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Richard Grayson was never supposed to be King.
That had been the agreement, when Bruce took a Romani boy from a travelling circus in as his ward. People called him a prince because Bruce ordered it, but Dick was never in the line of succession. No matter how many times Dick sat at Bruce’s right hand, or prayed publicly after his baptism, or led the Royal Guard on a mission, he would not—could not—be an heir.
And Dick had accepted that. Been glad of that, even. Until, a little more than a year after Dick came to Gotham, Bruce sat him down in front of the fire and told him that if Bruce ever died, Dick had to leave Gotham.
“What?” Dick asks, staring at Bruce with wide eyes. “You can’t die! I won’t let that happen.”
“I don’t intend to,” Bruce says with a small smile, “but I need you to promise me. If something happens, if I die, or I’m overthrown, or anything, you need to leave. Go to Metropolis, and Clark will protect you.”
Dick crosses his arms. “I can’t leave Gotham. If you’re gone, then who’s gonna protect the kingdom?”
“That’s not what I’m worried about, right now,” Bruce says. “I’m worried about you. A Kane would never be allowed to inherit. There are no Waynes left. One of the Lords would take over, and you wouldn’t be safe.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong,” Dick says. “And if I’m not—if I’m not in line, I’m not a threat. I’m not with the circus anymore—why would anyone want to hurt me?”
And Bruce looks at Dick with something old and sad in his eyes. How do you explain to a child that his rights are completely dependent on a sheet of paper and a royal’s whim? “Just promise me, Dick. Please.”
“Okay,” Dick says. “I promise.”
Dick’s quill scratches against his roll of parchment, as he painstakingly mimics Bruce’s familiar handwriting. That, along with his quiet breaths, is the only sound in the entire tower.
It has been six days since King Bruce died, and the ruse has been holding up so far. As far as the Court knows, Bruce is grievously ill and has quarantined himself in this very tower. It won’t last forever, but…it doesn’t have to. Just a little longer.
The door creaks behind him, and Dick whirls around, his quill flying straight towards his attacker’s eye. Tim dodges.
Dick stands, his shoulders tense. He’s glad he hasn’t been discovered yet, glad the tower hasn’t been breached, but— “You shouldn’t be here.”
Tim closes the door and leans back against it, crossing his arms. He looks around the room, eyes catching on the fireplace empty of wood and the sword and scabbard displayed on the wall. “I was careful. No one followed me.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Dick says. He looks back at the missive formally asking Lord Oswald to return to the capitol city. Dick doesn’t want the Cobblepots to take over the kingdom, but better Lord Oswald than Lord Roman. If Dick can set the stage just right, then he may be able to put a lesser evil in power. The ideal, of course, would be General Gordon, but without a war, that’s not a possibility.
A war would be easy. After all, Blüdhaven has given them the perfect provocation—reasonable cause to suspect that they had harbored the kingslayer, harbored Darkseid. But Bruce built his reign on peace, and Dick refuses to betray that.
Bruce made the plans in event of his death clear. It is on Dick to carry them out, word for word, letter for letter.
Dick rubs at his temple. His hand aches from writing all day and night. “Okay. It’s not too late. If I distract Roman with the bandits and negotiate Falcone providing him aid, I can delay things for another…” He thinks around his headache. “…five days. That’s enough time for you to get most of the way to Metropolis.”
“I’m not leaving Gotham,” Tim says quietly.
“You are,” Dick replies. “Tim, it’s not safe for you here.”
Tim shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”
“No,” Dick says. “You won’t. As soon as people find out, you’ll become a prime target.”
“I think,” Tim says carefully, “you’re overestimating how much hatred these people hold. This is Gotham. They don’t care, Dick.”
Dick thinks of Bruce, sitting across from him by the fireplace. How do you explain to a child that his rights are dependent on a sheet of paper and a royal’s whim? But Tim isn’t a child. He has been navigating the Gotham Court at his parents’ side since he could walk. Tim knows exactly what dangers he faces.
The Drakes have been a staple of the court since Thomas Wayne’s reign, but when Bruce took Tim under his wing it had been a scandal. The Drakes were there as financers, not advisors—and certainly not meant to be close with the children of the royal family. People had whispered that this was the late Queen Martha’s influence, that perhaps King Bruce wasn’t quite as Christian as he claimed, that Tim had some sort of dark hold over the crown. Bruce had suppressed the rumors and Tim had stepped lightly, but with Bruce dead…Dick wouldn’t be surprised if someone accused Tim of doing the deed himself.
