Chapter Text
The aviary was the warmest — and the loudest— room in the sprawling, shadowy estate of Wayne Manor. It smelled of damp earth, dry feathers, and a bit like warm books. The guest that Father sometimes had over always fawned over his kindness: taking in a pack of orphans, and then giving them such rich gifts, too? Why, Bruce Wayne was the very picture of a philanthropist!
Of course, everyone ignored the small patch of tiny hills in the backside of the manor. If they even knew about it.
Damian knelt next to the most recent addition, gently petting the earth above.
"I'm sorry, Songblade," he whispered, unheard over the birdsong spilling from the distance. He knew he shouldn't have interfered. But Tim was so sick, he didn't want the younger boy to get in trouble. So he lied. And now, both Songblade and Little Bird had paid for it.
Damian knelt for a few more seconds. Then he stood, wiping the damp earth from the knees of his trousers. He took a steadying breath, letting the heavy, warm air of the aviary fill his lungs one last time before pushing open the door that led back into the main house.
Father's punishment wouldn't wait for something so trivial as feelings.
As he walked down the corridor, his mind betrayed him, dragging him back into the past.
Father had told him he was saving him from weakness. That his mother had been wrong to hide him, that his family deserved to die. Damian remembered the scent of copper and burning silk, the way his mother had looked when she fell, and the sheer, numb horror of being scooped up by the towering shadow of Batman and taken across the world.
For weeks, the fierce, proud heir of the Demon had been reduced to a weeping, broken wreck, curled in the corner of his new bedroom.
One day, Father had come into his room, and sat on the bed corner. He had talked gently, soothing Damian. He said that he understood what Damian was feeling. And then, he had asked Alfred to bring in a golden cage.
“You are lonely, Damian,” Father had said, his voice a deep, comforting rumble, his hand resting heavy and warm on Damian’s trembling shoulder. “This is for you. A gift. His name is Songblade.”
Damian had clung to that little bird like a drowning boy to a raft. He had tended to Songblade obsessively. He fed it from his hands, cleaned its cage, and whispered his darkest, most painful secrets through the golden bars. The bird’s song had become his only tether to sanity, the one thing that kept him feeling alive. He had loved it with a desperate, pathetic ferocity.
Then came the day Father had told him to burn the last remaining photograph of his mother. He claimed it was an insult to him.
It was the first time Damian had ever dared to refuse.
Father hadn’t yelled, he hadn’t even looked angry. His face had remained completely impassive, a terrifying mask of calm, as he turned away from Damian and walked over to the golden cage.
Damian’s breath hitched in the present as the memory played out behind his eyes. He could still hear the frantic fluttering of wings. He could still see Father’s massive, gloved hand reaching through the small door.
A single, wet snap.
The birdsong died out. The silence that followed was the loudest thing Damian had ever heard.
Father had dropped the limp, broken bundle of feathers onto the carpet, wiped his gloves with a handkerchief, and looked back at Damian. “Do we understand each other now, son?"
A new songbird had been given to him the very next day.
"You're going to be late, Master Damian."
Damian froze. Pennyworth stood at the end of the dimly lit corridor, posture as rigid and immaculate as the pressed seams of his uniform. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, and he wore the same gentle smile he always did.
Damian's hands balled into fists, and he felt his nails dig into his palms. "Where is Timothy?"
Alfred's smile did not falter. "The boy is currently in his room. The poor child was feeling rather unwell. Shivering, if I recall correctly."
"Father locked him in."
"Indeed," Alfred replied brightly, turning his back to Damian. It was a blatant dismissal. One that was perfectly justified. No matter how much Damian wished he could strike the old man, break his perfectly straight back, he knew better. If he gave in to his emotions now, the birds would not be enough to pay for it.
The next graves dug in the garden would be human-sized.
He swallowed his pride, forcing his fists to uncurl, and fell into step behind the butler.
"A most unfortunate time for him to become involved in today's unpleasantness," Alfred continued, as he led the way. "The boy's room is quite cold this time of year. Why, he must be feeling horrible without any blankets!"
The bottom dropped out of Damian’s stomach, replaced by a cold, sickening dread. He hadn’t just failed to protect Timothy; his lie had made the punishment worse. The crushing guilt suffocated the last sparks of defiance in his chest.
"Of course, none of this would have happened had he obeyed the rules of this house," Alfred sighed. "Your Father is an extraordinarily patient man. Far more patient than most would be. He gives you boys a home. His name. His time."
The words landed like stones. Pennyworth only ever cared about the maintenance of the house, and keeping Father unbothered, but sometimes, Damian found himself wishing he could just be good enough to earn the man's help.
It was a foolish hope.
He opened his mouth to tell the truth. To explain that Timothy had done nothing wrong, that he shouldn't have been punished. Then he thought of Songblade. The truth had never saved anyone.
He swallowed the words before they could escape. "I apologize," he said instead. "I did not mean to disappoint Father."
"He will be glad to hear that, dear boy. Perhaps…"
Hope flared before Damian could stop it. "Yes?"
"Perhaps I shall bring the child a warm bowl of broth and a heavy blanket... tomorrow morning," Alfred said. "Provided, of course, that the house remains peaceful tonight."
Damian knew what that meant.
"Understood, Pennyworth," he whispered, the word tasting like ash. He forced his tongue to move again, bowing his head in submission. "I will be quiet."
"I am so very pleased to hear that," Alfred said, his tone dripping with paternal warmth that made Damian’s skin crawl.
The butler gestured with a crisp, white-gloved hand toward the heavy oak door that led down to the Cave. "Your Father is waiting. Oh, and Master Damian?"
Damian paused at the threshold, the dark, damp air of the stairwell washing over his face.
"Do try to be mindful of the Persian rugs when you bleed this time," Alfred said gently. "They are always so very hard to clean."
Damian had, in fact, been mindful of the rugs.
He had dragged himself off the moment the first whip strike landed, taking the rest of the punishment on the unforgiving, freezing limestone of the Batcave floor. Now, he lay curled on his side, his breath shuddering through his teeth in wet, ragged gasps. Blood dripped slowly from his back, pooling into the microscopic grooves of the stone.
Above him, Father stood, looming.
"You have gotten better at taking your punishment, Damian," he remarked, wiping a fleck of blood from his cheek. "Perhaps, soon, I may even permit you to go outside again."
Outside.
The word burned.
Damian knew that the others would never be allowed to leave, no matter what they did. He knew the only reason Father allowed him beyond the Manor grounds was because he carried Wayne blood.
That, and the fact that he would never leave his brothers.
"I'm doing this for you, son," Father’s voice sounded almost soothing as he slowly curled the whip, wiping Damian's blood off. "You lied to me. I cannot have that under my roof. Especially not for outsiders."
The leather creaked.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father," Damian whispered to the floor.
"Good. You may go see to Timmy. And make sure Jaybird knows to wear the fancy stuff tonight, won't you?"
Bruce dropped the soiled cloth next to Damian, dismissing the nineteen-year-old entirely.
By the time Damian managed to force his battered body onto his hands and knees, Father was already seated at the computer.
He didn't watch as Damian crawled up the stairs to tend to his brothers.
He didn't need to.
Damian would obey, as he always did.