#father's death

[arainmorn-art]

A path of self-destruction

So I’ve seen that 14th March is Write Your Story day. Sounds neat, though I have no ideas for fiction to write about right now. But I have a personal story. I wanted to write about it for quite some time, because for some weird reason I feel more comfortable writing about some psychological stuff in English. It seems easier - and safer. Here might be no people that know me personally. And with a small audience it also feels... like I am in a small circle of silent respectful strangers, telling my story without a chilling fear of being interrupted or shunned. Or being avoided. 

People don’t like sad body horror stories. 

It’s an act of self-preservation for sure, our mind tries to protect us from horrible things, as it tries to be a protective parent guarding its kid. I understand it. It’s not like I tell the whole story to everyone, firstly it would take a long time, secondly - I don’t like making people upset. If people around me, who like me, are getting upset only by mentioning a miniscule part of stuff, why should I force them to listen the rest?

But sometimes... I need to tell it. 

Heh. And how should I begin?

“There once was a girl with a loving family. She had both parents, a mother and a father. But strangely the girl was growing up strongly relating to fatherless kids her age. She was growing up waiting for her father’s death”

An intriguing kind of start, I hope. 

The thing is it’s quite hard for me to tell you about only this part of my forming years, because right after high school there were also several traumatic circumstances I lived with, and stories about my dad and the coup, and the civil war, and severe trust issues, and loosing a feel of basic safety, and a crushing feeling of being a hated outsider in my own country are heavily intertwined. But... I doubt my writing abilities to tell you everything in one post. Maybe next time. I’ll mention those situations briefly, just keep in mind that... well, it was all happening at the same time.

So.

“She was a shy girl, whimsy and timid, a kind that usually becomes some sort of an artist. Five years might be not the best age to learn about death, but this realization came to her quite early. We all gonna die, she realizied, and nothing will stop it. She cried and ran to the kitchen to her mom, looking for comfort, but mom couldn’t say anything to console her. “It happens in many years!”, she tried to tell her crying daughter. She wasn’t expecting this conversation so soon”

I don’t know how others get this awarness of their own mortality. I simply haven’t asked, actually. I got mine after watching Conan the Barbarian and The Fifth Element movies. Oh, and add Princess Mononoke to this soup. And many 80s and 90s scince fiction and action movies, that were by far not kid-friendly! Yeah... my mom admits she and my dad were stupid to show me these movies before elementary school, but now I can tell young gen-Ziers that in my time we were much tougher kids!.. Well, come on, don’t give away all the credits to Don Bluth, a Grand Child Traumatizer, an old Total Recall was a blast! :D 

My mom also thinks that there were too many familiar people who died through my forming years, both relatives and friends. I don’t know, maybe she is right. My grandpa was buried at the day of my 14th birthday, a year before two family friends died, a year after there were grand-grandma and three family friends, and many more...

14 years old. Yeah. I remember, it was a first time when I thought: “My dad will probably die because of a stroke. His face gets so red when he is screaming in anger”. 2008 year, hello, House M.D., teaching me new words.    

“A girl was told by her dad that she had a happy childhood, a roof above her head, a food on her table and some money. Often told. Constantly told. It was true, but was there a need to repeat it? He needed to. He also told her he can clearly see she doesn’t value anything he gave her. That she doesn’t respect him. He demanded love. He believed there were all the ingredients for happiness. He was telling it but he rarely talked to her. They lived in one appartment yet she felt they were a little closer than strangers”

My dad was a complicated man to say the least. He was a large man with a strong physique, a wide chest yet narrow shoulders. His features were rounded: a round face, a big nose, plump lips, bushy eyebrows, even his black beard was making him feel rounder. My whole childhood I was told I was a female copy of him. He was a man leaving a grand impression about him, a succesful man, loved by his friends, relatives and wife... and strangely enough he was also an absent father.

 For some reason I still can vividly remember his dark yellow teeth, black on the edges, and a brown tongue behind them. He drank a very strong black tea, 2 to 4 teabags at the same time in a large cup. The stains after such tea was impossible to wash away. Oh, and I just have to mention the amount of smoking he had. Pack after pack. Some fathers quit smoking when they get kids. My father was smoking even when I, being an infant, was sleeping near him in my mom’s embrace. I never smoked myself. Never ever. 

The smell of cigarettes was everywhere. It was on the furniture, on my clothing, on my hair. The smell was so strong sometimes my teachers in school were asking if somebody recently smoked, although I was a whole day away from home. The smoke turned wallpapers in my dad’s room yellow; a lamp, a table, a computer and bookshelves had a very distinct greasy feel about them because of resin and dust. Maybe only whiskey and vodka bottles were cleaner. They were changing often.

