudder down his spine.

“It’s different when you hear it out loud,” Tim says. “I tried to figure out what it meant, but so far all I know is that apparently it’s to do with me, and now it’s also to do with Dusty.”

It always was a story about both of you, Via says. I cannot tell you everything, but I can tell you the beginning. My role is to guide you along the path, not explain the stones and flowers. This will be easier if you know the history of the Gods and their creation, but that is not a story I can tell you.

“Then who can?” Tim demands, standing abruptly.

Via moves smoothly out of the way, slinking back across the room, and bares her teeth in a warning snap. It comes across as a reprimand, rather than a threat, like a mama bear growling at her idiotic cub. But Tim isn’t an idiot, and as much as he is afraid of Gods and their ways, he isn’t afraid of Via. Not anymore. He kneels instead, there on the harsh, scratchy rug, and stares Via in the eyes.

“Via, please,” Tim says. “I don't say this often, but I’m tired. Tell me who to go to for answers, so I can figure all this out.”

I was going to speak to you after you had left the Library, to give you some of the answers you seek. You will need to return anyway to search for your staff, though I sense it will not be there.

Tim narrows his eyes. “You want me to go back there?”

The Celestial Theatre gives performances every weekend. The Librarians write the script and perform the show on the Library steps. When I sent you there the first time, I thought you would ask for their help, and they would give you the script. She sounds contrite when she adds, I should have explained what you were to do better, but I was rattled.

“Not sure rattled is the word for it,” Tim says. “Pissed off, maybe. Vengeful. Seething with unholy rage.”

Via snorts, and snaps her teeth again, and this time it is so fond he feels affection swell in his chest, and he’s not entirely sure that it’s his. He grins, getting to his feet and brushing off his trousers.

“So, there’s a performance, or a script, that tells the history of the Gods, and all I have to do is ask a Librarian for it?”

Via shakes her head. They will not give the script out now, not this close to a show. There is one tomorrow, at noon. You will go then, and watch it, and when you have understood it, we will plan our next steps.

That seems to settle things for the moment. Tim goes back to the scroll, combing through it again and asking questions when he sees fit. The magic of this world is undoubtedly powerful, but it seems to have its own rules and hidden twists that he can’t see coming.

“Girl can’t use the Oath anymore, can she?” Tim asks, stumbling upon a realisation.

No. Via sighs. I used it once to take her to Brickholm, and once to escape with her on my back, to your island. The journey from the island to here was the final use for her. We will need to keep her safe.

“We were trying to keep her safe before,” Tim points out. “The Niv’Ja said there were loads of wild kids on their little mountain, didn't they? She doesn’t want to go back there, which is fine, because I don't want to send her back there, but it feels wrong to just cart her around like this.”

She looked for you. She would not let me stop looking for you while you were gone.

Tim glances at the bed, at Girl’s still, sleeping form, and swallows back something sharp.

“Oh, you wanted to stop looking?” Tim spins round in the chair, letting the Oath flutter to the surface. “Bit rude of you, Via. After everything we’ve been through as well.”

He gets the sense that if Via had the thumbs and fingers to do so, she would have flipped him off.

“I’m not saying I want to push her off somewhere,” Tim murmurs, a little more sober. “I just don't know how safe this journey’s going to be. We need to make sure she’s more prepared. Get her a knife or something.”

Objectively, Tim knows that giving a kid a dagger probably isn’t the best course of action. He also knows that he was training with batarangs when he was just a kid. He went through brutal training, and he flung himself over rooftops, and he forced his brain into the hyper-vigilant, critical mess that it is today because he knew it was important, and he wanted to help.

“I don't want to put her through what we did,” Tim says, mostly to himself. “The last thing I want is another Damian running around, biting my ankles. She needs something, though. A name, too. A proper chance.”

Via bows her head gracefully. We can discuss it when she wakes. She’s safe for now. Do her the courtesy of believing what happened to her, and that might keep her safe in the future.

That makes something vast and angry well up inside Tim. He feels the first threads of magic unspool in his soul, and he shakes it away. No matter what Via says, Tim will not believe it. He crosses the room and sits on the bed again, right at Girl’s side, and stares down at his friend, his guide, his companion.

“You say Lady Luna can’t reach out and smite me, and I believe you. You say that Girl’s safe here, and I believe you on that too. But I can’t believe you when you say that Dusty is the one that tried to hurt her.” Tim clenches his hand in the sheets, wrinkling them, and then smooths out the creases. “More than that. I won’t believe it.”

And I would not try to make you. Via sighs. I will trust you, as you have trusted me. But be careful, Tim, and do not be too disheartened tomorrow, when you finally see.

Early in the morning, when Girl and Via are still asleep, Tim leaves the Inn behind. He snags a plate of food from the bar before heading out into the streets, clipping a leather flask full of water onto his belt. The streets are bare at this hour, but not deserted. There are a few stray dogs nearby, pawing at a Guard’s leg, and a creature flutters by on wings, too fast to make out its face, but for the most part, Tim is alone. He makes his way through the glittering, golden streets and doesn’t stop until he reaches the Library.

It’s too early for the Celestial Theatre to have unpacked, and the show isn’t due to start until noon, which gives Tim a free run of the stairs, and a chance to scour the library. He feels naked without his staff, without a weapon to hold onto, but he does have a very small dagger that Via snatched for him. He doesn’t want to know how she got it, but he appreciates its weight in his palm.

The circle on his wrist stays drab and dull even as he pushes open the Library doors. He thought it might have been a way of unlocking the doors, or keeping track of customers, but now he thinks it might be something else. Something slightly more sinister.

“She did have circles of her own,” Tim mutters, studying his wrist in the entryway. “If she’s marked me in some way, I’ll wring her cryptic neck.”

It unsettles him, but he has no choice but to push it aside.

The Library is just as he remembered it, only busier. The corridor full of stars is the only empty part in the whole building. Tim shoulders his way through the crowd until he reaches it, and he follows the faint glow until he finds the same room where he was first accosted by a mystical Being.

Tim stops in the doorway. The huge bronze construction still hangs from the ceiling, the metal rings spinning slowly, but the orb that hung there too is missing. He blinks, frowning, and then peels away from the doorway, knife in hand. He keeps silent as he slinks around the room. Almost everything else is entirely as he left it, cluttered and messy. Even the lamps are still sputtering.

He searches high and low for his staff, but if an orb the size of a fireplace is gone, then it’s unlikely that his staff was left alone too. The room yields nothing but more clutter. Eventually, Tim swipes a hand through his hair and sighs, frustrated.

“A long shot, I guess,” Tim mutters.

“Ah, excuse me!”

The voice is heavily accented, but the words are recognisable. Tim whips around and aims the knife in the direction of the doorway, glowering at an alarmed-looking woman dressed in gold robes. Script winds around her flowing sleeves, and she backs away slightly as he slides his foot back in a defensive position.

“You are not supposed to be back here!” she says, tittering in nervous laughter. “This is where the performers must change! I must ask you to leave now, please?”

This woman is nothing like Lady Luna, but Tim still clings to his dagger for a moment longer before sense kicks in.

“Of course,” he says, smoothly sliding the dagger up his sleeve, out of sight but not out of reach. “I must have taken a wrong turn. Could you tell me if the show still intends to go on?”

The woman relaxes somewhat, smiling timidly. “Ah, it does! On the steps at the sun’s highest point. Please, join us for an adventure that sails through the stars!”

The last is clearly a marketed line, so Tim simply nods politely and steps forward, letting her scramble to the side so he can leave. He gives the room one last desperate scan, just in case he missed his staff leaning up against a corner somewhere, and spots something at the very last moment.

It isn’t anything extraordinary, but it does make him frown.

The map on the far will is missing.

There are still hours to go before the show starts, so Tim heads back to the Inn to check on Girl, finding her fast asleep. He tells Via of his discovery, and his lack of discovery. She’s still frowning when he leaves again a while later.

Tim wastes a few hours getting the lay of the town. Aurumadis is a vast Kingdom, but the towns and cities inside it are fairly well-contained. He darts in and out of shops, gathering wares with more stolen coins, and soon he has a drawstring bag heaving with supplies, and substantially empty pockets. Jason would be proud, he thinks, as he eyes another bulging coin purse on a chortling man’s belt. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

Soon, the town gets flooded with people. A market goes up in dribs and drabs, and Tim wanders around it, taking small bites of crystallized fruit and keeping an eye on the sun. Each stall boasts its own canopy woven from thick material. Some are just frayed tapestries draped over poles, but some have stories stitched into the fabric. There’s an eclectic mix of people on the streets, bartering and negotiating prices, and hawking their sales.

Tim weaves his way through the crowd, avoiding the glint of gold that precedes a passing Guard. He has no desire to get chased down an alleyway again. He makes his way to the Library as the sun climbs higher and higher, but the crowd is thick, and it takes him longer than he’d like. He looks desperately up at the rooftops, wishing he could soar along them the way he did as Robin, and then as Red Robin, and he’s so busy looking up that he forgets to look forward.

Someone slams into him, sending him sprawling into the brick wall. Tim darts backwards into the shadows of an alleyway, but he meets a broad chest, and he jumps forward instead, only for the person behind him to wind an arm tightly around him, keeping him trapped. He brings his arm forward, prepared to jab it into the stranger’s gut, but two figures come out of the market, sinking into the alley shadows with him.

“Oh,” Tim says, relaxing in the hold. “It’s you.”

“Oh, he says.” Catus puts her hands on her hips, smoke stuttering out of her nostrils. “Oh. Is that all you’ve got to say?”

It’s all three of them. Catus, wearing a green-scaled jacket and a pair of high boots, her hair curled into braids. Avrin, dressed in plum colours and sporting a kind, slightly nervous smile, fiddling with a pouch of herbs. Brimmet, too, if the vast expanse of muscles behind him is anything to go by.

“It’s nice to see you?” Tim offers.

“You skipped out on us in the middle of the woods!” Catus exclaims. “Right after we helped you lie your way into Lady Lydia’s good graces, too. We thought you’d been eaten.”

Tim goes rigid in Brimmet’s grasp. She pats his chest once to calm him down, and then lets him go. He stumbles for a moment before he gets himself in gear, standing up straight and marching forward. Avrin steadies him with a hand to the shoulder when he draws near, and Catus blinks up at him, confused by the intensity in his eyes.

“What did you call her?”

“Call who?” Catus frowns. “Ain’t you gonna apologise for leaving without a goodbye?”

“You had us worried,” Brimmet says, from behind him.

“We didn't set out to look for you, but we were hoping we might find you anyway,” Avrin says, patting Tim on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

A frisson of healing magic shoots down his spine, soothing his residual aches from travelling and cooling his overheated skin. It tastes like mint and cucumber. Avrin seems unbothered by the task of using magic, and Tim wonders if he’ll get to that point one day, if he’ll be able to cast magic so seamlessly that nobody even notices. Then he wonders why he cares, since he’ll be going home soon.

“You too,” Tim says, distracted, though he means it. “Sorry, I just… What did you call her? The woman in the caravan?”

“Lady Lydia,” Catus says, letting her hands drop to her sides. “You knew that, right? We told you that?” She shoots a look at Avrin, who scratches his chin, shrugging. “We did, I’m sure of it. And it was on the outside of her door, and probably on the inside too. Why’re you acting so weird about her name?”

Tim did know her name. He remembers looking at her and thinking Lady Lydia, and knowing that was her name, but he isn’t quite sure when he forgot the importance of it.

“Are there a lot of ladies in this world?” Tim asks.

The three of them share a baffled look over his head. Avrin puts his hand on Tim’s shoulder again and squeezes gently, solemn as a grave.

“If it is ladies you desire, you should find other friends to help you on your quest,” Avrin says, very helpfully. “None of us are very experienced in that area.”

Catus splutters loudly. “Oi! Speak for yourself, Av. I have plenty of experience, and if it’s ladies you’re after, Tim--” She cuts herself off after a moment, eyes narrowing. “Hang on. What was that?”

“What was what?”

“The picture in your head,” Catus says, waving a hand vaguely around her braids. “The tower up in the sky, and that woman who looks like--ah, f*cking terrifying, actually. What was that?”

Tim shoves Avrin’s hand away and slaps his own hand over Catus’s mouth, shaking his head very carefully. He leans down until he’s eye-level with her and meets her gaze, capturing it entirely.

“Listen to me,” Tim says lowly, in a voice that brooks no arguments, in a tone that has them all stiffening. “I’m happy to see you, and I don't want to fight you, but if you don't stay out of my head, that’s where we’ll end up. Don't think about what you saw. Don't dig for anything else either, understand? She’s already watching me as it is. I don't want her to fixate on you too.”

There is no response, but Catus flicks her eyes upwards, towards the grey sky, and something sharpens in her gaze. Brimmet fidgets behind him, eager to get him away from her, but Tim doesn’t lower his hand until Catus nods.

“Good,” Tim says, drawing back. “I wasn’t asking about ladies in general. She was called Lady Lydia, but it seems like more of a title than anything. I’m asking if that’s how people are referred to around here?”

“No,” Brimmet says, her voice still tense. “By occupation, yes. You would call me Necromancer Brimmet, if I were summoning you from death, or Healer Avrin, if you were injured.”

The thread does not go unnoticed. Tim glances her way and nods, understanding, and she seems to unbunch, her shoulders dropping as she nods back. Catus looks kind of delighted by it all, glee over-taking her earlier worry.

“There are Kings and Queens, I guess,” she says. “A couple of Lords too. And there are Ladies, if you want to be fancy about it, but Lady ain’t really a title for them. Not like it was for her. I’d always say Lady Lydia, and I’d always think it, but I wouldn’t call duch*ess Pearlpants who lives in some fairy-tale castle duch*ess Pearlpants in my head every time I looked at her, you know?”

“What would you call her?” Avrin asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Easy pickings, probably.” Catus flashes him a grin. “Stuck-up cow, maybe.”

“It’s about respect, then,” Tim murmurs, thinking aloud. “I thought Lady Luna was the first one I met, but maybe not. She mentioned suitors and sisters, and Via and the Mountain Man never answered my questions about them, but anyone related to her would have to be the same level as her, right? They’d have the same title and the same respect, right?”

“Right.” Brimmet takes him by the elbow and steers him gently back into the throng of people. “You need food, Tim. Then you may explain your strange quest.”

“I can’t,” Tim says, snapping back into action. “I’m supposed to go to the Celestial Theatre. It’s important.”

“You’re thin as a twig,” Brimmet says. “Could snap you with my little finger.”

“Don't fight it, Tim,” Catus says, darting ahead just so that she can walk backwards, and throw him a wink. “Besides, there’s another showing in two hours, and guess who was planning on attending? Lucky for you, we’ve got extra tickets.”

“Do we?” Avrin asks, bewildered.

“We will once we steal them.”

Chapter 15: The Celestial Theatre

Chapter Text

There isn't a single inch of Aurumadis that isn’t swelling with people.

“People always come to the Celestial Theatre,” Catus tells him, dragging him through the bloated crowd by the sleeve. “Doesn’t matter how many times they tell the same old story about the old farts livin’ up in the stars, people always wanna hear it again.”

“Perhaps we should have gone into theatre,” Avrin muses.

“We’d make a killing,” Catus agrees.

“No,” Brimmet responds blandly. “We would do killing. You two cannot act or take direction. The theatre would burn. No money then.”

The way she speaks reminds Tim of Cass, though granted a little more burningly sarcastic. He snorts, allowing himself to be led through the streets until they find a small vendor selling dubious bottles of alcohol. He doesn’t even get a chance to survey the options before Catus pushes three bottles into his arms, swinging a velvet pouch at the startled man behind the cart. He fumbles the catch; the pouch lands at his feet, and when he ducks down to retrieve it, Catus yanks Tim away.

“Quick,” she says cheerfully, as the others dart after her. “I only had a few nut shells and some lint in that old thing.”

Tim may not approve of theft on a wide-spread basis, but he’d be a hypocrite to protest it, considering his own actions recently. And searching for missing staffs is thirsty work. He follows them to a low, flat roof that gives a good view of the crowd, almost dropping the bottles as he hauls himself up the gold-stained brickwork.

Catus sits as close to the edge as possible, her feet swinging idly while she pops the cork on her drink. Avrin kneels at her side, pulling a pile of knitting from some obscure pocket that must be bigger on the inside, judging by the sheer amount of yarn that unspools in his hand. Brimmet guides Tim to a space near them both, forcing him to sit while she pulls rations from her bag. She must have snagged something from a stall on the way, because the thick, heavily-spiced pastries she pushes into his hands are piping hot.

“Still so small,” she mutters under her breath.

Tim elects to ignore that. He gets enough short jokes from his family. Sometimes Jason likes to lean on him, like a complete prick, resting his entire bulging bicep on Tim’s head and propping up his chin, grinning at him in the reflection of the computer monitor. Dick still wrangles him into hugs, tucking him under his chin and cooing. Once, Tim snapped his eyes open during a nap on the sofa to find Damian backing away from him with a tape measure in hand, a viciously smug look in his eye.

“Alright,” Catus says, clapping her hand against her thigh. “You’ve got your food, and now it’s time to explain the whole bunch of weird sh*t bobbing around in your head.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about,” Tim says, swallowing a mouthful of admittedly delicious pastry. “If all you wanted to do is chat, you could have waited ‘til after the show. I was supposed to see the noon showing.”

“What, are we not entertaining enough for you? I’m hurt, Tim. Real hurt. Oi, you done with that yet?”

Avrin shakes his head slowly, knitting needles plucking away at a mass of white and green wool. It looks a little bit like a cauliflower. Tim isn’t stupid enough to say so, not with Brimmet eyeing him like a hawk, making sure that he eats every last bite.

“Tell us why the Lady Lydia thing bothered you so much,” Catus demands. “No, wait.” She pauses, frowning. “I wanna know where you’ve been. How come you skipped out? We tried banging on Lady Lydia’s door after you didn't come out for ages, but she told us to bugger off.”

“In a very nice way,” Avrin adds.

“Yeah, yeah, the Lady has manners. What’d she say to you while you were there? Where did you go?”

“She said that dreams are sometimes just dreams, and wolves are not always wolves, and that I shouldn’t be afraid to change.” Tim meets Catus’s raised eyebrow with one of his own. “And then I met Via, the Wolf God of Travellers, and she guided me to Duustrius, the God of the Dark, and then I nearly died on a big snowy mountain. So you could say that I’ve been a little busy, and I didn't have time for goodbyes.”

“Always time for goodbyes,” Brimmet says softly, nudging another pastry towards him. “Learn that in Necromancy training.”

“There’s training for that?” Tim pauses, aware that a tangent just opened up in front of him; it takes a herculean amount of effort to forcibly steer himself away. “We’re coming back to that. But I don’t know what to tell you. A lot has happened since we last met, and hardly any of it is good.”

“I know you said not to dig,” Catus says, with a conspicuous skyward glance. “But you’ve gotta give us something.”

Tim polishes off the last of his pastry, chewing thickly. He thought he’d be more annoyed by the intrusion to his plans; it’s not as if he doesn’t have better things to be doing. But admittedly, it’s kind of nice. It reminds him of those days when Connor would zip by and snag him under the armpits, carrying him away from Gotham’s smog-filled sky and over to Titan Tower. They would spend the whole day streaming terrible action movies and laughing at all the slow-motion backflips while Bart ate his way through earth’s entire supply of popcorn and Cassie demonstrated her own, much cooler back-flip, complete with punches and knives.

This isn't the same. It makes him ache. But it loosens something in his chest all the same, makes him relax a little and lean into the group.

“Alright, I’ll tell you most of it,” Tim says. “Via, she said it was pretty much safe for now. But I don't want to risk anything, so no names.”

It takes some time to lay out his journey, and every time he reaches a vaguely exciting part, Catus has a thousand new questions that bring them back several steps. The sun gets brighter and hotter. The crowd swells. Noise bubbles up from the growing crowd as the noon performance begins, and at one point he sees a pale, shifting cloud of light in the distance, billowing over the rooftops, but it subsides soon enough. It makes him a little antsy, but it’s far too late to join the crowd now. He’ll just have to wait for the next show.

“So you’re saying,” Catus says slowly, sounding a little dazed, “that at the end of all that, some glowing lady kidnapped you, gave you a bunch of cryptic riddles, and dropped you off a dream-tower to die?”

“That about sums it up,” Tim says dryly, as he tilts his half-empty bottle back and forth, watching the froth sway behind the grimy glass. “What is this? It tastes like lard.”

“Lard Mead,” Brimmet says helpfully. “The woman in the sky. You think she is like Lady Lydia.”

Tim glances up uneasily. “Maybe. I don't have enough information. She mentioned that she had sisters and suitors, both plural. Most of what she said sounded like insane nonsense, but she’s smart. I could tell that much. Bored and smart and fed up with me in particular. I can’t really think of a worse combination.”

“Lustful,” Avrin adds, out of nowhere, as he frowns down at his cauliflower. “That would be worse.”

Catus wrinkles her nose, scandalized. “Who taught you that word?”

“Sisters and suitors,” Brimmet says, expertly ignoring her companions. “All powerful? How many?”

“I’m not sure,” Tim admits. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m pretty sure that there are three of each. Three sisters and three suitors.”

Lady Luna, Lady Lydia, and one other. An unknown factor, someone he has no hope of digging up on his own. Not without more data. It’s possible that Via will know more, that she’ll tell him everything after the Celestial Theatre. But it’s also possible that it’s simply another thing for him to discover some way down the line when the quest seems hopeless. It gnaws at him. The frustration, the lack of resources; all of it tugs and pulls. But he draws himself up straight. Letting it eat him up inside will do no good.

It takes him a moment to realise that the others are quiet. Gazes flicking to each other and finally averting. Tim narrows his eyes.

“You know something,” he says. “Tell me.”

“So bossy,” Catus says, flicking her hair over her shoulder, but her grin is a little strained. “What makes you think we know anythin’ useful? I know we look like a stack of smart cookies, but there ain’t really a lot going on up here, y’know?”

She raps on the top of Avrin’s head instead of her own. He sighs wearily, but accepts it.

“I told you I had to be careful,” Tim murmurs, meeting Catus’s eyes. “I told you to keep quiet. You didn't question it. She’s watching me. Do you know who I mean?”

Catus grows tense. In his head, Tim projects a slightly different question. Is she watching you too?

Slowly, Catus shakes her head. Then she sighs, tossing her braids aside.

“I didn't know who you meant, alright? Not at first. And I still dunno for sure. But there’s this story that someone I know used to tell me when I got too big for my boots, and I feel like it fits with that shiny picture in your head.”

