#EXGHUL. [ . . . ] mixed canon & divergent interpretation of DAMIAN AL GHŪL WAYNE from DETECTIVE COMICS. independent, selective, private. established sept 2017. wrangled by BAT (21+ & she/her).
LINKS: CARRD && SPOTIFY && MAJOR DIVERGENCES !
thinking.
Damian showing off a floor length painting of his fursona
he holds the card carefully between two fingers, eyes fixated solely on the pixelated edging done to the letters. did she print this then cut it into a silly shape for -- him?
brows knit in minute confusion, the only indication of his lack of context. he mulls over his words for a moment, considering that maybe she wishes for him to pull his violin free from its case & play its mournful strings --- why? that makes little sense, perhaps her intentions are elsewhere. ❝ mar'i --- you know that i am no singer. ❞
continued from here. @exghul
as silent steps stroll through the hallways of the aging manor, talia fights off the tears caused by the depravity in her upbringing. that same insanity she had allowed to invade her son's heart like infecting rot. a rot that spirals from its center core as sharp as an ancient blade, from nothing deeper than a prick. it is a cruel reality that keeps them, feeding off the bitterness they carry, caged by bruised and broken ribs. she is ever sorry, damian, that she brought you into this world. more still, that you are the light in hers, that you must carry that weight on your small shoulders and little, clenched hands. she means not to leave it.
she walks among ghosts in a home that does not, nor ever will, belong to her. but there are memories here, faded moments of laughter and love, of running barefoot and soaked from the rain to the library fireplace. the cave below holds those of disagreements and copulations, same as the bedroom up the stairs and to the right. as silent as an ordered death, she walks to the kitchen. there she finds a familiar face, saddened, aged, and weary. her arms stay by her side until the elder smiles. she remembers once how she promised to care for a stubborn bruce. she believes she failed in that regard. alfred does not blame her. her arms toss around his neck and she asks for forgiveness in her own way.
two warm & wet cloths are taken with a bottle to disinfect, and talia does what talia has always done: cared for the men in her family. she follows in the smaller footsteps of her child, spraying and cleaning what blood he's left behind. this is not alfred's chore to bear, though he would do so in silent stride. he leaves her to her duty. a caregiver to the heir.
ra's raised her to be so much more, but none have brought her pride. she despises the leadership of the league, and curses her hands for their skills in death-dealing. damian knows this horror well: the faces of those she has killed flash in her mind and in the mirror to her horror. she begs the ghosts' forgiveness. even in death, they are not free from the demon's hand. they must wander here to haunt and grieve with broken necks.
her return to her son's bedroom is not announced. talia steps to him and kneels, taking away the brush from his hands. she uses the second cloth, now cool to its damp touch, on his hands and face. she creates thin rivers of blood as the water & crimson clash. mother & son are silent, emerald eyes crestfallen that her boy, a child, is covered in the hurt of others.
" up. " she whispers, tapping his elbow with soft fingertips. the cloth now left on the floor. she strips his shirt from his body, noting the blood that stains it, too.
she will have words with bruce, and damian will hate her for them. her child, as brilliant as the full moonlight, should be spared from their realm of violence. but they all know the truth. there is no turning back the clock.
you cannot give embalmed lungs breath.
" you should be in school. " she whispers. " putting all the other children to shame with your talents. not jumping off rooftops. "
damn him. damn the immortal al ghul. may his future hell be everlasting. her next words are not a request. it is a tone he knows well, though eyes are soft as she rakes over his body to find if there is a source of pain.
" you will not go with your father tomorrow night. "
a moment passes as she shifts his hair about. " come with me, damian. i have a place here in gotham. it is not far. "
he stares at the steady hands that hold a brush just as naturally as a sword. he watches the wet paint on his fingertips mingle with dried blood as it introduces moisture to the stain under his nails, atop them, splattered across his knuckles.
damian does not process these minute changes. his mind is far away as the events of the evening flood his vision; echos of snap decisions made in a fit of rage set his muscles ablaze with the ghost of adrenaline.
donald park, an average gotham citizen to the untrained eye, considered himself a crafty man. he thought himself unmonitored, free from watchful eyes. if he ever noticed the shadows move or how some doors he would carelessly throw closed would hesitate to slam -- donald never let on. robin, even in his stark colors, found no trouble folding himself into the night's embrace. he found no trouble scanning camera feeds block by block just for a glimpse of donald's burnt orange coat and suede pants. he found no trouble perching atop the rooftop of an apartment building in the cramped lower gotham residential to find the gait of a man with something to hide out of a crowd.
days of following his suspect's routine finally afforded him an opportunity to slip into the man's domicile when donald took his nightly stroll. he had ten minutes before donald would return from the mailbox, back to the shut-in routine with his closed drapes & blaring stereo radio. it was enough time for damian though, who wasted no time sliding a thin wire into the seal of the third-story window. he made quick work of the flimsy folding lock mounted on the frame & slid his body through the window before setting the seal back into place.
