#all but yorick are actual real candles that can be bought

[midnightenigmados]

It was a crude drawing made of blood. 

It appeared to be a pentagram made of individual symbols and flourishes, except the symbols themselves were messy and disordered and the lines they created were sloppy. Placed in the center of the drawing, Tim could spot multiple splotches and smears where someone must have accidentally brushed upon the floor with the still drying blood.

His kidnappers may be skilled in their tricks to capture him, but artistry, they were not. 

Alas, he figures, it is not often that his guard is let down as it had been tonight, they must have jumped at the chance and rushed to complete whatever preparations previously made.

A chemical attack by the Riddler set an entire apartment ablaze and Tim had been tasked to rescue those inside. The suddenness of the blast had left many unaware and left him no choice but to sacrifice not only his spare gas masks but his own personal one as he came upon entire families stranded within the burning building.

Practical he may be, but he cannot simply leave a child to the whims of carbon dioxide as he takes their siblings to safety.

With the combination of the odd mix of chemicals and carbon dioxide, it was no wonder the cultists found him easy pickings when he finally found respite in the nearby alley.

At least he had the sense in him to place a tracker on one of the attackers before he was taken and stripped of his equipment. For now he’d have to bide his time until his family would be free of the Riddler to assist in his own escape.

That is, if he could get his mouth to move.

The heavy scent of iron mixed with the sage, juniper, and myrrh burning from the candles placed strategically around and outside the circle penetrated Tim’s nostrils even as he avoided breathing through them.

Purification herbs.

He wondered if their main purpose was to cleanse him before sacrifice or to simply hide the drugs laced within the candles.

An odd choice of incense if it was the latter.

The candles themselves were an odd assortment. The majority were the typical long candelabra ones, flipping between black and red in placement, but Tim could spot the odd thicker one one the outside with black wax that dripped over a red base as well as–

Was that a hand?

Tim supposed it was a nice mix up to the usual skull based adornments.

The little red duck candle at his feet was cute at least, if a bit out of place.

…Maybe he was hallucinating.

He blinked.

Next thing he knew there were twenty robed people standing around the circle, one for each candle. Every third robe sat yet another candle between them. This one in the shape of a black skull with triquetras engraved on the forehead and decorated throughout.

So much for the mix up.

When had they even gotten there? Tim was slipping. The air grew heavy as the chanting began. To give credit where credit was due, some of the people there actually seemed quite proficient in the not-latin, not-spanish language, but it was clear not all.

Despite his muddled state, Tim could hear the stutters clear as day as they attempted to speak in unison. Such is the fate of a natural polyglot. He knew not the language they spoke, nor was he able to make out the words as his world began to tilt, but he could hear the inconsistencies, the uncertainties, the anxieties.

Or maybe that was something else.

The lights stuttered and flickered to green, the trails of red on the ground grew luminescent and erupted into their own emerald flame, growing larger but the second and startling a few of the cultists backwards.

Tim was just starting to ponder if the drugs were getting to his head when he found himself afloat over a large Lazurus pit. One that swirled instead of bubbled.

He couldn’t find it in himself to react.

Tim really hoped this was the drugs.

A massive claw emerged below him, easily the size of his torso. Covered in black scales with an iridescent shine, it could easily eclipse his form if it held him.

An eternity passed, or possibly a few seconds, but a second claw soon followed. The waters rippled where they were disturbed and Tim watched as they traveled further and further away from their starting point to meet their sisters in the center of the pool. Tim waited with baited breath for the resulting disruption of the waves, but instead the very pool beneath him glowed a fierce neon.

It was then that Tim watched before his very eyes as a head that appeared to be a mix between a snake and a lion materialized beneath him, lifting itself further upwards until it sat directly in front of him. 

It was then that he belatedly realized that in the course of the portal appearing, that his restraints had disappeared and that he was floating freely some twenty feet in the air. His freedom mattered not, however, as he found himself fully unable to move in the gaze of the creature before him. Its five eyes seemed to hold the universe in them, with its greens and purples and blues. Its scales continued to cover its body here, although its face was much more of that of a lion, with its muzzle and teeth. A mane of brilliant white flowed down its serpentine body until it stopped just before the body disappeared beneath the portal. 