"What story?"

Catus doesn't respond.

“Three sisters,” Brimmet says, contemplating. “You have met two. Three suitors. Have you met them?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I think you have,” Catus says. “They’re never far from each other. That’s what she…” She hesitates, and Tim desperately wants to shake her, to demand answers, but he bites it back. “There are plenty of stories, see. Not many about them though. Look, you don’t wanna use her name, and that’s sensible. We don’t really do sensible, but even I agree that it ain’t wise to piss off these Ladies. So let’s call them what they are, hm? Beings.”

“Beings,” Tim repeats. “You do know who I mean.”

“Beings of Immense Power,” Brimmet says. “Present at the beginning of all things.”

“I didn't think people knew about them,” he says. “Via made it seem like this world cared more about Gods than Beings.”

“Gods are important. Personal.” Brimmet touches the base of her throat, and a mark flares briefly against her deep skin. “We all have our ways of worship. It is different, depending on where in the world you are. Some people believe, and some people do not. But Beings are universal. Beings are unquestionable. To care for them would be… illogical.”

“Right,” Catus says. “You might thank a God for a nice load’a corn at the end of a rough harvest, but you don't walk around praising the air for letting you breathe it, d’you? We know about ‘em. Most people just don't… think about them. On purpose. And it’s one of those things that unless you’re thinking about them, you’re forgetting about them.”

“It’s a lot of pressure on the mind,” Avrin says. “Remaining constantly aware of our own creators can do terrible things to one’s blood pressure.”

“Especially when they’re trying to kill you,” Tim says.

Avrin tips his head in acknowledgement. A gentle rush of noise from afar draws Tim’s attention, and when he turns back, Brimmet and Avrin are exchanging troubled looks. He follows their gaze to find Catus staring off into the distance, her brow furrowed in uncharacteristic worry.

“Catus?” he says.

“Y’know, they say the sea turned gold here because of the last dragons.”

Tim takes in every inch of her thoughtful expression. “It did?”

“That’s the story. Dragons bleed gold, see? It’s why the treasure calls to them, and there used to be a vein of ore runnin’ under the seabed, back when it was still blue. They say the last colony of dragons felt the call and came soaring to have a look, and turned the sea into their lair. Built a nest deep down under the blue and filled it with shiny things. But then one day a bunch’a humans got involved, like they always do, seekin’ out the treasure for their own gain, and the dragons died. The sea bled gold in their honour.”

“That sounds…” Tim trails off, unwilling to admit that it sounds unbelievable.

“Like a load of sh*t?” she asks brightly, earning a soft snort from Brimmet. “Yeah, it is. Dragons don't die. You ever killed a dragon?”

“Not that I can recall,” Tim allows, tilting his head. “Is it not possible? In my world, there are plenty of stories about dragon-slayers. Most of it comes from myths and legends, but we have some… interesting companions.” He thinks of Beast Boy, and quirks a smile. “Meeting a dragon wouldn’t be much of a surprise at this point. I take it you don't have dragon-slayers here?”

“We do,” Avrin interrupts. “Dragon-slayers by name only. Most people know that it’s a lie though. You could theoretically kill a dragon, but you would have to find them first.”

Tim would have thought that dragons were easy to spot. He says as much, and Brimmet shakes her head, her dark eyes finding his and holding his gaze.

“Laying low. Hiding. Do not want trouble. And humans always bring trouble.”

“Always,” Catus says, half-laughing, a little bitter, and Tim abruptly remembers that she has dragon-blood running through her veins. “They don't like admittin’ it though. You won’t hear that story in the Celestial Theatre. Those snobs only like the old tales, the pretty gussied-up ones about magic water and falling stars. But that ain’t all there is. There are plenty of good stories out there if you know where to look. Real gritty ones. That’s why I thought I should tell ya’.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“That ain’t the right question.”

“Who told you that story?”

Catus grins. “She won’t like me saying her name.”

Tim inhales sharply. Then he grins, just as sharply. His mind races. The third sister. If he’s followed the thread of their conversation, then Catus knows her, or at least knew her.

“It’s done,” Avrin says, holding up the cauliflower and successfully breaking the tension. “Ready?”

Tim quirks an eyebrow. “I didn't realize it was an interactive experience. Does knitting usually require audience participation?”

“Only the really good stuff,” Catus says, bouncing on the wall. “C’mon then. Show us the magic.”

And magic it is, though it’s much quainter than any magic Tim has seen yet. Avrin taps once on top of the cauliflower, which looks a little more conical than before, and a hollow noise echoes out of it. Tim sits up a little straighter, the neck of his bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.

“That’s made of wool, isn’t it?”

“Hush!” Catus says, flapping a hand at him.

The cauliflower--and now that he’s paying attention, now that he’s looking at the places where the seams are beginning to split, he thinks it’s safe to say that it’s not a cauliflower at all--cracks. The wool peels apart. A soft, rose-coloured snout pokes out of the fabric, sniffing at the air.

Catus squeals. It’s entirely unexpected, coming from her, and yet not at all surprising.

“A dragon’s egg is innovative,” Brimmet murmurs, smiling gently. “Not one I have seen before. Well done, Avrin.”

Avrin blushes with pride, puffing his chest up. The dragon comes tumbling out of the egg properly, fashioned neatly from thick wool in all colours of red and pink. There is a splodge of bright, sunset yellow on its stomach, and as its wings open, catching it mid-fall, Tim sees that the edges are lined with pitch-black stitching.

“This is the strangest dream I’ve ever had,” Tim says, letting the wool dragon land on his palm and nose at his fingers. “And the softest, I think.”

“It is not a dream,” Brimmet says. “It is a performance.”

“Speaking of those,” Catus says, with a glance over her shoulder at the sunlit Kingdom, glittering gold. “Might wanna get down there if we want to make it to the next show.”

The Celestial Theatre congregates on the steps of the library. They've rolled out the red carpet for the occasion, except the plush fabric is black instead of crimson, and studded with millions of swirling stars. Tim stares, wide-eyed, from his place in the crowd. The galaxy must be visible from his own world.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Catus says. “Gods, what I wouldn’t give to steal that carpet. You could make a killing off’a rugs made out of that stuff.”

“That’s disrespectful.” Avrin makes an aggrieved noise, placing a protective hand over the front pocket of his robes. “We’d have to disband.”

“You know, I never took you for a knitting kind of guy,” Tim admits. “But seeing how strongly you feel about fabrics, and the size of that dragon’s egg, I can only respect you for it.”

Avrin brightens. The unnamed dragon snuffles lightly inside his pocket. Catus elbows Tim, presumably for being a suck-up, but she doesn’t know how to make dragon-filled cauliflowers out of wool, so she isn’t as intimidating as she used to be. That takes real skill.

“Quiet,” Brimmet says. “It is beginning.”

Beginning is not quite the word for it. Blooming fits better, Tim thinks. The theatre is blooming; the stars in the carpet rise like smoke in thin whorls of gold and silver light, a miasma of silent colour. It rises and rises, unfurling until the galaxy forms a dome over their heads, blanketing the grey sky in the deep, rich hues of space. Tim tips his head back, watching the magic unfold.

He keeps thinking he’s seen the last this world has to offer. Mountains that can heal with songs, towers in the sky, wolves that aren’t always wolves. It's mesmerising. But it seems like there’s always something a little deeper around the corner.

A performer descends the staircase, trailing robes of gold. It’s not the same Librarian that greeted Tim in the corridor earlier. Faint copper runes glint on their brown skin. There’s no veil over their face, and no circles in sight, but Tim shifts a little uncomfortably. His own tattoo still lies dormant on his wrist. He turns it inward and presses it against his shirt, folding his arms over his chest.

“Welcome to the Celestial Theatre,” says the performer, their voice echoing through the dome. “I am Pan, the leader of this troupe, and I come with a tale of old. Are you ready to sail through the stars?”

There is an odd, hushed murmur from the crowd. Catus puts her hands over her mouth like she’s prepared to cheer, but wilts with one warning look from Brimmet.

“QUIETLY COMES THE MORNING,” Pan says, in a deep, rich voice that shakes the crowd. “Those are the first words written in our ancient script. This script, entrusted to only the most dedicated Librarian, tells the entire and complete history of our world. But our creation was not always sturdy enough for parchment and ink. It was written, first and foremost, in the night sky.”

Pan sweeps their hand out in a wide arc, disturbing the dust-storms of starlight. Gold light fills the dome, taking the shape of spears and grazing antelope and fire and rushing waterfalls.

Gold fills the walls now, spears and grazing antelope and fire and rushing waterfalls.

“The pictures from the corridor,” Tim murmurs. But they aren’t pictures. He knew that when he first set foot in the corridor. They’ve always been stories. Stories of the stars.

The stories rush over them. Pan talks for what feels like hours, detailing the rich embroidery of the Gods. There are more than he expected. Dashing Gods made of chiselled iron, decked out in silver armour, wielding weapons carved from magma. Sweet, unassuming Gods who weave the seasons like a rich tapestry. Gods who like chess and Gods who paint the sky at dawn. Gods with sorrowful histories and surging victories, Gods with crowds made of teeth and wire, Gods who live in the hawthorn tree at the centre of the world and turn into long-necked herons when a wish is spoken beneath their branches. Gods of Harvest and Misery and All Things That Crawl. Gods that pretend not to be Gods. Gods that always come back to the hearth and the home.

It’s too much to take in. So much history, so much rich detail. It threatens to overwhelm him again, the way it did when he found the map of this strange, beautiful world. He stands for hours under the dome, listening and breathing, taking in the stories with a vicious sort of eagerness.

“But of course, not all tales are as heroic and blinding as those we have just told,” Pan says, hovering on the edge of a whisper. “Those were stories of starlit wonders and light. And where there is light, there is always shadow.”

Catus nudges Tim in the ribs, visibly excited. “This is the good stuff.”

“Once, there was a young God. His name was Duustrius.”

The name sends a shudder running through the crowd. Tim cannot help but shudder too, even though all he can think of is his friend’s kind, fire-lit face and warm hands lifting him to peer guiltlessly into his eyes. Dread fills him. But he listens, scanning the crowd for any overt reactions.

“When Gods are born, they burst free from their own dominion, forming from that which they create. Apalle surged from the ocean, spitting froth and foam, making waves in the world. Vonder’s skin cracked like ice, and so did the iceberg he rose from. And there was Elias, God of Metalsmiths and Noble Creation, who burned and melted like hot ore, bubbling out of the rich veins running through Aurumadis herself.”

Catus scoffs quietly under her breath.

“The God named Duustrius came writhing out of the dark, out of the space between stars, out of the hollow night, and that is how we knew he would be our doom.”

The gold light begins to fade. Slowly at first, stars popping out of existence one by one.

“He came tumbling forth out of the dark and made his way across the world, eating every sliver of light that crossed his path." Pan's voice takes on a vicious, haunted edge, sending prickles up Tim's spine. "Anything that shone was swallowed up by his presence. It is in the nature of the dark to shy away from the light. But it craves it too. Moonlight, sunlight, starlight. All of it fell victim to his ashen hands.”

More lights disappear, sucked into some invisible void. Tim fixes his eyes on one nearby star, determined to keep it in view, but it vanishes only seconds later.

“But the Gods were clever,” Pan says. “They heard the cries of our kind, the pleas for help as light fled this world, eaten up by his monstrous shadow, and they sought to help. Immastreus cleaved open the dirt and the soil and dug through the crust until they found a rich spot of darkness, so deeply ensconced that the light could never touch it. Veil, the Huntress, led Duustrius on a wild chase over the deadlands, luring him across the world with a ball of burning sunlight held aloft above her head. To this day, her hands are chapped and disfigured. But it worked. The Gods all played a part that day, and we can live in the light.”

Tim grits his teeth against his protest. This isn’t the same story that Duustrius told him. It burns not to be able to say something, not to shout and demand the truth. But he clamps his mouth shut and listens, growing more and more irate by the second.

“All the Gods have constellations,” Pan says, spreading their hands out in front of them, lines of silver leaping from their pores to form pictures. “Their constellations live in the sky, bright and sweet for us to gaze at, to draw comfort from. The God of the Dark lives beneath his constellation, carved into the ground and marked with dense rock. And there he must stay, if we are to survive.”

The last star gutters like a candle, before the darkness drowns it out.

The dome turns to smoke, dissipating and deepening at the same time. Thick, opaque darkness surrounds them, obscuring the shimmering starscape. Tim tenses, ready to run at the slightest hint of trouble, but the breath soars out of him as the darkness thickens even more, not even a spot of light left, not even the barest glimmer. He feels rooted to the spot. Floating in an endless swathe of shadow.

A desolate sort of fear blocks his throat. He can’t see the crowd. Can’t see his own hand stretched out in front of him. Panic rises like bile. He wants to call out, but what would be the point? There is nobody around to hear him.

“The end of the world,” Pan whispers, their voice echoing through the dark. “A lightless world. This is what awaits us if the God of the Dark rises, but does not die.”

The darkness seeps away, bleeding out of existence. Tim’s heart races; the stairs and the red carpet, the dazzled crowd and his friends, all of it seems unreal. Complete silence fills the air, a hush that seems impossible to break.

Until it breaks.

Someone claps. It’s small and disjointed at first, but soon it’s joined by others. Pan bows with a flourish, and applause fills the air, growing in volume until it’s nearly deafening. The performers on the side-lines sway and sag, their magic fading. People stand in mute confusion, blinking in the dying light of the day, before dispersing with soft murmurs of appreciation, already missing that spellbound feeling.

Tim stands precisely where he is. Still rooted to the spot. It’s almost funny, really, how lost he feels.

“Tim?” Avrin co*cks his head and pushes the heel of his palm near Tim’s forehead; a cool sensation sweeps across his skin, much like a wet washcloth. “No fever. No confusion. Are you well, Tim?”

“Sometimes these things can make you a bit jittery,” Catus says. “All the flashy lights and stars and stuff, I almost hurled the first time I saw it all wobbling about. Nothin’ like flying, but still makes your stomach roll around. Good though, right?”

“Good,” Tim says. “But not true.”

“Not true?” Brimmet tips her head in a silent question. “Which bit? The end?”

Tim’s stomach sinks. “Actually, I think the end might have been the only bit that was true.”

There’s no way the story of the brave, united gods and the light-eating monster was true. Duustrius said he was shamed and abandoned, driven away because of a prophecy that implied he might turn monstrous and evil, that he might bring about something awful. And that part, the part at the end where he was floundering in the dark; that felt like the truth, even if nothing else was.

“The end always takes me by surprise,” Catus says, rubbing her hands together. “Who’da thought those old guys in the musty robes could put together a show like that, huh? I always expect them to end it on a happy note, but they never do. Bold choice, eh? Gives people something to talk about, that's for sure. And gives me the creeps standing there in the dark like that.”

“It is unnerving,” Avrin says, reaching up to pat the wool dragon on the snout. “I knew you were there, but some part of me was so sure that I was alone.”

“Is that how he felt?” Tim murmurs.

“Who?” Catus glances around, heavy brows furrowing. “Who felt what?”

“Dusty,” Tim says. “Is that how he felt? Living in the dark like that?”

“You’re callin’ the God of the Dark Dusty?” Catus demands. “After the whole thing we just saw? All that, and you’re talkin’ about him like he’s your next door neighbour. I know you’re best buds and all, but you really have a death wish, don't’cha?”

“I know about seventeen vigilantes who’d agree with you,” Tim mutters.

“Oi, speak up if you’re insultin’ me! I like to hear it loud and clear so I know how hard to hit.”

Avrin grips her by the collar before she can charge him. “She’s just excitable. Shall we go back to your inn?”

The inn is hardly his, but at least it gives them something to do other than challenge Tim to a duel. It’s been a while since he properly sparred, and part of him wouldn’t mind a quick and dirty fight. But it’s not as if a brawl on the steps of a Library would be well-received, and he still feels weirdly empty inside, so he simply hangs back, watching Avrin drag Catus away, the wool dragon swaying on his shoulder.

“How did it feel?” Brimmet asks, startling him. Her gaze is solemn and searching. “In the dark. You asked how he felt, so you must have felt it too.”

“What? Oh.” Tim frowns, glancing up at the sky as though the stars might have returned, as though the darkness might be seeping back in. The sky is darker than he thought it would be already, later than it felt. They really must have been there for hours. “I don't know. For a moment it felt endless. For a moment I thought: this is all there is.”

“That is not a feeling.”

“I suppose not.” Tim’s lip quirks. “How did you feel?”

“The dark and I have history,” Brimmet says, beginning a slow walk after her friends. “No matter your beliefs about the aftermath of life, we all end up briefly in the dark in the end. I must go into it to bring the dead back out again. We have a kinship, almost. It does not frighten me. Not anymore. I felt comfortable, confident, and humbled. But that is me. Not you. How did you feel?”

Lonely.

The word leaves a sharp, sweet ache in his chest. He can’t bring himself to say it. But Brimmet makes a thoughtful sound as though she heard it anyway, and circles his wrist with her slim fingers all the way through town.

Via is waiting for him on the steps of the Inn. Girl stands in the shadow of the doorway behind her, her chin tipped up, her hands buried cautiously in Via’s fur. The moment Tim steps into view, she launches herself at him. Skipping the last few steps, she arcs through the air and slams into his chest, sending him staggering two steps back before he gets his balance. Only Brimmet’s hand on the small of his back keeps him from falling.

“That’s a pretty nice welcome,” he says, holding her close. “Did you sleep well?”

She shakes her head, not bothering to look up. Via snorts. She trots down the steps towards him, and he hears Catus take a step back.

“Travelling God,” Avrin says, inclining his head. “Tim told us about you. We’re sorry for keeping you waiting.”

Via pays him no mind. She fixes her fierce stare on Tim.

I told you to see the noon show, she says.

“I know,” he says, a hint of apology in his voice as he shuffles Girl around. “There was a complication. But I did see the show. I understand now, I think. About Dusty, and why you’re afraid of him. But I still don't agree, and I still don't know anything about our lofty friend.”

Via glances behind him at the others. Walk with me.

“What about Girl?” Tim asks.

“You call the brat Girl?” Catus asks, popping out from behind the others. She still skirts around Via warily, keeping a healthy distance between them. “That ain’t right, Tim. Everyone needs a name.”

Girl slides out of his arms reluctantly when prompted, gazing at them with suspicion.

“We’ll get to it,” Tim says. “She likes Girl for now, but we’ll get to it. Can you watch her for me for a while? Via wants to talk, but I don't want to leave her alone.”

“Us?” Catus glances at Girl just as warily as she looks at Via. “Uh, not sure that’s a good idea. Never liked brats much, really, and I don't think this one likes me back.”

“You’re not very likeable,” Avrin agrees. “Not at first.”

Catus elbows him, looking highly offended. Via nudges Girl on the way past, curling her tail briefly around Girl’s wrist. She brushes against Tim’s knee as she passes, heading down the street, away from the crowd.

“We shall watch the child,” Brimmet says. “Go. It is important.”

Girl clings to his sleeve, tightening her grip until her knuckles turn pale. Tim kneels down and meets her gaze, sweeping some of her fringe out of her eyes. He’s never been particularly good with kids; he still feels like a kid himself half the time, although he’s far too cynical and a little too ruthless to pass for anything other than a ninety-year-old. But it’s not his first time comforting a child.

It’s different when he’s Tim Drake, awkward and gangly, sleep-deprived and only suitably sociable when he’s wearing his rich-person mask. Robin taught him to compartmentalize, to tell jokes and offer grins and exude a bright, soothing sort of comfort. Red Robin made him even more efficient, a little brisk but still reassuring when it came to victims, gentle when it came to kids who shouldn’t have seen what they’d seen.

It’s different again now. He doesn’t really know who he is here, but the person who sweeps away Girl’s hair and offers her a warm smile doesn’t feel much like Tim Drake or Robin or Red Robin. It’s almost a mix, a meld of all three, and it’s almost something else entirely.

Don't be afraid to change, Lady Lydia said. It would be much easier not to be afraid if he knew what he was changing into.

“It’s alright,” Tim says. “We’ll be back soon.”

By morning, Via says from a distance.

“By morning,” Tim amends, and laughs at Girl’s disgruntled look. “These three aren’t so bad, I promise. Catus can read minds and breathe fire, and Brimmet might cook you something nice to eat if you want, and Avrin has a magic fluffy dragon in his pocket.”

Girl peers hesitantly over her shoulder, reluctantly intrigued. Avrin waves one of his big hands, and the dragon flits down to land on his fingers. Girl’s face softens with wonder.

“Via must trust them if she’s letting you stay here,” Tim adds. “You know how fussy she gets.”

A warning grumble flickers through his head, and he sends laughter back.

“I will make dessert,” Brimmet says, drumming her fingers on her backpack decisively. “Want some?”

That sways Girl, at last. She still watches from the doorway as Tim leaves, a tiny sliver of shadow under the great frame. He waves as he takes the path through the street, following Via’s presence in his head. It’s like following a thread. It takes a while before they reach the edge of Aurumadis, where the gold walls are moss-covered, wildflowers seeping through the cracks. A hill stretches up behind the wall, blanketed in dark trees. Beyond it, the ocean gleams gold even as the sky darkens all around them.

“Where are we going?” Tim asks.

Via unfurls from the treeline. A clearing in the trees, where we can see the sky. Nobody will hear us there.

“And then?”

And then I will tell you the stories that the Celestial Theatre did not see fit to share. Now, hurry. The blue moon is rising, Via says, leading him to the edge of the forest. We do not have much time.

Chapter 16: Sisters and Suitors

Chapter Text

It takes a long time to walk through the woods. When they finally emerge in a small clearing at the top of the cliff, overlooking the gold sea, night has fallen fast. Via sits on the edge of the cliff, and Tim settles on the cold grass opposite her. She looks like a statue, like something unearthed from a ruin, protective and mystical. Her eyes shine like blue starlight; behind her, the moon rises just as blue.

“This makes no astrological sense,” Tim mutters.

“A blue moon rises once a week for one month a year, and no more. During that time, the eyes of the Beings are clouded, and those with grief against them can speak freely.”

“Your moon shouldn’t be full yet, not so close to the last one. And blue moons don't happen that close together. They’re not even that blue usually.”

Via’s statue-esque stance crumbles, and she sighs. Are you going to keep interrupting?

“Maybe.” Tim sits back a little, propped up on the heels of his palms, and grins when she growls. “Alright, I’ll save the questions for after.”