My mom was worried about him. She called it “a path of self-destruction”.

And he still had a leg in those years.

It was 2011, I was still 16, soon turning 17, when I heard about the second type diabetes. I didn’t understand how it workes, but the most shocking news were: “They are going to amputate your father’s big toe”. Oh man, it’s so silly now how scared I was. 

It’s just a toe. 

What’s weird to me to remember that from this and several years later I was fixated on the topic of amputation. It was a repeating theme in my sketches... though it weren’t legs. It were hands. A crying mermaid with amputated hands. A cheerful alien with stumps instead of her arms, with clunky prosthesises made of thin metal tubes. A monster bleeding out with a chopped arm. Zombies falling apart. Decaying robots. A blood. A torn skin. Scars. Bare bones. And crying. Lots of crying characters. It was my weird way of coping. 

So the doctors kept slicing his foot until there were no toes on it.

I thought he was powerful. I thought he could hurt me, though not physically. He never beated me, no. Though I was so stressed I believed my scared mom, that he could kicked us out of the house. 

Bones in my dad’s foot were destructing, because he was refusing to change his lifestyle, even at cost of his own health.

I was 19. It still is a gentle age for a girl. I needed a feeling of safety... and yes, I had it at home. While also being afraid of my dad’s rage, if he knew about my sexuality.

Even if he was already in a wheelchair without a leg. 

And then the coup in 2014 happened. I lived several districts away from it. For me it was one of the most traumatising events. It was brutal. I was afraid I could be killed just while walking with my dog. The world I’ve lived before was burning alive in front of my eyes. People were drunk of inpunishability. A feeling of safety was lost for many years. 

The only thing in her terrified words might be true that he could turn our lives into emotional torture. Oh, he was very good at making you feel like a trash. Like the lowest of the low. Like a pathetic piece of a garbage.

 My father was afraid of death and uncertainty. Numbing himself with alcohol he was able to push through those fears and take care of me and my mom. The truth is... he was a weak man, too. Instead of trying to discipline himself so diabetes would stop devouring his body, the bloodvessels in his brain, his eyes, his legs, his kidneys, my father just... stayed on the path of self-destruction.

No cries would convince him to change so he could stay longer with his loving family.

No foul wound would stop him.

I was 21. I remember that night, when he returned from the hospital. He seriously was at the death’s door. Before his return I’ve cried for several hours feeling guilt that I was angry at him, being horrified that I might loose him. When he returned, I thought about all the inspirational movies I’ve watched, you know, that kind: “After near death experience our protagonist will find a will power to change his life!”. I loved such kind of movies. 

I wanted them to be truth.

I’ve heard my mom starting to weep when she walked out of my dad’s room, yellow of nicotine. I walked into his room and saw him... smoking and pouring a glass. He wanted to relax. As if nothing has happened. As if me and my mom hadn’t cried our eyes out for him.

It was the first time I’ve screamed at him in rage. I was afraid of my dad for those last years, I was always meek and passive around him because he would easily suppres me. But I was enraged at that moment. How dare he smoke after everything. How dare he drink after what doctors told us: “You can start mourning”, because his kidneys were clearly failing. And he was surprised, of course. He started laughing at me. “Look at you! You can be like that?”. I remember his dark yellow teeth glistening in the light of a table lamp. He was laughing in self-defense.

“Hey, look at her!” - he called my mom, rolling his wheelchair to the bathroom door. He kept laughing, almost hysterically, as we both could clearly hear my mom hopelessly crying in the shower.

I felt so much disdain, and anger, and sadness, but most of all - the horror of understanding. Dad was still laughing. My outburst had no other way to leave my chest but to shout at the top of my lungs right in my father’s face: “I wish you would die already!”

He stopped laughing.

I ran to the kitchen and burst into tears sitting on the floor, as that new realization weakened my knees.

There was no hope.

It was not an inspirational movie. It was not a fairytale. It was not a story about taking control over your life and trying to save it. 

It was a story about unstoppable relentless self-destruction. No matter how many bones would crumble, how much flesh would be cut away, how further blind he would become.

It was despair. Soul-crushing despair. In the chaotic world after the coup, during the civil war, where it still felt safer beside my half-blind father with no leg on the wheelchair, than far from him... there were no hope that he would live long enough to even see me graduating from university.

About two more times he was also near death. Diabetes killed his kidneys.

