Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian always walked with his chin held high—that's how he was taught. He was the heir, and no one had the right to demand he lower his gaze out of respect. Of course, there were exceptions, like his grandfather and mother. He wasn’t impolite; he knew how a prince was supposed to behave.

So you can imagine the blow to his pride when his father punished him, forcing him to show respect to all servants, guards, and especially his half-siblings. It wasn’t his fault he had nearly killed his father's third son—he had simply followed his mother’s orders to eliminate all competition. In the East, it was normal to fight to the death for titles and inheritance. Still, he admitted his mistake: he should’ve better researched the rules of this country.

Since the incident, his father didn’t seem to trust him—if he ever did. From the moment he arrived in this land, Damian had been subjected to countless tests by witches and healers to verify whether he was telling the truth. He understood; it was common for kings to suffer the schemes of impostors. His father was cautious, and Damian respected him for it.

He had hoped that once the man confirmed his bloodline, he would name him heir. After all, he was his only blood son. Damian knew the king had adopted several others and taken them in as his own, but now that he was here, that shouldn’t be necessary. And yet, to his surprise, he was only given a lesser title—as the king’s fifth son. That left him five steps away from the throne, and apparently, things didn’t work here the way they did back home. Because of his outburst, his father now seemed unwilling to even look at him. If it had already been hard to get a moment alone with him, now it was impossible.

As punishment, his father assigned him a personal guard to follow him all day, claiming it was for his safety and protection. Damian doubted it. First, because he had been raised in one of the greatest warrior kingdoms in the East, trained since birth to kill and survive—combat was in his blood. Second, because of the look his father gave him. After the incident, the man had rushed to check on his bastard son, but never once asked about Damian. When he did look at him, his eyes were cold, filled with a rage ready to explode at any wrong move. That’s when Damian realized—his father, like everyone else in this place, saw him as a threat.

So yes, the guard wasn’t there to protect him. He was there to make sure Damian didn’t escape, didn’t kill anyone, didn’t pass along information or engage in anything “suspicious.”

Too bad the guard didn’t know Damian. After watching the boy sit in meditation for three hours, he must have let his guard down. Once he closed his eyes for a few minutes, Damian slipped away. He didn’t go far—just far enough to watch the man’s face twist in panic as he realized the prince had vanished. Damian wasn’t worried. The man wouldn’t admit right away that the boy entrusted to his care had escaped—not when that boy was a prince.

Damian would return. He just needed a moment alone.

He decided to circle through the garden and head toward the kitchens. From there, he’d pass through the dining hall, climb the stairs, walk down the corridor, and arrive at the library. It was a long path. Maybe there was a quicker route, but he didn’t yet know the castle well.

When he entered the kitchen, he didn’t look at anyone. After all, the staff shouldn’t concern themselves with his presence. But he noticed a girl point at him and whisper to her companion. No one bowed. It was easy to tell he was different: his skin, his features gave him away as a foreigner. And currently, the only foreigner in the castle was the bastard son from the Eastern kingdom.

He had learned quickly that his origins were frowned upon. His clan was known for its violence and black magic—things unwelcome in this land. It didn’t help that he was a child born out of wedlock. People whispered and judged. Worst of all, he couldn’t protest or deny their words unless he wanted his father to humiliate him in public by scolding him in front of everyone.

He heard whispers behind his back:

“The king is far too merciful. If a foreigner came to kill my son, I’d kill him with my own hands.”

Damian clenched his fists and walked faster. He left the kitchen and entered the dining hall. For some reason, his gaze remained fixed on the floor. He bumped into a servant, who simply looked at him and kept walking.

He noticed something: there were more people around, organizing and cleaning, moving with urgency. It looked like someone important was arriving. Damian hadn’t been told anything, but he wasn’t surprised. He always felt like he was trapped in some kind of limbo.

He climbed the stairs. From above, he could see the guards were more alert, confirming that someone was indeed arriving. At the top, he passed the portraits of his grandparents. Along the hallway were portraits of the king’s adopted children. He hoped they’d hang one of him soon—but that didn’t seem likely.