I highly doubt that. Nevertheless, this is the safest time to tell you everything you need to know. Before the Gods, there were Beings. Beings of Immense Power. Six of them, to be precise. The first three Beings were sisters, and the second three Beings were brothers. Fate intended for them to be together.

“Sisters and suitors,” Tim says, no longer grinning.

Sisters and suitors, Via agrees, though she sounds tired. They were made for each other, but it was not to last. Satisfied that their harmony was pre-written, they failed to take into account individual wishes. The suitors became thoughtless. The sisters grew restless. They drew apart from each other, and spread out across the stars to create whatever they wished.

“Like entire worlds.” Tim traces the dull circle on his wrist. “But Lady Luna didn't seem like she enjoyed what she was doing. She sounded bored, if anything. And Lady Lydia, she wasn’t even… I knew she wasn’t quite human, but I didn't know she helped create this place. They aren’t what I’d expect from Beings of Immense Power.”

I am not privy to what happened between them. But there was a change. A splintering, we should call it. Their ideas were always in balance before, but the sisters soon found themselves at odds. I don't know about the suitors. But they must have felt something similar, or they would never have come looking for the sisters here.

“And they found them?”

They found each other. But what happened after is for the eyes of the above only.

“But they did find each other. And something did happen.” Tim frowns, staring intently at the ground. “It doesn’t make sense. Six Beings of Immense Power, and I’ve met two of the sisters, but no suitors? Why not? Why any of them, if they’re so immensely powerful? I’m really not that exciting.”

The prophecy.

Tim shakes his head and gets to his feet, beginning to pace. “No, that doesn’t make sense. I get that Luna’s fascination with me stems from the prophecy. If she and Lydia were the ones that wrote it, then maybe it makes sense that I stumbled across Lydia too. But the prophecy didn't bring me here, did it? And why no suitors? The mere existence of a prophecy in another universe doesn’t mean I’d somehow end up on this world by chance. It’s too much of a coincidence. Something had to make it this way. It has to be connected.”

What made it this way, Tim?

There is a certain knowing depth to her tone. Tim stops pacing and blinks at her. The pieces click into place, and he wants to throw something. He wants to throttle himself.

“You know, I told myself I was going to start being smart again when I was in the Mountain Man’s home,” Tim says. “But I think that was a lost cause from the beginning, wasn’t it?”

Via laughs softly. It’s a very welcome sound. Tim sits down heavily on the grass and sighs, shaking his head at his own idiocy.

“Brothers in one world; an old door divides them,” he murmurs. “The portals. Those are doors, aren’t they? And six Beings, three of them brothers. The guy who sent me through was one of the suitors, wasn’t he?”

I suspect so.

“I never found out his name. His monologue had pretty much everything except the vital information.”

I believe, through the process of elimination, that his name is Byron.

“Byron?” Tim clicks his tongue, committing it to memory. “Huh. I preferred Dave.”

Tim, he is not to be trifled with. None of them are. Even Lydia is… formidable when she wants to be. It is not my place to tell you who to trust. But I wish you would be careful.

“I’m always careful. What did you mean by process of elimination?”

There are some things I am not permitted to say, even to you. I have already broken many rules simply by growing so attached. I am the Goddess of Travellers, and it is my job to Guide the lost. It is not my job to save your life, or spare your suffering, or spill this world’s secrets.

Here, Via hesitates.

But I will say this: the mist hides many things.

That piece falls into place with no more than a whispering sigh. Tim closes his eyes briefly. He knew there was something about the Mountain Man that hurt to look at too closely, something ethereal and painful. Every part of him shimmered with loss, with grief and confusion. It makes so much sense that it doesn’t even take him by surprise, and that’s without knowing the full story.

“He’s in hiding,” Tim says. “I’m glad. I don't know why I’m glad, but I am. If you can’t tell me everything, is there someone who can?”

Yes. I told you that I would take you to the Dragon in the sky, did I not?

“You did,” Tim says, thinking back to the grey dragon etched on the map in Lady Luna’s study. “That reminds me. What would a Being want with a map? There was one in the Library, but when I went back to look for my staff, it was gone.”

Via co*cks her head. I do not know. We can find another, and see. There are Great Halls further North that might have what we seek. You still need to study the Language of Openings, and that is best done under the guidance of those who know what they are doing, don't you agree?

It’s not as if Tim forgot that he’s trying to get home. It’s impossible to forget such a thing when it’s the only thing he wants, the only thing driving him forward. But it’s easy to get caught up in the mystery, the allure of this strange world. And it’s hard to ignore it when it keeps chasing him, when it seems desperate to tie him up in complicated knots and make him a part of this world’s history.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Tim says. “Go North, grab a few books and a map, find out how to steal a staff back, and then go home. Piece of cake.”

If your plan involves a heist against a Being of Immense Power, there will not be enough blue moons in the universe to keep you safe.

“Calm down, I won’t do anything rash. Tell me more about them. Unless they’re going to smite us down for speaking?”

It is not as simple as that. I told you, they cannot directly influence the inhabitants of this world without crushing it. And they have too much at stake for that to happen. Lady Luna overlooks everything. She has taken a position in the sky that allows her to see all, to watch and wait.

Tim glances up at the sky. The blue moon is a slim curve, a beckoning finger of glittering amusem*nt.

“The blue moon,” Tim says. “Why didn't you tell me about it before?”

It is more personal than a bedtime story. I was born on a blue moon. I have history with it.

Tim dips his head apologetically. “You said we didn't have much time.”

It is why I wanted you to see the noon show, so that we might have more time.

“I’m sorry.” Regret trickles through him. “They had questions for me, and answers too. Catus will be pleased to know she was right. She reckoned I must have met one of the suitors, and apparently I did. I think she knows where the other sister is, but she didn't want to tell me. If this moon rises as often as you say it does, then we have time to get an answer out of her. I don't think she’d refuse to answer on purpose.”

You sound fond of her. Fond of all of them.

“They don't hold a candle to you, Via.”

Via huffs, but she settles her paws in a pleased manner.

Enough time wasting. We must come up with a plan. Until the suitors and sisters are wed, as Fate demands, their power is not as immense as it could be. It is Fate’s way of intervening. A limit on their limitless abilities. But once they are joined, their power joins too.

“They get even stronger?” Tim demands, leaning forward. “How?”

I do not know. Your magic lives inside you like a second soul, functional but vulnerable. Their magic is contained in a vessel, kept outside their body. Nobody knows what the vessel looks like, or what form it takes. I only know that they have one each, and that, once broken, they are impossible to repair.

“A vessel.” Blue meets blue as their gazes connect. “Do you think it could be—?”

An almighty crash cuts him off mid-sentence.

“Oi!”

Catus comes sprinting out of the trees, wild and windswept. A pair of skinny arms are wrapped around her neck, Girl clinging to her back for dear life. Tim leaps to his feet and throws himself forward, catching her as she vaults off Catus’s back. More crashing and snarling echoes out of the woods. Tim backs up, shielding Girl with his body while Via snarls, her hackles rising.

“What happened?” he demands.

Catus bends at the waist, planting her hands on her knees. “We were keepin’ an eye on the little one and these things just burst out of the bloody dark. Wild f*ckin’ things. Like shadows with teeth.”

“Shadows?” Tim asks, dreading the answer.

Girl quakes in his arms. Her pupils are blown wide, fixed on him but unseeing. She feels so frail, like she might splinter at the slightest movement. But there’s a wiry strength in her grip as Tim manoeuvres her to rest on his back, arms wrapped around his shoulders, clinging to his jacket.

“We need to get out of here,” he says.

Were you followed?

Catus jerks a little, meeting Via’s intense stare. “Er. Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Via, can you use the Oath?”

Via shakes her head. Not without leaving Girl behind.

“That’s not an option,” Tim says, steel bleeding into his tone. “Catus, where are the others?”

“Brimmet and Avrin are holdin’ the monsters off. Down the hill, where the trees start. I don't know how long they can keep it goin’ though, so you two better get outta here.”

“Via, do you remember that shield you showed me?”

It will not do anything against an attack, she says, but he’s already crouching, one knee pressed to the soft earth, white magic pooling in his hands. It’s been a little while since he used it, since he opened all the little doors in his soul and unlocked sheer, vibrant potential. It feels like taking a breath after a long, dark stint in a cave.

Cool light fills the darkening forest. It blends with the gaze of the blue moon, casting a little dome over them, enclosing the two of them in a shield of light. Girl slips off his back and crouches beside him, mirroring his pose. She’s still shaking, but with the magic surrounding her, she seems a little braver. He has a brief image of Damian kneeling beside Dick, both of them staring out across the rooftops of Gotham, silent protectors in the dark.

The trees rustle and shake as though something is trying to uproot them. The darkness thickens in the undergrowth.

“If these creatures are shadows, they won’t like the light,” Tim explains quickly. “It’s not a fire, but it’s going to have to do. I need you to stay inside this shield, okay? Don't come out. If something happens… Wait until morning if you have to, and then run.”

Tim! I can sense them.

He surges to his feet, but an icy touch to his wrist stills him. Girl blinks at the forest, rigid and afraid. Her mouth moves, but no words come out. He casts a desperate look behind him at the trees, Via’s form outlined starkly, and then kneels.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Tim says, catching her eye. He pries her cold fingers away from his wrist one by one, gently, and then squeezes her hand as though they have all the time in the world. “You’re going to be my Robin, okay?”

She tilts her head. A question.

“Robin is someone brave, someone who stands in the light. That’s all you have to do, okay? Stay here, in the light. Be brave. I’ll do the rest.”

“Oi, what’re we?” Catus yells. “Chopped liver?”

The moment is broken. Tim squeezes her hand one last time and steps out of the shield, shivering as it passes over him. The shield is rooted, the magic working deep into the earth. It stays firm even as he crosses the clearing, coming to stand beside Via.

Do you see them?

Inside the forest, creatures of ash stir and shift, soaring towards them.

I see them, he says. “Catus, you can breathe fire, can’t you?”

“Couldn’t risk it with the little one hangin’ onto me.” Smoke pours through her teeth, bared in a brutal grin. “Let’s light these bastards up.”

Avrin comes bursting out of the dark, clutching Brimmet to his side. Her arm is limp, weeping blood, and her eyes are half-closed, her mouth slack. But she’s breathing. Catus makes a guttural, wounded noise and surges forward, gathering both of them to her and dragging them out of range.

“We could not hold them off,” Avrin gasps. “Where is the Girl?”

“Behind the light,” Tim calls. “Hold the line!”

They close rank around Girl, forming a misshapen curve around the shield of light, just as shadowy, bat-like creatures streak towards them. Eyes glint like dying embers. Tim doesn’t have much of a weapon, but that doesn’t stop him from snatching the one that flies at his face by the wings. The skin is delicate, wispy. It comes apart in his fingers, but it does nothing for the teeth snapping at his face, the claws that threaten to rip his skin.

It’s chaos. The creatures are bigger than he remembers, their faces warped with rage. They swarm the group, batted back by hands and knives and shivering plumes of light. Tim’s magic flares like fire without the heat, bright and blinding, pulsing in his hands. The shadows veer away from him, their shrill noises of displeasure grinding against his eardrums. But they come right back again.

“I need something to hit them with,” Tim mutters.

“Catch!” Avrin shouts.

Tim brings his hand up to catch the thin end of a heavy tree branch, ducking another swipe of curved claws. The tree branch barely leaves a dent in the shadow, but red light from his left sends them both reeling. A wave of searing heat washes over the clearing. He turns to see Catus standing in front of Brimmet’s limp form. Fire spews from her mouth, sending the creatures careening backwards, shrieking and hissing.

The flames catch quickly.

Use the fire! Via snarls, as she sinks her teeth into another shadow.

Tim swipes the tree branch through the fire, holding it there long enough to catch. The shadows bites and claws at his forearm, held aloft over his face to keep it safe. He bites back a curse and swings with the branch, streaming fire in his wake.

The shadow lets out a wounded cry and retreats. Tim’s training comes back to him in an instant. It’s hard to land a hit on the shadows, but it’s not impossible. He ducks and weaves and slices through their intangible wings with fire, gritting his teeth when his fingers start to burn. Everything aches, and the blood running down his wrist from the slices to his forearm makes it hard to hold the branch when he swaps hand, but he keeps at it.

“We can’t keep holdin’ them back like this!” Catus roars. “Any ideas?”

Via slams another shadow into the ground, ripping at it with her teeth. The fire is starting to spread, although Catus seems to have some shaky control over where it goes, and when it dissipates. None of the trees are alight just yet, but the grass is scorched to high heaven, and the air is thick with smoke.

Not just thick. Dark with smoke. The fire is a boon, but the smoke is only making it easier for them.

“We need more light,” Tim says, backing up a few steps. Avrin falls into step beside him, green light curling off him like waves. It’s healing magic; it smells like mint and moss, but it’s the light that really matters. Tim’s own light is silvery and white, but weak. “As much as you can.”

“What are you going to do?”

Tim feels like he might fall down, actually, but he’s sure Avrin doesn’t want to hear that. “Dig deep, I guess.”

Dig deep he does. It’s not the same without his staff, or even the sword—and God knows when he lost that, but it’s definitely gone—but his magic still swirls inside his soul. It feels cold to the touch when he brings it to the tips of his fingers. Last time he used it like this, in the caves where the Aj’Vin lived, he had sigils and a sword and anger working its way through his system. But there’s no white wall to lean on, no black light to draw from. Only the moon, bluer than blue.

A hand tugs at his sleeve. Tim whips his head around and stutters on his next breath, meeting Girl’s beetle-black eyes. She tugs him back before he can say anything, pulling him with impressive strength towards the shield.

“I can’t hide with you,” he says frantically, as light pours off him like smoke, gritty and weak. “You shouldn’t be out of the shield. It’s alright, go back inside, I—!”

Tim cuts himself off. Girl points, in case he didn't already see. All around the rim of the shield, etched harshly into the soft earth, are sigils. Messy, clever sigils that send a spark of hope through him.

She has seen Sigils on the walls, written in black light, at the far end of the Tombs of Trachcalite.

“Oh, you’re brilliant,” Tim breathes.

She scrambles back inside the shield and hunkers down. From behind him, he hears a vicious snarl and a squeak as Via tears a shadow to shreds. It’s so close that he can feel the back of his hair ripple.

I have your back, she says, panting harshly even in his mind. Do as you must.

It’s hard to work with the chaos all around him—the noise and the violent flashing of light, the acrid stench of smoke, born from dragon-fire; all of it unites to give Tim a fierce headache pounding behind his eyes. But he digs his fingers into the dirt anyway, drawing on the wealth of power hiding in the soil. The sigils gleam. Something crashes against the back of his neck and slides away again, wet and gauzy, a bloodied wing.

“Ready?” Tim asks, a little breathless. “Close your eyes. With any luck, this is going to be bright.”

Via makes a hurt, wounded sound, and Tim finds himself snarling in her place, turning with his teeth bared. His soul shifts. Black light pours out of the sigils and into the air, mixing with the light of the blue moon, the burned umber of firelight.

It isn’t quick and violent like it was in the tombs. The sea of shadows parts, creatures swerving and collapsing like singed paper. The black light sweeps outwards in a wave; it isn’t the darkness of a mountain’s stomach or the velvet thickness of night: it is something deeper and darker but brighter too, burning like fire in the pit of space. It turns ghostly white at the edges and eats holes in the creature's wings, like spots of acid.

The last of the power bubbles up uncontrollably, eking out of the ground in a burst of light and air. Tim cries out, thrown back a few feet. He skids to a stop, breathing harshly; he hears Catus yell, more fire screaming from her mouth, and a brief burst of mint green puts him at ease. It’ll be fine. He turns to wrap his arms around Girl, and she meets him halfway, pulling him under the dome.

It blinks out. Tim curls over her and weathers the storm.

The last of the shrieks fade, and the silence creeps in. The creatures are gone, nothing but faint wisps of smoke that dissipate in the moonlight. A few are still vanishing on the ground, still melting into nothingness. Tim lets go of Girl slowly, gazing around the clearing.

The trees around the edge of the clearing are all blown back. Some of them have snapped cleanly in half, and the rest are leaning heavily on their friends, still sizzling. The grass is dead, scorched to a crisp. The moon casts an eerie glow on everything, painting everything in a deathly pale light.

“f*ckin’ Gods,” Catus says weakly, tipping her head back with a harsh sigh. “Avrin, c’mere. Brimmet needs your help.”

Avrin hurries over, his singed cloaks swirling around his ankles. He kneels beside Brimmet, who lies half-propped up on some of their bags. Her eyes are at half-mast and her breathing is shallow, but she looks calm. As a faint, mint green light pours from Avrin’s careful hands, the tightness around her eyes eases.

“Rest a moment,” Avrin says. “Everyone rest a moment.”

Tim doesn’t think he could walk if he tried. He sinks back to the ground, landing shakily on one knee. The sigils are still dark and swirling, flickering with leftover energy. Girl skirts around the edge of them warily.

“I think they’re flickering because I didn't technically open anything,” Tim says, wincing at the exhaustion in his tone. “I just needed the light. I didn't expect that much power.”

He didn't expect that much destruction. Untamed, wild destruction. The power felt almost delighted as it left his fingers, as it ripped clean from his soul. He thought he’d pass out, or at least feel exhausted, and he does, but it’s nothing like the bone-deep tiredness that hit him after the first time he healed Girl, back in the Temples.

The dome of light is gone, but Girl still sticks within the boundaries, eyeing him intently.

“It’s alright,” he says, as she creeps closer. “Everything’s fine. You’re not hurt, are you?”

She shakes her head. Her eyes cut to somewhere behind Tim; he tenses, preparing to spring, but then the soft sound of footsteps shifting in the dirt gives way to Via’s familiar presence.

You are unharmed? Via asks.

Girl nods. Tim turns and examines Via carefully, taking in the mussed fur and the way she favours one leg. His heart aches, and he reaches out a hand. It’s easy, like breathing. The tendons knit together under his hand. He skims his hand over fresh cuts and watches, vaguely awed, as they fade, turning to faint bruises. There’s nothing to be done about the clumps of fur or the drying blood, but Via butts her nose against his chin gratefully anyway. When she steps back, there’s a warning in her eyes.

Careful, Tim.

Tim flexes his hands experimentally. It feels good, but he understands where Via’s coming from.

“No more magic tonight,” he says. “I’ll save all my theatrical, life-saving feats for the morning.”

Across the clearing, Catus snorts. “Glad to hear it. The rest of us are fine, thanks for asking.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tim says back, sincerely, meeting her gaze head on. She turns away after a beat, shaking her head, but he’s fairly certain she’s not actually angry.

You were very brave. Foolish, but brave.

Via isn’t talking to him, he realizes. Girl starts to stand, her knees shaking, and Tim hurries to help her. He can hear murmuring behind him as the others band together, heading right for them. Catus hisses in protest as Avrin presumably prods one of her wounds.

“She’s right,” he says, bending down to meet Girl’s eyes. “I wish you didn't need to do it, but you saved all our lives tonight. Thank you, Girl. You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

She insists that she isn’t, mouth moving soundlessly, but Tim is less sure. Now that the adrenaline is starting to fade, now that the battle is over and all that’s left is the clean-up, everything starts to catch up to him. But the aftermath has always been hard for Tim to ignore; he ends up thinking and thinking, mind swirling with ideas and criticism, plans to stop this from happening in the future. It always took Bruce’s giant, gentle hand on his shoulder to stop him in his tracks, or Dick’s well-meaning nagging to usher him into bed.

“We still need to get somewhere safe and have you looked over,” Tim says, shaking off the burst of longing. “Smoke inhalation isn’t a joke. After that, we can figure out what those things are and how to avoid them in the future.”

Tim, those were…

“I know,” he snaps, cutting her off. “I know what they were. I’m just trying to make a plan.”

The shadows were unmistakably Duustrius’s shadows. The same dark creatures that scratched and tore at his skin when he first went down into the caves. The same shadows that hated the fire in his hands, but came tearing back in again to bite at his skin. His mind races as he lifts Girl into his arms, glancing up at the blue moon. She’s light and silent, still trembling slightly.

“I still don't believe it,” he says.

You cannot be serious, Via snarls, digging her claws into the dirt. Your judgement is flawed. Biased!

“Maybe,” Tim says, hitching Girl a little higher and sweeping the hair out of her eyes. “Maybe I’m wrong, and maybe it’ll bite me in the ass, and maybe I’m just clinging to this out of hope that someone in this world doesn’t f*cking have it out for me. But I’ve seen what cruel Gods look like.” He thinks of the tower in the sky and the way she smiled so serenely before the world broke apart and he was falling, breaking, dying. “Dusty isn’t like that.”

You only knew him for three days.

“That was long enough,” Tim says firmly. “Long enough to know that he was my friend. Long enough to know that he didn't have many friends in the first place. It wasn’t his fault, either. He was lonely and kept in the dark just because of the way he was born.”

“Ain’t he the God of the dark?” Catus says, slurring a little, and when he turns to look at her, she’s leaning heavily against Avrin. “That’s how he likes it, yeah?”

“You can find the dark everywhere. You can find it everywhere!” Tim shouts, startling them all into stillness. “You can find it outside, in the open air, in castles and mountains and libraries and under the f*cking bed! I find it funny that he never left that place, that he was all alone in the ground where they put him just because of something he might do. I find it funny that even the God of Travellers and Guide to those that are lost never found the time to visit someone all alone in the damn dark.”

Via sinks back on her haunches, stunned. Her teeth, exposed in a snarl, vanish as she dips her head, guilt clouding her eyes. Wolves are proud. They know little of regret or shame, but Via’s hesitant bow might as well have been a bared throat.

Girl’s fingers wrap around his wrist tightly. She’s not shaking anymore, and she raises her head, meeting his gaze head on. Some of the anger drains out of him, leaving him hollow and still jittery. There is something in her gaze that soothes him.

“Sorry,” he says, throat raw. “I didn't mean to shout. I’m normally more level-headed than this, I swear.”

She shakes her head, just once. Then she tucks her head under his chin, hiding from the world.

We must be careful, Via says. No matter how much you might be speaking the truth, no matter if you have a point. We still have to be careful.

“Careful is boring,” Catus says. “But considerin’ I feel like I drank my weight in Lard Mead and got tossed around by a dragon the next mornin’, I’m gonna agree with Little Miss God over there.”

Via snarls again, low and warning. Catus grins, a smoke ring billowing from her mouth. She seems to have lost her wariness, though that might be the latent blood loss talking.

