Chapter Text
The knock echoed through Wayne Manor like a gunshot.
Sharp. Heavy. Deliberate.
It cut through the kind of silence that only ever settled over the manor at four in the morning. The old house had always been loud in its quiet—floorboards creaking as the wood settled, pipes humming softly behind the walls, wind brushing against ancient windows. But this was different.
This was someone at the front door.
Alfred looked up from his book, one brow raising.
The grandfather clock in the sitting room ticked on, unbothered. 4:03 AM.
An odd hour for visitors.
The family had returned from patrol just over an hour ago. Bruce had gone to bed after his usual half-hearted insistence that he still had reports to finish, only for Alfred to physically remove the tablet from his hands. Tim had looked seconds from faceplanting into the cave floor. Steph had been talking enough for three people despite nearly falling asleep standing up. Duke and Cass had disappeared upstairs without much fuss.
And now, somehow, someone was knocking at the front door.
Alfred carefully folded the corner of his page and set his book aside on the end table.
Who, exactly, would be arriving at Wayne Manor at this hour?
More importantly—how?
The gates surrounding the property were monitored twenty-four hours a day. Motion sensors lined the grounds. Cameras covered every possible blind spot. Bruce had enough security systems layered over the estate to make most government buildings look underprepared.
And yet someone had made it all the way to the front door without setting off a single alarm.
Curious.
Alfred rose smoothly to his feet. Age had long since become a poor excuse for slowing down. If anything, he’d only gotten more efficient with it.
His steps were quiet against the polished hardwood as he crossed the foyer.
Perhaps he’d imagined it.
His hearing remained perfectly adequate, thank you very much, but even he could admit the occasional late hour and poor lighting made for tricks of the mind. Four in the morning was not exactly prime time for perfect judgment.
Still, when he reached the door, he hesitated only briefly before unlocking it.
The hinges moved soundlessly as he pulled it open.
And froze.
For a moment, Alfred simply stared.
There, standing on the front steps beneath the pale wash of moonlight, was Talia al Ghul.
It had been years.
She looked hardly changed, as though time had simply elected not to touch her. Dark hair fell neatly over one shoulder, immaculate despite the hour. Her expression was calm—too calm, in that particular way she had always carried herself. Controlled to the point of unnerving.
But it wasn’t Talia that rooted Alfred to the spot.
It was the two boys with her.
Young. No older than ten, perhaps younger.
Twins.
There was no mistaking what they were.
One stood at her side, rigid and silent, his face blank in a way no child’s should ever be. Dark hair framed sharp features too familiar to ignore. His eyes—cold green and watchful—were entirely his mother’s.
And his face…
Master Bruce’s face stared back at Alfred from a child’s body.
The second boy was slumped over Talia’s back.
Motionless.
Small arms hung limp over her shoulders. His head lolled to one side, dark hair partially obscuring his face.
Even from where he stood, Alfred could tell.
The child was dead.
Not freshly.
The body had long since gone cold.
A strange sort of stillness clung to him, one that settled heavy in Alfred’s chest.
The boy standing beside Talia did not move.
Did not speak.
He simply stared straight ahead, expression hollow.
Alfred’s mind, for perhaps the first time in decades, stalled completely.
Questions crashed together all at once.
Why was Talia here?
Why now?
Why had she brought—
No.
There would be time for questions.
For now—
Without a word, Alfred stepped aside.
Talia inclined her head ever so slightly and entered the manor.
The living boy followed soundlessly, each step precise and measured. He did not look around. Did not gawk at the cavernous foyer or the towering staircase or the portraits lining the walls.
He kept his eyes forward.
Talia carried the other child inside with unsettling ease.
Once the doors were shut behind them, Alfred turned toward the staircase.
And raised his voice just enough to carry through the manor.
“Master Bruce.”
A beat.
Then, louder.
“Master Bruce, I believe you’ll want to come downstairs. Immediately.”
Bruce was yelling.
Damian knew that.
He could hear his father’s voice somewhere in front of him, sharp and demanding in the way only Batman could manage, each word clipped and edged like a blade.