Tim held its gaze, captivated in the pure pressure its presence gave off. Time held still as it seemed to hold his very soul but eventually it passed its judgment with a tilt of its head.

A rather innocent gesture for something so terrifying to behold.

Eternity turned to moments and moments to seconds and suddenly the creature had surrounded him, blocking Tim from the cultist’s view. Its body, long and scaly, gave off a gentle glow. Six magnificent wings emerged from its back as four more pairs of limbs allowed it to rest upon the ground and the portal faded away.

Tim found himself floating closer to the ground as the walls of fire diminished to simple flames flickering at the summoner’s feet. The fog lifted from his mind as the forces holding him deposited him softly onto the newly exposed floor, but his body still refused to cooperate.

All he could be certain of in the moment was that the creature they had summoned here had decided to spare him for whatever reason.

Who dares summon me?

The voice did not come from any direction. Tim struggled to call it a voice at all. It resonated in his head, deep within his soul, with a power so intrinsic to its existence that Tim could feel the instinctual need to bow where he lay, had his body been capable of such.

The ruffle of fabric, however, deemed the cultists in full capacity to follow such soul bearing orders, even if Tim was unable to see them at the moment.

“Forgive us, Your Everlasting Majesty” The relatively normal voice, on the other hand, was a shock to his system in comparison,” we are the Sons and Daughters of the Darkness.”

Tim really wished he could roll his eyes at the moment.

“We have long since heard of the predicament you have been in and sought to free you of your shackles of slumber such that you may take reign in your rightful place in this world once again. As you can tell, we have done much research and devoted our very being to your cause.”

Shackles of slumber? Pray tell, mortal, could you be discussing of the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep?

“Indeed, O Powerful One! Have we not freed you of your prison?”

And what have you to gain, from such endeavors?

“Nothing, Your Fearsomeness, but fulfillment of our most true desires. To pledge our infinite fealty to, Your Highness, Pariah Dark! The namesake of our clan!”

And you wished to do so with purifying herbs and symbols?

“Wha-”

No, do not speak. I fear your feeble brain may not be able to handle the speed of which you open your mouth.

There was a shifting of the body surrounding him as the being seemed to adjust.

You. Wherefore did you acquire this knowledge?

“I-in the ruins o-of a little town called Am-Amity, Your Unholiness.” The voice shook as she spoke, unable to find stability in the pressure surrounding her.

There was a pause as the creature seemed to take in this information, but Tim could feel the moment it had made its decision.

Burn thy knowledge and cease this foolishness at once. Pray that we never cross paths again for this Pariah Dark you speak of is no more.

There was a great flash and Tim found himself suddenly capable of movement. The air cleared up and the wall of scales disappeared, allowing him insight to the rest of the room.

It was empty.

The cultists were long gone with no trace of their existence in the first place. The ethereal green flames of the candles had died down to a simmering red and the circle itself had faded back to its dry blood appearance. Even the creature, massive that it was, was nowhere to be found.

In their place stood a boy.

A teenager young enough to be in high school with blinding white hair that flowed without gravity and eyes brighter than the portal that had nearly swallowed Tim whole mere moments prior. A crown of ice floated gently above his head as frost floated down and encompassed his head, refracting the flickers of candle light around them to create a sort of halo outside of his soft aura. A cape sewn from the stars itself danced at his feet as he stood at the side of the circle examining three floating candles in front of him.

It had almost appeared regal, if not for the words that escaped the boy's mouth.

“I brought you myrrh,” He mimicked under his breath, “Myrrh-der.”

“Judas, no.” Out of instinct, Tim replied, immediately regretting it as his eyes locked onto Tim’s.

For a moment, Tim felt as if he was under the gaze of a microscope, more acute and more pointed than Batman could ever hope to achieve. As if the heaven’s above were watching him and passing judgment.

For a moment, Tim felt the very same pressure as he had upon the gaze of the creature.

But, then the kid smiled and it all disappeared, as if it was never really there in the first place. Yet another trick of his mind.

Tim had a headache.

This boy…could he possibly be…?

He certainly appeared ethereal enough, but quoting vine references?

The kid was talking again, an unnatural echo bouncing through the air as he floated towards him.