“The Court…isn’t fond of you,” Dick says. It’s an understatement.
Tim smiles. “They don’t have to like me. They need me.”
“No, they don’t. If they seize your property—”
Tim pushes himself angrily off the wall. “I’m good for more than just money, Dick!”
Damn it. Dick shouldn’t have said that. “I didn’t mean—"
“You never do!” Tim shouts. Dick flinches. There’s no way that the noise would be heard outside the tower, but still. Anything louder than a quiet shuffle sets him on edge right now. “You think I’m the paranoid one? No, that’s you and Bruce! It was bad enough that I wasn’t allowed to be your brother, but if the distance made Bruce feel better, I was fine with that! But now you’re going to abandon Gotham. Well, I won’t do that. I can’t stop you from leaving, but me? I refuse.”
Dick doesn’t know what to say to that. “At least tell me you got Damian out,” Dick says. Tim looks down in lieu of an answer. Dick can’t help the spark of anger in his chest. He tries to hide it, but by the way Tim leans ever-so-slightly back, Dick clearly isn’t doing a good job of that. “You had one job, Tim! Get yourself and Damian to Metropolis. That was all you had to do. I’m trying to keep you two safe, but you’re making it impossible!”
“Yeah, what exactly are you doing?” Tim asks. “Because I wasn’t privy to Bruce’s contingency plans.” He steps forwards, peering over at the documents spilt across Dick’s desk. Dick doesn’t have the heart to block his view. Tim bites his lip in thinking. Dick can tell the moment Tim realizes. “You don’t have a plan.”
“I do,” Dick promises.
“No,” Tim says. “This? This is not a plan. Installing Oswald on the throne? I thought—it doesn’t matter. Dick, you can’t do this.” Tim takes a deep breath. “I came here because there are three options. Damian is the heir. If we can keep the council of regents in check, it won’t be so bad.”
“Damian won’t survive a regency,” Dick says. “Bruce and Talia’s marriage is dubious at best, and Damian’s origins aren’t much better than ours.” He knows that Tim wants there to be an easy answer. A way for the Waynes to stay in power. A way to protect the family and Gotham. But there isn’t. The best Dick can do right now is put one of the least destructive Lords in charge and keep his little siblings safe. Most of his little siblings, at least.
“Fine,” Tim says, pacing. “Option two, you go to war with Blüdhaven and use that to install Gordon as a military King.”
“Bruce would—”
“Bruce isn’t here!” Tim snaps. “Blüdhaven provoked us—anyone would argue that it’s a righteous war.”
“People would die,” Dick says. “Children would die. Blüdhaven is weakened, but its will? Never. They’ll fight until the bitter end.”
“I know,” Tim says. “I know.”
“And the third option?” Dick asks, exhausted.
“You,” Tim says simply.
“No.”
“You could—”
“That’s not an option, Tim. It would take a miracle for Gotham to accept me as its King.”
“I know you were never in the order of succession,” Tim says, “but you’re Bruce’s son. You’ve led the royal guard. And you’ve advised Bruce for years. Talked to his allies, helped him write the laws. Everyone loves you. You’re a prince.”
Everyone pretends to. Careful not to insult the Prince of Gotham, or else risk his father’s wrath. “Not the crown prince,” Dick says.
“The crown prince is ten years old,” Tim responds. “And you’re right, he would be assassinated before the year is out.”
“You don’t understand, Tim. You think that because they’ve let us walk among them, we’re part of them. But we’re not. Not in their eyes.”
Tim throws up his hands. “I am sick of this! You and Bruce—all you do is hide. You’ve been hiding ever since you were eight, Dick, and you’ve created a bogeyman.”
Dick storms forwards, until Tim has to look up to meet his eyes. Dick isn’t that tall, but Tim is even shorter. He’s a kid. Dick won’t be able to protect him when he himself is already on the chopping block. If anything, Dick’s attempts at protection would make it worse. “Do you know what happened when I was eight, Tim? Zucco killed my parents. And he did that because he knew he could get away with it. Whatever Bruce’s laws said, the local courts would never punish someone for the murder of two Roma. I didn’t understand, really, but I knew he wouldn’t be punished. So I went out to kill Zucco myself. I risked my family’s lives for revenge. Did you know that when Bruce decided to take me in, the circus didn’t want to let me go? I didn’t know it at the time, but they were terrified. Their letter of protection could be revoked at any time, if they didn’t bend to the King’s will.”