“There once was a boy in a body of a big grown man. Both of his parents died of cancer. His lighthearted yet timid father faded away, turned into a skeleton covered with skin. His narcissistic mother, who looked like a giant jellyfish on her deathbed, died right after her son scolded her for tormenting a nurse. The boy was so lonely and sad no one around him could bring him comfort. Even the sight of sauce that his mother cooked him in the past could brought him into tears. It reminded him how harsh he was with her right before she died. He didn’t say goodbye. Or that he loved her”

I haven’t told my father a proper goodbye either.

I was abroad trying to date a girl that was clearly not a good match for me. I was looking for comfort and haven’t find any. My mother hasn’t told me anything before I returned home. She thought I was happy and didn’t wanted to ruin that trip for me. For several days she was forcing a smile for me during videocalls.

It was cerebral edema. He died at night, delirious and screaming, shouting us to run away, so the infamous nazi gang from my country wouldn’t catch us. She told me when I’ve returned home and at first I haven’t any words to say or any tears to cry.

The 6th January of 2017 was the date of his death.

He kept slowly dying over the next couple of years.

People were confused how I could be so stoic at the funeral. I don’t know myself. I just felt hollow. My mom though was falling apart, overventilating as she tried not to cry while seeing her husband in the coffin. She asked my cousin to slap her across the face so she would no lose consciousness - and yeap, it was me who slaped her, as my cousin was too shocked by such request. I felt that me being calm and stable helped my mom more than anything. I supported her. I gave her comfort. The world was crushing for her without him.

While I was thinking... that, strangely enough, my world continued to exist.

I’ve cried for my father’s death several times, but the death itself wasn’t happening. And when it finally happened, there were not many tears left. Though I still feel the ache in my heart for him. He was so lonely. He had such a big responsibility on his shoulders, he continued to work even in the hospital bed so he could provide us. He tried to protect us from the evil of the world around us even at his last moments.

I respect it tremendously, dad.

I’ve looked into my old drawings I have on my PC. My gosh. So many crying people. I haven’t realized before, how many tears were shed without actual tears, but through my artwork.

It’s such a pity we couldn’t became closer.

Eh.

It’s been six years.

I suppose I can say I’m no longer a person I used to be. I hope so. I was such a coward. 

It’s 3 am on my clock, I’ve been writing for five hours in one sit, gosh darn it. Perhaps I really needed it.    

And I feel better.

Despite everything happened between us, I still love you.

[chloesimaginationthings]

You know Henry’s final speech went hard in FNAF

[ciderjacks]

dad issues

+

(I think they were all fundamentally affected by what they saw and just collectively decided not to share the upsetting details)

[gurkiransindianlitblog]

"During that time, he'd treated over a thousand patients, yet all the while he was thousands of miles away from the one patient who had needed him most."

--Shilpi Somaya Gowda, "The Golden Son" (82)

[bixels]

Learning that fans hated Applejack and called her "boring" is crazyyy to me because I genuinely, unironically believe AJ's the most complex character in the main six.

Backstory-wise, she was born into a family of famers/blue collar workers who helped found the town she lives in. She grew up a habitual liar until she had the bad habit traumatized outta her. She lost both her parents and was orphaned at a young age, having to step up as her baby sister's mother figure. She's the only person in the main gang who's experienced this level of loss and grief (A Royal Problem reveals that AJ dreams about memories of being held by her parents as a baby). She moved to Manhattan to live with her wealthy family members, only to realize she'll never fit in or be accepted, even amongst her own family. The earlier seasons imply she and her family had money problems too (In The Ticket Master, AJ wants to go to the gala to earn money to buy new farm equipment and afford hip surgery for her grandma).

Personality-wise, she's a total people-pleaser/steamroller (with an occasional savior complex) who places her self worth on her independence and usefulness for other people, causing her to become a complete workaholic. In Applebuck Season, AJ stops taking care of herself because of her obsessive responsibilities for others and becomes completely dysfunctional. In Apple Family Reunion, AJ has a tearful breakdown because in she thinks she dishonored her family and tarnished her reputation as a potential leader –– an expectation and anxiety that's directly tied to her deceased parents, as shown in the episode's ending scene. In The Last Roundup, AJ abandons her family and friends out of shame because believes she failed them by not earning 1st place in a rodeo competition. She completely spirals emotionally when she isn't able to fulfill her duties toward others. Her need to be the best manifests in intense pride and competitiveness when others challenge her. And when her pride's broken, she cowers and physically hides herself.