“-od, I was worried you were unconscious. You okay now?” His face held a gentle smirk as he leaned over in a pseudo bow with his hand extended for Tim to take.

The change in the manner of speech nearly gave Tim whiplash, throwing him off further, and he narrowed his eyes at the hand before ignoring it in favor of the warehouse. 

He was perfectly fine on the floor, thank you very much.

“I’m good, thanks,” He replied absentmindedly, fighting off any reactions to the waves of pain the simple action of speaking gave him, “Where are the cultists?”

The kid paid no heed, but kept his arm extended as he tilted his head in thought, wisps of hair flickering around his head, “Arabia, I think. Don’t worry, I’m well aware of Batsy’s rule. No killing in Gotham.”

Tim snapped his eyes up to the boy, biting down his instinct to cower in the face of the glowing green eyes, “So, you’ll kill them in Arabia instead?”

He flinched back in disgust, the movement small but precise, “I don’t plan on killing them at all? All souls will come to me eventually, there’s no reason to rush an inevitability. I just didn’t want them here.”

That…didn’t really make Tim feel much better.

But, he didn’t seem to hold any malice at the moment, “Who are you?” He asked, because if the kid was going to be cooperative, the very least Tim could do was get some answers.

The smirk was back again, “You may call me Phantom,” He wiggled his fingers.

Tim took his hand.

It was then that the skylights burst in.

DPxDC Prompt

Summoning is an imperfect art, mispronouncing a name or having an incorrect symbol can lead to unexpected, and sometimes explosive results. Summoning can open unexpected doors. No one's prepared for what--or who--steps through when a rising gang tries to summon backup.

My little ficlet for this is below the cut:

Smoke. The acrid slam of it in the nose, brought on by the screaming wind. Chanting. A chorus of voices, steady and thrumming. Pain. Everything is hazy, and it’s equal odds on it being from the smoke or the potential head injury. 

Bruce stumbles to his feet, body throbbing. 

This was not how he’d planned this night. 

Of course, he hadn’t planned for Gotham to suddenly be overrun with a new…gang? They claimed to be a government organization, but Bruce has his doubts. He hadn’t had a chance to go through the GIW’s information, but according to Barbara, their claims were sketchy at best.

The shouting about ghosts and waving around sci-fi weapons with no trigger discipline certainly didn’t help their claims. 

Government organization or not, they had no right to raid homes, to drag people out onto the street, or overall threaten his city.

His ears ring, and the chanting rises in volume, impossibly. His chest reverbes with the sound. It’s steady enough to feel like a second heart. His blurry vision locks onto the center of the summoning circle. Because this night couldn’t get any worse, of course. 

First the GIW had rocketed up his list of threats with one simple move. 

They’d gone after Jason.

Jason, who even now was laid out in the middle of the summoning circle, eyes bright, bright, bright green through the haze. 

First they’d taken his son. 

Then they’d used him as a sacrifice. 

Bruce bared his teeth, locking eyes with the closest GIW agent. The man held up his weapon, a glowing baton. His form is weak. 

The baton gord flying, Bruce’s armored elbow slamming the man to the ground. The agent curls up, groaning. Nightwing’s escrima sing electric in the background, followed by the whip of Tim’s bow staff. Damian’s sword glints through the haze, and purple flashes through the crowd of white, white, white. 

He can’t see Cass, but he doesn’t expect too. 

The ground rocks under his feet, and it takes several precious seconds to regain his balance. There seems to be an almost endless flood of agents, with more and more meeting his fists as he tries to make it through the gauntlet. 

Suddenly, the air shifts, the scream of it heading for the circle instead of out. 

The circle glows toxic green, and Jason’s at the center, frozen in the light. 

“No!” Bruce shouts, the sound ripping from his soul. 

It’s echoed by Dick, who stands just outside the circle’s boundaries. His hands are pressed against the light, his blue eyes a shock against the green. 

It’s a confusion of people - GIW white and the summoner’s black. The GIW is here to end whatever it is they need Jason to summon to them. The summoners themselves seem to have broken away from the “agency” and want power from the being they’re calling. It’s a fight on multiple fronts, with the GIW fighting the summoners and Bruce and his family fighting them all. 

The temperature drops. 

“HOOD!” Dick screams, as Jason is swallowed by the green. 