Talia was answering.
Her voice was smooth.
Cold.
Controlled.
The kind of calm that only ever meant she was furious.
They were arguing.
Fighting.
Words instead of weapons.
For now.
Bruce had asked what happened.
What happened to him.
What happened to the boy on the floor.
What happened to his sons.
But Damian couldn’t hear the answer.
Couldn’t focus on any of it.
Because all he could see was Daniel.
His brother’s face stared blankly toward the manor ceiling, pale and still and wrong.
Wrong wrong wrong.
Daniel should have been glaring.
Rolling his eyes.
Making some insufferably smug comment about how Father looked older than expected.
Anything.
Anything but this.
Damian’s breathing hitched.
And suddenly he wasn’t in Wayne Manor anymore.
He was back.
Back in Nanda Parbat.
Back on cold stone slick with sweat and blood.
Back where everything had gone wrong.
It had started as a normal morning.
Or as normal as mornings in the League of Assassins ever were.
The training grounds were quiet except for the sharp crack of wood striking wood and the rhythmic sound of controlled breathing.
Damian lunged.
Daniel sidestepped.
Effortless.
Always effortless.
Damian hated that.
Daniel was only older by seven minutes and somehow acted as if that made him impossibly wiser.
Worse, he was stronger.
It didn’t look it.
Damian was leaner, sharper around the edges, all coiled precision and speed. Daniel had the same build, the same face, the same dark hair that constantly fell into his eyes.
But Daniel had always hit harder.
Moved faster.
Recovered quicker.
And he never let Damian forget it.
“Too slow,” Daniel said, grinning as he knocked Damian’s practice blade from his hand.
Damian scowled.
“You telegraphed your movement.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I did not.”
Daniel’s grin widened.
“You’re doing it again.”
Damian launched himself at him.
Daniel laughed.
Nearby, their mother stood with Ra’s al Ghul at the edge of the training ring, watching.
That wasn’t unusual.
They often observed.
Measured.
Judged.
Everything in the League was a test.
Every movement.
Every mistake.
Every breath.
But something had been off.
Even then.
Damian remembered it now—the tension in Talia’s shoulders, the rigid way she held herself.
The low murmur of voices.
Too quiet to fully hear.
Still, fragments reached him.
“…their father…”
“…Gotham…”
“…train with him…”
“…return…”
Then Ra’s voice, sharper.
“No.”
The word cracked across the courtyard.
The twins froze.
Daniel lowered his practice sword.
Damian turned.
Talia’s expression had hardened.
“The boys will live with their father,” she said, louder now. Firmer.
“They will continue their training there and return when they are prepared to lead.”
Ra’s laughed.
Not with humor.
With disbelief.
“With Bruce Wayne?”
“With their father.”
“He has made them weak before they have even met him.”
The air shifted.
Dangerous.
Daniel stepped closer to Damian.
A silent warning.
Then the shouting started.
Fast.
Explosive.
Voices rising.
Accusations hurled like daggers.
And then—
Violence.
Because that was how the League settled everything.
Ra’s moved first.
A blur of steel.
Talia met him instantly.
The clash of blades rang through the courtyard.
Neither twin hesitated.
Their grandfather was attacking their mother.
There was no decision to make.
They joined the fight.
Damian rushed left.
Daniel went right.
They moved as they always had—wordless, instinctive, perfectly synced.
A practiced rhythm.
Damian aimed low.
Daniel high.
Force and precision.
They drove Ra’s back for half a second.
Then he adapted.
Because he was Ra’s al Ghul.
Because he had centuries of experience.
Because children, no matter how skilled, were still children.
He caught Daniel first.
One hand fisting in the back of his tunic, wrenching him backward.
Daniel twisted violently, elbow slamming into Ra’s ribs.
“Let go!”
“You belong here,” Ra’s snarled.
Daniel fought harder.
Kicked.
Bit.
Struck.
And Ra’s—
Ra’s hit him.
One brutal strike to the side of his head.