“Bruce wouldn’t do—”
“Bruce didn’t realize, Tim,” Dick says. “I wanted revenge on Zucco without it affecting the circus, and even then, I knew that killing people was illegal. I figured that if I stayed and they left, they’d be out of Gotham by the time I caught Zucco. And Gotham could hang me, but at least the rest of my family would be safe. So I told him I wanted to stay.” Dick shakes his head. “That’s what you and Bruce forget. What it’s actually like. With no power or money or titles. And with Bruce gone, they can take that all away!”
“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers. He looks up at Dick with something akin to fear, and Dick—he stumbles back. He hadn’t meant to make his little brother afraid. But Tim has already shaken the fear off. “I’m sorry, Dick. I’m sorry that happened.”
Dick collapses into the chair by his desk. “It’s not safe for you here. And I can’t be King.”
“I’m not leaving,” Tim insists. “If you stay, I stay.”
“I’m trying to buy you time.”
“I don’t want it. If there’s even a chance I can help, I’m staying.”
Tim was always too stubborn. All of them were. “At least get Damian out,” Dick says.
“You try getting Damian to do something he doesn’t want to do.”
Dick sighs. He doesn’t know where to go from here. He can’t leave the tower, not without the risk of revealing that the tower is not, in fact, under quarantine. “Try again.”
Tim gets up, slowly walking to the door. When he sets his hand on the doorknob, he pauses and turns back around. “Think about it, Dick.” And then, he’s gone.
Sitting alone in the tower, surrounded by his father’s handwriting, all Dick can do is sob.
“What’cha reading?” Dick asks, grinning when Bruce startles. So he is getting sneakier!
Dick knows he isn’t supposed to be in this room—knows that only Alfred is allowed to clean here, not even the other most trusted servants. But Bruce is always busy, and Dick hates it. He’s forbidden from interacting with most of the other people in the castle—“it’s not safe, yet,” Bruce had said—leaving him with nothing to do except read, do lessons with the tutor Bruce found, or roam the less-travelled parts of the woods, waving sticks at imaginary dragons.
“Who—” Bruce looks down at Dick. Dick stares right back up at him, nose wrinkled, and anxiously scans Bruce’s face. He needs to know how Bruce will react, now that Dick has gotten his vengeance and is solely an inconvenience.
“I was bored,” Dick says. This room has, overall, been a disappointment. He thought Bruce would keep super cool swords or something in here, but there are just books and lamps and weird plates. Dick peers over at the books on Bruce’s desk, which don’t really look like books at all. Well, they look like books, but their writing looks like garbled symbols. What sort of book doesn’t have words in it? “What’s that? It doesn’t look like a real language.”
Bruce slams the book closed. “Research,” he says shortly.
“What kind of research?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Dick can hear the anger growing in Bruce’s voice.
Well, if Bruce is being so rude about it and hiding it in his secret room, it has to matter. “Then why’re you being so weird?”
“Just leave, Richard!” Bruce shouts, slapping a palm down on the table.
Dick stumbles back, heart suddenly racing. So, Bruce doesn’t want him around anymore. That’s okay. It’s better to know that sooner rather than later. Dick can—Dick can go back to the circus. He doesn’t know how he can find the circus, but if Bruce doesn’t want him here, it’s better to get out now. After all, Pop Haly had been scared of Bruce for a reason. Harry had told Dick to escape at the first opportunity. Audra had begged Haly to refuse Bruce’s offer of guardianship and spirit Dick away, damn the consequences.
For the first time in Wayne Castle, Dick feels scared. He scurries back, tears filling his eyes, and fumbles desperately at the doorknob.
When Bruce’s hand lands on his shoulder, Dick nearly jumps out of his skin. “It’s alright,” Bruce says. “I was just—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted like that.”
Dick sniffles. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. Bruce may have decided to aid in Dick’s vengeance against Zucco due to a sense of kinship, but that doesn’t mean—that doesn’t mean he should apologize for yelling. Kings don’t apologize—certainly not to circus acrobats.