“Enough,” Brimmet says, speaking for the first time in a while. “Enough. We are injured. The light is here. We shall retreat, rest, recuperate. And decide what to do in the morning. The little one needs to rest.”

All of them glance at each other, before resigning themselves to the exhaustion passing through them. Tim rests his spare hand on Girl’s back, holding her close. His arms are already aching, but he carries her forward anyway. Catus clambers onto Avrin’s back, and Brimmet walks unsteadily beside him. The three of them lead the way through the trees, Via shadowing them from behind, keeping an eye on their backs.

They don't bother with an Inn. It’s too far to walk back, but they leave the ruined clearing behind and make camp on the edge of the woods, at least an hour’s walk away. Catus lights a fire with the last of her sparks before slumping to the ground, and Brimmet lures a rabbit out of the bushes. Avrin tends to all their wounds. He makes Tim sit down on the grass and passes his hands over each scratch, each throbbing bruise. They don't fade. Not immediately. But the aches lessen, and he breathes a little easier without the crushing weight on his ribs. He hadn’t realized how much he was hurting until he sat down and took stock.

“You took many hits,” Avrin says. “Your arm will be stiff for a while, but there is no lasting damage. Be more careful next time, just in case I’m not around to heal your pains.”

“Eat,” Brimmet says, passing him a bowl of hot stew.

Catus snores, sprawled in the damp grass, her fiery hair spread out all around her. Somehow it feels like a reassurance anyway, like a friendly pat on the back. Tim hides a smile and lifts his bowl, watching as Brimmet runs a wooden comb through Girl’s tangled hair and urges her to eat.

The blue moon watches over them until morning.

“There are two more blue moons, aren’t there?” Tim asks as it begins to sink, stoking the fire. “Two more chances to talk without them listening.”

Via nods. Across the fire, lounging on the soft grass with Girl curled up at her side, she looks strangely regal. There is a certain tiredness in her eyes, a faint distance. But it doesn’t seem like it’s meant for Tim specifically, so he leaves it be.

“Look, I know you’re still mad,” Tim starts, aware of two sets of ears listening in. “I’m not going to be stupid about this. I won’t ignore the facts. I’ll stay vigilant. I’ll fight back and I’ll protect our own. But I won’t blindly believe the easiest thing.”

“They were his shadows, weren’t they?” Avrin muses aloud.

“They were,” Tim admits. “I’ve come into contact with them before. They were his shadows, and I’m not going to ignore that. But I still don't know enough about this world, and I find it hard to believe that something couldn’t be controlling Dusty. You’re telling me there’s not the slightest chance that it isn’t Duustrius?”

Via breaks eye contact, staring into the fire instead. I do not agree with you, but it is strange that he did not show himself. Night is when he is at his strongest, and if nothing else, I thought he would reveal himself to you. As you have said many times, you were his friend.

“There is much that can control others,” Brimmet says. “I can. Watch.”

She raises her hand and curls it in the air. It isn’t a particularly complicated motion, but her fingers veer sharply away from each other, splaying abnormally wide in the air. It stretches out too far, further than natural.

A rabbit comes stumbling out of the undergrowth. Its eyes are wide and pure white. It moves swiftly, easily, as though dragged by a string, guided by a hand. It stops only an inch from Brimmet’s knee. She pats it gently between the ears, smoothing the soft fur. There’s a cream patch circling the rabbit’s eye, and her ears are long, laying low to her head.

“See?” Brimmet says. “It would be just as easy to keep it away. Off with you, now.”

She nudges the rabbit carefully. It flits off into the woods, barely flinching as Via twitches in its direction.

Impressive. But the God of the Dark is not a sweet little creature. It would take immense power to keep Duustrius at bay and still use his shadows. I find it unlikely that he is being controlled.

“But we didn't see him, so it’s not impossible,” Tim insists, tossing the charred stick aside. “Look, you don't have to believe me. You can keep thinking I’m an idiot if you like. Even if something else is at work, I’m not going to let anything happen to Girl. But the moment I start to believe that it’s him, we’ve lost.”

Via glances up, and her expression clears. The prophecy. You think you can defy it?

“It’s self-fulfilling.” Tim shrugs. “It’s worth a shot.”

If anyone can do it, it is you. Believe in your friend. I will be vigilant for you, Tim.

Relief is heady, and almost sends him reeling. He sends her a smile that’s a little weaker than he’d like.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he says.

Via huffs. That is what family does, is it not?

Family. It stops him in his tracks. He hears the rustle of clothing as Avrin and Brimmet turn away, busying themselves with their own things. Family. He’s already got a family, and they’re waiting for him back home. No matter how much he worries about being forgotten and shunted aside, no matter how much he half-heartedly believes that they didn't even bother to look for him, he knows they’re his family.

But they’re not his only family, and it stings.

He stutters on his next breath. Via meets his eyes, and they are kind but knowing, tinged with regret. He wants to feel warm and loved, but ice creeps in. And her eyes prove that she can feel it, that she knows exactly why it’s there, why he wants her to take the words back desperately. She gets up from where she’s lying and trots around the fire, silent and watchful, until she’s close enough to touch.

I will miss you when you go home, Tim.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words falling out of him in desperation. “It’s not that I don't feel it. But I can’t feel it. Getting home is already turning out to be impossible, and I just don't want to make it any harder. It’s not because it’s not true.”

As I said. Via nudges his cheek with her nose and backs away around the fire, curling protectively around Girl and closing her eyes. I will miss you when you go home.

Chapter 17: Under The Wing

Chapter Text

Waking up is like swallowing sand. It feels pointless and gritty and entirely not worth whatever outcome awaits. Tim doesn’t particularly want to do it, but it doesn’t seem like he has much of a choice.

“You shouldn’t wake an insomniac,” Tim mutters, refusing to open his eyes despite the tremors running through him. “It’s bad luck.”

It is not. Do not listen to him.

“It’s bad luck when I’m the insomniac.” Tim cracks open one eye to find Girl kneeling beside him, cautiously shaking his arm. “But I’ll let it slide for you.”

Nice of you to finally join us.

Tim sits up, cracking his jaw on a yawn, and meets Via’s unimpressed look across the dwindling fire. “Did I miss anything important?”

No.

“Then stop complaining.”

Via huffs, rolling her eyes. Girl pokes his thigh, and he smiles at her, ruffling her hair. She looks well-rested, though the shadows under her eyes are still there. Her hair is no longer a wild snarl; Brimmet’s braid holds true even after a night of sleeping on tough soil.

The camp looks different in the daylight. Not that it was altogether that impressive in the night, but now it’s clear to see that they all look a little worse for wear. Catus has commandeered an entire blanket for herself, a thickly-woven one that bears the mark of Avrin’s handiwork. Avrin has the rose-coloured dragon in his lap, tending to a loose thread, and he waves when Tim looks over.

“Where’s Brimmet?” Tim asks.

“She left about two hours ago to get the rest of our stuff from the Inn,” Catus says. “Pretty sure half of it’s gonna be stolen by now, but it’s worth a shot. She said she’d pick up some rations too, so we don't have to eat each other.”

“You’re staying?”

Catus and Avrin share a glance. She sits up, and he puts down his knitting. Girl shuffles a little closer to Avrin and puts out her hand for the dragon to sit on; it nests there with a soft chirp.

“Guess that’s up to you guys,” Catus admits, shrugging. “You got a plan?”

Tim snorts softly. “As much as it pains me to say, no, I don't have a plan. I need my staff back if I want to learn the language of closings, whatever that looks like. But I’m pretty sure that’s going to be impossible for now, considering I’d probably have to steal it out of a dream or something.”

“I didn't understand most of that,” Catus says cheerfully. “If you want something stolen, though, we’re your guys.”

It’s a thought that has crossed his mind, if Tim is honest. But it’s not a particularly practical one when he’s missing so much information about this world. He’s beginning to think that studying is the only thing that will get him home at this rate. Tim grimaces at the mere thought. He loves research, loves the black hole that sucks him in whenever he finds a particularly gritty thread and follows it home. But studying? Not his thing. There’s a reason Jason despises him; it’s not actually because of his terrible attitude towards learning in general, but Tim likes to play pretend.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says. “Need a destination first.”

“Well, the bottom line is, we ain’t got anywhere to be right now, so if you fancy having us along with you, that’s fine with us. A bunch of heads are better than none.”

“And knives,” Avrin adds, patting his pockets. “A bunch of knives are definitely better than none. Catus has a lot of them.”

“Oi, don't give away my secrets.”

“It’s not a secret,” Tim says. “There’s a holster on your sock, of all places.”

“No better place to keep a knife, if you ask me. And since we’re asking me, I think you should let us come along.”

A quiet rustle from the bushes draws their attention. Tim reaches deep for the magic in his soul, but it answers immediately, flowing up to his palm. It swirls there, a dizzying grey coil of light.

Via gets to her feet and stretches languidly. Fools. You think I would let danger this close without blinking?

Brimmet steps out of the thorns, blinking into view between one moment and the next. There are bags strung from every available limb. She takes in their wary stances and tips her head in greeting.

“Good morning,” she says. “I brought bread.”

“Saints,” Avrin murmurs, hands still fluttering in the air. “I’m glad it’s you, Brimmet.”

“Make some noise next time,” Catus snaps, sprawling back on her blanket. Her head snaps back up in the next second, eyes wide with glee. “Oi, did you say bread?”

“Yes,” Brimmet says, withdrawing a paper-wrapped parcel from one of the bags. “No jam though.”

She deals out their belongings, and drops a sheathed knife into Tim’s lap on her way to stoke the fire. It’s not his sword, but the weight of a weapon settles something in him. The bread is thick and warm, and slices beautifully. Tim eats his way through a handful of tomatoes and half a loaf, making sure that Girl actually eats something instead of just picking at it.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you, Catus,” Tim says, catching her eye. “You implied you might know someone who could help us. Help me. Someone we can’t talk about right now.”

Catus looks up at him, cheeks bulging with breakfast. He can tell that she’s probing the edges of his mind, catching wisps of their conversation on the rooftop. She grunts, helping herself to another slice.

“Mm. But it depends how far North you wanna go. I ain’t kidding when I say that it’s a long trek, and you’re not gonna get a warm welcome. She doesn’t like bein’ disturbed.”

“We were headed North anyway, weren’t we?” Tim asks, glancing at Via, who nods gracefully. “We go North. To the Temples and Tombs, to the Palace of Old, and the Great Dragon in the Sky.”

Catus snorts, and mutters something that sounds an awful lot like, “She ain’t that great.”

Brimmet clears her throat and offers her some tomatoes. Catus looks at them begrudgingly before shrugging, stuffing them in her mouth.

“What Catus means is that she knows the dragon you’re talking about,” Avrin says helpfully, as he picks at his own food. “She might help you, or she might not. Either way, it would be a good idea to drop in. It’s more North-West than true North though.”

“Wait.” Tim holds up both hands, momentarily stumped. “The dragon Via talked about and the Being we talked about. Are they the same thing?”

No, Via says, before anyone can respond. The Great Dragon in the Sky is a colossal stone statue in Northern Appallia. It is held in the highest respect, and still worshipped by the people that live in its domain. They believe that the Great Dragon is the bridge between worlds, and that it ferries lost souls across the gap between life and death.

“Like Charon,” Tim muses. “And why do we need to go there?”

Everyone I guide comes with a path. It is not always clear why, but I know it is important to stick to it. The only way I may remain by your side is if we follow the path. Those are my terms, as a Goddess. I have had my fair share of travellers who abandoned my instructions and struck out on their own, and I was no longer permitted to guide them. If you wish to go elsewhere, you may. But I may not be able to go with you.

“I don't have any intention of striking out on my own,” Tim says. The idea of willfully walking away from Via makes him feel sick, even though he knows that’s what he’s going to have to do in the end. “Maybe I would have done it alone back home, but it wouldn’t be sensible here.”

“You can just say you’d miss us,” Catus says. “It’s not hard.”

In any case, the two are not the same, Via says, cutting over Tim’s response smoothly. The path you need to follow leads North, but the prophecy dictates that you will go West. I do not find it a coincidence that both directions bare reference to a dragon, do you?

“But you’re saying they’re not the same. So what’s the connection? What does it mean?”

We will not know until we get there.

Tim glares at her, but there’s no heat to it. He snags a flask of water when Brimmet offers it and hands it over to Girl absent-mindedly, before turning back to Catus and waving at her to continue.

“Thought I couldn’t talk about it?” Catus complains, though she sighs soon after, giving in immediately. “She’s roughly dragon-shaped, and that’s all I’m gonna tell you. I told you ‘bout Auramadis and the Gold Sea, right? Well, there’s stories like that everywhere. Dragons used to be all over the place, but like I said, they got good at hiding. You won’t be able to find her on your own.”

“And like I said, it’s a little North-West.” Avrin looks concerned. “Will that cause problems?”

Tim turns to Via. “Does that stray too far from your path?”

Via snorts. I only told you that so you would understand why I don't have more information to give. As long as the destination remains the same, I can forgive a few detours. It has hardly been smooth-sailing up until now. Her voice softens. It is up to you. But remember the prophecy.

“West to the Dragon, asleep in the sky,” Tim repeats dutifully, sighing. “All these directions are going to give me a headache. I wish I’d taken the damn map off the wall.”

“Don't we all,” Brimmet says soothingly. “Have some more bread.”

Tim takes it distractedly. “Thanks. I don't like not having a plan, but I’m not going to know which is the right choice until we get there, am I? I still have to learn this other language to open the portal, but I can’t open the portal until I’ve got my staff back, and dealing with the prophecy will likely speed that along.”

“Still not got a clue what you’re talkin’ about,” Catus says.

If that is your choice, Via says, dipping her head. As I said, there are Great Halls in Northern Appallia, but those can wait too if you’re intent on dealing with the Beings and the Prophecy first.

“Well, it doesn’t look like this world wants to let me have a nice, peaceful trip home just yet, and I’d rather take care of the problem than keep skirting around it.” He brushes the crumbs off his hands. “I have a feeling the problems are going to keep coming for me if I don't deal with them.”

“And by problems, you mean—?” Catus cuts herself off, pointing vigorously up at the sky. “Oh Lofty One, right?”

“That’s right,” Tim says, mouth twitching. “Maybe don't use that title if you ever run into that particular problem.”

“Heh, don't see why I shouldn’t. And speaking of terrible titles, I still think we should give the brat a name,” Catus says, eyeing Girl thoughtfully across the meagre remains of her breakfast, soon to be snapped up. “Somethin’ cool, I’m thinkin’. Fiery. That way nobody will mess with you.”

Girl looks owlish under the sudden attention, the rose-coloured dragon perched on her shoulder. But then she shakes her head firmly.

“Seriously?” Catus scrunches up her face. “You really like being called Girl?”

Girl hesitates. Tim stares in mild surprise as she shakes her head again, a little more uncertainly this time.

“You don't?” Tim asks, glancing at Via, whose serene gaze betrays nothing. “We were going to brainstorm names for you anyway, so now is as good a time as any. Got anything in mind?”

Tim half-expected her to shake her head again at the question, but she nods vigorously instead. She drags her fingers through the dirt, sketching something. It’s rough and jagged, but it takes shape eventually.

“What’s that? Some kind of bird?” Catus twists her whole neck around in a way that must be uncomfortable, trying to get a good look at it. “We can call you Bird if you want, but that ain’t much better than Girl.”

She shakes her head again, frustrated this time. One tiny finger points at the sketch, and then right at Tim’s chest.

“Oh, you definitely do not want to be called Tim,” Avrin says.

“Hey,” Tim says, frowning. “What’s wrong with Timothy?”

“Timothy?” Catus looks delighted.

Girl pokes him in the chest this time, making contact. Then she points at the bird again. While they’re all staring, she cups both hands over the top of the bird, hiding it from view.

“I think she means that Tim has already given her a name,” Brimmet says softly.

Those cupped hands, the dome on top of the bird. The previous night comes to life in his mind.

“Oh,” Tim says, with dawning realization. “Robin.”

It feels right. She nods once, pulling her hands away to reveal the clumsy bird. He swallows. Bruce was always the one to collect Robins, but they collected each other too. Every time one of them was lost or hurt or tossed aside, someone was there to pick up the thread, to gather them up and bring them back into the fold. Under the wing.

Any objections? Via asks, taking the time to look each of them in the eye.

Catus averts her gaze, grumbling. “It’s not fiery, but I guess it’s pretty cool.”

“Robins are good creatures,” Brimmet says, smiling. “You made a good choice.”

“I could make a robin out of wool, I think,” Avrin says, already reaching for his bag.

Via’s gaze lands on his, and Tim finds it hard to breathe suddenly. The prophecy slides through his mind like ice. When the bird flies the nest… He had assumed that he was the bird, that he was the Robin the prophecy referred to. If he hands over the title, then what else is he handing over? What other weight lands on Girl’s shoulders if he gives her that name?

But it feels right. And it’s already done.

“Robin is someone brave, someone who stands in the light,” Tim says, ruffling her hair lightly. “So I’d say it’s been your name for a while.”

That’s what I thought, Via says smugly.

Robin looks up at him, and her smile is warm and bright.

Chapter 18: Assist

Chapter Text

The road to Northern Appallia is long and narrow, and winds through a dozen tiny villages. It isn’t one single road, but the bits that break off and form other paths are ignored in favour of heading roughly in a straight line.

There’s so much to see. Travelling through the mountains was different; all Tim really saw for days was snow and rock and an endless stretch of thin, needle-like trees, all frosted to perfection. But this is another reminder of how wildly big this world is. The grass is soft and long no matter where they tread, blending into long pools of green speckled with wildflowers, and small hills are glazed with houses, with children running barefoot, pulling kites behind them. They come across wishing wells surrounded by people and carts pulled by silver-maned horses.

There are no deadlands out here. No caverns with air hot enough to crack the skin on his lips. The further they get from Aurumadis and its glittering sea, the safer he feels. He didn't realise how tense he was the entire time until suddenly he can relax. The moon’s gaze is less pointed out here. Wild beasts roam and graze, but he doesn’t have to fight anything. All he really has to do is walk.

And entertain Girl.

Robin.

It’s hard to get used to. There’s no getting around it; he keeps slipping up and calling her Girl, the hard curl of a G falling off his tongue before Via huffs sharply in his head. It’s not that he can’t see her as Robin. The name suits her well. But Robin means something to him, and it’s rare that he calls out Robin’s name back home. Maybe in debriefing, or when they’re talking about the little demon behind his paranoid back, but not to chat or teach him how to play cat's cradle.

“It’s easy,” Tim says, holding out a length of yarn, stolen from Avrin’s bag. “I used to do it all the time in school.”

High school, because Tim was relatively sh*t when it came to studying, and he barely paid attention to anything from his very first day of attendance to the day when he finally dropped out for good.

There are more important things to learn than your string game.

Tim ignores the disapproving voice in his head and shifts Robin’s hand a little to the left. The yarn loops around three of her fingers. She frowns in concentration, trying to make a little church. Tim isn’t sure if she’s ever seen a church, but it’s much more likely than the Eiffel Tower, so he’s sticking with church.

“Do you guys have Churches?” Tim calls.

They commandeered a cart on the outskirts of Aurumadis, near the border, where gold became green. And by commandeered, Tim means that they knocked two Guards out and made a bid for freedom, leaving everything behind except for the horse and cart. Supplies would have helped, but he didn't want to give them an excuse to chase after them. He’s had enough of running for a little while.

“Places of worship are not entirely uncommon,” Brimmet says, from her place near the back of the cart. “But Churches are something old. Most do not worship there. There is a ruined one in Gosmeal, I believe.”

“Why go to a hollow building when there are Gods just strollin’ along beside you?” Catus says, from where she’s lounging in the back of the cart, slumped on their supplies. A bottle dangles from her fingertips, and her smile is vaguely insolent; Via huffs, but doesn’t dignify it with a response. “Dragons don't worship anythin’ really, except the sky.”

“And wine,” Avrin calls, from the front of the cart, where he’s been relegated to driver after the horse tried to eat Catus.

“And wine!” Catus calls back, holding up her bottle with a cheer.

“Ignore her, Robin,” Tim says. “Alcohol makes you slow.”

“We ain’t in a rush, are we?”

“I would like to make it home at some point,” Tim deadpans, adjusting his grip on the yarn. “Learning an entire language from scratch is going to take time.”

Robin tugs on his sleeve, showing her lopsided Church with an aura of distrust, as though she doesn’t believe she’s really made anything. Fair enough, really. But Tim flashes her a quick smile anyway. Then he scoops Robin up and sits her on the back of the cart. Her tiny legs dangle like toothpicks over the side, and she looks a little confused at first, but settles quickly. The rose-coloured dragon flutters over the roof of the cart and lands on her shoulder, tucked under her chin.

Does she need anything? Tim asks Via, casting his mind a few feet back, to where a mist of deep blue and violet is busy laughing at him. Food or water?

Robin is fine, Tim. Just walk.

“This language of yours,” Brimmet says, falling back to stroll alongside him. “What is it called?”

“All the Niv’ja said was that it was called the language of openings,” Tim explains, looping another finger through his own yarn. “The Ash language closes the portal, and the language of openings… well, you get the idea.”

“Seems odd,” Brimmet says. “Why no name of its own?”

“Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue,” Catus adds.

“I don't know why it doesn’t have a name,” Tim admits. “I don't know anything about it, except that it’s the only way to open the portals. Waiting for them to form naturally takes too long, and jumping through the nearest one involves too many risks, so this is my best bet.”

“How do you learn it?” Brimmet asks. “Did you learn the Language of Ash? You told us of the Aj’Vin, but do you recall the words? You know how to speak it?”

“I know how to write it,” Tim says, frowning. “A bit of it, anyway. There were sigils on the walls inside the Tombs of Trachalite. I assume they were letters, words in the Ash Language. I don't know what they said. But they can be copied and repeated and used. Gi—Robin remembered them. It’s what I used to get rid of the shadows the other night.”

“But you do not know what they mean,” Brimmet muses. “Or how to truly utilize it.”

Tim shakes his head. That’s going to be a problem. But he was focusing on finding and unlocking both languages first, getting them imprinted on his staff.

“This staff of yours,” Brimmet says. “Does it retain the language? What is its purpose?”

“Yeah, been meaning to touch on that,” Catus says. “I’m happy to steal a fancy staff if that’s what it comes down to, but we’ll need information. What’s it do? Why’d the Lady take it?”

