Chapter Text
Green light glows sinister, life and death alike held within its waters. Hands pull him to it, and he does not have the will or mind to fight.
They push him in, and the water, the light, embraces him.
He sinks, and it fills him. He screams, and the light floods his lungs. His eyes open wide, and he sees doorways beyond number.
Then something takes his hand.
An elder--a child--a man. The ticking of a grandfather clock echoes in his ears like a heartbeat.
Give these words to the Demon's Head, and never know the torment that was your fated rebirth.
His hand burns in their grasp, burns with ice, and then he is released, and he rises, and--
December 5th
The surface of the water breaks, and Jason gasps for air.
He struggles, trying to move his body, and everything feels wrong, foreign--his limbs feel awkward and don’t move the way he wants them to, and it's a struggle just to stay above the burning green.
He tries to reach out of the water, and his arms are grabbed--and then he’s hauled out of the water, and dumped onto stone.
He coughs, and when he can keep his eyes open, he sees the vile green spilling from his lungs. He gags, and more spills. His lungs burn, they burn and the poisonous light is inside him --
He vomits.
It takes a few moments before he finally begins to regain some semblance of control over himself. His body stops shaking, and he tries to push himself away from the mess on the floor. Hands grasp his arms, and on reflex, he jerks away, or tries to. The hands are unyielding, however, and he’s forced up off the floor to stand on shaky legs, uncertain if they can even hold his weight.
Slowly, he raises his head, and finally looks around the chamber. It takes him a long moment to really register what he’s seeing.
There’s a woman before him, watching him with a muted expression of shock. Her face has hardly moved, but it's in her eyes--their wideness, searching his face for something. He doesn’t know what.
She’s familiar. He knows her.
“Jason,” her low voice says, “Do you know who I am?”
It’s a struggle to work through his sludge of memories, until he finds the right ones.
“...Talia? …Al-Ghul?” he says hoarsely, and… is that really his voice? It doesn’t sound right. Its too deep, too rough.
“Intriguing.”
The voice comes from behind Talia; out of the shadows steps a man. A demon?
The Demon’s Head, his memories struggle to say. Ra’s al-Ghul.
“No signs of Pit Madness,” Ra’s says, looking Jason over with gleaming eyes; he feels like a bug under a microscope; he fears the needle that will pin him in place. “This has never happened before.” The Demon’s eyes flicker to the right. “Open his hand. Show me what he is holding.”
His hand-- his right hand--
“No!”
He wrenches away from the assassins who hold him; they grip onto him tighter, and he feels fury rise within him--
This time, when he slams his arm into the assassin at his right side, he launches them across the chamber; they hit the wall and fall limp. With his freed arm, Jason grabs onto the second assassin, and twists to throw them--right back into the pool of radioactive green water.
There’s a scream as the assassin hits the water, and they vanish beneath the surface.
Distantly, Jason realizes they’re probably no longer alive.
Ra’s is speaking again, giving commands, but all sound is cut through by the words that echo from Jason next.
“The Ghost of Time has words for the Demon’s Head.”
Jason turns to look at Ra’s, who has raised his hand--a silent command for his assassins to stop. Jason's eyes never waver from the gleaming, cunning gaze of the Demon.
"Your life is prolonged by the blood of ancient kings,” he says, and the words echo in his own mind; he hears another voice, elder, child, man, speaking the words within him. “In payment now, you shall allow this treasure to pass through your domain untouched. Take it for yourself, and the waters in which you wash away the years will dry up and cease to be, and Time will come to claim its due."
There is silence. The words aren’t his. He does not know the Ghost of Time, or ancient kings, or a treasure--
“Jason?”
Talia’s voice snaps him out of his spiral. He blinks, and turns to look at her as she moves in front of the Demon once more.
“Jason?” she repeats, slow and clear. “Are you well? Are you… yourself?”
“I…”
He blinks again. He realizes that there was a haze of green cast over everything he could see; he blinks a third time, and the haze begins to fade. He is dizzy, exhausted.
Where is he? How did he get here?
Where is Bruce?
( Bruce isn’t coming. He never came. )
“...I’m really confused,” he finally rasps, and this time, his voice is his own.