Moreover, it's strongly implied that AJ has a deep-seated anger. The comics explore her ranting outbursts more. EQG also obviously has AJ yelling at and insulting Rarity in a jealous fit just to hurt her feelings (with a line that I could write a whole dissection on). And I'm certain I read in a post somewhere that in a Gameloft event, AJ's negative traits are listed as anger.

Subtextually, a lot of these flaws and anxieties can be (retroactively) linked to her parents' death, forcing her to grow up too quickly to become the adult/caregiver of the family (especially after her big brother becomes semiverbal). Notice how throughout the series, she's constantly acting as the "mom friend" of the group (despite everything, she manages to be the most emotionally mature of the bunch). Notice how AJ'll switch to a quieter, calmer tone when her friends are panicking and use soothing prompts and questions to talk them through their emotions/problems; something she'd definitely pick up while raising a child. Same with her stoicism and reluctance at crying or releasing emotions (something Pinkie explicitly points out). She also had a childhood relationship with Rara (which, if you were to give a queer reading, could easy be interpreted as her first 'aha' crush), who eventually left her life. (Interestingly enough, AJ also has an angry outburst with Rara for the same exact reasons as with EQG Rarity; jealous, upset that someone else is using and changing her). It's not hard to imagine an AJ with separation anxiety stemming from her mother and childhood friend/crush leaving. I'm also not above reading into AJ's relationship with her little sister (Y'all ever think about how AB never got to know her parents, even though she shares her father's colors and her mother's curly hair?).

AJ's stubbornness is a symptom of growing up too quickly as well. Who else to play with your baby sister when your brother goes nonverbal (not to discount Big Mac's role in raising AB)? Who else to wake up in the middle of the night to care for your crying baby sister when your grandma needs her rest? When you need to be 100% all the time for your family, you tend to become hard-stuck with a sense of moral superiority. You know what's best because you have to be your best because if you're aren't your best, then everything'll inevitably fall apart and it'll be your fault. And if you don't know what's best –– if you've been wrong the whole time –– that means you haven't been your best, which means you've failed the people who rely on you, which means you can't fulfill your role in the family/society, which makes you worthless . We've seen time and time again how this compulsive need to be right for the sake of others becomes self-destructive (Apple Family Reunion, Sound of Silence, all competitions against RD). We've seen in The Last Roundup how, when no longer at her best, AJ would rather remove herself from her community than confront them because she no longer feels of use to them.

But I guess it is kinda weird that AJ has "masculine" traits and isn't interested in men at all. It's totally justified that an aggressively straight, misogynistic male fandom would characterize her as a "boring background character." /s

At the time of writing this, it's 4:46AM.

[sarahwatchesthings]

I love British mystery shows set in beautiful peaceful quaint idyllic towns full of simple happy folk who are constantly murdering the shit out of each other.

[nolvini]

death junior

[hmura-hmara]

“You were right. You were right about me. Tell your sister…you were right.”

[dyinggirldied]

You know, imagine Danny decides to take on millions of jobs (that never last long) just so he can have something to put on his resume and to also experience life in a weird way after he makes peace with his half-death.

One of the jobs being the background actor. Usually no one bothers him much until this one crazy man, the director who insists on him doing the main role of his upcoming movie.

And what's that movie you may ask? The movie about the life and death of the tragic Jason Todd-Wayne.

Meanwhile, the one doing the role of Bruce Wayne is none other than Jason Todd, or whatever fake name he is using. He was caught by the unconventional director whilst on his merry way.

[lotus-pear]

free will is drawing ur two favorite characters together and making them gay

[kimanukii]

cute games and scary games ily

[glow-in-the-dark-death]

Clone

~

Danny has heard about Superman's dislike for his clone,

Dead men do tell tales.

Danny grows angry with Superman,

There he was showing hate to his clone, his flesh, his blood,

Conner wasn't in the wrong,

He was just a child

He didn't ask to be created this way.

Danny hated Clark Kent

More and more with each story he heard from the ghosts around him, Danny knew what it was like to be cloned to feel that violation of his person, but he could never hate Ellie,

His clone

His cousin

His sister

His daughter

His family

She was precious to him and her being a clone would never lower the amount of love he held towards her.

So to see this hero, this adult, not give two shits about Conner?

Oh that burned

So he decided to do something about it, If Superman didn't want Conner then he would take him, show him the love and care that should have been his from the very beginning from what should have been his own family.

Danny could teach him more about Krypton than Superman could ever wish to know, show him his birthright.

~

Danny & Ellie on their way to surprise adopt Conner: "New family, new family~!"

Connor: "Why do I feel like something very important is going to happen?"