“I don't think it retains the language,” Tim says, thinking hard. “Baron was the one who told me to seek out Duustrius, and Duustrius offered to make me the staff. It was supposed to be a tool, a way to channel any magic I might come across. I didn't expect the sigils to move to the staff.”

“Do you truly need it?” Brimmet asks. “You channelled it fine on your own.”

Tim flexes his hand. He managed to channel the black light of the language the other night, chasing away Duustrius’s shadows. Maybe he doesn’t need the staff. But he sure as hell wants it. He doesn’t know how to explain why, but it begins and ends with the wild, almost violent way the magic ripped through him, like it was making space as it went, tearing him apart and leaving room for itself.

“Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see. I still think it’s important, but either way, we’re headed North-West first, aren’t we?”

Catus grunts, settling back down amongst the sacks with a disgruntled expression. Robin shifts to look over her shoulder, her dark braid swinging gently with the motion of the cart. The rose-coloured dragon, by some unspoken agreement, floats over to rest on Catus’s head, ignoring every attempt to swat it away. Robin’s mouth curls up into a faint smile, and Tim pretends that it doesn’t warm his chest.

“One other thing,” Brimmet murmurs, catching his attention. “You say it will take a while to learn these languages, but you speak our language.”

“I cheated on that, though.” Tim see-saws a hand in the air, shrugging. “I bought a bunch of spells from some scroll-masters near that cliff, where I came through. It doesn’t work for every language. I couldn’t understand half the Guards or Librarians in Aurumadis. But I can speak whatever you’re speaking.”

“Barely,” Catus snorts, ducking another gentle wing to the face.

Brimmet hums, amused. “That explains your accent.”

Tim opens his mouth to protest when the cart rolls to a sudden stop. Robin jerks, nearly tumbling off the edge, but she catches herself right at the last moment. Catus drops her bottle and curses, and the rose-coloured dragon drifts upward, catching a faint breeze.

“What was that?” Tim frowns, glancing behind at Via, who’s gone completely still. The sight of her narrowed eyes sets him on edge. “Via?”

Catus staggers upright to yell at Avrin over the roof. But before she can, Avrin’s head appears over the roof too, startling her into silence. He looks considerably unnerved, and a little embarrassed.

“What is it?” Tim asks, reaching for the knife laid into his belt. “What’s wrong?”

“There was somebody on the road,” Avrin says. “Just standing there. I didn't see them arrive, and they vanished as soon as the cart stopped. I thought maybe it was just me, but the horse seems spooked too.”

All of them share glances, uncertain. Tim slides his knife out and aims a warning look at Robin, who shuffles back into the cart without needing to be told.

“You said they vanished?” Tim asks. “Just like that?”

Avrin peers at him, and nods. “Yes. Almost like they faded from view, but quickly.”

Tim rounds the cart with Brimmet at his side. Catus grumbles at being left behind, but they don't go far. Just far enough to see the road stretching ahead of them, a pale track cleaving a way through the fields and hills. The horse wickers and shuffles its hooves, stirring up dirt. Brimmet moves to smooth a hand over the horse’s flank, uttering soothing words. For a necromancer, she certainly has a very mothering presence.

Tim scouts around, but there are no tracks, no imprints in the path. A few figures bob about in the distance, heading in the same direction as them, but they’re so far away that it’s impossible to pick out any features. He checks with Avrin just in case, but Avrin shakes his head.

“I spotted them about a mile ago,” he says. “This was someone different. I couldn’t make out their face. It was like they were wearing a grey cloak, or a hood.”

“Like?” Brimmet repeats.

Tim co*cks his head. It’s a little odd, in his opinion.

“If it was a grey cloak, you would have just said that’s what they were wearing,” he says, still scanning the ground for some buried secret. “It must have been something else.”

“I might have imagined it,” Avrin says, after a beat. “We’ve been walking for a while. Driving takes a lot of concentration.”

“We’ll rest soon,” Brimmet assures him.

“Yeah, we will,” Tim says, sheathing his knife. “But for the record, I don't think you imagined it.”

The figure doesn’t make another appearance, but Tim feels on edge, as though something is watching him. He can tell the others are a little unnerved too. They stop to make camp at a small copse of trees, just a little ways inward of the path.

“There’s a town in a few miles, I think,” Catus says, as she tears into her meal with relish. “We can stock up on food and see if they’ve got any maps, since you were so keen on gettin’ one of your own.”

Tim doesn’t believe he’ll find what he needs on any old map, but he still nods along. He’s eager and impatient to make his way North-West, but it wouldn’t hurt to stop. He slides his eyes sideways, to where Robin is sitting cross-legged on the rough blanket beside him, listening intently as Avrin walks her through a simple stitch.

What are you thinking? Via asks, as she pads closer to him, a rabbit caught in her mouth.

Tim pays her no mind as she sets it down a few inches away from his knee. It’s hardly the worst thing he’s seen. Instead, he taps his fingers against the knife laid out in front of him.

“Belongings,” Tim says back, quietly, so as not to disturb the others. “Robin doesn’t have any. I don't want to carry more than we need, but she should have some things of her own. Clean clothes, if nothing else.”

He’s trying not to think of what will happen to her when he leaves. Baron was his first option, but now that seems like an unlikely choice. His throat stings when he thinks about it; there’s something there, something about Brickholm and everything that happened while he was under the Mountain's care, some sort of secret that he isn’t privy to. He hasn’t had a chance to really grieve Baron, if he’s truly dead. It also hasn’t escaped his mind that Baron might have something to do with it all; he’d been awfully knowledgeable about the gods and portals, and he was the one who sent Tim to Duustrius in the first place.

It occurs to him that he could ask Via. She knows more than she lets on. She knew about Byron, and the similarity between names hasn’t escaped him either. But is that enough? An almost-name and a faint feeling? He refused to believe that Duustrius was at fault, so is it wrong to suspect his other friend of something similar?

No matter what, he can’t ask Via. He meets her eyes and he can tell that she knows what he’s thinking. But her words come back to him: I have already broken many rules simply by growing so attached.

She will be fine, Via says. I will make sure of it. But clean clothes are a sensible suggestion.

The underlying insult that he’s not usually sensible grates on him; he shoots her a glare and she settles smugly beside him, tail coiled over his leg while she tucks into her own meal.

The next morning dawns bright and early. Avrin insists on driving again, patting the horse on the neck and taking his seat before any of them can object. Robin is too restless to sit in the back of the cart, and she seems tired of the cat's cradle, so Tim indulges her with stories about his world.

It’s not exactly easy to talk about his family. But it doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.

“I think you’d like Cass,” Tim says, as they keep an easy pace with the cart, ignoring Catus and Via’s squabbling. “She’s brilliant. You remind me of her. She’s quiet, but she knows how to make every word count. Actually, she’s the reason I learned sign language.”

Robin tugs on his sleeve, and Tim realizes that she probably doesn’t know what that is. He’s not fluent, exactly, but he knows enough to teach her a few things. They stumble through the signs for [help] and [good] and [why?] and he finger-spells the alphabet for her, although he’s not sure how helpful that is, considering he only knows American Sign Language. That’s definitely not what people use over here.

He teaches her how to say Robin though, a sideways beak motion near her nose and mouth. She repeats it over and over, fluttering her hands with purpose. Tim grins. He’s not really filled the big brother position before; Cass always took care of him, and Damian would rather have bitten his face off than ask Tim for assistance with anything, let alone let him ruffle his hair or play video games together. It doesn’t exactly feel like a sibling relationship, and he wants to steer well-clear of whatever weird parental role Dick was forced to take on.

It’s safe to say that he’s floundering a little. He wants to take care of Robin, but he doesn’t want to leave her dependent on him. He’s going home, after all. He’s going to leave her behind. So he kinda needs to make sure that she’ll be okay after he’s gone, and that means he needs to draw on his wealth of knowledge regarding the Care and Feeding of Robins.

Bruce is the most obvious option to mimic. Tim doesn’t think it’s big-headed to say that out of all of them, he and Bruce are the most alike. It’s not always a good thing, of course. But right now, with Bruce’s less-than-stellar mentorship experiences playing on a loop in the back of Tim’s brain, he thinks he can use it. Like a blueprint. He won’t be cruel or dismissive. He won’t cut Robin down or put her in dangerous situations. There is a reason Tim always looked up to Bruce, and that’s because he was brilliant and formidable and exactly what the city needed. The reason he looked up to Bruce was that he cared enough to do something.

If Tim can instil some of that care into a tiny kid with a horrible past and a pretty unstable present, then he’ll have done a good job of passing on Robin after all, the way he always wanted to.

Tim might be pretty sh*t at studying, and he might have dropped out of school at the earliest opportunity, but he thinks that, actually, he’d make a pretty good teacher.

There’s a soldier standing underneath the gate into the town. Their armour is a little shoddy, but their sword is sharp. They eye the approaching cart with wariness, and Tim knows there’s going to be trouble when Catus sinks down in the back of the cart, eyes wide.

“Ah, f*ck,” she says, flinching when Via lets out a warning growl. “sh*t, sorry, no swearing in front of the little bird. But we’ve got a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Tim asks, as the cart eases to a stop a few feet from the town.

“A wanted poster kind of problem,” Catus admits, rubbing the back of her head. “We might have made a bit of a mess in this town. Like a drunken, debauched kinda mess that involved a lot of stolen goods and maybe a few broken noses. Might want to move along to the next town. Although actually, come to think of it, we might run into the same problem there.”

How often will we run into this problem? Via asks dryly. Or is this the sort of problem that runs after us?

“Either way, we need to decide what to do now, before the guard starts getting suspicious,” Tim says, tapping his thigh. “I hate to say it, but it might be best to split up. Via, Robin and I can pick up what we need in town, and you guys can set up camp nearby.”

“I like that plan,” Avrin says, briefly appearing over the roof of the cart. “It’s an excellent plan.”

“Laying low it is,” Catus says, still hunkered down amongst the bags and blankets. “How will you find us afterwards?”

Via gives one long, pointed sniff to the air. The look in her eyes would be enough to make any scholar feel stupid. Tim snorts, picking Robin up off the cart and setting her lightly on her feet just as it begins to move away from the town, led by Avrin’s urgent whispers.

“Be safe,” Brimmet says, resting her hand briefly on Tim’s shoulder. “We will wait in the hills.”

“Very, very deep in the hills,” Catus adds, waving without a shred of shame as the cart rumbles back onto the road. “Try not to get into too much trouble without us!”

At least, Via says, as they watch the cart get further away, it will be quieter.

“I have missed being able to hear myself think,” Tim says agreeably. “Shall we?”

The guard eyes them suspiciously as they approach the gate, barking something about papers. It only takes one huff from Via before he backs down, a little paler than before, although Tim doesn’t think he’s imagining the little signal he makes to another guard, a few feet inside the town.

“We should watch our backs here,” Tim murmurs. “Keep close, Robin.”

Robin keeps close. She looks briefly drawn to a few children sitting on the front steps of a wooden house, throwing dice into the grass and cheering. But as much as Tim wants to let her play and explore, there are things they need to take care of first.

And something tells him to be wary here. There’s a prickle at the back of his neck, a tell-tale sign of being watched.

“Are we being followed?” Tim murmurs.

Via dips her head once, snout brushing the ground, before striding ahead. Her tail curls through the air like a whip. Tim takes Robin’s tiny hand in his and sets a quick pace, following Via through the town.

There is one ramshackle shop nestled between a cluster of houses. Tim picks up a thin cloak that looks a little long for Robin, but will do in a pinch, and skims the scant selection of books with interest. There’s nothing that jumps out at him; a few texts about plants and herbs, some leather-bound volumes about poultices and rivers, and one sheaf of sheets clipped together to resemble a hymn-book. Robin doesn’t look remotely interested.

Not a single map, Via says, stalking back to where he’s peering at the shelves. A market comes to town each Sunday to sell wares, but it is not worth waiting that long. We’ll have better luck in Appallia.

Tim concedes the point with a nod and pays for the cloak, wrapping it around Robin’s shoulders. The moment they step outside, he catches sight of three tall men dressed in run-down armour, conversing in a cluster on the opposite doorstep. Via meets his eyes and jerks her head, leading him into the alleyway. They wait until the three soldiers have ducked inside the shop, spears rattling at their sides, before slinking away.

“I’m not in the mood to fight,” Tim mutters. “Let’s see if we can get out of here without someone trying to stab us.”

Agreed.

But although the town is small, there’s a heavy-enough military presence. Every corner reveals a slip of silver chainmail, the click of boots or the sharp, slick sound of swords unsheathing. Fuming, Via eventually leads them into a lively-looking tavern, away from the swarms.

It’s like something out of a fairy-tale, albeit a slightly more grisly tale than the prettied-up princess ones. A haze of smoke lingers in the air, and a purple fire crackles in a grate despite the warm enough weather. Mumbles and cheers and faint complaints mingle together, a noise that can’t be ignored, a cacophonous sound that brings cheer to mind. It doesn’t die down, exactly, at the sight of a wolf in the doorway, but a few people go pale, and others study their drinks intensely.

A prickling feeling slides over the back of Tim’s neck. He stops scanning the tavern incredulously and starts scanning it with purpose instead, searching for someone who’s already looking at him.

We need a way out, Via says, distracting him from his quest. Ask at the bar for directions, a way out that the guards might not know about. With any luck, these soldiers are not from these parts, and they will lend a hand. I want to get out of this town as quickly as possible.

“Aren’t you the guide to the lost?” Tim murmurs. “Shouldn’t you know your way around every town?”

Via flicks her tail once. Tim sighs, and guides Robin through the crowd towards the bar. She’s a little rigid around the shoulders, unused to so much noise, but she doesn’t fight him on it. Her gaze drags over everything, sharp and bewildered all at once.

“Excuse me,” he calls, when he reaches the bar, catching the attention of a wary-looking barman. “I was wondering if you could help us.”

The barman has a full ginger beard and eyes like copper pennies. He scrubs a glass with slow movements, another rag slung over his shoulder.

“We don't want trouble,” the barman says. “We’ve had enough of that lately.”

“And the last thing I want is to cause you any trouble,” Tim says smoothly, holding up one hand peaceably. “That’s why we were wondering if you knew of a way out of town. Something less… obvious than the main gates.”

The barman quirks one eyebrow, nodding thoughtfully. “Might do. But I only give out secrets to paying customers.”

The prickling feeling spreads over the back of Tim’s neck.

“We can’t afford to stay put for long,” Tim says.

“Don't really care.” The barman shrugs. “Can you afford a drink?”

Tim can afford a drink, but he almost considers throwing a punch instead. It’s with great effort that he forks over a handful of coins, and gets directed to a dirty table in the back, away from the fire and noise.

“I’ll bring you a way out when I bring you the drink.”

Tim makes an impatient noise. “Look, keep the money and the beer, and just tell me how to get out before those guards come looking. You can hardly call that a bad deal, right?”

He’s not sure why he feels so impatient. It’s not necessarily a feeling of fear, but rather a feeling of being looked at. He scans the tavern again while the barman scratches his beard and deliberates, and this time, his gaze catches on someone over by the wide fireplace. The crackling flames send shivers of light over the hooded figure, casting spindly shadows on the stone wall.

“Alright,” the barman concedes. “I’m only tellin’ you once, though, so listen close.”

Tim makes a mental map as the barman reels off a list of instructions, mentioning a loose gap in the stone wall at the very top of town. It’s a magic veneer, a place where shady dealers can slip in and out seamlessly, bringing stolen goods to the underbelly of the weekly market. He’s so focused that he doesn’t quite notice the moment Robin’s hand slips out of his; he does notice the moment that Via growls, long and loud and full of rage.

Everyone notices.

Tim whips around, reaching for the dagger. The tavern is completely still, not an ounce of movement in sight. Robin is near a table covered in cards, holding one with a frightened expression; the man holding her wrist balks as Via comes stalking out of the crowd, teeth bared.

“I wasn’t doing nuffink! She came over here and snatched up one of me’ cards, what was I s’posed to do?” The man staggers off the seat, backing up frantically. Robin’s wrist falls out of his grip and she tucks it to her chest, still clutching the card. “Oi, oi! Keep your pet on a leash!”

Tim snorts, and leans back against the bar. “I’d like to meet the man who could keep a God as a pet, just so I can tell him what an ass he is.”

The man’s face goes pale, his ruddy, drunken complexion fading. Via throws herself forward, springing through the air with a violent howl, and Tim jerks upright because he didn't actually expect her to pounce. The tavern tips forward into chaos as screams rip through the air, panic fueling them further.

The barman swears and reaches for his own weapon, leaping into the fray. Tim ducks under a flailing arm; half the customers are scrambling towards the door, trying to flee and punching anyone that gets in the way, and the other half are launching chairs and drawing back fists, hurling abuse and tankards. He ducks again, making a mad dash for the middle of the tavern, where he last saw Via.

Robin isn’t there. The tables are upturned, and two men are brawling in the middle, screaming something about stolen money and cheating. Cards litter the floor. Tim jabs the first man in the liver and swings himself up the other one’s body, using his thighs to take him down. He goes rolling off the groaning man, straight into a crowd of stampeding feet.

“Via!” Tim yells, snatching his hands away from the sticky floor before someone can step on them. “Via, where the hell are you?”

Outside, Via says, voice leaking through his adrenaline-fueled head. I did not hurt that man. There were guards about to enter. We needed a distraction, and he provided one.

Do you have Robin? Tim thinks desperately.

I have her. We will meet you at the stone wall.

The relief that hits him is short-lived as something smashes in the distance. He curses Via silently, in his head, where she can no-doubt hear it. The door to the tavern rattles, great shouts coming through the windows; sure enough, there are guards out there, trying desperately to come in. There’s a large table blocking the way, and a woman beating her fists against a cowering man in the way of the table.

Something grabs him by the collar and hauls him up off the ground. Tim twists his torso in mid-air, prepared to slam his knuckles into the stranger’s windpipe, only to stop when he hears the sound of grass breaking on the floor. He peers first at the darkness of the hood; it’s definitely the stranger he saw before, the one leaning against the fireplace, although there’s something about him that sets Tim on edge. He doesn’t look strong enough, with that willowy figure, to hold Tim up like he’s fashioned from air and feathers, but he does.

The stranger sets him down gently, and Tim blinks down at the ground. A heavy tankard sits in pieces where he was just crouching, oozing froth and amber liquid on the floorboards.

“You would have been hit,” the man says.

“Oh,” Tim says, a bit bewildered. “Thanks, I think.”

A blow catches them both off-guard, sending the man reeling. Tim finds himself sucking in a gasp as the hood comes down, revealing a strikingly handsome face and a somewhat baffled expression, as though the idea of someone landing a hit is unthinkable.

The man is quite a bit taller than Tim, and slim to match. A great voluminous cloak billows around his body like smoke, faintly translucent in places. His jaw is sharp enough to cut, and his skin is quite dark but cool-toned. His hair falls in the faintest, elegant waves to the middle of his face, the colour of soot. Everything about him is dark but worn, almost, like moths have eaten away at his colour.

Tim has the sudden, surprising thought that he knows this man. But then a chair hits him in the back of the head, and he goes stumbling forward, cursing, as the thought falls out of his mind. He comes back swinging, bringing a broken chair leg with him, and sends the assailant crashing into the fireplace, narrowly avoiding the flames.

It only takes a few more hits and punches before Tim resigns himself to losing this fight. Not that he couldn’t take them out, given enough time, but there doesn’t seem to be much point anymore. The whole tavern is in uproar, people throwing drinks and hollering, tackling each other into furniture. They’re fighting to fight.

“It is best to retreat,” says the man, barely sounding out of breath.

“You got that right,” Tim says, as he ducks a clumsy, drunken swing. “There’s a back door, c’mon.”

They weave through the crowd, and Tim lifts the latch just as the clatter of armour reaches his ears; guards and soldiers burst through the front door right as they slip out of the back door, shutting it behind them. Tim drags a barrel over from nearby and plants it right in front of the door. Might not do much in the long run, but it makes him feel better about running away.

I’m on my way, he thinks vaguely in Via’s direction, although no response comes.

“You wouldn’t happen to know the quickest way to a big stone wall, would you?” Tim asks the stranger.

The stranger pauses, and shakes his head.

Tim sighs. “That’s what I thought.”

The stone wall technically runs all the way around town. Tim retraces the mental map the barman drew him, and turns left the moment one becomes available. It’s a lot of slim alleyways and muddy paths, ducking in between a few passing villages, all of them drawn to the noise happening in the tavern.

The man follows him. He’s quick and quiet, and so much taller than Tim, looming behind him like a silent shadow. The strange thing is that it doesn’t fill Tim with fear, but he recognises the pulse of anxiety at the back of his throat, the prickle on the back of his neck.

Somehow, this man is the one that’s been watching them since they stepped into town. Maybe even before that.

Tim waits until they’re almost at the end of the map before he skids to a halt, kicking up mud. The man makes a quiet noise of surprise, but cuts himself off abruptly when Tim swings around to face him, levelling the dagger at his throat. It’s a long dagger, as far as they go, with a vaguely curved tip. He’s not entirely confident that he knows how to use it, or that he’d even have the strength to use it in a deadly sort of way, but stranger things have happened. Especially in this world. He lets a little of his magic flicker along the blade, sending up puffs of white light, and narrows his gaze as the man draws up short.

“Who are you?” Tim asks. “Why did you help me? Not that I’m not grateful for the assist, but not if it means you want something out of me.”

“I do not want anything out of you,” the man says, shifting a little. His hands are limp at his sides, and his dark eyes mist over with confusion. “Do you not…?”

“Tell me who you are,” Tim says, when the man trails off without finishing. There’s a funny feeling in his gut, like anticipation, but stronger.

And there it is again, as the man’s face falls into something crestfallen and upset: Tim knows this man. He’s sure of it. He just doesn’t know how or why or who it is.

“Oh,” says the man. “Oh, I thought you might know me.”

Tim peers over the hilt of his blade, curious but cautious. “I can’t say that I do, but it seems like you know me, so why don't we start there?”

“Ah, of course.” The man perks up a little, and twists his torso to dig inside the expanse of black inside his cloak. Tim snaps a warning to stay still, but the words get lost in his throat when the man turns back around, holding something out with a proud grin. “This is for you. I don't know how you lost it, but I knew you would need it.”

And there, in the man’s hands, is his staff. Whole and unharmed, letters still ingrained in the smooth surface, black as ash. Black as the cloak that surrounded it only moments ago.

It hits him then. And it’s ridiculous; it’s stupid and impossible and probably incredibly off-base, but it’s also right.

Tim lowers the dagger in shock. “Dusty?”

