Chapter Text
Aged 20
Everyone knew, everyone knew, that King Damian was inappropriately enamored of his concubine.
It was a frequent jest in the kingdom of Gotham, a topic of ribald songs in taverns, and giggled whispers and lewd speculation in bedchambers, and had been all through his five year rule.
Damian cared little for what people thought of him, but found being the subject of such base gossip very much beneath his dignity and cause for great annoyance.
Still, he refrained from bloody revenge because Timothy had convinced him – and he had turned out to be completely correct, as Timothy annoyingly so often was – that in the early days of his reign in particular, the concept had been no bad thing. A romance had humanized him in the eyes of the populace, who had been startled when their mostly ignored crowned prince, who had stood at his father’s right hand silently scowling for years, had mercilessly crushed Gotham’s most potent enemy in Nanda Parbat almost instantly upon taking the throne.
Following the shock death of King Bruce of Gotham, King Damian, still only fifteen years old, with the support of his adopted siblings and a strategic alliance with Metropolis, had invaded Nanda Parbat, killed his grandfather, and nullified the ages old threat of their ancient enemy by becoming ruler of Nanda Parbat as well as Gotham.
The shock to the Kingdom had been great.
Damian had not inherited his father’s uncanny ability to seem harmless to the general population - who had loved their ‘King Brucie’ - while in reality ruling the kingdom, his court, advisors and army with an iron fist, and Timothy had rightly stated that a young man’s crush (Damian had scowled at the term) made him more accessible and acceptable to the Kingdom.
The rumor that Damian had been so ruthless in his response to King Bruce’s death in order to acquire his lover made him seem more romantic than monstrous to the small folk.
It also gave the court members, unsettled by Damian’s air of superiority and clear distaste for them that he didn’t bother to hide, something to feel patronizing about. A young and inexperienced virgin king so captivated by a pleasure slave that he invaded a kingdom to seize him – however true or not that speculation might be – was something to be mocked as childish. To be met with knowing smirks and tolerant shakings of heads.
So Damian, under Timothy’s watchful eye and Jason and Cassandra’s amused ones, had gritted his teeth and loftily ignored all gossip about Richard and him until it became so commonplace, so understood within the kingdom, as to be nothing.
It had been five years now since Damian had been crowned, and since that brief but bloody battle with his Grandfather the kingdom had enjoyed an unprecedented period of peace and prosperity. Damian was therefore an incredibly popular king, no longer needing any foolish gimmick like a youthful infatuation to endear him to the population, despite never being able to move beyond a scowl as his default expression, and so Damian was confused as to why Timothy was bringing this up now, two weeks before the celebrations for his five year jubilee.
“There is always talk,” he said blankly. “You know there is always talk, Timothy. Gossip is the opiate of the masses. Why discuss it now?”
“The talk has changed, Damian,” his brother said, and he looked horrifyingly almost sympathetic. “It’s been five years now and the anniversary of your coronation is making people realize that it’s been five years and there’s still no sign of a wife, let alone an heir.”
“I am twenty!” Damian exclaimed, annoyed. “I have decades left to produce an heir.”
“You might have decades left to produce an heir,” Timothy countered. “Or you might fall off your horse tomorrow, get the plague, eat a really bad whelk, whatever, and then the kingdom would be torn apart in the battle for succession.”
“Jason would be crowned,” Damian said, but even as he said it he didn’t believe it, although he stuck his chin stubbornly at Jason’s loud snort from the nearby sofa.
“Jason is not Bruce’s blood child, and the same goes for Cass and me, as I vaguely seem to recall you mentioning about six million times during our childhood,” Timothy said, rolling his eyes. “None of us would ever be accepted. None of the other nobility has a greater claim than any other and so the fight would be long and bloody, and not to mention, incidentally, the three of us would be instantly assassinated to prevent future threats.”
“I’d like to see them try,” Jason muttered from the sofa, and Damian saw Cassandra’s evil grin of agreement in response from where she sat opposite Jason.
“Well, I wouldn’t,” Timothy replied, firmly. “And you should take possible assassination threats seriously, Damian. I do.”
Damian huffed. Despite being only two years older than Damian, Timothy had already been in control of intelligence for Damian’s father when he had still been alive, and had been exceptional at it even then, and only gotten better. Timothy had been the main reason Damian had been able to conquer his grandfather so quickly, along with Jason and Cassandra’s excellence in the field of battle, but the job had made Timothy as paranoid and suspicious as Bruce himself.
Damian’s train of thought suddenly stopped when he considered there might have been something heavier than usual in Timothy’s tone.
“Wait. What assassination threats?”