~

Superman feeling like he's being followed

The Krypton ghosts following him around being disappointed in him, and going back to the King to tell him all the things he's done.

~

The Justice League summoning King Phantom

Danny takes one look at Superman and is ready to give him the beating of his life

Danny: "You want a deal? Sure! In return for it I want 20 minutes alone with Supes over there, no reason why!

~

Danny seeing Superman after another ghost told him how bad he's been treating Conner:

~

Just an Idea

[greenbloods]

love how both tywin and ned are genre definingly different from the predecessors from their houses. lannisters have always been the clever house, from lann the clever swindling casterly rock to tyland lannister splitting kings landing's treasury. but tywin's 'low cunning' and use of brutal crushing military force to solve his problems which he employs in the reyne-tarbeck rebellion and the scouring of the riverlands and the red wedding is different from the historical version of house lannister. it's a new brand of lannisterism, tywin's version, and it is this version of lannister legacy that he passes on to his children.

ned on the other hand very much likes to distance himself from the stark features of the wild and the wolf's blood, which other starks like brandon and rickard and cregan and even lyanna are defined by, adopting instead an ethos of duty and honor more like the tully words or his foster father jon arryn. he does this because he thinks that it is this wolf's blood that killed them in the end. just like the lannister kids contend with their father's idea of a good lannister, the starklings contend with their father's idea of a good stark.

[bet-on-me-13]

Death, Destruction, and Danny

(disclaimer: I have the barest bones idea of what the Endless are or their personalities, so this is just a quick blub of something I thought of at Work)

So! The JLA have just had an encounter with a member of the Endless, and called in Constantine to explain what exactly they are.

"Okay, so it's like this. Before Existence, before The Universe itself, the Personification of Time had a group of Children. These Children each Represent an Aspect of the Universe, and they are as Immortal as Immortal can get." Constantine explained.

"These children are called the Endless. They are, Dream, Destiny, Despair, Desire, Delirium, Destruction, Death, and Danny."

"...Danny?"

"Oh yeah, Danny's a cool guy. He was adopted later on by Time Itself, and he represents Balance. But that's not a word that starts with D so he just goes by his Mortal Name, Danny, to fit in."

[starry-bi-sky]

There are two things that Damian knows that he knows Father doesn’t.

He has an older brother

He was dead

(And a secret third thing: Damian was glad he was dead. They did not get along.)

Well. No, correction, they were two things that Damian knew that Father didn't. Past tense. Strange magic swirled through the air and created a mirage before his eyes, and immediately a scowl forms across his face.

The mirage shifts and shimmers like the light hitting a slowly turning prism, and then it settles into a memory. One that Damian does not recall. Like looking into a tv screen, it shows, faintly, a room, with most of the magic going into the image of a crib.

His mother was standing on one side, and next to her, standing on his tiptoes was a small five year old boy looking up at her. With dark hair and skin that was only few shades lighter brown than Damian's, the little boy's resemblance to Damian was undeniable.

However, his eyes were blue. Not green. Damian's scowl deepens, and he sinks back. "Danyal." He mutters, and feels eyes turn on to him.

Danyal Al Ghul. Damian's older brother. A prodigal swordsman like Damian, and five years his senior. He'd be fifteen if he was still alive. His memory of the last time he saw his brother was still clear in his mind.

(A sword to Danyal's neck. Stars were glittering through his window. Damian was five, Danyal ten. He is not sure why Danyal had snuck into his room, all he remembers is hearing a sound and on instinct reaching for his sword.)

(His brother had intercepted easily. But had not shoved the sword away. Moonlight hit his blue eyes, and Damian remembers seeing the pupils shrink to let the light in. His eyes looked almost silver.)

(His brother bares his teeth at him. Damian wants to slice his neck more than anything, and he bares his teeth back. "Good." Danyal says, his voice low in a hiss, "Your reflexes are good, little brother.")

("Of course they are," Damian remembers snarling, and presses the sword closer. But it does not budge. "I am an Al Ghul.")

(Something unrecognizable passes through his brother's eyes, and his mouth twists into something like a smile. "I know." He says, and tilts his head downwards at him. "And you will be great.")

(His brother shoves the sword back, causing Damian to stumble. And like the wind, he is gone.)

(The next morning, he goes on a mission with mother and a few others. Mother is the only one to return with Danyal's sword, and a red-eyed look in her eyes. Damian does not mourn. Now there's only one of them.)

"Momma." The little Danyal-mirage speaks, a furrow between his childlike brows as mother lowers a bundle into the crib. His blue eyes watch her, and lifts onto his toes to peer into the crib as she sets the baby down. "Who is this?"