The man’s smile brightens even further, and his eyes burn briefly, like the centre of a flame, like embers dusted over hot coals, and Tim knows that he’s right, that this is his friend, even if he doesn’t know how.

“I knew you hadn’t forgotten me,” Duustrius says warmly. “It is good to see you, Tim.”

Chapter 19: Amongst The Flowers

Chapter Text

There isn’t time to pick apart the impossible thing standing before him.

“We need to get to the stone wall,” Tim says. “I don't—keep hold of that until we find Via.”

Duustrius tucks the staff back inside his cloak of shadows, quiet and watchful. He dutifully follows Tim through the town, dodging curious gazes and murmuring folk, all of them drawn to the chaos happening at the tavern. When they finally come across the stone wall, Tim reaches out with his magic until he finds a silver thread in the air, chasing Via’s invisible tracks. It doesn’t take very long to do.

“I’m bringing someone with me,” Tim murmurs aloud. “I don't think you’re going to like it, but don't kill him on sight.”

The magic fades. He can feel Duustrius’s eyes on him, resting on the back of his neck.

“You have gotten very good at that,” Duustrius says.

“I didn't have much choice.”

The shock hasn’t fully settled yet. Tim runs his fingers along the cobbled wall until he finds a gap in the stone, a malleable tension under his hands that bends to his will. His probing fingers sink through the stone. It feels almost like jelly, like the cold numbing cream Alfred uses before he sticks them with an antidote or injection.

He steps inside and the world twists around him, warping with a strange, stomach-curdling sensation. He comes stumbling out on the other side of the stone wall, landing in a grassy field. There are flowers as far as the eye can see, and in the distance, a road winds into view. Tim immediately bends forward, gagging.

“Tim?”

Duustrius ghosts a hand over his shoulder, hovering like an anxious bird. Tim has to wrench himself away, staggering through the long grass. He isn’t sick, but it’s a close thing. He wipes his mouth anyway and holds his churning stomach, straightening up to fix Duustrius with a firm stare.

“It’s really you?” he asks. His stomach twists belatedly, and he shudders. “God, that was disgusting.”

“It is really me,” Duustrius confirms, though he looks uncertain. “You do not seem happy to see me.”

The quiet, hopeful question in his voice tugs on Tim’s heartstrings. It went both ways, he remembers. Dusty wasn’t just Tim’s friend; Tim was his friend too. Whatever wariness he feels threatens to peel away in the face of such tentative hope, but he holds firm. Via would skin him alive if he didn't act sensibly. Bruce would too, although there’s no real way for him to know that Tim’s being an idiot.

That’s not true, of course. Even worlds away, Bruce can always tell when his Robins are being idiots. But if he wanted Tim to stop giving him grey hairs, he never should have let him into his life in the first place.

“It’s not that I’m not happy,” Tim says. “A lot’s happened since we last met, that’s all. I don't understand everything, and I was hoping you could tell me what drove you to attack us the other night.” He glances around, but there’s no sign of the stone wall or the town it protects. “I think it’s safe enough to do this here.”

“Attack you?” Duustrius takes a step forward, a bewildered glaze of shock painted all over his dark face. “I did not… I would never attack you, Tim.”

“Your shadows cornered us inside a forest, on the outskirts of Aurumadis.” Tim speaks quickly, laying the facts out like a charcuterie board of information. “Before that, Via and Robin were attacked in Brickholm on their way to rescue me. Baron’s missing, your shadows are always one step behind us, and something’s been following us since we stepped foot on the road. You’re saying you don't have anything to do with that?”

Duustrius frowns. He delves into his cloak again and pulls out the staff, holding it out. The wind bows around him, stirring up his ashen hair. The field is blanketed in dandelion-looking flowers, though their middles are an icy shade of blue; they bend in the same wind. Tim’s stomach finally settles, and he meets Duustrius’s eyes, warmed and unnerved in equal measure by the unusual coal-hot shade.

“I cannot deny that I was following you,” Dusty admits. “Travelling in this form is interesting. It takes a lot of energy and focus. It works better when I have a target in mind, but you rarely stopped. I didn't want to be too late if you needed your staff, so I moved all through the day and night. I had to send my shadow ahead a few times to see where you were, and then follow along. That might have been what you felt following you.”

That explains the strange figure that Avrin saw, though it gives him more questions than answers. He opens his mouth to ask for more details when two figures come barrelling out of the trees in the near-distance, cutting through the silence with a shout.

Despite Via’s strength, Robin is the first one to reach him. She hurls herself through the knee-length flowers at Tim, only to trip at the last moment, tipping sideways. Dusty’s cloak brushes against her; he reaches out to steady her, one hand lightly pushing at her shoulder to keep her upright.

Tim’s heart gives a strange, panicked lurch. He’s not entirely surprised when Via comes surging towards the two of them, teeth bared viciously. She plants herself at Robin’s side, snarling, dirt and grass churned in her wake.

Duustrius, Via says darkly, her voice echoing across the fields. Take your hands away from her!

Robin shrinks back in horror. Her hands are shaking. She takes one stumbling step back and collides with Via’s soft flank; turning, she buries her face in her fur, as though she can’t bear to look at him.

Dusty’s hand falls.

“I am… sorry,” he says, stiltedly, shuffling his feet. “I did not mean to cause you distress.”

Step back, Via snarls. Stay away from her.

Dusty steps back immediately. His face flickers with hurt and confusion. He looks primed to flee, uncomfortable at the onslaught of tension.

“It’s okay,” Tim says, holding out his hands. “Everyone just take a deep breath.”

You cannot defend him! Not now!

“I’m not defending anyone,” Tim cuts in, his heart still beating like a mad thing. “I think there’s something going on here, and I want to get to the bottom of it. If you want to take Robin back to camp, then you can, but I’m staying here until I’ve worked out what we’re missing.”

The wind whistles as it blows through the field, stirring the grass. Dusty puts his shoulders back a little, fiddling with the staff. He’s almost painfully tall, and hunched over like this, he looks incredibly awkward. Sweetly so. Robin peers over the top of Via’s fur, her eyes still wide and afraid. But there’s a touch of something else there.

Curiosity.

“Okay,” Tim says. “Nobody’s going to yell or attack or do anything bad, alright?”

Via makes a noise. It isn’t one of agreement.

“Quite fine,” Dusty says, inclining his head. “What, ah… what did you want to know?”

“How do you have my staff?” Tim asks. “I thought someone took it.”

Duustrius glances down at the staff in his hands, almost as though he’s surprised to find it there. “I created it,” he says. “Crafted it from soot and ash, and a little of my own darkness. My power, you would call it. I made it, and so I sensed when it was lost. When you left it behind, I felt it. I didn't think you would leave it behind on purpose, so I called it back to me.”

“You can do that?”

“Easily.”

“And then you came to find me?” Tim frowns. “How? Why do you look like this now?”

“Ah, that’s easy,” Dusty says, sounding relieved. “Gods can, to an extent, choose what they look like. It is easier to travel like this. Uncomfortable, for sure, but easier. People don't ask as many questions. I used my shadow to search for you, and to push myself along this path.”

“But why did you attack?” Tim asks, frowning. “If your shadows were trying to find me, then why did they attack us?”

Duustrius blinks at him. “I do not understand.”

Neither do we, Via says, her voice cold and hard. Explain yourself. Why send your power after us? Why did you attack Robin? Your shadows were vicious and ruthless. There was no room for misunderstanding their intentions.

Duustrius hesitates for only a moment. “Becoming human like this is easy enough. Wearing a mortal form is uncomfortable but manageable. For some Gods, that is.”

“But not for you?” Tim says sharply.

“For me as well,” Dusty says, though he seems unsure. “It is still easy. But my nature makes it hard to travel in the light. I am not… technically supposed to leave. My constellation lives in the dark, as do I. I did not tell you much about my history, but suffice to say… I do not have many friends among the other Gods.”

“I know you were trapped down there,” Tim says, with a quick glance at Via, who has fallen still. “Lured across the globe and trapped under the earth. The Celestial Theatre showed me what happened to you. I saw your prophecy too. I don't think I know everything, but I know how they treat you. And you already told me some of it. So how are you here if you aren’t supposed to be able to leave?”

Duustrius looks almost regretful, guilty. His shoulders slump, and his cloak falls flat, no longer billowing wildly.

“So you do know my story,” he says. “I had almost hoped you would not ever know. It was nice, knowing someone who did not hate me for what I might do.”

“I don't hate you,” Tim says immediately, shaking his head.

“But you do not trust me.”

Tim hesitates. He does trust Dusty, that’s the thing. But he can’t afford to be wrong. And that sort of negates the whole trust thing.

“I just don't understand a lot of things,” Tim says, willing him to believe him. “I trust you, I do. But I don't trust this world. It was your shadows that attacked us. I just want to know why.”

Dusty shakes his head, frowning. “I do not know why, or how. But I might know who.”

Who? Via repeats, a little wary, but mostly resigned.

Then he meets Tim’s gaze head-on and breathes a sigh that seems to have actual weight to it, darkening the air with grief and regret.

“I could not come out of the dark like this with my power at my beck and call,” he says quietly. “The whole world believes that I will eat the light, and end the world. They may even be right. But I knew you needed your staff, and I wanted to be the one to give it to you. So I did what had to be done.”

You gave it up, didn't you? Via asks, voice soft. You gave up your power to travel as mortals do, to leave the darkness behind and keep the light intact.

Dusty bows his head amongst the flowers, grey locks falling over his eyes. He looks somehow younger and older than anyone Tim has ever seen before, bowed like an old tree but springing tall out of the earth.

“I kept one shadow,” Dusty says, and the ragged hem of his cloak drifts around his ankles, curling there protectively. “But the rest, I gave away. It was only supposed to be temporary. He promised he would keep my power safe for me until I returned to take back the burden.”

“Who?” Tim asks, heart in his throat. “Who promised you?”

Dusty raises his head, meeting his eyes. “Baron Nest.”

Chapter 20: Dandelion Soup For The Soul

Chapter Text

The campfire is roaring by the time they stumble into the copse of trees. Via stalks ahead, one of Robin’s tiny fists clutched in her fur. Tim does not try to calm her down. He doesn’t have a death wish, not anymore. And the last thing he wants to do is explain to the others why, precisely, he’s speaking to them from inside a wolf’s stomach. He makes a cutting motion at Catus when she rises, cheeks red with mead, to sing about their return, and she pouts, but subsides.

“Brought a friend?” she asks instead, gazing at Dusty curiously.

Via snarls and stalks to the edge of the camp, just inside the circle of firelight. It’s still daytime, the ground still warm from the sun’s touch, but the fire burns merrily regardless.

“Touchy,” Catus says. “What happened to you? Did’ya run into trouble?”

“You could say that,” Tim says, a touch dryly. “It might be difficult to explain.”

“You’re the God of the Dark.”

The statement, surprisingly, doesn’t come from the ever-steady Brimmet, or from Catus’s shifty hoard of secrets and knowledge. Avrin stands a little clumsily, his robes sweeping the ground. His eyes, dark and warm, are fixed unerringly on Dusty. There’s something there, hidden in the vibrant colour, something knowing and desperate.

“You are, aren’t you?” he says.

Dusty shifts, glancing at Tim for help. Tim rouses himself from his shock and shifts forward, putting himself solidly in front of his friend. What he thinks he’s going to be able to do for a god, he doesn’t know, but it’s never mattered to Tim how powerful the person he’s protecting is. All that matters is that he offers whatever he can give.

“This is Dusty,” Tim says. “You might know him as Duustrius. He’s the one that was following us on the road a little while ago.”

“The one that attacked us in the forest?” Catus takes a step back, eyeing Tim like he’s crazy. “Are you really plannin’ on being a shield for a big old godly weapon?”

“I do not require a shield,” Dusty says.

His voice, deep and dark as night, lilts awkwardly at the end, as though he’s asking a question. The other three stare at him for a beat. Robin comes out from behind Via’s flank and tugs on Brimmet’s sleeve, gesturing at the fire. She makes a little sign with her fingers, careful and slow. Brimmet looks down at her and nods.

“Questions can wait,” Brimmet says. “We will walk again soon. Good to have stories on the road. Let’s eat.”

Tim isn’t that hungry. He steps aside to let Dusty approach the campfire, nodding encouragingly when he seems to hesitate. Via’s low, warning growl ripples out across their camp, but Dusty puts one foot in front of the other anyway, eventually settling on a bit of grass. He sits down hesitantly, awkwardly, as though this is his first time giving it a whirl. And considering his lack of experience with having legs, it’s altogether likely that it is his first time.

“You should eat,” Brimmet says, spooning soup into another bowl. “Do gods eat?”

He seems unsure of himself, his shadowy cloak wrapped reassuringly around his body like a sentient hug. It’s Avrin that leaps to his rescue, sitting down rather close and reaching for his bag, regaling them all with stories of his hometown, and the rules of godly offerings.

“It wasn’t all that uncommon to leave out food for gods in case they were hungry,” he says eagerly, digging for his knitting; it seems to help him focus his mind, and since it leads to sweet rose-coloured dragons made of yarn, Tim can hardly find fault in it. “It’s not about worship, you see. Just about taking care of things around you!”

“I haven’t eaten in a long time,” Dusty admits, pressing his palm gently to his stomach. “Perhaps I should.”

“Can you even eat it?” Catus asks, eyeing the soup dubiously. “Don't you eat, like, sunlight and stuff?”

Tim shoots her a dark look, but she ignores it. Dusty’s shoulders drop a little bit, as though resigned to the comments, but Brimmet barely blinks. She hands Robin the first full bowl and quickly fills another.

“It’s dandelion soup,” she says. “I think you will like it.”

Robin brings her bowl of soup back to Via, nestling beside her to eat. The warning growl tapers off into begrudging silence.

“Dandelion?” Dusty asks, accepting the bowl. He looks briefly surprised by the warmth bleeding through the wood. “Like the flower?”

“Yes,” Brimmet says. “We found many nearby. I have a good eye for good ingredients.”

Catus breaks away from the circle and stalks towards Tim. He hangs back, away from the fire, and lets the others eat while she stands beside him, sipping her drink and mumbling under her breath.

“If you have something to say,” he says eventually, “will you just spit it out already? It’s been a long, weird day.”

“This is mad,” Catus says, glaring at him like he’s personally responsible. “You do see how mad this is, don't you?”

“It’d be hard not to.”

“He’s like a toddler,” Catus hisses, looking vaguely horrified. “Just stumbling around looking delighted by dandelions, of all f*cking things. You never said he was all… I don't know! Like that. He’s s’posed to be terrifying and evil, right? Bearer of doom and darkness?”

“He’s gone through some changes recently,” Tim says diplomatically.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Catus swipes a hand over her face, groaning. “Alright, fine, whatever. We’re babysittin’ the newly mortal God of the Dark for the foreseeable future, f*ckin’ grand. Can’t say it’s boring hanging out with you guys, that’s for sure.”

“You were the one that insisted on coming along.”

“Yeah, and you’re the one who should be grateful for my company. This would be real awkward right now if you were just loomin’ around on your own like the world’s tiniest, least intimidating tree.”

They stand on the edge of the camp and watch as Dusty sips from the bowl. His eyes widen, and he drinks eagerly under Brimmet’s watchful gaze. He flutters his eyes closed and makes pleased noises. After a beat, Catus elbows Tim in the side.

“You never said he was hot either.”

Tim blinks. He isn’t blind. He also isn’t straight, although it’s not something he shouts about often. He can appreciate a handsome grey-haired young man with a sharp jawline, a boyish smile, and a frighteningly efficient approach to a brawl as much as the next person. He’s hardly got the time to pursue any romantic side-quests, considering the current state of affairs, but he can certainly look.

“Yeah, well,” Tim says, shrugging. “You never asked. Besides, he used to be a big ball of ash and fire, so I’m not sure how well hotness would have translated, other than literally.”

“Still, it’s going to make things difficult. How’s Avrin supposed to concentrate on driving if he’s got that to focus on instead?”

“Again, a big ball of ash and fire. Wouldn’t you rather he was like this?”

Catus snorts, and knocks back the rest of her drink. “Well, when you put it like that.”

“I still have not managed to give this back to you.”

Tim turns, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. They’d walked for hours before finding an appropriate place to stop for the night, and now the moon is high in the sky, obscured by a thin layer of cloud. Faint noises from the camp are commonplace, but almost everyone is asleep. Avrin should have been the only other one awake; he’d nodded at Tim when he left his bedroll to get some fresh air, despite the abundance of it in their open-sky camp.

But it seems he wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping.

Dusty smiles at him, small but sincere, and comes to sit beside him in the grass. The movement is a little smoother this time, as he crosses his legs beneath him, leaning back against the oak tree Tim found. He digs inside the velvet darkness of his cloak and, for the final time, withdraws the staff of ash.

It feels at home in his hands. There’s a faint thrum of energy beneath the cleverly-warped wood, and the runes shine with hidden knowledge, travelling down the length of it. Tim rolls it between his fingers, something loosening in his chest.

“My… Bruce always told me not to rely on a weapon,” he says. “He told us that if we got too reliant on something like a bo-staff or a shuriken, we’d forget to use our brains. A good tool is only as good as the workman who wields it, or something.”

He puts the staff down in his lap and smiles at Dusty.

“But I’ve got to say, I’ve never been more glad to have a weapon in my hands, even if that does make me a poor workman,” he says. “Thank you for bringing it back to me.”

“Of course, Tim. It belongs with you.” Dusty hesitates, lowering his voice. “I truly am sorry for causing so much trouble. If I had known what Baron was using my powers for, I would have found some way to let you know that it wasn’t me.”

Tim hasn’t really processed the idea of Baron as the villain yet. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but it does make his heart throb with bitterness. How many more people are going to turn on him? How many more people are moving him around their board as he speaks, using him like some half-shattered chess piece in a war of glass?

“The truth is, I didn't think of him as a friend,” Tim admits. “I think that’s why it’s worse. Friends know you, and you trust them, so anything they do to you has the chance of hurting. But he was just an ordinary man. I knew he was greedy, I knew he wanted knowledge and history and secrets. You should have seen the way he looked at me when I walked out of the woods with Via at my side. But he was an ordinary man who helped me. He’s the one that set me on this path. He told me who Via was, and he sent me to you—in retrospect, I might be a huge idiot for not realising it was him all along.”

“Is it idiotic, to see the good in people?”

“If it ends in other good people being hurt, then maybe. Robin was terrified. Via had to use her Oath to get her out of there, and now Robin can’t use it again. If she gets in danger…”

The rest is left unsaid, but hangs like a noose in the silence. Dusty shifts slightly, his face set in an uncomfortable frown.

“I should have been more careful,” he says. “After you left, I was… lonely. More lonely than I ever remember being. It’d been so long since I’d had company, and then you were gone—and I don't blame you. You have a journey to make. But I’d forgotten, you see, how quiet and vast it could be down there without anyone to fill the space and silence.”

Guilt grips him, hooks the tender lining of his stomach like an anchor and digs in. Dusty’s right, of course; there was no way to delay his journey, not if he wanted to get home, but it still stings, knowing he left him there alone.

“Baron came to visit not long after you were gone,” Dusty continues. “He never said what kept him away in the first place, why he only came to visit after you left. He asked many questions about my power, my history, and my role in the prophecy. He was very keen on the prophecy.” He looks away, shame-faced. “I should have known better, but it was good to hear a voice that wasn’t mine. I told him everything I knew. And then I gave him my power and went walking across the world, looking for you.”

“I think he has a plan,” Tim says. “And I don't think it would have mattered much what you did or said. He would have gone through with the plan anyway, whether you came after me or not.”

“Maybe it is a good thing,” Dusty suggests, leaning back against the tree trunk. “It led me here, did it not?”

“Yeah, about that,” Tim says, as he tugs on a blade of grass. “I have to ask. If you knew you could give up your powers at any point, why didn't you do it sooner?”

The shadow at Dusty’s back curls over his shoulder protectively. It seems sentient, but it also seems more reactive than free-thinking, responding to whatever Dusty feels.

“I could have just emptied the power out of me,” Dusty says. “But my power is a part of me, and no part of a person is ever truly gone. Unless I handed it to someone for safe-keeping, whatever power I pushed into the ether would coalesce in the heavens and reform elsewhere.”

“Then why not find someone to give it to?”

“There has never been anyone that might agree to take it from me.” Dusty sighs, tipping his head back to look at the moon. “The Gods won’t admit it, but our stories only came about because we were forced to hold onto these skills, these powers. Somnivia gave the realm of sleep away, and August clung to it instead, letting go of seafoam. It’s confusing, something you couldn’t hope to understand unless that power was inside you. We are born from certain powers, but there is no rule that says we must keep them. We are better suited to them, for sure, but not indebted to them. Mine was darkness, and darkness eats light. But it didn't have to be mine. Any one of the other Gods could have picked it up at any moment.”

“Why didn't they?”

Dusty smiles without humour, gesturing vaguely. “Who would want a power that could eat the world? Who would want to be responsible for the end of all things?”

It’s a fair point, even if Tim hates it. He kicks one foot out and brings the opposite knee up to his chest, propping his chin up on it. Even the thought of those other Gods skirting around the edge of such power, unwilling to share the burden; it makes him want to throw something.

“Aren’t you angry?” he asks. “Don't you hate them for it?”

The wind ruffles their hair, sends shivers coursing down Tim’s spine.

“I do not blame them,” Dusty says, in a deeply thoughtful voice. “Sometimes I wish I had been able to befriend them. The other Gods were so vivid and vibrant. I could have lived off their light alone. But I would not wish this fate on anybody.”

“I know you’re a God, but you’re a better man than me, Dusty.”

Dusty’s cheeks grow warm, but he shakes his head. “The thing about it is, the dark itself is lovely. Quiet and deep and warm. People find solace in the dark. They find stars. They go looking on purpose, stepping into deep woods and diving into bottomless seas and descending into caves without a second thought. We are drawn to it. I have always loved the permanence of it. I think the others fear it, which is why I wouldn’t wish it on them.”

“I never thought of it like that,” Tim says, looking out at the trees. “I didn't think the dark was all bad. I didn't think of it as anything, really. It’s just something that is. But I didn't think of it as good either.”

He wonders if the moon is listening, taking notes for her next act of construction, her next divine design.