Finally, he reached the library.

To his surprise, the second prince, Jason Todd, was already there—without his usual guard, Roy. Jason noticed him right away, but didn’t acknowledge it. He continued reading the book in his hands. Slowly, he turned the page, his rough fingers grazing the edge with deliberate calm, as if more than reading, he was thinking.

Damian lingered at the doorway, silent, torn between stepping inside or turning back. The silence stretched between them like a taut rope, ready to snap. He knew Jason had seen him. He figured this kind of behavior was typical of Todd—he had heard of him before.

After all, necromancers were rare, and only survived thanks to Al-Ghul magic. Damian had never seen him in person, but tales of Jason had reached his ears. Long ago, in his kingdom, his mother had taken the dead son of her beloved and brought him back to life to cheer her husband and gain a loyal servant. But something went wrong in the training, and Todd escaped.

Fortunately, when he returned and presented himself before the king, he hadn’t said anything—or maybe he had, behind closed doors. Damian didn’t know.

"If you plan to stand there like a statue, at least close the door," Jason said, without looking up.

Damian frowned. He nearly answered back, but his father’s gaze flashed in his mind. He obeyed. The soft click of the wood closing echoed louder than expected. He walked in slowly, with measured steps, as if he were still in his mother’s palace, where every movement could be a sign of weakness—giving your enemies the perfect chance to strike.

Jason finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were a blue-green hue, likely a result of Lazarus magic.

"I thought you’d be with your shadow," Jason commented, placing the book on the table. "Did you get lost?"

Damian raised his chin proudly.
"Tks. I don’t get lost."

Jason looked up from his book for the first time, studying him.

"Your mistake was thinking that attacking the replacement would change anything or make it better."

Damian said nothing. He simply stared at him. He wouldn’t admit it, but that caught him off guard—though he recovered quickly. Jason knew the rules of his kingdom, so unfortunately, Damian had to take him seriously. Jason took his silence as a cue to continue.

"You thought that because you’re his blood, you’d have a place here." Jason stood calmly, circling the table. "But if you keep acting like you’re still following your sect’s rules, it’s only a matter of time before Bruce takes action."

Damian felt a burn in his chest—something that felt a lot like wounded pride. He clenched his jaw, his face still set with stubborn confidence.

"The Al-Ghuls are not a sect. And I’m not seeking his approval. I’m fulfilling my destiny."

Jason raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.
"And what exactly is that destiny, pup?"

The word wasn’t spoken with scorn, but it struck him as if it had been. It took him back to the marble halls of the old palace, to the training rooms, to cold nights when his mother wrapped him in her cloak after a defeat.

"To reclaim my throne," he answered, voice low but firm. "And to honor my mother."

Jason didn’t reply right away. He looked at him—not with judgment this time, but with a weight that seemed heavier than the silence between them.

"There are many ways to honor the dead, Damian. Some don’t require bloodshed. Others do. That depends on your own choices."

Damian looked away. Not out of shame, but because of the sting in those words. Because he wanted to believe them—and didn’t know how.

"Why are you here?" Jason asked then.

Damian hesitated.

"I was looking for a suitable place to read."

Jason nodded, understanding more than the words said.
"Then stay. Just don’t touch my books."

Damian walked toward a nearby shelf, where ancient volumes with golden lettering rested. The scent of ink, leather, and old paper was comforting—more than any word anyone had spoken to him since his arrival. At least the palace library was large. Not as large as the one in his kingdom, but it was something.

He sat in the farthest corner, among shadows, hugging his knees, making sure his weak points weren’t easily visible. His feet remained tense, ready to jump at the first sign of danger. Jason returned to his book. They didn’t speak again. There was no need.

Outside the library, the guards’ footsteps quickened. It seemed the visitor had arrived.

Todd stood and gave a lazy wave.

"I’m off. If I see your guard, I’ll let him know you’re alive and well. Try not to kill anyone in the meantime," he said with a hint of humor—though he wouldn’t be surprised if there was some truth behind the words.