he lost himself in the adrenaline, pawing through drawers & peering under furniture. it was the stench that ultimately led him to the evidence he sought -- death wafted from a tall wardrobe in the corner, its familiar weight burrowing into his skin like ash. he did not even bother picking this lock, instead opting to strike the cheaply designed mechanism's side with curled fingers.
the heavy wooden box was lined with human filth, hatred seizing damian's heart as he beheld the fleshy remainder of a boy stapled to the back of the wardrobe, robin immediately recognized him from the gcpd's missing children registry.
it was not the robin of gotham that awaited donald when he returned home. when the door to apartment 3e was latched from the inside by its late resident donald park, it was the prince of assassins who met him. it was damian al ghūl whose knife carved past thyroid cartilage to sever his larynx before a shout could bellow into the narrow apartment halls & it was damian al ghūl's precise hand that sliced clean through the tibialis anterior muscles in donald's legs that left him gurgling in a pool of his blood. it was damian, too, that teased his tantō along the man's heel to expose an inch of achille's tendon to the air. then another. he left both legs in the same state of disrepair, the slippery slivers of muscle squeezed tightly in his unwavering fist as he ripped them free.
it was, however, robin of gotham who left the apartment landline hanging by its cord, the voice of a gcpd dispatcher faint to the ear.
he had not waited to confirm if the injuries would prove fatal, already atop the roof & sprinting towards gotham harbor. he dropped his bounties into the murk; justice was served indeed.
his mother's touch surfaces him from the dredges of his mind. her voice shakes loose the hungry cobwebs that imposed upon his mind as he recounted the state he left donald in, the childish glee at his own skill setting his pulse high again. damian allows her to wash him clean, as if the physical presence of blood would wash away the brilliant colors burned behind his eyelids.
no one but she could so easily pick her way past his set traps. fine. no sulking alone tonight, whatever.
❝ --- fine. ❞ another night, he may have protested. tonight, he would rather hear the consolation of his mother's forgiving words than face bridging the path to his father's moral high ground to beg some forgiveness. damian does not want forgiveness, nor does he think he needs it. he delivered swift justice to a man who needed it -- what is so wrong with that?
damian was merciful tonight, a guardian angel for those lost without one.
❝ we should depart. ❞ he is quick to snatch up his backpack from where it lay tucked just underneath the bed. he was prepared for this day.
Al Ghul Family Values 🗡️ (2015 vs 2024 redraw under the cut!)
"All right, I'll have Lucius draw up the papers for it, but you still need to make appearances. You can't let this be your whole life. Otherwise, what will people think of Damian Wayne and what he gets up to? Also the press, that's,"Bruce sighs heavily, he's never talked about the small things that he has to do as Batman and Bruce Wayne. "Look, you're going to have to call the press on yourself every once and in a while."
for a heartbeat too long, damian stares. he watches his father's eyebrows shift with each word spoken aloud, with each thought that passes behind them. his own brow shifts, moves to mirror the actions. ❝ -- why? my day-to-day is no business of the media and has never been since i entered gotham city. changing that pattern just as the cowl exchanges hands would be suspicious timing to a reporter worth his measly wage. ❞ he is careful to mull the implication of each word, biting back terms like moved to or took permanent residence. this city never welcomed him as it did his father, it does not deserve to be coveted as his home. home is where his family is, home is his mother's hand over his heart & his father's hand atop his crown.
❝ I know you work for BATTY and all that, but you’re not a narc, are you ? ❞
❝ so what do you say, baby bird ? we can handle this ourselves, right ? ❞ bart suspected he wasn’t the only one with something to prove .
a beat of the heart passes. then another. the youngest robin glances sidelong at the speedster, arms folding with the motion. more heartbeats, more silence hangs between the pair. damian ignores the second question in favor of his confusion at the first. ❝ --- narc? ❞
SHE LANDS ON HER FEET , fixing at her mask. her claw plays on her chin.
" you're just like him. purrrrsistent. look , kitten .. if you're going to give me the long spiel about right and wrong , i'm sorry to disappoint you in saying i have no intention of changing ! oh , and next time you see your father , how about you let him know that we're on for friday ? " this lie is followed by a wink. she is turning away , beginning to waltz out the door.
just what does father see in this woman? her swaggering movements & smooth voice do little to settle the boy into his skin, attitude enough alone to knit the youngest robin's brows together. each stride deepens the space between them -- at five paces, damian moves. he is at her side in silent footfalls, glare apparent even through the domino mask that obscures his most defining features. ❝ my father has been radio silent for thirty seven hours and twelve minutes, catwoman --- that is the purpose for my visit, not to listen to your zealous reminders of shared intimacy with him. where is he? ❞
littlest brothers bonding over the impotant things in life
I wonder why Damian imagined Bruce would be taller?