“Most people don't. I never used to be the Light-Eater. I was the God of the Dark, and that was never a bad thing. People used to wait for me. Fires burn brighter in the darkness. There would be mad revelries and secret love, all because I had arrived, and I could shelter them from view. I gave them the feeling of being wildly alone, and beautifully free. But then the story started to change. People said that I ate the light, that I was made to do one thing and one thing only. And the more that people said it, the more they told the story, the easier it was for the story to ring true. The easier it was for me to become the thing they feared.”

“A self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Indeed.” Dusty sighs, and the shadow curls tighter around him like a scarf. “I no longer was the Dark. I felt dark. And the darker I felt, the more light I ate. The more light I ate, the more people were sure the stories were true. And round and round it went, a never-ending circle, until the other gods took up their torches and lured me down into the hot rock, chasing me there and trapping me in.”

It’s hard to find something to say to that. The silence feels heavy, though not uncomfortable. Tim reaches for the first thing he can think of, and hands it out like a gift.

“You don't feel dark to me.”

Dusty’s smile is a slow, warm thing. “Thank you, Tim. You were the first person to treat me like a friend. You gave me a new name, a new feeling, something to latch onto. You gave me hope that this circle might find an end.”

Tim hums. He tips his head back to meet the moon’s gaze, unflinching in the white-hot stare.

“I have it on pretty high authority that circles are boring. Let’s undo them together.”

Chapter 21: Heart to Heart

Chapter Text

It’s Jason’s turn to babysit the evil bastard.

The Manor’s quiet. All the Bats and Birds are tucked up in bed like good little vigilantes. He thinks it’s supposed to be a show of trust, letting him loose in the Cave with a villain while everyone else catches a few zees. It loses some of its potency thanks to the six thousand cameras pinned to every available nook and cranny, all blinking quietly in his direction. Not to mention the fact that Bruce is undoubtedly awake, combing through his laptop under the covers like he thinks Alfred won’t know.

Jason snorts, strolling down the stairs with his hands in his pockets. There’s nothing that Alfred doesn’t know.

But he’ll take what he can get. They’ve been less on edge around him ever since Tim dipped through the big blue shiny door and he started showing up to pick up their slack. Not as many pointed remarks about excessive force or wary looks whenever he walks by. He’s not sure if he likes it or not, but at least it gives him access to all the fancy toys.

And Alfred’s cooking. Man, he’s missed that man’s paella.

The cave hums all around him. Jason catches the faint red glare of a camera nearby and flashes it a grin. Just a sliver of teeth, co*cksure.

“Hey, took you long enough!” Steph says, perking up when he comes into view. She’s lolling back on a chair, idly playing with a file. There’s tension in her shoulders. “Oracle called us out, something about a dodgy shipment at the harbour. You got this?”

Jason’s fists itch. It’s not a physical thing, but a phantom sensation that sweeps across his skin like a wave of cold air. It would be wrong to say that he takes pleasure in violence, wouldn’t it? But there is something viciously satisfying about feeling the imprint of teeth on his knuckles, the way a jaw can crack under one solid hit.

He glances at Byron. There are new ropes and cuffs keeping him tied to the chair, an extra security measure while everyone rests. He still has enough room to wiggle his fingers in a taunting wave, but Jason resolutely ignores him.

“You sure you don't want to swap?” he says.

Steph bares her teeth in a grin, already masked up. No doubt partly to hide her red-rimmed eyes and dark circles.

“Not in a million years,” she says.

She’s gone in a flash, flouncing out of the cave, her cape sweeping along behind her. The lingering taste of grief in the air lightens.

Jason ignores the silent figure still tied to the chair and heads for the nearest computer, throwing himself into the chair Steph just vacated. He’s planning to dick around and maybe try and crack some of Bruce’s tougher case file codes until Byron cracks, but it turns out he doesn’t have to wait long.

“You are not like the rest of them, are you?”

Jason barely spares him a glance. “Aren’t I?”

“No,” Byron continues, watching him intently. “Your history drips red.”

Of all the things Jason thought he’d say, it’s not that. There’s no telling how long the guy was hanging around Gotham before he set up his little trap, but it was long enough to learn their civilian identities. It stands to reason that he’d know more than they’d like.

“Yeah, well, what can I say? Red’s a nice colour.” Jason clicks his tongue, pointing a finger like something’s just occurred to him. “Byron, right? Gotta say, I’m not really keen on having a heart-to-heart. But if you really want to have a conversation, I can think of a few things that might be worth chatting about.”

Byron’s eyes shine with amusem*nt. “I don't know what else there is to tell you. Timothy is dead, and the portal remains closed.”

The words are like ice in his veins. The pit burns, but grief, he’s found, is cold and bitter.

Jason settles back in the chair, lacing his hands over his stomach. “See, that’s the thing. If everything’s over, where does that leave you?”

“You may not have noticed between all the hysterics and threats, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

“Z might have zapped you, but you captured all of us in the beginning, knocked us out bad enough that Timmy thought he had to dive through a death portal to keep us all safe. Credit where credit’s due, and all that.”

“Your point?”

“We both know you could break out of this place in a second if you wanted to.” Jason leans forward, planting his forearms on his knees, and co*cks his head. “So why don't you?”

“Where would I go?” Byron spreads his hands, the ropes shimmering out of existence. Jason was expecting it, but it doesn’t stop his stomach from flipping. “This isn’t my world. There is nothing for me here.”

“Let’s be real, none of us believe the sh*t you’re spewing,” Jason says, with a harsh grin. “The way I remember it, you were pretty choked up about that blue orb of yours. What, is it not important anymore?”

“I told you. I didn't expect the brat to run through the portal. He messed up my plans.”

“Or he played right into your hands. He’s right where you want him to be, and you’re right where you need to be. That’s why you’re not going anywhere, isn’t it? It’s not because everything’s over. You need to stay here, or else everything’s f*cked.”

Byron watches him through half-mast eyes. There is something lazily predatory about his gaze, as though he’s caught a mouse between thick paws, and has all the time in the world to decide how to disembowel it. He shifts slightly, lacing one ankle over the other, and the last of the ropes and cuffs vanish seamlessly, without a sound.

“It sounds as though you have it all figured out,” Byron says rather dryly. “I’m sure you’ve seen through my clumsy manipulations, my unsubtle subterfuge. You even know my name, which I admit I didn't expect. But we both know I won’t give up more information than necessary. Why don't you ask what you really want to ask?”

Jason sits back. His pulse feels heavy in his throat. It’s confirmation that the man’s been playing them, but unfortunately, it’s also confirmation that he’s even cleverer than Bruce thought he was. There’s something almost indulgent about the way he smiles at Jason, as though it doesn’t matter what he says. As though the outcome is already set in stone.

“I want to know what you are,” Jason says.

“What makes you think I’m anything other than a regular mortal? This world has powerful mortals, doesn’t it?”

“Well, for one thing, I never said anything about mortals, so that makes me think you ain’t one,” he says frankly. “And for another: How long have you been sitting in that chair?”

Byron arches an eyebrow. “Why, were you thinking of shifting me to somewhere a little more comfortable?”

“Not a chance. But you haven’t had a drink, haven’t eaten, haven’t asked for anything. I’d be gasping by now. But you’ve barely even flinched.”

“I have a strong disposition.”

“So you’re not mortal,” Jason says, ignoring him. “You’ve got a tonne of weird powers that we don't know the extent of. You’re happy to sit here and watch us all run around like headless chickens because it suits your big f*cking plan in some way. Your artefact either ain’t as important as you made it out to be or there’s still a big chance that Tim will get it for you. And Tim ain’t dead.”

“I showed you the moment of his death,” Byron says. “Do people in this world survive a fall like that?”

“Some do,” Jason says, thinking of the stories of golden gate bridge jumpers, and how they regretted it halfway down. “Most don't. But you also showed us how he healed a kid on that mountain. I don't think it matters what people in this world can do. Tim’s in your old world now. The rules are different.”

Byron looks at him. Just looks at him, patient and a little bemused, his eyes churning with curious emotion. Jason thought he was childlike before, sneering and taunting them and spinning false tales, running his mouth and laughing at them all. But there is so much beneath the surface, cold like a glacier, an icy sheen with no discernible cracks.

“The rules,” Byron repeats. “I know plenty about rules. Rules are what drove me to this world.”

“What does that mean?”

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, since there’s nothing you can do about it anyway.” Byron shrugs, settling back in the chair like it’s his own personal lounger. “You were right about one thing. I am right where I need to be.”

“We got different rules here, or somethin’?”

“Not as different as you’d think. What do you know about Fate?”

Jason thinks of a big yellow helmet and snorts, tilting his hand in the air. “Not much of a fate man, myself. But I can tell that you think differently, so why don't 'cha enlighten me.”

“Fate is the ultimate Creator,” Byron says, his voice whisper-soft. “It is a universal presence, a connecting force, able to weave between and around worlds. It is, in many ways, the first ever life-form, but it is much bigger than that. Before the Gods, there were Beings, and before the Beings, there was Fate.”

“Beings?” Jason asks.

“You wanted to know what I was, didn't you?” Byron flashes him a smile that is all teeth, all glass and ice. “I am one of Six Beings, formed from Fate itself.”

Jason threads his fingers together, popping his knuckles in thought. It doesn’t answer much. If anything, it gives him more questions. But he waits, patiently, because if he’s learned anything from his time as a bona-fide villain ass-kicker, it’s that they love to monologue.

“My first memory is of waking up in the dark,” Byron says, and the shadows in the Cave seem to grow darker, deeper. “Fate was all around us. It said: I made you for each other. And suddenly it wasn’t just me in the dark. There were others there, other Beings. My brothers first, and then the sisters three.”

“At first, when Fate created us, we were overjoyed. Our power was at its height, our threads inexorably entangled. Fate made us to be together, you see. Three suitors for three sisters. Six Beings of Immense Power.”

“My brothers and I were ecstatic. We were guaranteed an equal, each of us, and we revelled in the possibilities. Fate created each of us with the intention of providing balance for the other. My supposed partner’s power lies in visions of the future, in possibilities. My power, to balance this out, lies in the past.”

“The past?” Jason says sharply. “That’s how you were able to show us everything that happened to Tim?”

“Precisely.” Byron spreads his hands. “But we have caught up to him now, and he exists alongside us in the present. So you see, I cannot show you anything of use.”

It’s a step up from insisting that Tim’s dead, but it still boils Jason’s blood.

“Bullsh*t. The past is the past, dickwad. You could show us six seconds ago, couldn’t you?”

“What would be the point of that?” Byron says, mockingly insincere. “Tim is dead, after all. Do you want to see the dark again that badly?”

Jason has always kept a clear, cool head during his interrogations. Nobody agrees, but that’s because they think it takes a red haze to shoot bullets into bodies. They’re not wrong, in a way. But the truth is, Jason has never felt more clear-headed than when he has the muzzle of a gun pressed up against someone’s temple.

This, though. This sends him back in his seat, silent and stone-faced. The dark again. Rot and shadow, writhing and clawing, mouth clamped shut to keep the dirt from falling in.

“You waited,” Jason says, when he can breathe again. “You could have got outta that prison any day you liked. But you were waiting and watching, weren’t you? Watching Tim.”

There’s a glint in Byron’s eye. Go on, it says. Put the pieces together.

“You waited ‘til you had enough to use against us, and then you broke out and came here, and you showed us every dark thing he’d been through like it might matter. Like we’d believe you point-blank and stop looking for him. You were putting on a show.”

“Why would I do that?”

There’s only one real reason why people like him put on a show.

“To stall,” Jason says, testing the words out. “You’ve got some big finale planned out. And if you’re stallin’, that means there’s something you don't want us doing in the meantime.”

Byron’s eyes give nothing away. His mouth quirks ever so slightly, though. Jason longs to put his fist through his teeth, but the kid gloves are off, and he’s still not sure what this thing is capable of.

“You said you had power over the past?” Jason asks, leaning back in his seat again, casual as anything. “What about the rest of you? What’s their power?”

Byron says nothing.

“It’s gotta be somethin’ embarrassing, right? Is that why you’ve gone all quiet? C’mon, you can tell me. I mean, sh*t, my brothers are all assassins and acrobats. I get being embarrassed of your family, but nobody’s gonna judge you here.” He hums, suddenly, like he’s just thought of something. “Or maybe that’s not why you won’t share. You said you guys were brothers, right? So maybe you don't wanna pale in comparison. Maybe your power is something small and weak when you put it next to the others.”

And there, right there, is a flicker of disdain. Disgust, deep and entrenched. Jason pushes forward.

“I mean, what can you do with power over the past? Lie to people, I guess. Put up shiny pictures on the walls. Bore people to death about whichever war you dreamed about last night. Or maybe that is your power. Shiny pictures, stuff like that. Is that it? Did you lie about your power to make it seem better than it is? Man, and you still chose something dull and boring. That really makes me want to know what the others can do. It’s gotta be something good.”

He starts ticking things off on his fingers.

“Fate’s already taken, and destiny seems to go hand-in-hand with that one, so I think we can cross it out. There’s five others, right? Future and Past, although I don't think that’s you. Nah, I think you got stuck with something else, and someone else got stuck with you. Poor bastard. Who’ve you got then? Who’s stuck with you? Time, Seasons, oh, or maybe Honesty? Is it something really cheesy, like luck or hope? God, I wouldn’t wanna be partnered with one of them. What does that make you? What’s the opposite of Hope? Being of duds, letdowns, pessimism, flops.” Jason flashes a commiserating smile. “Anti-climaxes.”

Byron’s smile dies. The icy fleck in his gaze grows sharper, colder. He studies Jason clinically, scouring him with only a look. Jason looks back, blank and insolent.

“Your petulance does you no good,” Byron says. “Taunt me all you like, it makes no difference. I told you to ask what you really want to ask, but I never said I would answer. The prophecy has already begun.”

“Prophecy?”

“Yes. When the bird flies the nest, the darkness will rise…” Byron leans forward, his smile sinking to unfathomable depths. “Brothers in one world, an old door divides them. I never knew who it referred to. We are all of us brothers, are we not? And truthfully, it could have been any of you. I knew that I would have to cross worlds to find someone worthy. I imagine it is Fate’s work that the first one I landed in offered me more birds than I could count. I just didn't know which Robin it would be.”

“Awful chatty, all of a sudden,” Jason says, throat dry. “Why are you tellin’ me all this?”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” he says, eyes glinting with malice. “Everything is already in motion, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

“We’re going to try anyway. It doesn’t matter what kind of games you play, we’re not giving up on Tim.”

“You will, in the end. That’s always how it ends.”

Out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of movement catches his attention. Jason hums, leaning back in the chair, and shakes his head.

“Sad that you think that,” he says. “I don't know what kind of family you’ve got in your world, and maybe they tossed you to the side easy as anything, and maybe they didn't want anything to do with you, but this one ain’t in the habit of giving up. Trust me, it’s really f*cking annoying.”

A little of that icy sheen cracks. Jason makes a show of stretching as he rises, humming as though he’s completely unconcerned. He keeps on humming as he strolls back to the stairs, throwing a one-fingered salute over his shoulder. Dick vanishes up the steps, keeping to the shadow, and only once they’re safely out of the cave do the two of them turn to speak.

“You get all that?” he murmurs.

“Every word,” Dick says, holding up a phone. “But that’s not why I called you over. Damian thinks he might have found something.”

“What was I babysitting for if nobody was gonna take advantage of the sweet beds in this place?” Jason complain, but he follows Dick upstairs anyway, shoving the door to Bruce’s room open with his shoulder.

Bruce looks up from his seat against the headboard, but Damian only spares him an impatient glance, standing to attention at the foot of the bed.

“Tim’s not dead,” Jason says, as a way of greeting. “Bastard pretty much confirmed it even though he went back on his word later.”

“We know,” Damian says, sounding impatient. “You think we were not watching the whole time, Todd?”

“Well, not the whole time, apparently,” Dick says, his tone drifting into the realm of amused. He slides around Jason and props himself up against the window, ruffling Damian’s hair on the way. Damian bristles, both at the unspoken accusation and the touch, but stands still.

“I think he’s just playing with us,” Jason says. “Wants us to give up. And he’s dropped the whole weak innocent schtick, so at least we know what we’re dealing with now. He wasn’t nearly as stupid as he pretended to be. I can’t tell if that was smart or just theatrical.”

“You didn't tie him up again,” Bruce says.

“Isn’t that the point?” Jason asks. “We want to see where he goes, right? Now that he knows we know everything.”

Bruce glares at him over the top of his laptop, tucked up under the quilts, pillows propping him up. Jason throws himself into one of the squashy armchairs near the window, shrugging.

“It’s hard to take that glare seriously when you’re sitting there in your jammies, B. Are those Superman?”

“No,” Bruce says. “Just an unfortunate combination of colours.”

“I spoke to Grandfather.”

The room falls silent. Dick doesn’t look too surprised, but he still stands up straight, his expression soft and worried. Even Jason holds back from saying something snarky.

It takes a lot for the kid to go to Ra’s these days, too many years of mistreatment and manipulation piled high between them. But Jason knows just how much he craves the simplicity and structure of his life there, the assurance and praise of his family. No matter how much he fits into his role here, no matter how much he might have come to love and tolerate them, he’s still just a kid that wants to make his family proud.

“Damian,” Bruce says softly, full of censure.

Damian flinches. Minutely, but still. “I know you recommended that we keep things close-knit, but this was important. Drake was injured while searching for you in the past, and it is unlikely that his spleen was removed by his own hand. He has mentioned the Council of Spiders in passing, and we knew that the League was involved. I contacted Grandfather to find out the truth.”

The whole sorry tale spills out like oil. Tim, working alone in the desert, with only assassins for company. Tim, bleeding out in Iraq, convinced that Bruce would be lost in time. Tim, put back together by the League, only to crumple it with his own bare hands later on.

“It explains so much,” Dick says, a little breathlessly. “He was so different after he came back. But he never said anything.”

“No,” Bruce says, and the word cuts off whatever they might have said. There’s a wealth of grief and regret there, hidden under iron tones. “No, he did not.”

Eventually, Bruce lifts his eyes and meets Damian. The kid doesn’t flinch, but his shoulders straighten, turning to steel.

“It was reckless,” Bruce says. “Calling Ra’s is always reckless.”

“It gives us more information to work with,” Dick says.

“It also puts Tim at risk,” Bruce says sharply. “Ra’s has resources and contacts that I don't have access to. If it’s possible for him to cross entire worlds, do you think he’ll tell us when he does?”

“I never mentioned the other worlds,” Damian says. “I described the portal and the villain, but nothing else. Besides, Drake has crossed dimensions before, and Ra’s has never sought him out there. I only wanted to know if he had ever heard of this portal before.”

“And had he?” Jason says, before Bruce can say something else sharp and pointed. “Can’t imagine there’s much that he doesn’t know about power and how to wield it.”

Damian hesitates, before lifting his chin. “I cannot be sure if he knows where Drake is, or how to get his back. But he knows about the portals.”

“What makes you say that?” Dick says, drifting a little closer. “Did he say something?”

“When I told him about the portals, I mentioned the etchings on the walls. Grandfather asked which order they were in.”

Chapter 22: Dragon's Dawn

Chapter Text

Crumbling walls rise out of the barren wasteland.

Tim stops for breath at the top of a dirt path, staring down at the sea of stone and sand. There’s a sharp ache in his calves from walking, but it’s satisfying. For the first time in a while, it feels like he’s getting somewhere.

The sight of swirling sandstorms in the near distance puts a bit of a damper on that feeling. They weave across the sand dunes playfully, tossing up towers of red grains in their wake. But they never quite obscure the stone pillars, the dilapidated walls that hold firm to slithering roots.

“Cavermaycar’e,” Brimmet says. “Old ruins. A place of rebirth.”

“Death, you mean.” Catus snorts. “Hundreds of people died here. Even more dragons.”

Brimmet shrugs, as though there isn’t much of a difference. She is the first to step off the rocky outcropping, leaving the cart behind. They shoulder their packs and adjust their various holsters. Robin climbs onto Via’s shoulders at her silent prompting, cautiously delighted as she winds her small fists into silky fur.

The desert wasn’t depicted on the map he found. There was nothing but brown, faded parchment and that single steep line, the mountain that wasn’t quite a mountain. Tim squints, but nothing rises in the distance apart from the ruins.

“Cavermaycar’e,” Tim repeats, once they’ve made it down onto the sand. “What does it mean?”

Dusty hums thoughtfully. They’ve taken to walking side-by-side together, both in the hope that Robin will be reassured by the show of trust and that Catus won’t get any funny ideas or ask too many questions. So far, there hasn’t been much luck with either endeavour. Robin still flinches away from the weak shadow curled around Dusty’s ankle, and Catus still circles him like a vulture, buzzing with curiosity.

It’s not much of a hardship, though, to walk together. Tim’s learned more about this world in the last eight days of travelling together than he has in the many months he’s been stuck on the wrong side of the portal. Dusty is an eager conversationalist, an eager vessel full of stories, and pleased by everyone and everything he meets. His delight and curiosity makes him seem younger, but there’s something charming about the way he talks to Tim, weaving tales and asking questions, something that speaks of years on this earth.

“I’m not sure that it does mean something,” Dusty finally admits. “It’s not from any language I recognise.”

“Does it have to mean something?” Catus asks.

“Most names do,” Tim says. “Or they come from somewhere, at least. Is the whole desert called Cavermaycar’e, or just this part?”

“Just the ruins,” Brimmet says, from ahead. Her staff digs into the sand, leaving faint imprints in the surface. “It was a village. A green place.” She shifts her hands, and the ghosts of ferns and trees ripple in the air around them before fading, turning the world briefly verdant. “Cavermaycar’e.”

When the past vanishes and the desert is all that’s left, they keep walking in silence. Tim wants to ask what happened, but the truth seems obvious. War happened. People happened. Life, in a way. They trudge through the sand, collars pulled up over their mouths to keep the worst of the grit from their lungs. Catus and Avrin start a strange truth-telling game at the front of the crew, and Tim teaches Robin a few more signs.

Quiet. Water. Quick. Rest. Easy. Never. Sky. Morning.

They make camp beside a stretch of rock and settle down under the night sky. Dusty sits cross-legged beside Tim and stares at him with avid fascination until Tim gently reminds him that he has to ask his question, rather than just think it really hard.

“You used your hands to speak,” Dusty says. “I noticed a few days ago. How does that work? Is it something from your world?”

“I guess,” Tim says, frowning. “But you must have a version of it over here.” He sketches his name with his fingers, and then spells out Duustrius too, simply for his delight. “My mentor made us learn it for tough situations, when we needed to communicate without sound. But my sister, she’s the one I really learned it for.”