“If you’re going to be staying here, if you’re going to be family…I suppose it’s only fair that you know.” Bruce pulls up another chair to his desk, one with a comfortable-looking red cushion that would be tall enough for Dick to see the books while sitting. Instead, Dick perches on the desk, right next to the books. Now, he looks down at Bruce. What are you going to do? Dick thinks. Are you going to punish me, for sitting above you? Or do you really mean it? Do you really mean family? Bruce just smiles softly, opening one of the books from the back.
“This doesn’t look like Greek,” Dick says. “Or English. Or French. Or even Russian. Is it a secret code?”
Bruce laughs at that. Not the full, booming laugh he does at Court, but a small, genuine one. “In a way.” He runs a finger over the symbols, tracing right to left. “This is my mother’s language.”
Dick thinks of the portraits in the throne room. Martha Wayne. Bruce’s mother. She was killed when Bruce was young, along with her husband. Along with Bruce’s father. “Your mother lived here, though, right? So she’d know English.”
“Yes,” Bruce says. “But her family taught her this one too. She wasn’t supposed to teach it to me, but she did.”
“Why?” Dick asks. “If she wasn’t supposed to?”
“I don’t know,” Bruce says.
“Why do you have a big secret room for this?” Dick asks. “They’re just books. You have a whole library!”
“It wouldn’t look good for me to have these,” Bruce says quietly. “People in Gotham…they don’t like where my mother came from. I need to be careful, when I study the books she left for me.”
Dick thinks on that, for a little bit. Bruce is quiet, just staring down at the page. “Your mother—was she like me?” Dick wonders.
“In a way,” Bruce says. “Her and her people were allowed to stay in Gotham by my grandfather, but they had been expelled from other kingdoms before.”
“Expelled?”
“Forced to leave.”
“People don’t like us,” Dick says. “The circus, I mean. They like you. But sometimes—sometimes my parents were afraid when they thought I couldn’t hear.”
“I know,” Bruce says. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I could be doing more,” Bruce says. “But…people are watching me, because of my mother. Even after she converted, they never really saw her as human. And in return, she never gave up…this. Any of this.” Bruce closes the book. “If you want to stay here, I can keep you safe. But I can’t protect you from everything. We’ll need to be careful.”
This time, Tim knocks. It has been three days, and Dick’s well of excuses is growing shallow. Nobles are demanding an audience with the King, but Dick can’t give them that. All he can do is delay and hope that Tim and Damian change their minds and flee.
Dick opens the door, having recognized the sound of Tim’s footsteps, and takes in his little brother’s haggard appearance and eye bags. He’d be willing to bet that Tim has barely slept since they last spoke.
“Jason’s at the gate,” Tim says, as soon as he has stepped into the room.
“What?” Jason. Why would Jason be here? He returned, demanding war—war against the lands occupied by the Jester’s band of thieves. But what Jason was proposing would raze the surrounding countryside and leave thousands of innocents dead. Jason argued that it was for the greater good, that Gotham would be saving lives in the end. But Bruce refused to go to war, to do anything other than directly defend Gotham. They had fought, and then Jason had left—presumably to liberate the Jester’s lands on his own. But now, he’s back.
“I think he knows.”
“How could he know?” Dick asks. No one knows, other than Clark and the family. Not even Katherine knows—she would have tried to take Bruce’s body back to the Kanes for a Jewish burial. But if Damian is to one day return to Gotham and take over the throne, Bruce needs a Christian burial, with all the pomp and ceremony afforded to a king. So, they’ve kept his body in the ice room until they can lay him to rest.
“Dick…Bruce nearly made him the heir. He knew Bruce’s contingency plans in the event that he was too young to rule. They’ve changed, but the broad strokes…”
Oh.
Making Jason the Crown Prince had been, at first, almost unthinkable. He wasn’t even Bruce’s bastard child, just a young thief Bruce met on Gotham’s streets. Jason had dared to argue with the King that he needed the carriage’s tires more, tell Bruce off for the state of the poor in Gotham, and then, despite trembling with fear, hit Bruce with a stone and run.
But Bruce didn’t have any other heir. There were no Waynes left. And Jason was, at least, fair-skinned and Christian. He wasn’t a good option, but he was the only option.
Two years into Jason’s time at the castle, Bruce started to send out feelers. A year later, Bruce began to prepare Jason for the throne. The announcement of the change to the line of succession was supposed to happen two weeks after Jason died.
“He wants the throne,” Tim says.