Not gonna lie this did start out as me wanting to do a panel redraw and then I got lazy
*randomly waits until he's home and sits in his bedroom with the lights off because she's mad he hasn't sent her any art recently.
these early days, he will one day realize, are the hardest of them all. these are the days where his hand is unguided by surety, these are the days that he sizes up his father with distrustful eyes & a swallowed sneer.
these days, he sizes up his own mother with the same distrust --- if she were to keep a good man from him, why? these are the days where she offers pretty words & a kiss to his forehead rather than an honest answer. she looks at him with such kindness, such gentle love. her eyes regard him as if he alone hung the sun in the sky & turned its dial to the evening to mark the passage of time.
that kindness corrodes against his faith now, leaving more questions in her wake than ever the answers she offered.
the door swings open on silent hinges, freshly bloody fingers leaving careless streaks down the wood. the butler will clean it later.
in that same kindness, she now perches at the edge of his bed. the warm light of the hall spills into the dark space, curling around the warrior woman in all her grace. her posture reeks of self-righteousness.
his nose wrinkles & that streak of blood falls free of the hardwood as damian moves further into his room. no pain flickers up his arm, this blood was never his.
but he does not acknowledge it, instead tilts his chin towards the easel propped against his locked balcony doors but she has less interest in the swirling fountain of colors on the thick canvas. she will fawn, she will dote -- in her way. nimble fingers comb through his hair, confirming no head injuries before those same cold fingers slide against his cheeks. then a kiss to his forehead & the boy cannot help the tug of a smile against his lips.
this is how we could stay forever, he decides in the moment, we could go home & never look back. mother & son, bathed in the manor's years of fracturing light as it dances from one reflective surface to another, lock eyes. she looks at him with that sweetness, that gentleness only a mother might offer as she asks after his health.
and there it is again, that bubbling unexplained frustration stains his tongue & he drops her gaze. the moment of forever encapsulated is gone, replaced with the reality that he stands in a bedroom given to him by a father that did not know of his existence, held by the mother that sent him to the billionaire's doorstep without so much as an explanation.
he had thought they were better than that, that she & damian would never have the one-sided darkened relationship that talia weathers with her own father. she PROMISED him honesty, had PROMISED that she would protect him from the cruel world past the borders of nanda parbat. she fucking PROMISED she would never abandon him.
then his twelfth birthday crested the dawn, his sword at her neck. that day ruined everything they had built, that day brought him into a world unknown and the only anchor the child had ever known left his side.
he can name that bitter taste in his mouth now, as he stares wordlessly up at her. that taste is betrayal.
the crinkle in his nasal bridge increases to a scowl as the thoughts shuffle into clear view. still, she looks at him with such unguarded eyes. how can she show such softness as if she did not uproot his entire life without more than a rushed apology?
a single finger lifts to address the canvas once more with its dazzling minutiae of stars. a painting from memory, to remind him of how the familiar sky looked without the suffocating smog of gotham city.
❝ that one --- is for you. ❞ she will leave soon, after collecting the bounty & a few teasing words to his father -- wherever he might be in the manor, talia will find him.
damian's eyes turn downcast. she should just leave without acknowledging him, for how little she must sincerely care.
lips press to his forehead again. she whispers words of encouragement & love against the wisps of coal black hair that sweep his cranium, the closest to a prayer the great talia al ghūl might get.
if he were childish, if he had the range of human emotion of a toddler, he might weep right here. he pulls away.
silent as the night winds that bow to her step, talia is gone when he finally lifts his gaze again. good, now his self-inflicted pity party can begin.
he crosses the threshold back towards the door, shoves it closed with too loud a slam & slides the singular lock into place. then the traps are placed, tight wires meant to rouse him from sleep at the first sign of disruption. room now secure, the boy walks to his easel & picks up the thickest of brushes. he squishes it between his fingers, the blood of gotham strangers mixing with the damp brush fresh from use hours prior. he tilts his head, listening for his mother's soft tinkling laughter.
only the silence & the faint ring of his eardrums greet him. @pitborn !
i am green green green down to my breath and blood and bones.
green with envy for all the beautiful things in the world that i cannot hold in my hands or press against my lips or swallow down whole.
green with sick all festering hurts i don't know how to heal and spreading poison i don't know the antidote for and hand-me-down aches i don't know the names of.
green with greed, the yawning void deep in my belly that wants and wants and wants and wants and wants from the day i was born screaming with want.
green with permission: yes please, come here, do as you please. i never did learn how to say no and mean it.
green like plants, like spring growth and summer leaves like basil and mint on kitchen counter tops like haworthia and pothos and monstera.
i am green green green down to my breath and blood and bones—
but maybe someday i will learn to hold the whole rainbow in my body.
- by sylvie (j.p.)