Cass. If there was one person that Tim could have by his side in this world, it would be her, simply for the steadiness she brings him. And for the fact that she’d already have torn a way home out of the sky by now.

“Fascinating.” Dusty repeats his own name with long, careful sweeps of his fingers. “Your world sounds so interesting.”

“Do you want to hear more?”

Via growls, low and soft. Not a deterrent, but a simple interruption. We should sleep while we can. Someone will need to keep watch.

“Keep watch for what? Human or monster?”

“Ha!” Catus lounges on her bedroll, her hair a whip of fire behind her. “Nothing but sandstorms out here, and watching them get closer won’t do any good. But you’ll want to keep a weather eye out anyway.”

“For what?”

Catus grins at him, her teeth oddly long in the near-dark. “For the door.”

Tim glances at Via, and she dips her head in agreement.

Keep your eyes on the horizon. You will know when it’s safe to enter the dragon’s lair.

Tim takes the second watch. Brimmet shakes him awake and slides into her bedroll. Beside him, protected by the soft barrier of Via’s fur, Robin turns over in her sleep, snoring gently. Catus and Avrin are still awake, arguing and knitting, but their voices are low and heavy with sleep. They barely glance over as he makes his way to the edge of the camp.

Tim rubs the sleep from his eyes and climbs the ruined wall until he can perch on the lip, one foot tucked underneath him, the other swinging gently against crumbling bricks.

The desert at night is balmy, not as cold as the deserts at home. But they are darker. The sky is a swathe of black velvet, fading into currant-red at the edges.

He keeps watch until the sun rises, but nothing happens. Nothing stirs. Even the sandstorms keep their distance.

“I didn't see anything unusual,” Tim says, as they pick their way through a meagre breakfast. “No sign of the dragon.”

“You won’t see the dragon,” Avrin says. “She sleeps--urk!”

Catus elbows him in the gut calmly, picking her teeth with the point of a dagger.

When a dragon dreams, it fills the sky, Via interrupts smoothly. But they do not always dream. We will keep moving, and wait for the night to show us the way. It may take time.

“Is that a form of affection?” Dusty murmurs, watching Avrin rub his stomach.

“No, and please don't try it,” Tim says. “Catus, don't you know the way?”

“I do.” Catus starts sharpening her front tooth with the edge of the blade, unconcerned by the harsh, grating noise, or the way everyone flinches. “Won’t be letting others know though. I said I’d go with you and show you the way, and I’ll make sure the old lady doesn’t burn you to cinders, but I won’t give up dragon secrets just because you asked nicely. Find a way in, or don't.”

Avrin presses two fingers to his windpipe, looking scandalised. “The old lady.”

“She doesn’t mind what I call her!”

“But this is her desert,” Brimmet chides. “We shall respect her.”

Catus subsides with only a little grumbling. Tim spends all morning fielding questions from Dusty about affection in all its forms, and how violence is reserved for certain occasions. Granted, his experience is a little skewed, since his family shows love through batarangs, breaking and entering, and back-breaking hugs alike. But he can cover the basics.

When night falls again, they make camp near a smear of rock. Tim’s bedroll ends up on the very edge of the camp, in amongst a thick patch of wiry gorse and nettles. Robin curls close to him, and Dusty ends up putting a knee in his stomach, long limbs gone awry. When he wakes up in the morning, the sky is still smeared with red sand.

On the third night, Robin shakes him awake. He comes alive instantly, reaching out to check her for injuries, but she just throws her head from side to side. There is a small smile on her face; that, more than anything, convinces Tim to relax and pay attention.

His eyes sting with the late hour. He must’ve only slept for an hour or two, but the sky behind Robin’s dark head of hair is lacquered with shimmering, burnished gold.

“I’m no expert,” Tim says, tilting his head up slowly. “But if that isn’t a sign, I’ll eat my own staff.”

The sky sings with light. Streamers of deep red and crackling orange light up the night. It looks like fire, like life, like a thousand ribbons burning slowly in a sea of stars.

“Dragon’s Dawn,” Catus says. “That’s a rough translation, but it’s as close as I can get. She’s dreaming of the door. Just follow the fire and make your way down.”

“Down?”

Catus grins at him. He thinks again of that flat nothingness on the map, and frowns, turning his face back to the lights.

Dusty shifts. “Do you have anything like this at home?”

“Yes,” Tim says. “You have to be pretty far North or South or up high to get a good view. But there are pictures. We call it an Aurora, and the lights are blue and green.”

“Not so different here then.”

“Yes, but ours occur when particles from our sun travel down our magnetic field lines and react with the gases in our atmosphere,” Tim explains patiently, still gazing up. “It doesn’t happen because a great big dragon is having a really good dream.”

“Not that you know of,” Dusty says.

It is time, Via says.

They pack up the camp quickly and silently. The fire in the sky undulates, wavering gently with the soft edge of sleep, but eventually each flickering tongue vanishes over a tall dune.

“Brace yourself,” Brimmet says, as they start the climb.

At the top of the dune, the world turns dark.

Catus throws her arms up, as though she’s embracing it. “Sandstorm!”

But a localised one. A single, swirling funnel that fills his vision. It doesn’t move from its position. Tim peers sharply through his fingers, scanning the dustball at the bottom of the dune that fills his vision. The desert slinks into a valley here, almost as though all the sand is being pulled, gently but persistently, down a drain. The sandstorm swirls around it, a protective cylinder that seethes and howls.

“The sandstorm is the door,” Tim mutters.

“Took you long enough,” Catus says, cackling. “More like the porch step though.”

Via dips her head against the wind. We can only pass through when the dragon is dreaming.

“What happens if she wakes up while we’re inside the sandstorm?” Dusty asks.

“Do we need to think about that?” Avrin asks tentatively.

“I don't think the outcome matters if we think about it or not,” Tim mutters dryly, and then he raises his voice to be heard over the wind. “We need to get moving. Everyone cover their faces, shield your mouths and eyes if you can. And move fast.”

They pass out strips of cloth and tuck their chins into their collars. Tim slides out the staff and grips it tightly, digging it into the ground with each step to anchor himself on the shifting floor.

Hold tight, Via says. Breathe into me.

Robin clings tightly to her fur, burying her face in Via’s neck. The wind whips at their figures furiously, grains of sand sliding and slicing their skin.

Tim knows they've found the door when the air stills. Silence billows around them. He yanks the cloth down from his mouth and breathes in deeply. The air tastes like metal and heat. Robin slides down off Via’s back and does a single, slow turn on her heel, taking in their cage. All around them, the sandstorm rages; above them, in a clear circle of sky, the trailing ends of firefly-coloured streamers flicker and shake.

And there, in the middle of the circle, in the ever-shifting sea of sand, is a staircase leading down into the dark.

The desert has a stomach, and it bleeds red.

The staircase goes on and on, delving deeper into the desert’s seething underbelly. The steps are carved from smooth obsidian, littered with coarse grains of red sand. Tim reaches for a railing, but his fingers find only walls of smooth, unfamiliar stone.

“This darkness is warm,” Duustrius murmurs, from somewhere behind him. “But I sense it is fading soon.”

As though they were waiting for the God’s permission, bronze sconces burst to life on either side of them. One after another, they flicker with gold fire, illuminating the long way down.

A few steps down, Robin raises one small hand and traces the wall. They rise up on either side of the staircase, boxing them in, and the strange stone shines with odd, internal light, lined with veins of gold and burning, ruby red.

“Firestone,” Catus tells them, as they descend further. “The whole place is made out of it. Not s’posed to tell anyone, but I’ve already broken the rules by lettin’ you run riot in here, so I might as well.”

“Forged in a dragon’s heart,” Dusty says, awed.

Catus slips on the next step. The others carry on, but she whirls around to look at him sharply.

“How d’you know that?”

Tim lingers, bracing for a fight.

“So much of it,” Dusty says, running his fingers along an emerald vein. “It’s beautiful.”

“This firestone,” Tim says, before Catus can strike. “Is it important?”

Catus lets her gaze drift away from Dusty, frowning. “Not really, not anymore. Might be, if humans got their hands on it. But it was only really valuable between dragons.”

Grief touches her tone. She gives Dusty one last suspicious look before hurrying after the others. Tim waits until there’s some distance between them before he urges an explanation out of Dusty. And Dusty is eager, even honoured, to explain.

“Dragons generally breathe fire from a compartment in their stomach. It burns hotter than anything you’ve ever felt, hotter even than the fires in my old forge. They used to use it to melt down gold and other treasures to build their nests with, to craft beautiful trinkets and weapons of great glory. They were the original blacksmiths of this world.”

Torches flicker to life on either side of them as they descend the staircase. It curves sharply to the left, still tunnelling deeper into the desert floor. The stairs are unarguably descending, but Tim feels hot with exertion, his thighs beginning to ache. It feels as though he’s climbing up, as though he’s searching for handholds and footholds.

“Over time, wars broke out, and dragons stopped forging. They stopped selling to humans and the like. They retreated, and they hid from the world. But they never stopped creating.”

“Firestone,” Tim says, glancing against the smooth, towering walls. “It looks valuable. Like ash made solid.”

“Essentially, yes. It wasn’t long after they went into hiding that dragonkind discovered a secret about themselves, something they had never been allowed to know.” Dusty’s shadow curls around his wrist and tugs, leading it away from the wall. “Fire that came from their stomach would simply melt any ore or metal it came into contact with. But there was another, smaller compartment in their heart that could create fire. And if it touched gold, the gold turned red and green and silver, and became the strongest substance in the universe. Nothing could break it. Not even a dragon.”

“But they stayed in hiding,” Tim says, frowning. “Why not use it to protect themselves? Why not make armour, weapons, houses?”

“It takes a lot of energy to use a dragon’s hearthfire.”

“Hearthfire?”

“The name of the forging technique. The compartment in their heart is much smaller than the ones in their stomach, and requires fuel, energy, and rest between bursts. Some younger dragons almost burned out trying to use it. For that reason, it became something of a secret, and most dragons only used it a few times in their lives. They would craft small gifts or items of value to barter or court between their own species.”

“But this isn’t a courting gift.” Tim cranes his neck back at the high, vaulted ceiling of the cavern. Red stone blankets the sky, dark and smooth and glimmering with constellations of green. “This is an entire world of firestone.”

Dusty inclines his head.

Mouth dry, Tim asks, “How big is the Being we’re going to see?”

“In years past, dragons were the size of cities and mountains.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No, it isn’t,” Dusty agrees. “But I rather think we’re walking inside the answer, don't you?”

Climbing down into it, climbing up into it. The loss of direction dizzies him briefly; Tim forcibly turns his thoughts away from it, latching onto something else instead.

“And how did you know about it? The Firestone. Sounds like it’s a closely-guarded secret.”

Dusty frowns, ever so slightly. “You hear things, I suppose. I’ve always loved stories.”

But there’s something there, in his voice, that tells him he’s cottoned onto what Tim finds strange about all that. How many stories could he have heard down there, in the dark? Where nobody visited him? But before he can ask, the staircase levels out into a shadowed hallway, and a blast of cool air greets them.

“How can there be a draught underground?” Avrin asks, with a little shiver.

“You haven’t been down here before?” Tim asks. “I thought this was Catus’s home.”

Avrin makes the same motion from before, putting two fingers to his windpipe. As though he’s crossing himself, Tim realises. Which God is listening though?

“It’s the home of all dragons, in a way. But we’ve never been down here. Catus doesn’t visit very often, and she’s never brought visitors with her. Nobody has.”

Tim raises one eyebrow.

“That’s right, Timberly,” Catus says, all cheer. “You’re the first outsiders to enter the halls of Lady Lorelai, Second Being, mother of all dragons, since the dawn of creation. And without her permission, no less! But I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“That sounds like something I should probably spend some energy worrying about,” Tim says.

“Nah, I’d be more concerned about the fact that we’ve probably woken her up. She’s cranky in the mornings.”

From deep within the halls, a low, echoing grumble begins.

Chapter 23: Dragon's Lair

Chapter Text

Pillars of basalt mark the entrance to the main hall. The door between them is a heavy stone monstrosity, black and veined with rust-red, brushed with the colour of time. Bits of dark moss cling to the engravings, growing stubbornly even in the dry, hot air.

“This is where she usually hangs out,” Catus says.

“Please.” Avrin exhales harshly. “Stop talking about the Lady like she’s one of us.”

Catus rolls her eyes, but subsides. There isn’t a handle on either door, but there are keyholes where the handles would have been, each one as wide as a fist and void of any light. The sconces on the walls flare to life as Catus places her palms against the keyholes, covering the blackness.

Underneath her palms, there’s a flicker of red light. Red fire. A horrible, acrid scent fills the air.

Tim steps forward automatically, reaching for his staff. “What are you doing?”

Catus grits her teeth. “You can only open the door if you’ve got dragon blood in you. And dragon blood burns pretty hot.”

The doors swing open with a heavy, awful grinding noise, the sound of aged, swollen stone scraping against dust-ridden stone. Catus drops her hands; her palms are thick with blood. Brimmet moves towards her, frowning, but Catus waves her away.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Tim says.

“No other way in. Relax, Timothy. I’ve done it before.”

The thought curdles in his stomach. But Tim holds his tongue, something that doesn’t come easily, and follows their tidy procession through the doorway.

Tim is familiar with fairytales. He was never one for stories, and his parents never had the time or the interest to read to him as a child. But he did read. He grew up devouring comics and watching cartoons about daring heroes, knights of old. That was part of what drew him to Bruce in the first place. There was something noble about the act of going out and defending the city from evil. It felt like something out of an old fable, an exciting thrill, a daring adventure.

He’s seen pictures of dragon’s lairs and caves full of treasures. He was imagining something like the cave at home, but with less computers, and littered with shining gems. He expected gold. Rubies and diamonds and stacks of coins, chests from sacked ships, boxes dripping with jewellery. But the dragon’s lair isn’t anything like that of a picture book, or an old fairytale, or a cave where a man watches over his city from the shadows.

This dragon’s lair is a museum.

The walls of Firestone are blanketed in gilded frames and thick heavy tapestries. Mirrors all along the far wall reflect the light of a hundred polished chandeliers, each one decorated with silver and seashells and smooth, round stones. The floor is a work of art itself, a mosaic of lapis lazuli and delicate hand-painted tiles that tell a thousand tales. It’s almost impossible to see through the haze and darkness, but the vaulted ceiling looks similarly adorned.

Everywhere he looks, there is something intricate and beautiful looking back. Plinths of stone covered in swathes of shining satin, reels of silk and reams of embroidered velvet. Ceramics and vases that have shattered and been repaired with thin, spidering lines of gold. Ornate boxes and marvels of wood, glass structures that twist and catch the light, and even paper creations that twirl lazily in the dry breeze that follows them as they creep down the main aisle of the room.

“Spoils of war,” Dusty murmurs.

Their footsteps echo in the dusty halls. The procession winds down the main aisle, flanked by red pillars that boast more sconces, each one lighting the way to a tall, velvet-black dais of stone at the end of the hall.

On top of the dais, there is a dark throne made of twisted gold and smooth red stone.

On top of the throne, there is a woman with dark skin and a coil of red plaited hair, and a smile that shines like a dagger.

Tim stops near the plinth, keeping a wary eye on her. She isn’t just sitting on the throne. She’s lounging on it, one bare foot propped against a crate, her chin tilted up and her lip curled. Glittering steel litters the floor at her feet; weapons, old and new and coveted, discarded at the foot of her throne. She is all sleekness, built for hunting, velvet muscles and sinew and soft paws that hide sharp claws.

“My Lady,” Catus says.

She stands in one smooth motion. Tim drops a hand to his waist, to the dagger concealed in his belt.

“Congratulations,” she says, in a rough voice. “Not many make it past the doors of sand.”

“They had help,” Catus offers, stepping forward.

She looks at her sharply, but carefully, as though dissecting her. Her eyes are full of faint, burning gold.

“I know very well how they got here.”

And then she leans forward, almost as though she means to fall into a crawl, but her neck keeps going, elongating, and her skin stretches, and her glossy hair shrinks back into her head, turning molten and gold. Her smooth skin turns hard, chiselled away to form chips of stone and glass, hard and gleaming like onyx. Scales. Tim can’t tear his gaze away as her muscles stretch and bulge, a beautiful ripple as her shape shifts and changes, as her mouth opens and opens to reveal a cavern of long teeth gleaming with gold spittle. Crack after crack echoes through the halls as her bones break, snapping in half only to meld together in different forms, in different shapes, crafting a skeleton of iron and stone.

The last thing to grow is the wings. They rise out of her back, two needle-thin points of black that stretch high above her great head. For a moment, Tim thinks they’re broken, that only the faintest framework remains.

But then the dragon shakes, as though she’s settling into her new skin.

The wings unfold delicately from the points of the needles. The membrane stitches itself into existence, spreading from bone to bone like delicate lacework, revealing two thin wings embroidered with gold whorls.

“By the Gods,” Avrin whispers, crossing himself again.

Brimmet bows her head. Via, too, inclines her head, but keeps her eyes up. Robin buries her face in Via’s fur.

“Beautiful,” Dusty murmurs, somewhere behind him.

Tim can’t look away. Not as the dragon steps forward on one huge leg, large enough to hold up temples and hallowed halls alike. Not as she opens her jaw wide and lets a cloud of hot breath roll across the floor, bringing with it the stinging smell of iron. Not as she beats her wings once, hungry glee in her golden eyes, and rises steadily into the air.

Her eyes are like two burning suns.

He only looks away when Catus steps forward. She falls to one knee and bows her head.

It looks wrong on her.

“Lady Lorelai,” Catus calls. “I brought them here to ask for your help. Thatta problem?”

The dragon remains poised above them, threadbare wings filling the sky. Sharp, gold teeth curve like daggers, bared in a pointed smile.

“That remains to be seen. Do they pose a threat?”

Her voice is even rough in this form, like uncut diamonds.

“None of them want to hurt us.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“You’re her, aren’t you?” Tim interrupts.

Catus whips her head around but stays kneeling, her eyes wide with disbelief. She shakes her head furiously.

The dragon’s nostrils flare. “You break into my home, but you do not know who I am?”

“I like to be sure,” Tim says, his pulse ticking up. “I’d hate to bring the party to the wrong venue. You’re Luna and Lydia’s sister?”

“They are no sisters of mine.”

Dusty makes a small, cut-off sound. Hurt, almost.

“But they were?” Tim asks.

The dragon rises another foot in the air, hovering above her throne.

“I am Lorelai, the Second Being of this World and Others. I hold the Dominion of Truth, though it has since been taken from me. I came here, many years ago, when the world above splintered beyond recognition. It was my fire that forged these halls, and my wings that blew the sands into being. I built a sanctuary beneath this desert, and it has remained thus ever since. Until you invaded it.”

Second, Tim thinks, mind racing. Second Being, not Third.

Her golden eyes burn with heat. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck. Tim swallows convulsively, ignoring Catus’s hissed warnings, the way Brimmet murmurs steadily under her breath, a chant to shield them from death.

“We do pose a threat,” Tim continues. “There’s no point in lying about it. We have magic, and weapons, and we’re all trained in violence, even if the ways we got there are different. We pose a threat. But not to you.”

The dragon turns in the air. Even that small motion stirs up soot and dust in a great wave. The powerful muscles of her shoulders shift and tense, and she lowers her long, lithe neck until he can see the glow of hot embers burning in her throat.

“There are very few who pose a threat to me, Tim Drake.”

By now, he isn’t surprised that she knows his name. He would have been more surprised if she hadn’t known him, even in sleep, even down here in the red belly of the desert. But it irks him. It annoys him. He doesn’t want to be known by something that’s had its eyes closed for all this time, something that makes its own kind bleed just to come home.

“Then why are you hiding?” Tim asks.

A hush falls over the hall.

“Why are you hiding?” Tim presses, mouth dry. “Why build a fortress that could keep the whole world safe and lock yourself away in it, where nobody can find you and you can’t see what’s happening out there? There must be something out there that scares you if this is what you’ve had to do to escape it.”

Avrin murmurs a prayer, frantic and pleading. Catus swears viciously and unendingly under her breath. But the dragon simply looks on calmly, almost curiously.

“I do not know that I would call it fear,” the dragon says. “I do not think fear is something I have felt before. Fate did not make us with fear in mind. Fate did not make us with anything in mind, beyond idle curiosity.”

Behind him, Dusty twitches.

“What would you call it then? If you wouldn’t call it fear?”

“Good sense.” The dragon rumbles with something that might have been a laugh. “Something that you are sorely lacking in.”

Even though his heart is in his throat, and he can taste his own fear like coppery bile in the back of his mouth, he manages a laugh. Short, and breathless, but there.

“In my family, I’m supposed to be the sensible one.”

The dragon’s eyes sharpen. “We have that in common then.”

“Then you must have had a good reason for living down here.” He carefully doesn’t call it hiding again, even though he’s still irked. “Is it because of your family? Your sisters?”

“Tim,” Catus hisses.

But Via is silent. There isn’t a wisp of thought in his mind, not a plea for restraint or a chiding look over her shoulder. And that’s enough for him to keep going. Tim trusts these people, this strange little amalgamation of friends and guides that he’s found, but if he’s going to follow the lead of anyone here, it’s going to be Via.

“If it is, you should do something about it,” Tim says. “They dragged me into all this from another world.” He straightens, his ire turning to certainty, to deadly calm. “I left my family behind to save them. You should try saving your family instead of leaving them.”

The red desert holds its breath. The dragon in its belly lifts its wings and rumbles deeply, as though preparing to strike. Catus bends her back until her hair skims the floor, eyes closed, fear painted on every inch of her skin. Their friends follow suit, all of them kneeling, murmuring, reaching for bags or hands or prayers.

Tim’s knees buckle, but he stays standing.

The dragon opens her mouth, her jaw wide and dripping with malice. But the fire doesn’t come. Instead, smoke pours from between her teeth, grey and plumed with red. It fills his vision, fills the cavern, obscuring the dragon from view.

When the smoke fades, there’s a woman standing on the plinth again. Her skin is still rich and dark, but now it’s swirled all over with gold ink. Her eyelids and the pads of her fingers are stained pure gold. Her coil of hair has come undone, auburn and thick but shaved short at the sides, threaded with strands of copper and black. Her clothes are thin and faint, as though they’ve degraded over time, losing their colour and richness.

But there is nothing faint or lost about the fierce gleam in her eye as she surveys them.

“You have woken me from a long, deep sleep, Tim Drake,” she says, with a quiet grin. “You had better pray that reality is better than the dream you woke me from.”