Jason doesn’t factor into any of these plans. Both Bruce and Dick had thought that Jason was lost to them—since they couldn’t give Jason what he wanted, he would never return to Gotham. But… “He can have it,” Dick says. For the first time in the past two weeks, he feels hope stirring in his chest.
“He’ll lead Gotham to war,” Tim protests.
“Gotham can survive that. And—if you don’t interfere with his plans, you and Damian will be safe.” Damian is a threat to Jason, as Bruce’s son, but Dick…Dick doesn’t think his brother could kill a child. Even one who threatens to topple his reign. And if Damian can hold his tongue, Dick could negotiate a not-quite-imprisonment for him. He would be watched, of course, but Damian would have a future other than being locked in a tower or a dungeon as a loose end.
“Do you think he’ll stop at the Jester?” Tim asks. “People are going to die, Dick.”
“Kingdoms go to war,” Dick says. The words feel like poison in his mouth. Bruce was a pacifist. He would never condone this. But if a war with a glorified band of thieves is what it takes to keep his family safe, what it takes to put someone on the throne who won’t go after Haly’s circus or the Kanes…he can accept that.
“Jason has a reputation for being unstable,” Tim says. “The Court will never trust him.”
“They can’t kill him. He would defeat any assassin they could hire.”
“He doesn’t have the connections, Dick. He can put the crown on his head and kill anyone who challenges him, but he wouldn’t be King. He’d be a general putting Gotham under martial law. And that would backfire.”
Tim is right. Of course Tim is right. He grew up entrenched in the Gotham Court. And without Bruce behind him glaring protectively, Tim had to understand its dynamics perfectly just to survive. “There’s no one else,” Dick says. Oswald Cobblepot is not going to take the throne. He just won’t. He prefers to be in the background and is more likely to throw his lot in with a different noble. And it won’t be a Falcone or a Maroni either. Lord Dent doesn’t have the allies. No matter what Dick writes on his rolls of parchment, it will be Lord Sionis who ascends to power.
“There’s you,” Tim says.
“There’s no one else,” Dick repeats.
Richard Grayson can never be King.
“I don’t want to,” Dick insists stubbornly, glaring at Bruce and looking out into the ballroom that’s slowly filling with people. His clothes itch and he picks at his tunic. Alfred would be disappointed in him.
“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do.” Bruce’s voice is exhausted. They’ve had this argument what feels like hundreds of times in the past week.
“But this is stupid,” Dick says. “Why do they need to know me? They don’t want to know me. And I don’t want to know them.”
“Dick,” Bruce says slowly. “You can’t just stay in the family tower forever.”
“Why not?” Dick asks.
“You should be able to run outside. Meet with more than a single tutor. Have friends.”
“I don’t want to be friends with any of them,” Dick argues.
“You can’t know that until you’ve met every person in the room.” Bruce taps Dick lightly on the tip of his nose. “You can’t judge someone just by if they’re nobility or not.”
Dick crosses his arms. “They’re all awful.”
“Am I awful?”
Dick looks away. Bruce isn’t awful. But the other nobles…they’re the types of people Dick’s family was afraid of. They’re the people who made laws that the deaths of Dick’s people don’t count. They’re the people who made Bruce hide.
“Just a few hours, Dick. That’s all.”
So Dick descends the grand staircase at Bruce’s side, and cautiously mingles with the nobles. No one says a word about his heritage or his upbringing or the shade of his skin. They don’t dare to, not within earshot of the man who could have them executed. And it’s horrible, but Dick could make it through the night.
And then— “What does that mean?” Dick asks curiously. Baroness Gilda has been nice to him so far, letting him ask questions and not sneering down at him over the bridge of her nose. She isn’t so bad. “You said—your baby. He will be…” Dick struggles to pronounce the word. “Batpized?”
Baroness Gilda’s brow knits together. “What language do you speak again?”
Dick puffs out his chest. “Most of them!”
“What language did you learn religion in?”
Dick frowns. He doesn’t know how to answer that question. He didn’t learn religion in a language. He learned his family’s beliefs by watching them. By following them. And if they explained, they explained in the language of the land where they were staying at the time, interspersed by Romani words.
Baroness Gilda takes pity on him. “It is when an infant is blessed with holy water, to cleanse their soul and allow for their salvation.”
“Oh,” Dick says, still frowning. “I don’t think I had that.”