The chant is all he can hear, even as he shoves towards the circle, even as he slams against the same wall Dick’s against. 

The world goes bright and he can’t keep his eyes on Jason. On his son. 

When the light fades, Jason’s not alone. 

A being sits six feet in the air, Jason collapsed over his lap, somehow hovering with the - what is he? He looks human, but there’s something wrong. Off. Bruce can’t quite pinpoint his age. A crown glows on his head, an ever shifting cape spills down his back, dragging close to the floor. His eyes are green as Lazarus, and just as deep. Jason is breathing, Bruce notes. The being’s hands curl in Jason’s hair, playing with it idly. 

The air is *rigid, and everyone’s stopped fighting. No one can draw their eyes away from the being. 

“You dare to summon me with one of my own?” The being speaks, and it’s like crackling glaciers. Someone whimpers. 

“We - wanted to give you a gift,” One of the men in black says, his voice chattering. 

It’s like breathing in ice. 

“A gift?” The being says and the sound is fury, banked in a waiting avalanche. “What kind of gift is this? A denizen of my Realms, trapped and tortured? Used to summon his king, against his will? This is no gift.” 

“B-but we didn’t know,” another speaks, and then obviously realizes he shouldn’t have. 

“Ignorance will not save you,” the being says, and it - he’s? - still holding Jason like he’s something precious. “And I am not the only one you have infuriated. 

“I am not the only one you have awoken.” 

To a man, the GIW agents cry out in panic. Bruce turns, looking for the threat but - the agents are buried to various depths in the cracked concrete floor. The ground is decidedly solid beneath Bruce’s feet but the agents would obviously not agree. They flounder, like the concrete is quicksand. The summoners are next, but it’s ice that gets them, crawling up their bodies until they’re locked into place. 

“My lord!” One cries and promptly finds himself gagged. 

Bruce can’t stay silent any longer. “Hood was used against his will to summon you,” he starts. The being’s eyes meet Bruce’s. “He didn’t want this. Is he alright?” 

“Your son is fine,” the voice is rough, but feminine, and obviously not from the being. It’s around him, dancing through the steel beams and pushing through concrete. “You are mine, my knight. You and yours are mine. The little king will not harm him, nor you.” A figure forms off to his right. 

“Holy shit,” Dick whispers. Bruce has to agree. 

She’s made of concrete, of broken brick and dust, of bone and police tape, of twisted metal and more. 

“Gotham,” Bruce breathes, and he doesn’t know how he knows but he does.

“Hello, my knight,” she says, her form shifting. She turns slightly, and there’s something sharp in her movement. “Hello, little king.” 

“Lady Gotham,” The being - the king? - returns. “You look well,” 

Lady Gotham laughs, a ringing sound - it’s bells and gravel, fresh air on a summer day and rising wind. “How you flatter me, little king. Do you fear me?” 

The being grins, mischief dancing around him, white hair floating high. “I respect you. It’s good to see you awake, Milady.”

“What is happening?” Tim asks no one in particular. Dick shrugs and Steph just leans harder on Tim. Cass holds Damian’s shoulder firmly, watching carefully. 

Bruce wishes he had an answer. 

“It is good to be awake,” Lady Gotham says, and she shifts closer to the circle, fingers skimming against the barrier of light. “How long do you intend to keep my reaper from me?” 

Reaper. Bruce thinks, and it’s a gut punch. 

It makes sense, to describe Jason. Jason can go where Bruce cannot, do what Bruce cannot. 

The king laughs lightly. “The summoning harmed him, Milady. I’m just keeping him safe. I’m not here to undermine you,” the king’s eyes glow. “But remember who is king.”

Lady Gotham smiles. “I’m aware of hierarchy little king.” 

“My son,” Bruce says, because there’s no point in pretending Jason is anything less. He’s talking to - the embodiment of gotham and a king of - something. “He’ll be okay?” 

Lady Gotham sighs. “He will be fine, my knight. The little king cares for his own.” 

“What - what are you the king of?” Tim asks, bold. 

The being smiles. 

“I am Phantom,” he says. “I am the Ghost King.” 

Jason stirs in his lap, and the implications crash over Bruce. Maybe Reaper has more meaning than he’d thought.