Damian rolled his eyes, though a shadow of relief slid through his chest. He wouldn’t admit it—not even under torture—but in that moment, he was grateful for the gesture. Not for the favor itself, but because someone—even Jason Todd—had acknowledged his existence without malice.

He waited until the older prince’s footsteps faded down the hallway before finally exhaling the breath he’d been holding since he walked in. The library now felt like a sanctuary, a refuge from all those dull, bitter people who reminded him every day that he didn’t belong.

He stood up, dragging his fingers along the spine of a book on war chronicles, and walked toward the window. Sunlight streamed through the heavy curtains, gilding the edges of his worn cloak. Usually, they were black—he found it impressive that even the smallest corners had been changed for the guest’s arrival. From there, he could see the training courtyard, and to the right in the distance, the castle entrance, where the royal guards stood in formation. In the center of them were three men, and in front of them, his father performing the welcoming ceremony.

At first, what caught his eye were the garments. Even from afar, the blue and red shone like marks of royalty. But it was when the youngest boy turned toward his instructor that Damian truly noticed him.

The boy was flying—with complete ease. Very few beings could fly, excluding magical creatures. And those who did were usually royals, bearing distinct signs. It didn’t take long for Damian to understand who it was.

The House of El. The kingdom of Metropolis.

The boy floating was surely the heir to the neighboring realm. No doubt they had come to Gotham for diplomatic reasons. But Damian had read enough treaties and war records to recognize a veiled threat or a show of power when he saw one. From the distance, however, they seemed oddly familiar with one another.

And worst of all, the king—his father—was welcoming them with more warmth than he had ever shown Damian.

Resentment curled around his chest like a serpent. From afar, one of the Kents’ eyes seemed to lift toward the window. They paused a second… Had he seen him?

Damian stepped back instinctively, heart pounding.

He turned toward the shelves, trying to ignore the sudden heat rushing to his face from being caught staring.

For a moment, his mind returned to Jason’s words—maybe he was right. Perhaps they would never give him the place he deserved. But one thing he was sure of: he hadn’t survived the fall of his kingdom, the death of his mother, nor the chains of exile, only to be forgotten.

Damian was about to leave. The small sanctuary he had created now felt more like a prison. But just as he reached for the doorknob, the door opened. He dodged on reflex as it swung inward. His guardian entered, breathless, as if he’d sprinted across the entire castle.

"You…" he pointed.

Damian raised an unimpressed eyebrow. The man in front of him was his assigned guardian, someone named Duke. From what he knew, his father had once tried to adopt him as well, but the man had chosen instead to serve the crown. Damian didn’t know if his father had placed Duke with him because of that connection or simply because they were the only two in the castle with darker skin. If it was the latter, it only confirmed what he already suspected—that the people of Gotham held deep-rooted prejudice against those from the East, no matter how often his father tried to deny it.

"You…" Duke gasped, still hunched over, hands on his knees, sweat beading on his brow. His eyes blazed with a mix of restrained fury and genuine panic.

Damian watched him like a court jester performing his final act.

"Are you going to finish the sentence, or was that it?" he asked coldly.

Duke glared at him, straightened up, and marched over with the posture of a warrior torn between the duty to protect and the urge to slap the spoiled brat he’d been assigned to.

"You’re under the King’s direct custody," he snapped. "Do you have any idea what would happen if I lost a prince? Do you know how many eyes are on you?"

Damian didn’t move. He let the man approach, calm as someone raised among assassins—ready to defend himself if needed.

"Then you shouldn’t have closed your eyes."

That landed like an invisible slap. Duke’s lips tightened, and he glanced away for a second. He knew he’d made a mistake. What stung the most was that Damian had taken full advantage of it.

"Why did you run off?"

Damian crossed his arms.
"Because I needed to be alone."

"You could’ve told me you wanted to go to the library," Duke sighed, exasperated.

"Would you have let me?"

"Obviously."

"But would you have let me be alone? Or are you afraid I’ll go kill one of the princes? I’m not deaf. I know what people think."