The ballroom, Dick notices, is unusually silent.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, a few hours later as he hugs Dick close. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand,” Dick says. The people at the ball were upset. Upset at Dick, and then at Bruce. Bruce is upset too, but not at Dick. At himself? At the nobles?
Bruce steps back, smoothing out the shoulders of Dick’s tunic. “My mother—” Bruce starts, then cuts himself off. He shakes his head.
“They were upset,” Dick says. “That I didn’t have the—the baptism. Is that something I’m supposed to have?” Bruce is quiet. “Bruce?”
“No,” Bruce says eventually.
“Are you sure?” Dick asks skeptically. “They were pretty angry that I didn’t. I can get one. I’m not a baby, but someone can pour water on me if it would make them not be upset.”
“Dick—”
“They hate me,” Dick says. Bruce doesn’t deny it. “Are they going to take me away?”
“They can’t,” Bruce says. “I’m the King. They can’t.” He doesn’t sound convinced, though.
“Do you have the baptism?”
“‘Did you have a baptism.’ Or, ‘were you baptized?’ It’s an event. But, yes. I was baptized.”
“Well, if you did it, I can do it too,” Dick says.
“It’s—no. I’m not going to make you do this, Dick. You have to make a promise, and you shouldn’t do that if you don’t mean it. And it would mean that returning to your family’s ways would be apostacy, and the punishment for that is even worse than—” Bruce seems to realize that he’s lost Dick.
“I’m scared,” Dick admits.
“They can’t hurt you,” Bruce promises. “Not while I’m King.”
Dick shakes his head. “I’m scared for you.” Dick is like one of Bruce’s secret books, but a thousand times worse. A living, breathing child who isn’t the way he’s supposed to be. Bruce’s power only goes so far. At any given time, there are nobles scheming against him. Dick needs to fit in, or risk being the reason they both are killed. “I can’t go back to the circus—I live here now. So…whatever you people do in Gotham, I’ll do it too.”
“Dick…”
“I make my own choices,” Dick insists.
Bruce crouches down and looks searchingly at Dick’s face. Eventually, Bruce jerks his head into the tiniest nod. “I’m sorry,” Bruce says again, pulling Dick into another hug.
Dick pats Bruce on the cheek. “I make my own choices,” Dick repeats, voice unwavering.
He is nine years old.
Dick wakes to a crushing feeling of dread. He scrambles out of bed, racing down to the work room. On his desk is a note, written in Tim’s chicken scratch handwriting.
“We both know that Jason can’t take the throne. And we both know that Sionis can’t be allowed to destroy what Bruce has built.
Bruce decided to stop letting the Court control our family. He officially adopted me by the laws of Gotham two days before he died. He was our father, and Gotham is our kingdom.
You’ve been afraid for a long time, Dick, but you taught me to see the good in the world. Gotham is a better place than you think. I at least have to try.
Your brother,
Timothy Wayne”
No. No. Tim couldn’t have. He isn’t that stupid, right? He wouldn’t—
He would.
By the time Dick realizes what he’s doing, he’s already halfway down the spiral staircase, Bruce’s sword and scabbard removed from the wall and placed on his belt. He stops for a moment to catch his breath and consider what he’s doing. If he breaks the tower’s quarantine, the entire ruse comes undone. But if Tim is out there fighting Jason and attempting to crown himself King…
Dick throws open a door to the courtyard and is immediately hit by a blast of freezing air. Somewhere within the last week and a half, winter has hit Gotham in full force. Dick, spending his days in a few small rooms of a tower, warmed by a large fireplace, had forgotten that it was nearing the cold months.
But more striking than the weather is the huge throng of servants, nobles, and townsfolk, all gathered in the courtyard and talking in hushed tones, voices blending together.
The clang of metal on metal jolts Dick out of his trance. Striding out onto the withered grass, Dick pushes his way through the crowd, towards the center of the courtyard. If Tim is there, if Tim is fighting…Dick knows there’s not much he can do. Even if Dick saves Tim from Jason, or whoever decided to challenge his claim, he’s only one man. He can’t stand against an angry mob of Gothamites.
And there Jason is, dueling with Tim, both nearly armor-less with swords that they should never have had to wield. And suddenly, Dick can’t breathe.
Because that’s Jason. That’s Jason, right there, alive.