Daniel’s body went limp before it hit the stone.
The sound it made—
Damian would hear that sound for the rest of his life.
A sickening crack.
Then silence.
Everything stopped.
For one impossible moment the entire courtyard froze.
Daniel lay twisted on the ground.
Still.
Too still.
No movement.
No breath.
No sound.
Dead.
Talia screamed.
A raw, furious sound Damian had never heard from her before.
She launched herself at Ra’s with enough force to drive him back.
Her blade flashed.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Relentless.
Murderous.
She was not fighting to win.
She was fighting to kill.
Damian barely noticed.
He dropped beside Daniel.
Hands shaking.
“Daniel?”
Nothing.
“Daniel.”
No response.
He grabbed his brother’s shoulders.
Shook him.
Harder.
“Daniel, get up.”
Nothing.
His skin was already cooling.
No.
No no no.
The Pit.
The Lazarus Pit.
It would fix this.
It fixed everything.
It had to.
It would.
It would.
It would.
Damian hooked his arms beneath Daniel’s and pulled.
His brother’s body was heavier than it should have been.
Dead weight.
No.
No.
This was fine.
The Pit would fix him.
Daniel would wake up angry and annoyed and probably insult Damian for panicking.
Everything would be fine.
Everything would—
A wet slicing sound cut through the chaos.
Damian didn’t register it.
Didn’t hear the heavy thud that followed.
Didn’t hear the horrified gasps from the surrounding assassins.
Didn’t understand that his mother had just slit Ra’s al Ghul’s throat so deeply there would be no coming back.
Not even for him.
Damian only kept dragging Daniel.
Toward the Pit.
Toward hope.
Toward anything.
Then arms wrapped around both of them.
Talia.
“Mother—”
“We leave. Now.”
“The Pit—”
“There is no time.”
“There is—”
“Damian.”
Her voice broke.
Just once.
And that was enough to make him stop fighting her.
Because Talia al Ghul did not break.
Not unless everything had already shattered.
The League had erupted around them.
Blades drawn.
Shouts echoing.
Loyalists choosing sides.
Chaos exploding through the courtyard.
Talia hauled both boys toward the hidden path beyond the wall.
Toward the motorcycle she always kept prepared.
For emergencies.
For escape.
For betrayal.
Damian climbed on numbly.
Daniel cradled in his arms.
His brother’s head lolled against his chest.
Talia started the engine.
And as they tore into the night, Damian held Daniel tighter.
Waiting.
For him to wake up.
For him to move.
For him to breathe.
He didn’t.
The motorcycle didn’t stop.
Not once.
It tore through mountain roads and empty highways, cutting through the dark like it was trying to outrun what had happened.
Maybe Talia was.
Damian didn’t know.
He sat rigid on the back, Daniel’s body held tightly against his chest.
At first he kept waiting.
Waiting for movement.
For warmth.
For his brother to jerk awake with a gasp and demand to know why Damian was crushing him.
For him to complain.
To sneer.
To call him dramatic.
Anything.
But hours passed.
And Daniel stayed still.
The warmth left first.
Slowly.
So slowly Damian almost convinced himself he imagined it.
His brother’s skin cooled beneath his hands, the last traces of life slipping away mile by mile.
By the time Gotham’s skyline appeared in the distance—dark and jagged against the barely-lightening sky—Daniel was cold.
Completely.
Undeniably.
Dead.
Damian’s grip tightened anyway.
As if holding on harder might somehow change that.
It didn’t.
Talia slowed only when they reached the outskirts of the city.
A narrow strip of woods swallowed the road, thick enough to hide what needed hiding.
She guided the motorcycle off the pavement and deeper between the trees until they reached a concealed metal structure half-buried beneath overgrowth.
One of her caches.
Prepared years ago.
Because Talia al Ghul planned for everything.
Even this.
Even arriving in Gotham before dawn with one living son and one dead.
The bike disappeared behind reinforced steel.
The doors sealed shut.
And then there was nothing left to do but walk.