Duke opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. There was something in the boy’s tone he hadn’t expected—not just pride or defiance, but exhaustion. The kind of weariness only known to those who’ve lost more than their age should allow.

"Not everyone is against you, Damian," he said quietly at last. "But you make it hard to see anything beyond… your weapons and violence."

Damian didn’t answer right away. His gaze had drifted back to the window, where the royals were still talking. His father had leaned down to ruffle the younger boy’s hair. The child looked embarrassed, but didn’t resist.

"I was raised to be the best in combat, strategy, dance, medicine, cooking—you name it. Of course I show it," he murmured. "I was raised to win."

Duke exhaled. Talking to the young prince was a lost cause.

"Come on. There’s a meeting in the throne room. The heir of the House of El is already here and… well, I guess your presence is required. Since you’re the blood son."

Damian narrowed his eyes.

"A diplomatic display?"

"Something like that. The King wants all five present. All his children. Including you."

That made Damian raise an eyebrow.

"And isn’t that… dangerous?" he asked with sharp sarcasm.

"For whom?" Duke replied with a half-smile. The man liked to talk—and clearly didn’t understand the full extent of Damian’s capabilities.

Damian straightened his cloak, lifted his chin, and walked to the door with the trained posture of a prince.

"Very well."

"Let’s go," said Duke, walking beside him, still keeping a respectful distance.

And with that, they left the library.

Chapter Text

Damian advanced with firm steps, the echo of his boots resounding against the marble. Duke kept a couple of steps behind, as was customary, though anyone with the slightest perception would know it was to stay on guard, not to defend Damian, but on the contrary, to defend himself should the younger one decide to attack. A point in favor of Gotham’s safety.

They walked until they reached the main dining hall.

The young prince swiftly scanned the room. The place was decorated with suns, in honor of their guests—an odd decoration for the great hall, usually shut away and dark. Most of his brothers were seated, along with two guests. Some were chatting among themselves. At the sound of their footsteps, they looked his way but said nothing.

Cass looked as unshakable as ever, seated in her usual spot, fingers interlaced on the table, her gaze scanning him for weak points or so it seemed; if she were a good warrior, that’s exactly what she would do with someone like Damian. She gave the slightest nod when he entered, a silent greeting that Damian, to his own surprise, returned with a faint tilt of his head.

Drake… well, Drake still looked like a pressure cooker. He barely looked at him, just enough to make it clear he had neither forgotten nor forgiven. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but his mouth tightened, likely to avoid discomforting the strangers. The skin of his face looked fine, but if you got too close, you could see the makeup covering the greenish-yellow bruises Damian had left him days ago. Of course, Damian had been the one to offer him a “fraternal welcome” with a friendly spar, he hadn’t realized a friendly spar meant not fighting to the death. Because of that, he had received punishment from his father and further criticism. In the world’s eyes, he had attempted to kill his father’s third son, and that seemed to ignite a spark in Drake, who now couldn’t resist tossing degrading comments his way at every encounter, judging him as a spy.

Across from Drake sat the two guests. Brothers, clearly, the same mold, just of different ages. Strong builds, both with dark hair and blue eyes. One of them, the younger, offered him a courteous smile; to his horror, it was the same person he had just exchanged glances with moments ago. The other simply nodded, acknowledging his presence, then turned his attention back to Drake, continuing their conversation. They weren’t ordinary, that much was clear. Their clothes were refined yet simple, their body language relaxed—not surprising, since they were known to be nearly invincible, the closest to gods.

Damian had no intention of sitting—it would be disrespectful to do so without the main host present—so he remained standing, behind one of the empty chairs.

“You didn’t have to wait for me, brat"

Jason came in behind him with a calm air, sat in the chair beside him, and gestured for him to do the same. Damian hesitated for a second; following protocol didn’t matter if he was already punished anyway. This would be seen as an act of rebellion, one he was prepared to face.

Three more people were still missing from the hall.

His father, Grayson, and the

King of Metropolis.