He saw Jason and Cassandra’s attention snap to them.
Timothy sighed, “No threats, Damian. Not yet. But I told you, there is talk.”
“About Richard,” Damian said, feeling fingers of ice creep up his neck.
“Yes, Damian, about Dick,” Timothy said, tiredly. “About how you need to put Dick aside and get married.”
Anger rose in Damian and he stood abruptly. “Who is saying that? Who dares? I will rip out their…”
“No one in particular,” Timothy raised his hands placatingly. “No one and everyone. It’s something so self-evident now, Damian, that anyone could say it at any time and get nods and sighs of agreement. And that kind of talk will lead to action eventually. If you don’t do something yourself, sooner or later other people will start thinking they should do something for you. For the kingdom. And that something will be to get rid of Dick.”
Damian clenched his fists.
“I am twenty,” he repeated, furiously. “Richard does not have to have anything to do with me not having a wife yet.”
“He doesn’t have to, no,” and there was that awful sympathy again on Timothy’s face, “but the whole kingdom knows that he does. No one has ever seen you so much as look at anyone else. Not only is the queen’s suite still empty, but there’s only ever been one resident in the concubines’ suite and the whole castle knows Dick never actually sleeps in it anyway. It was something for amused tolerance when you were younger, and Dick is pretty enough to be forgivable, but you’re out of time now.”
“Everyone knows you like Dick, Demon,” Jason interjected, “and they’re all worried you like it so much you couldn’t get it up for pussy.”
Damian glared at Jason who grinned back, unrepentant, but even he looked a little sympathetic.
“I am the King,” Damian ground out. “I will sleep with whomever I choose. I will not be made to ‘put Richard aside’ for some worthless gossips.”
“You don’t have to put him aside completely,” Timothy said, reasonably. “But you do have to get married and have children.”
“I could adopt like Father did,” Damian said, and he knew he sounded inappropriately sulky for a king, but he couldn’t bear it when Timothy was right, especially if it meant Damian was wrong, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that Timothy was, indeed, right. “Although I am certain he must have regretted it.”
Jason made an obscene gesture at him, and Cassandra rolled her eyes, but Timothy remained serious.
“When Bruce adopted us he’d already earned it. You haven’t.”
“Tt,” Damian huffed in indignation; he was an excellent king.
“Bruce married your mother and bought more than a decade of peace with your grandfather for the kingdom by doing so, and had already had you – yes, the blood heir – before he adopted any of us. Adoption was an… idiosyncrasy for him, not an attempt to duck his duty. He’d already fulfilled his duty. You haven’t.”
Damian clenched his jaw and did not reply, a sick feeling in his stomach.
“You must get married, Damian, and you must have children,” Timothy finished quietly. “You know you must, you’ve always known, and the longer you leave it, the more you risk putting Dick in danger. You really don’t have to put him aside completely, but marriage is the only way you can protect him. You need to let me start putting out feelers for matches now, that should buy a little time.”
Damian nodded shortly, not trusting himself to speak.
Cassandra patted his hand, and Damian felt stupidly grateful for the comfort.
“Do not say anything to Richard,” Damian said, finally. “I do not wish to worry him.”
Timothy shook his head, and Damian recognized the look on his face; it was the one where he was deciding how blunt to be.
“Damian, he’ll already know.”
***
Aged 8
Damian first saw Richard when he was eight years old.
It was not, no matter what any ridiculous tavern songs might say, the first time Damian had ever seen a pleasure slave, but they were rare enough at Gotham’s court at that time to be somewhat worthy of note.
Slavery was not banned in Gotham, as there were far too many powerful nobles with slaves and an interest in the slave trade for King Bruce to go that far, but everyone knew the King disapproved of slavery, and the royal house of Gotham kept no slaves itself.
Therefore at court, where the business of the day was always to gain and keep the King’s favor, it would be a foolish Gotham courtier indeed to keep a pleasure slave with them.
Visitors from other lands were not that infrequent, however, and many guests brought slaves with them, and Damian’s father was far too much a politician to make any trouble over a slave. Likewise, Damian had visited many places with his father where slavery was common, and indeed where beautiful pleasure slaves were sprinkled around like decorations as evidence of the household’s wealth, so Damian had seen many already in his reasonably short life.
Prince Damian was not spying on the royal court of Gotham that day in order to see a slave.
He was spying, truthfully, mostly out of boredom.
His tutor was a dullard and while Damian would never admit it, he missed Timothy in the schoolroom, who despite his many faults no one had ever accused of being stupid or slow. Prince Timothy had turned ten two months ago and as such was now expected to attend court sometimes with his father, along with Princess Cassandra and Prince Jason who, at thirteen and fourteen respectively, had been attending court for years.