Talia lifted Daniel from Damian’s arms.
For half a second Damian resisted.
His fingers locked around his brother’s sleeve with enough force to ache.
But eventually he let go.
He had to.
Talia secured Daniel carefully against her back.
Not like cargo.
Not like something being transported.
Like a mother carrying her sleeping child.
Then she started toward the city.
Damian followed silently at her side.
The path was uneven.
Roots twisted beneath their feet, branches clawing at their clothes as they moved through the trees.
Gotham loomed ahead.
Gray.
Cold.
Waiting.
And for a moment—
Just a moment—
Talia let herself pretend.
With Daniel on her back and Damian walking beside her, it almost looked normal.
Almost.
Like they were simply returning from a mission.
Like Daniel was asleep after exhausting himself.
Like Damian’s silence was his usual brooding irritation.
Like both her boys were alive.
Safe.
Whole.
But silence had a way of forcing truth into the open.
And this silence was deafening.
Talia glanced down.
Damian’s face was blank.
Controlled.
Perfectly composed.
Years of League training etched into every line of his posture.
Anyone else would have seen nothing.
Would have thought him unaffected.
Steady.
Untouched.
But Talia was his mother.
And mothers noticed things no one else did.
The slight tension in his jaw.
The too-careful rhythm of his breathing.
The way his hands trembled at his sides—small enough to escape untrained notice, violent enough that she knew he was clenching every muscle just to keep it contained.
He was breaking.
Silently.
Internally.
Exactly as he had been taught.
Talia hated that.
She slowed her pace.
“Damian.”
He didn’t look at her.
His gaze stayed fixed ahead.
The distant Gotham skyline reflected faintly in his green eyes.
“You may cry.”
Nothing.
His hands shook harder.
Barely.
“Grief is not weakness,” she said quietly.
Still no response.
“You are permitted your anger. Your sadness. Your pain.”
The words felt foreign on her tongue.
The League did not allow such things.
The League crushed them out.
Turned children into weapons before they ever had the chance to become anything else.
And she had let it.
For too long.
“You are allowed to feel what you feel, habibi.”
Damian’s expression never changed.
Never cracked.
He just kept walking beside her, small shoulders rigid and straight.
Silent.
As if if he made even the slightest sound, he might shatter completely.
When Damian finally surfaced from the memory, the shouting was gone.
So was the manor.
The foyer.
The polished floors.
The accusing tension hanging between Bruce and Talia.
Cold air bit at his skin.
The sharp scent of freshly turned earth filled his lungs.
And he realized they were outside.
In the manor gardens.
No.
Not the gardens.
The private cemetery.
Small.
Hidden.
Tucked deep enough into the grounds that most of Gotham didn’t even know it existed.
This was where the Waynes buried their dead.
Where Thomas and Martha Wayne rested beneath stone softened by time and thriving white flowers.
Where every person Bruce loved would eventually be laid to rest.
Where Bruce himself would one day lie.
And where Jason Todd’s grave sat.
Empty.
Though no one ever said that part aloud.
The headstone remained pristine, untouched except for routine cleaning and the occasional replacement bouquet Alfred left there.
But everyone knew.
There was no body beneath it.
Hadn’t been for years.
Jason had clawed his way out of that grave with bloodied hands and broken fingernails, leaving only an empty coffin and ruined earth behind.
The flowers planted there had never grown back.
Alfred had tried.
Again and again.
Different seeds.
Different soil.
Different care.
Nothing ever took root.
The patch of earth remained stubbornly bare.
As though the ground itself knew no one rested there anymore.
And now—
Beside it—
Was another grave.
Fresh.
The dark soil still loose.
A neat mound of earth lined with newly planted seeds.
Damian stared.
His chest tightened so sharply it hurt.
The headstone was smooth black granite, polished enough to reflect the gray morning sky.
The inscription carved into it was simple.
In memory of Daniel al Ghul
2008–2016
A twin, a son, a loving boy gone too soon.
The words blurred.
Damian blinked hard.
Forced them back into focus.
No.