Their mother's hand comes to rest along his back. "This is Damian, my son." She murmurs, voice low. "He is your little brother. Protect him well."

Damian scoffs internally -- not likely. He remembers every spar he ever had with Danyal, every harsh word and insult. His pushing, pushing, pushing for Damian to get up. To try again. Do it again. The only kindness he ever showed him was when his fingers bled. And even that was harsh, firm. Rolling gauze around his wrist and scolding him, telling him how to wield his weapon better.

(It was the same as everyone else, but somehow it hurt worse coming from his own brother.)

But he watches his older brother's youngest self tilt his head to the side, and then reach his chubby hand through the crib's bars. He runs small, blunt fingers over the baby's arm, and the baby jerks. Through the crib's bars, Damian sees himself grab Danyal's fingers.

And he scowls even deeper.

And Danyal's eyes... widen. He lets out a little gasp, and a small smile Damian's never seen him wear tilts at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at their mother. "Mother," he whispers, "he grabbed me!"

Damian... his scowl falters, for a moment.

He doesn't wait for a response, he looks back to the baby with sparking eyes. His expression melts like sugar as he bounces the finger being gripped tight by the small hand. "Hello, little brother." His brother says, voice its of usual firmness, but there's more fondness underlying it than Damian's ever heard. "My name is Danyal."

The mirage shifts before Damian can comprehend his older brother's voice. It shows the crib again, appearing as if a few days had passed. There is night lilting through the nearby window, and a creek of the door. The baby doesn't stir.

Danyal sneaks in, still wearing his training clothes and a sword strapped to his side. Damian's scowl returns, watching him creep over to the crib. Of course -- the last night he saw his brother wasn't the only time he'd snuck into his room.

Would he go so low as to attack an infant? Damian wonders, watching his brother cross the room to his crib. But while his fingers rest against the hilt, they never curl to unsheathe.

His brother peers into the crib again, and there it is again, that smile wider in the corner of his mouth. It's not a full one, but its as uninhibited as it gets. Dripping honey-sweet with awe. "You are so tiny." Danyal whispers, and pokes a finger back through the crib. It wriggles, then pokes Damian's cheek gently. "Was I as small as you when mother gave birth to me?"

There is no response from the baby. Not a coherent one anyways, the little thing snuffles and turns his head, mouth open to latch. Danyal stills, his eyes grow ever wider again.

Danyal says nothing else, just rests his cheek against the crib and watches the baby sleep in silence. The affection never leaves his young face.

Damian feels unsettled. Off-foot. This Danyal is foreign to him... He wonders what happened to have changed his brother's mind on him.

There's a scuffle, quiet, but there. Danyal picks up on it just as Damian does, and his head pricks up like a deer, head already turning away from the crib. The affection leaves his face, falling away like water into something serious. His blade is already slightly unsheathed.

Two assassins, belonging to grandfather, burst out of the shadows. Their swords swinging into the air and ready to strike.

Danyal kills them both, his back to the crib. It's not without struggle, and when the two assassins lay dead on the floor, the baby is wailing at the top of his lungs. Danyal has a laceration cleaving down diagonal of his cheek. It's close to his eye, just barely missed blinding him.

Damian never knew how he got that scar. He does now. (He doesn't know how to feel about it.)

His brother clutches his bleeding face, sheathing his sword as tears well up onto his face. But he turns towards the crib, and hurries over. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay." He hushes rapidly, the League-drilled seriousness fallen away to reveal a panic-stricken five year old. He sticks one hand into the crib, the one not clutching anything, and grabs little Damian's hand.

Their mother comes bursting in that moment, and Danyal turns his head towards her. "Mother." He says, his voice cracks un-wantingly. Their mother steps over the bodies of the assassins easily. "They tried to kill Damian."

"But they did not." Talias says, kneeling down next to the crib to inspect Danyal's face and Damian's well-being. When she finds nothing of concern beyond the injury, she continues. "You killed them before they could, Danyal. Well done."

The mirage of his brother nods, his eyes teary and red.

Damian... is discomfited. he never thought Danyal would kill assassins for him. He would have thought his brother would sooner look the other way. The mirage shifts again, and it quickly shows time passing.

Danyal sits in Damian's nursery every night, after that. He lays at the foot of the crib with his sword, a pillow and a blanket with him. Some nights there is nothing but peace -- or as close to peace as a baby could achieve -- and some days assassins break in.

Danyal kills each one.

The mirage shifts again, and it shows more memories of Danyal interacting with Damian during his youth too young for him to remember. His first steps, his first words.