When Jason first returned to Gotham, Dick missed most of that confrontation. The few times he had seen Jason, his little brother always had his helm on, hiding his face. But now, his helm is cast aside with a huge dent and he wears a shallow, bloody cut on his cheek.
He has a white streak in his hair that wasn’t there before. There’s a new scar at the corner of his lips. And in his time away, Jason’s face has grown into that of a man, not a child.
And yet, the curl of his hair is the same. The way he bites his bottom lip when lunging, even though his fencing tutors spent years trying to train him out of it. And the single-minded determination with which he fights is unmistakable. This is still Dick’s little brother.
But across from him stand’s Dick’s second little brother. Tim is clearly struggling, the sweat pouring down his face as he parries Jason’s blows. Tim didn’t have a prince’s training, and it shows. The fact that he even managed to draw blood is a wonder.
If Dick saves Tim from Jason, then he’ll never be able to convince Jason to leave Gotham. If he doesn’t interfere, though, Tim could die.
Dick almost doesn’t notice the small hand pulling on his tunic. He looks down to see a child in a cloak, a hood pulled over his head. Is that—
“Richard,” Damian says.
“What are you doing here?” Dick hisses. “You should be—”
“I will not abandon Gotham,” Damian says, half-whisper half-shout. Dick gently peels Damian’s fingers off his tunic. He needs to stop the fight. Now. “Wait,” Damian says. “Not yet.”
“I need to—” Dick lunges forwards, but Damian catches him by surprise, tripping him. Dick stumbles into one of the servants, sending them both toppling to the ground. The woman stares at him, shocked. And then, a scream rings out through the courtyard.
Before Dick can catch him, Damian darts forwards. Dick struggles to his feet and pushes his way to the center of the courtyard.
Tim lies on the ground, blood gushing from his chest and soaking the withered grass. So much blood. Far more blood than Dick has ever known anyone to lose and survive.
Jason looks down at Tim, eyes wide with shock, mouth hanging slightly open. His grip loosens as his sword slides out of his palm and onto the ground with a dull thud. “I—” Jason’s breaths are ragged with panic. “I didn’t—I didn’t think—”
Damian steps forward and folds himself down onto the bloody grass, heedless of the danger. He lays his head across Tim’s chest. Takes Tim’s pulse once, twice. And then, he stands. “My brother is dead,” he announces. The blood continues to trickle through the grass.
Dick’s heartbeat thunders in his ears. He should feel rage. His little brother is dead. Instead, he just feels crushingly numb.
Dick doesn’t even consciously decide to rush out into the center of the courtyard, but suddenly he’s there anyway, collapsing to his knees at Tim’s side. His hands find the wound on Tim’s chest, as if he can siphon the blood from the grass and back into Tim’s body. “No,” Dick sobs. “No. No.”
Ignoring the blood, Dick takes Tim’s body up into his arms. He’s distantly aware of motion and noise around him. But right now, none of that matters. Tim was brilliant, too brilliant for his own good. And now, his light is extinguished. It’s horrible. It’s wrong.
Holding his brother’s corpse, Dick whispers the first prayer he was taught. Bruce’s voice had trembled as he delivered the words. Dick’s voice trembles too, now.
“Ave María, grátia plena, Dóminus tecum.” Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. “Benidicta tu…” The words are familiar now. Dick recites them every day. Tim has never said them. He knows the Church teaches that those who aren’t baptized will never go to Heaven, but Dick can’t believe that. He can believe most of the teachings, can find meaning in the words he knew he had to learn, but he refuses to believe this one. Because Dick’s little brother deserved the world, and now he’s gone because Dick was too late. By the end of the prayer, tears are rolling down Dick’s face. He rushes the words, unsure how long he’ll have. If Jason will kill him too. If someone else in the crowd will take the opportunity instead. Dick can’t bring himself to care, as long as he finishes the prayer. “Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.” Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. “Amen.”
And in Dick’s arms, Tim stirs.
At first, Dick can’t believe it. He knows he must be going mad—too many days alone in the tower, too many deaths in his family, too much grief to hold in one mind. But then, Tim’s eyes blink open, and he takes a huge gasp, loud enough for the entire crowd to hear.
Tim stands, pulling Dick to his feet with him. His chest is still soaked in blood. Dick doesn’t understand. Dick reaches forwards and wraps Tim in a tight embrace. He can’t believe it. But if Tim is alive, if Tim is in his arms, breathing, then Dick will never let him go again.