No.
No.
This wasn’t—
No.
Just beneath the unsettled earth lay the coffin.
He had watched them lower it.
Black reinforced metal.
Silver hardware catching weak sunlight.
A single engraved D etched into the lid.
Daniel’s.
Flowers had been laid across it before they closed it away.
White lilies.
Dark red roses.
A few sprigs of jasmine Talia had placed herself with trembling hands she thought no one noticed.
And then the seeds.
Alfred had suggested them quietly.
The same way they had done for Thomas and Martha.
The flowers planted with them still bloomed every year without fail, sprawling soft and bright across their graves as if refusing to let memory fade.
A living thing.
A reminder.
Something beautiful growing from grief.
Now Daniel had seeds too.
Tiny promises buried with him.
One day flowers would bloom here.
Life where there should only be death.
Damian hated the thought.
Because Daniel should have been here to see them.
Should have mocked the sentimentality of it.
Should have rolled his eyes and called it dramatic.
Should have been standing beside Damian, shoving him just hard enough to start a fight.
Instead he was beneath the earth.
Cold.
Still.
Gone.
Bruce stood a few feet away, motionless.
His expression was unreadable in the way Batman’s often was.
But Damian could feel it.
The grief.
The guilt.
The disbelief.
His father was staring at the grave of the son he had never known existed.
A child he had not met.
Had not trained.
Had not protected.
Had not even known to look for.
Gone before Bruce ever had the chance to know him.
Alfred stood beside him, hands clasped tightly behind his back.
Cass was there too, silent as ever, her face solemn.
Tim looked exhausted and pale, like he still hadn’t fully processed what was happening.
Steph had stopped talking entirely.
Duke stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
Dick arrived from Bludhaven the second he was called, now stood silently, tear tracks down his face.
No one spoke.
There was nothing to say.
The morning was too quiet.
The world too still.
Damian looked at Jason’s empty grave.
Then at Daniel’s full one.
And for one horrible moment, all he could think was how unfair it was.
Jason had come back.
Clawed his way out of death itself.
And Daniel—
Daniel hadn’t.
Pain came first.
Sharp.
Blinding.
A crack against the side of his head so sudden Daniel didn’t even register what had happened.
One second he was moving.
Fighting.
Breathing hard as steel clashed around him, his blade locked against his grandfather’s while Damian shouted somewhere to his left and their mother fought like a storm just beyond them.
The next—
Nothing.
No pain.
No sound.
No air.
No body.
Just—
Nothing.
It was dark.
Not the kind of dark Daniel knew.
Not the darkness of Nanda Parbat’s underground tunnels or the shadowed corners of training rooms after curfew.
This was different.
Complete.
Endless.
As though he’d been dropped into a tunnel with no walls, no floor, no ceiling, stretching forever in every direction.
He couldn’t feel himself.
Couldn’t feel his arms or legs or lungs.
Couldn’t tell if his eyes were open.
Couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t even panic properly because there was nothing inside him to panic with.
He simply was.
Floating.
Existing.
Drifting through endless black.
And for one strange, detached moment, Daniel thought:
So this is death.
It was a weirdly calm thought for an eight-year-old.
But Daniel al Ghul had never really been allowed to be just eight.
He’d looked death in the face more times than most grown men.
He had died twice before.
Training accidents.
A miscalculated blade.
A poisoned dart during one of Ra’s “lessons.”
Both times he’d been dumped into the Lazarus Pit before his body had even properly cooled.
Death had been brief.
Violent.
Burning green madness followed by the violent snap of returning to life.
This was none of that.
There was no burning.
No screaming.
No madness clawing at his mind.
Just emptiness.
Cold and vast and absolute.
And if Daniel could have shivered, he would have.
Time didn’t exist here.
Or maybe it did.
Maybe seconds passed.
Maybe centuries.
There was no way to tell.
Then—
Something shifted.
A sound.
Faint at first.
Like wind rushing through distant trees.
Soft.
Growing louder.
And suddenly light exploded through the darkness.
White.