Talia doesn’t relax, but he can see something soften in her gaze
“We have a room prepared for you,” she says, still carefully keeping every word clear. “Allow me to take you there, and you may rest. When you feel better, I can explain what has happened to you.”
He sways slightly where he stands, then, finally, nods. He follows her.
She leads him through an opulent mansion, to a room that is large, with a bed that is soft and inviting. He stands in the center of the room, swaying ever so slightly; his memories are a conflicted, painful mess.
“How am I here?” Jason whispers, and even though his voice is different, it still sounds almost unbearably young, even to himself. “How… am I alive?”
“We are not certain,” Talia says slowly from the door. “There was a battle just outside of Gotham, however. It took place about a week before we found you. Someone sought to use magic to make themselves a god. The Justice League defeated them--but there were… considerable effects, felt throughout the world. I’m given to understand you are not the only one who rose from his grave.”
“You found me?” How did the League find him, and not his dad…?
“We were already looking,” she says. “My father… sometimes receives prophecies, from the Lazarus Pit. He has been watching for this battle for some months, ever since he last availed himself of the waters.”
“A prophecy? About me?” Jason’s never been important enough for something like that.
“We did not know at the time. Only that those claimed by death would walk the world again. We captured several of the resurrected, but given your background, we naturally took a far greater interest in you.”
“...Where’s my dad?” Jason finally asks, clenching his fists. He wants to go home, wants to feel safe.
( Memories of terrifying laughter and pain mock him. He was never safe. )
“He does not know you have returned,” Talia says softly. “And it would not be wise for you to try to return to him, just yet.”
“Are you keeping me a prisoner?”
“I wish to keep you safe,” Talia says, and the laughter that bubbles out of Jason is just shy of hysterical. He takes a step back from her, almost stumbles, and he thinks he loses a few moments of time, because suddenly Talia is before him, her hands on his shoulders. He feels a buzzing under his skin, inside his bones, and he looks at her with something just to the left of fear, but her dark green eyes are… almost gentle.
He didn’t know an assassin could look like that.
“Jason,” she says, “I swear to you that I mean you no harm. You are one of the chosen children of my Beloved. Whatever plots my father may have, I wish to see you safe, and one day, returned to my Beloved’s side.”
“But not right now,” Jason says dully.
“You have just returned to life by means we do not fully understand,” she says, “And were restored to your mind by exposure to something that is well-known for causing violence and madness. I want to make sure you are truly whole. If there were any… side effects… The League is better equipped than anyone else to help you recover from them.”
“And it's got nothing to do with whatever I pulled out of that glowing green hot tub.”
“That is my father’s goal,” she says firmly. “Not mine.”
Jason falls quiet, then swallows, clearing his throat. “...How long?”
“I do not know,” she says. “But I ask you to think of yourself, and your own welfare, for the moment. You are clearly exhausted, and have been through much. You’re disoriented, and do not know where you are. You are not in a condition to stage an escape from this place, to try and return to your father--and neither am I in a position from which I can assist you. My father knows my feelings for your father, and will not risk me spiriting you away from this place.”
“So you can’t help me.”
“Not yet,” she says. “But I promise you, I will.”
He doesn’t know if he believes her.
( He trusted his own mother, and look where it got him. )
He’s barely aware of her telling him where the bathroom and some clothes are. When she finally leaves, he spends several moments merely standing there, staring at the wall in front of him without really seeing it. Then, slowly, he turns to the bed, and goes to cautiously sit on its edge.
Finally, he holds up his right hand, and for the first time since he clawed his way back up out of the green, slowly uncurls his fingers to reveal the ‘treasure’ he apparently held.
It looks innocuous at first glance. Like a marble, maybe slightly larger. Perfectly round and smooth. But it's… strange. The colour changes as he tilts it one way or the other; from one angle, it appears a soft blue; from another, a painful shade of green that makes him think of that awful pit. It is a cold weight in his palm, and wisps of mist seem to emanate from it. The longer he looks at it, the more he thinks it might be glowing, ever so slightly.
“What are you…?” he murmurs quietly, brow furrowed. Deep inside, he feels answers rise up.
Fragile.
Precious.
Vital.
He knows, in something that feels like his very bones, that he’s meant to protect this little stone. It feels like a promise--a vow.
“What the fuck happened to me…?” he asks, but this time, no answers come.