As the crowd whispers words like miracle in hushed awe, Tim tilts his head and whispers into Dick’s ear. “Sheep’s blood.”
Tim steps away, and then gracefully kneels, like a subject would kneel to a King. All three of Dick’s little brothers lock eyes with each other, and then Jason kneels too. His voice is rough as he speaks, but loud enough to project to the whole courtyard. “I know a sign when I see one.”
Dick—Dick doesn’t understand. Is the blood soaking the grass not Tim’s? Why? How? And why are Jason and Tim kneeling? Bruce isn’t here.
Damian steps forwards, throwing off his hood to reveal the golden band that served as Bruce’s everyday crown. Instead of proclaiming himself the heir to the throne, though, Damian slowly removes the crown from his head and holds it out to Dick. “Richard Grayson,” he says, with a voice befitting of Gotham’s crown prince. “My father trusted you to serve at his side, both in diplomacy and in battle. He seated you at his right hand, and taught you the ways of our kingdom since your youth. The Lord has blessed you, and returned Timothy to us at the sound of your prayers. It is clear to me that you are the true King.”
The words sound like words Damian would say. But his voice—his voice is wrong. Or, not exactly wrong, but…
Damian memorized these words. Practiced them. And now he’s repeating them, on the world’s most dangerous stage.
Tim never died. There was no miracle. This was Tim’s plan all along. Sheep’s blood.
Dick kneels and allows Damian to place the crown on his brow. And then, slowly, he rises to his feet.
For a moment, there is silence, and Dick thinks that this is where he is killed for the audacity. He doesn’t belong here, in this courtyard, in this castle. He never has. And he certainly shouldn’t be wearing this crown.
But then, a servant girl steps forward and kneels, bowing her head. And one by one, the others follow. The nobles are the last to kneel, but they do, grudgingly or not. Even Cobblepot. Even Sionis.
Richard Grayson is King.
“Why?” Dick asks, later. He stands in front of the throne, unwilling to sit where his father sat before him. That’s Bruce’s place, not his.
(But it is Dick’s place now. It has to be.)
“Why what?” Tim asks. He stands with Damian, facing Dick. About fifteen feet away from him, Jason leans against the wall, half hidden by the shadows. “There’s a lot of whys. But this? You needed a push, Dick.”
Dick should probably be angry at Tim for playing him like that, but he’s still euphoric that Tim isn’t dead. “You and Damian planned that.”
Tim nods. “I needed him to pronounce me dead. You said it would take a miracle for Gotham to accept you. So I made one.”
“Someone needs to protect Father’s legacy,” Damian agrees. “If it cannot be me, then I suppose you will do.”
“But Jason—”
Tim laughs. “Oh, we didn’t tell him.”
“I thought I killed you,” Jason says angrily, pushing himself off the wall and stalking forwards. “You made me think I killed you.” Tim shrugs, and Jason lunges forwards. Dick barley manages to interpose himself between the two in time.
“You went along with it, though,” Dick says. “You said you know a sign when you see one.”
Jason sighs. “I believe that the casualties to defeat the Jester’s band would be worth it. But…Gotham’s army might not be the best force to send. Tim was pretty convincing on that point—the kid can’t stop talking, even when he fights. We need something smaller, more precise. And I figured that if I was King, I wouldn’t be able to lead that mission myself.”
It’s—Bruce would still disapprove. Sending in a small number of knights or assassins to target thieves in another land is still technically an invasion. But it’s better than what Jason had proposed when he and Bruce fought. “You can have your pick of the Royal Guard,” Dick offers.
“I’m not planning to go yet,” Jason says. “I need time to plan, to—”
“Then stay,” Dick interrupts.
“What?”
“Stay here. I could use all the help I can get. Miracle or not, I don’t believe for a second the nobles will accept my authority.”
“I don’t think—”
Dick reaches out to place a hand on Jason’s arm. “Please,” he says.
Jason meets his eyes for an excruciating second. And then— “I’ll stay,” he agrees.
“Thank you.”
Dick looks at his brothers. He knows that this won’t be easy, that what he’s doing is unheard of. Someone of his background who isn’t even a blood son has no business on the throne. But here he is. And with Tim’s wits and Jason’s passion and Damian’s heart, they might just have a chance.
And so, Dick takes a seat on the throne.