•─────────•♛•─────────•

Royal Office, West Wing of Gotham Castle

The sunlight streaming through the tall windows bathed the office in a golden glow that did not warm, but instead made it stifling. Bruce stood tall, his eyes fixed on the documents before him, though he wasn’t reading a single word. Grayson moved naturally about the room, offering wine to the guests though no one had asked for it. And across from them, sitting as though the place belonged to him, with a calm air, was Clark Kent, King of Metropolis—a man raised by villagers who had managed to overthrow the former king and claim the crown. His power, beyond human laws, had drawn the support of both the common people and the bourgeoisie, who saw him as a new god. Over the years, others with powers had appeared, claiming lands; the people called it the return of the gods. Bruce was one of the few human kings left in the world who neither wielded magic nor possessed powers.

“Before we get into specifics” Clark began, his smile feeling far too warm for such a gray hall, “let me congratulate you, Bruce. Your son… Damian, isn’t it? He has an imposing presence, you can tell he’s your son. At his age, I was still wrestling cows back in Smallville. I wasn’t very good at it” he added with a simple laugh, trying to ease the mood.

Bruce looked at him without fully lifting his head, just a small flick of the eyes, before returning his gaze to the papers in front of him. Grayson gave a faint, amused smile, silently agreeing with the guest.

“Thank you” Bruce said, curt, as though the word cost him effort.

“I’ve heard stories…” Clark seemed hesitant, but pressed on. “Of the Al Ghul lineage, of course" he added, with a calculated pause. “Limitless violence, kingdoms and clans taken by force. Some even say death itself granted them the secret of immortality. I hope that hasn’t brought you too many headaches”

“No more than any of my other children" Bruce replied, unmoved.

Bruce knew it wasn’t a casual remark. Allowing his blood son into his court had been a blow to his kingdom and credibility, one of many reasons why the bonds of his reign were in constant jeopardy.

Clark gave a soft laugh, a low, diplomatic sound.

“Then let’s move on to the reason for my visit"

Bruce nodded, finally turning his body toward him.

“The proposal"

“Exactly” Clark crossed his legs, as if commenting on the weather. “I know the Kingdom of Gotham has endured difficult years. Your internal enemies have weakened more than one border; external enemies are not being dealt with properly and continue to harm your people and your lands. I’m not saying you’re bankrupt” he smiled, “but let’s admit you’re in a… vulnerable position”

Grayson rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Damn the Court of Owls, damn that aristocratic nuisance the Penguin, damn the jester, damn them all.

“Many have left, but many other invitations have arrived, Bruce. You know how it is” Clark continued. “When they smell blood, the vultures come. But I am not a vulture. You’ve known me for a long time.”

Bruce said nothing, neither agreeing nor denying.

Clark smiled.

“I come to offer a deal. One that will not put Gotham in debt or force you into alliances with strange kingdoms. I propose a marriage”

Bruce gave no response. Grayson glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Simple, ordinary, a straightforward and unbreakable alliance.

“My son Conner” Clark went on, “strong, loyal, and kind-hearted. He is not yet betrothed. I know Dick is promised to Koriand’r, and Jason to his guardian that red-haired boy… Roy, isn’t it?”

Grayson gave the slightest nod. Bruce remained unmoved.

“So I thought… perhaps Conner and Timothy could form a union. Both brilliant, strategic, balanced. They would be a force in any council. And besides, you know, they already know each other and get along well.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. He did not frown, he did not raise his voice. He only said:

“Tim is fundamental to Gotham’s economy. I will not hand him over as currency. He cannot go to your kingdom, and I will not allow one of yours to live here.”

Clark did not look surprised. He merely nodded.

“I understand. In that case… I have another alternative”

Silence.

“You,” he said finally, meeting his eyes. “You and me, Bruce.”

Grayson turned sharply.

“What?”

Clark smiled. He did not move an inch. He did not even look at Grayson, who stared at him in shock.

“A union between our crowns. Metropolis and Gotham. We seal a stronger alliance. We protect our lands. Our children grow up without the constant threat of war between us. Together, we would be an unbreakable force”

Bruce remained silent. The air grew colder, heavier. Clark continued.