Blindingly white.
It hit so fast Daniel would’ve stumbled backward if he’d had feet to stand on.
A pulse of green flashed through it.
Sharp and electric.
And then, all at once, he could see.
He still couldn’t move.
Still couldn’t feel his body.
But he could see.
The darkness had given way to something impossible.
An endless expanse of pale mist stretched around him, glowing softly as if lit from within.
And standing before him were two figures.
The first looked almost human.
Almost.
A woman draped in white so pure it hurt to look at directly.
Her dress flowed endlessly into the mist below, like it had no beginning or end.
Long white hair drifted around her though there was no wind.
Her face was hidden behind light too bright to make out, but Daniel somehow knew she was watching him.
Waiting.
Her hands were folded neatly in front of her.
Still.
Patient.
The second figure was—
Wrong.
Not bad.
Not dangerous, exactly.
Just fundamentally unlike anything Daniel had ever seen.
Blue skin.
Red eyes that glowed faintly in the pale light.
A deep purple hood shadowing white hair.
And embedded in the center of their chest was a clock.
Its golden hands ticked steadily.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The sound echoed through the mist like a heartbeat.
Daniel stared.
Wide-eyed.
Frozen.
He wanted to move.
Wanted to speak.
Wanted to ask where he was, what this was, if Damian was okay, if his mother had won, if he was really—
Dead.
But his mouth wouldn’t open.
His body refused to obey.
All he could do was look.
The woman in white tilted her head.
When she spoke, her voice was impossibly gentle.
“Daniel al Ghul.”
The sound wrapped around him like warmth.
Not spoken aloud.
Felt.
Heard somewhere deeper than ears.
“You have reached the end of one life.”
The blue-skinned being regarded him quietly, red eyes unreadable.
“But not the end of your existence,” they added, their voice layered strangely, as if a hundred versions of it spoke at once.
Daniel didn’t understand.
The woman stepped closer.
Mist curled around her feet.
“Death is rarely as final as mortals believe.”
At that, something flickered through Daniel’s awareness.
Confusion.
Fear.
Hope.
The clock in the other figure’s chest ticked louder.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
“Your thread was severed too soon,” they said.
“A life interrupted before it reached its intended course.”
The woman smiled.
Daniel couldn’t fully see it, but somehow he knew.
“There are paths still open to you.”
The mist shifted.
And suddenly images flared around him.
A city unlike Nanda Parbat.
Smaller.
Brighter.
Rows of suburban houses.
A laboratory glowing neon green.
Laughter.
Mess.
Chaos.
Warm hands cradling something impossibly tiny.
A man and woman with wild smiles and even wilder hair.
Then—
A baby.
Dark hair.
Blue eyes.
Him.
But not him.
The blue-skinned figure raised one hand.
Time itself seemed to bend around the motion.
“You will begin again.”
The words struck like thunder.
“In another place.”
“Another timeline,” the woman said softly.
“Another family.”
“A second start.”
Daniel wanted to protest.
Wanted to demand to go back.
To Damian.
To his mother.
To everything he knew.
But when he thought of Damian—
Of his twin—
Something inside him twisted painfully.
He was gone.
And Damian was still there.
Still living.
Still fighting.
Still hurting.
And somehow Daniel knew this was not something he could refuse.
The clock chimed.
A deep, resonant sound that shook the mist itself.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The blue-skinned figure extended a hand.
“Sleep now, Daniel al Ghul.”
“When next you wake,” the woman whispered, “you will be… loved.”
Light swallowed him.
White.
Green.
Endless.
And as Daniel’s awareness faded, the last thing he heard was the steady ticking of the clock.
Then—
Warmth.
Sound.
A heartbeat not his own surrounding him from every side.
And somewhere far away, a man laughed.
“It’s a boy!”
October, 2008.
Amity Park.
Daniel al Ghul died at eight years old in 2016.
And in another timeline, in another world, a newborn opened bright blue eyes for the very first time in the arms of Maddie Fenton and Jack Fenton.
His new life had just begun.