"Danya." The small toddler of Damian says, arms reaching for Danyal.

A frown curls across Danyal's face, and pulls Damian into his lap. "No, no, little brother." He scolds, voice firm but.. softer. "It is Danyal, Damian. Danyal."

"Danya!"

Damian's brother sighs, but there is that same-small tilt at the corner of his mouth. A glimmer in his eyes. A glimmer... that Damian is finding he recognizes.

(He always thought his brother got that look in his eyes when he was mocking him. Was he wrong?)

The mirage shifts again, and this time it shows only mother and Danyal, alone. Danyal is older, taller. Seven, if Damian had to guess. Mother has a stern look on her face, her hands tight on his shoulders. "Damian will be starting training soon, my son."

Ah, then close to eight then. Training starts, always, at three years old. He watches Danyal nod, his expression mimicking their mother's. His arms are folded, always folded, behind his back, always neat.

"You can no longer have the relationship with your brother as you did before." Mother says.

Danyal's expression... falters. It shifts, it fluctuates. He looks surprised, thrown off. Like he isn't quite sure he heard what mother just said. His brows furrow. "What... do you mean, mother?"

"I mean what I said, Danyal." Mother says, stern, "Ra's will be keeping a closer eye on Damian now that he is of age to begin his training. He will not like if he sees you both getting along."

"I am sorry, my child. But your relationship with Damian ends here. You are rivals now, not brothers." In a cruel form a gentleness, mother raises her hand and tucks a stray curl out of Danyal's face.

Of course. Damian never had a relationship with his brother because of Grandfather. Of course. No, he's not feeling a little bitter. No. There's not an inner child that still, like a candleflame, wishes that he'd had a bond with his only flesh and blood.

Danyal is dead now. So it's not like it matters. He's happy about this.

Danyal frowns, and he steps back. He looks lost in thought. "We are still brothers, mother," he says, argues, and looks up to meet mother's eyes. "Let me train him, I will make sure he gets the skill he needs. If we must be rivals, then I will teach him how to defeat me. If he can defeat me, he can defeat anybody."

Their mother, and Damian, both blink in unison. Then mother smiles something sharp, calculated. She folds her hands behind her back. "Then do it. But you will make him hate you."

"...So be it."

Damian.... Damian is silent. His world axis has been tilted on its head. He is sliding, and sliding, and sliding down. Spinning. Many things click into place at once.

More memories from the mirage show. It shows Danyal training Damian. It shows their arguing, their bickering. It shows Danyal going to their mother to praise Damian and his skills, how fast he is picking up on the sword. How one day he will surpass even him.

It shows Danyal sitting outside Damian's bedroom door every night, listening in for anyone who dares to break in. His knees drawn to his chest, his sword at his side. Sometimes he sneaks in, sword drawn, when he hears a sound.

Some nights, Damian wakes up. He remembers those nights. Danyal standing over his bed with his sword unsheathed and tight at his side. He remembers the instant terror as he immediately reached for his own weapon.

His brother always scolded him for his lack of vigilance. That had he been anyone else, Damian would have had his neck cut. He would've been dead already. It only made Damian's hatred of him grow.

But he understands now. Because there were assassins in the room that Damian, four years old, three, did not notice. Not until later. He always assumed the attacks on him after Danyal's death had been because now there was a new heir to target.

It had been the only lesson he'd been even somewhat grateful for.

Then finally the mirage shimmers, and it shows Danyal, ten years old, in one of the training rooms, mid-spar with Mother. It's fast, sharp, impressive and like a blur. Damian is unsure if at ten which one of them was the better swordsman. Some of the assassins who have never met Danyal said Damian was, but the ones who had said it was Danyal. He'll never know.

In a lull in the fight, when their swords are crossed, mother speaks. "Ra's wants you and Damian to fight." She says, teeth grit into a deep scowl. The cross breaks and Danyal jumps back, he frowns.

"We have fought, mother." He says, and dives in first, swinging for mother's feet. Mother dodges, and slices at his arm. He swerves out of the way, twisting on his feet like a dance. "We are always fighting, doesn't he see our spars?"

"Not a spar like that, my son." Mother says, a snarl in her voice. She lunges, and Danyal blocks her blade. "A fight to the death. Father has grown tired of having two heirs."

That gets Danyal's attention -- or, more accurately, it distracts it. His eyes widen, and his sword lowers for a single moment. A mistake. "What?" Is all he gets out before mother has him on his back, her blade pressed to his throat.