“I lost my wife years ago, and you’ve never had a partner, so—”

“No.” Bruce’s reply cut through, sharp and flat.

Clark regarded him for a moment, almost with pity.

“Think about it, Bruce. You’ve carried this kingdom all your life. Let me offer you an ally”

“I don’t seek your opinion"

The silence became unbearable. Grayson, on the edge of a diplomatic collapse, finally intervened, clearly uncomfortable at being the third wheel.

“Clark, perhaps you’d like to try the welcome dinner before making such important decisions. A banquet has been prepared… and, well, we wouldn’t want you to miss it. After all, it’s Damian’s first time attending as official prince”

Clark kept his smile but rose to his feet. He knew how to recognize a tactical retreat.

“Of course. I appreciate the hospitality, as always. And Bruce… the door remains open”

Bruce did not answer. He only followed him with his eyes as he left the office, Grayson trailing behind with a sigh, as though trying to contain a storm.

Alone now. The King of Gotham, with the weight on his shoulders. He looked once more at the papers, and in his mind, unbidden, came a fleeting image: the green eyes of his son, watching him. He let the thought slip away and set the papers aside.

He left the office, heading toward the hall where all his guests and children awaited.

•─────────•♛•─────────•

Everyone at the table stood as the large doors opened. Damian followed the others’ gesture without lifting his gaze too much, though the sound of boots echoing against the marble spoke clearer than anyone, his father, Bruce Wayne, had just entered.

Beside him was Grayson, upright, elegant, with that ease of appearing noble even without a crown. He stood in the middle, as if trying to be the barrier dividing two enemy beings. And next to him, walking with the authority of someone who never doubts his position, was Clark Kent, King of Metropolis.

Bruce took his place at the head of the table and raised a glass, wasting no time on excessive courtesies.

“Today we welcome Clark Kent into our home, historical ally and sovereign of Metropolis. His visit marks a new chapter between our lands, one we hope will be defined by stability, cooperation… and, if fate allows, peace"

“Peace is always welcome” Clark replied. He looked around, briefly pausing on each face until he reached Damian. He nodded respectfully. “And I see the Wayne house has grown since I last visited. Congratulations, Bruce"

Bruce did not respond immediately. He merely inclined his head and took a sip from his glass.

Damian felt the weight of that mention strike him like a dagger in the back. His presence had been acknowledged, yet his father had not spoken of him, nor recognized him as his son. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, it was a blow to his pride—the silence spoke louder than words.

Dinner was served.

Everyone resumed their seats. To his left, Cassandra ate with silent elegance; beside her, Drake barely touched his plate, more focused on speaking with the older unknown brother, whispering politely to each other. And just a few seats away, next to Clark, was him.

That boy.

He had noticed him as soon as he sat down, of course he had. How could he not? He had the bluest eyes Damian had ever seen, and the posture of a child barely let into the world. Unlike all the other princes Damian had met—arrogant, loud, with power hanging around their necks like a trophy—that prince seemed… nervous.

And worse: curious.

He had been watching him ever since he sat down. Not with mockery, the kind of mockery he had received from the servants and that had become well known. Not with pity, the look of pity he had been met with the first time he arrived in Gotham. This boy watched him with interest, as if he wanted to share something the others ignored.

Damian had avoided returning the gaze since sitting, focusing on tearing a piece of bread as if it hid poison, which he suspected it did. But eventually, when he felt that presence fixed on his profile for longer than acceptable, he lifted his head.

And their eyes met.

Blue and green.

The world did not stop. There were no lightning bolts, no wind. Yet Damian felt as if someone had tightened around his throat, the same sensation he had felt when their eyes had met at the window.

The boy smiled.

Damian frowned and turned his head toward his glass, pretending nothing had happened. But his sharp hearing caught a small laugh coming from the other side of the table.

Jason. Of course.

“Careful, pup,” the older one whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Looks like someone has an admirer”

The boy who had not stopped watching him throughout the meeting finally looked away quickly, his cheeks flushed crimson with embarrassment.

Sharp ears.

Damian kicked Jason under the table.

Jason choked on his wine, laughing.