He freezes. As does Damian. Danyal's brows furrow, then unfurrow, only to knot up again. "Mother, what do you mean a fight to the death?" He flips to his feet when mother removes the sword. She walks over to grab her water.

"Must I repeat myself, Danyal?" Mother snaps, rubbing her forehead before swigging from her canteen. "Father wants to find out which one of you is the stronger heir, and so you will fight to the death after your training in a few days."

Danyal's tan face loses a shade of color, he looks ashy. "There must be some mistake!" He exclaims, his arms gesturing out as he peers around mother. "There is a five year disparity between us, Damian has only just started training two years ago. It would be an unfair fight!"

"Do you think me unaware?" Mother whirls on him, and there is a grief-stricken look on her face. Like she is already mourning Damian's death. Damian feels ill. "Your skill is far beyond what Damian can accomplish right now, and there is nothing that I say that can convince Father otherwise."

Danyal wears an expression like he is scrambling for answers. A white knuckle grip on his weapon. There is a long silence, and his lower lip curls up. His throat bobs, he swallows. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Mother makes a frustrated sound, pushing her loose hairs out of her face. "Not unless Father changes his mind, or I send one of you away. But Father would surely send someone to look for you or Damian."

"What if one of us faked our death?"

Mother stills. As does Damian. No, he thinks, stiff as a rod, no way. These mirages were lying, nothing but figments of an imagination. Of some quiet what-if that Damian had not yet stomped out.

Mother's expression shifts, and then turns contemplative. Danyal notices, and keeps pushing, he looks as hopeful as he could get beyond his usual unwavering, stone-like expression. "One of us could go to father--"

"No." Mother cuts off, voice sharp. Danyal wilts, confusion flittering across his face. Damian, from the corner of his eye, sees Father tense as stone. His white-slit eyes have not left the mirage. Nobody's has.

"Father will undoubtedly check there first, it would not be a good idea. You or Damian will have to go somewhere where he would not think to look. Someone unaffiliated with the League."

Danyal's face falls, shutters, and then closes up again into stone. Mother begins to pace, and Danyal's blue eyes follow her. "So a stranger?" He asks, and there is disgust lilting into his voice.

Mother nods, and she looks just as offput as Danyal.

The mirage of Damian's brother rolls his shoulders back. "Then I will do it, mother." He says, voice unwavering. There is a stubborn note behind it all, one that Damian recognizes. "I will fake my death, and Damian will stay here."

Mother's eyes turn sharp on him, and she stops in her spot. She pivots. "Are you sure?" She asks, eyebrow raising, "There is a chance you will never meet your Father if you leave. Nor will you see I or Damian again, if you do this."

Something like fear flickers across Danyal's face, eyes widening momentarily -- as if that very thought had not crossed his mind. But then it smooths over to sharp determination. He nods. "It would be the same for Damian if it was him instead. I will do it, Mother."

Damian feels ill again. Father has a strong set in his jaw, his teeth grinding.

Mother stares at Danyal, and then her expression softens. And like before, it is grieving. "In a few days time, I and another member of the League will be going on a mission to the American States. I will tell Father that you will accompany me, once there we will dispose of the other member and then orchestrate your death."

The American States. Danyal was here, in the country. He was out there somewhere -- but no this was fake. It had to be. Danyal was dead. A fool who got himself killed on a mission with mother and left the title of Heir to Damian.

Or maybe it had been his plan all along. His and mother's both.

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

The mirage of Danyal nods, sharp. Understanding. There is a gleam in his eyes that is not pride, it is tears. And when Mother leaves the room and leaves him alone, the stone-like expression on his face crumbles and falls.

His brother, ten years old, curls up his lip in an ugly way. It wobbles as the tears in his eyes do, and he brings up his hand to slam it over his mouth. And sinks to his knees, a yell-like sob muffled behind the skin.

His brother, ten years old, looks smaller than Damian remembers him being, and cries.

Damian has never seen Danyal cry. Not once in the mirage of memories, nor in his own.

The memory holds for a minute, and then disappears. And no new one shows up. The magic is gone, and it leaves a silence in its wake. Heavy, staticky, and full of revelations.

So there are two things that Damian knows that his Father now knows too.

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

(And a new secret third thing: Damian wasn't sure how to feel about it.)

[basalting]

after jasons death bruce "accidentally" slips harvey a crowbar while hes in arkham and kisses his cheek and says, voice soft and colder than ice, "make him hurt for me honey"

it takes 6 guards to sedate and drag two face off the joker the next time two face sees him and for the rest of their lives as soon as harvey sees the joker he goes after him like a rabid dog.