Damian would not consider himself a social child, it was fair to say, but he was still unaccustomed to solitude as his adopted siblings had been a constant presence, for better or worse, in his life. His father had adopted Jason when Damian was only one, and by the time Damian was three both Cassandra and Timothy had joined their family.
It was possible he missed them all when they were at court, but it was certain he loathed being the one left behind, hated that they were all included in something he was not.
Thus, when Damian first saw Richard he was peeking out from the obscured enclave in the floor of the room above his father’s throne room in the same spot he and his siblings had hidden in sometimes to watch his father hold court for years.
Damian had been coming here since long before he really understood anything about throne rooms and courts, and had only really been excited to be included by his older siblings. In the early days he’d mostly just napped, nestled warmly between them, lulled into sleep by the drone of voices from below.
As he’d gotten older he’d giggled quietly at the court dresses and tried to work out the meaning of the conversations along with the others. His father had, of course, usually known they were there – an all-seeing, all-knowing presence in Damian’s childhood – and all of them had received their first lessons in statecraft and politics in the evenings when his father would explain what they had witnessed.
This day, in fact, it was not only the boredom and resentment that had driven Damian to eavesdrop alone on the court. This day, he was trying to hear every word, because they were talking about him.
His grandfather sent an emissary from Nanda Parbat annually to check on Damian, and he had become quite used to this; talking with whatever old man his grandfather had sent, showing his knowledge and skills, and how his weaponry training was going. His grandfather had only visited Gotham in person twice in Damian’s entire lifetime, and Damian did not even remember the first of those at all. That had been for his mother’s funeral, and as she had died in childbirth Damian had been but a few days old.
This emissary was notably different from the previous ones though, enough to prompt Damian to take a particular interest.
When his father had told them over breakfast that the others would miss schooling today as there would be an honored guest arriving – which was one of the occasions that demanded their attendance at court – his father had seemed a little on edge. Apparently he knew the man and his role as emissary was unexpected, as Father knew him as a mercenary. Sir Slade was a warrior, not an ambassador or politician, and that Damian’s grandfather was using him as an emissary could be cause for concern.
The man certainly looked like a warrior.
Damian was not used to seeing men larger than his father, but this man was enormous. His swords looked as long as Damian was tall and the eye-patch he wore gave him a cruel, menacing look.
His pleasantries with Damian’s father and the welcome speeches were nothing out of the ordinary, so Damian’s eyes wandered to the pleasure slave standing next to Slade, wearing a golden collar and leash, the end of which Slade had nonchalantly wrapped around his wrist. Although dwarfed by Slade, the man was quite tall, and of course beautiful as all pleasure slaves were, but Damian was not truly interested until the slave moved to refill Slade’s drink upon his request.
He moved as gracefully as anyone Damian had ever seen, and Damian found himself transfixed by the way the gauzy material of his clothes floated around his body, somehow simultaneously concealing and revealing. Damian watched him until his father called a close to the court, but he remained impassive and still next to Slade.
***
It was a surprise to everyone when Damian asked to be allowed to attend the feast in Slade’s honor that evening, when usually both Damian and Timothy mocked Jason and Cassandra for having to go, but his father said no, he was too young.
Nonetheless, Damian crept out of his rooms an hour after he was meant to be asleep to the little enclave to peek down on the hall. Slade had casually promised in the earlier audience that his slave would dance to entertain the court that night, and Damian had promised himself he would not miss it and hoped to be in time.
He was.
Damian watched, strangely breathless, as the slave danced before the court.
Damian watched as the slave’s light, transparent clothes floated around him as he moved, candlelight flickering over his skin making it glow, gold glinting at his throat, his wrists, his ankles, his groin.
Damian watched as the slave moved his body with unfeasible grace, in ways that seemed impossible.
Damian watched when the slave finished to rapturous applause and went to sit on Slade’s lap, and Damian watched as Slade hands roamed carelessly over his body.
Damian watched until his eyes got too heavy and he fell asleep.
The next morning he was woken by the uproar in the household when Prince Damian was found to be missing.
He did not see the slave again that visit, as Slade stayed only one more day and when he came to talk to Damian the next day on Damian’s grandfather’s behalf, he did not bring the slave with him.
He did not know the slave’s name. No one had thought to ask.
***
Aged 11
Damian first met Richard when he was eleven years old.
His grandfather did not send Slade when Damian was nine or ten, just another boring ambassador, which Damian’s father considered to be a good reflection on the relationship between the two kingdoms, but Damian found secretly rather disappointing.
Damian was considered old enough, now, to be at court and he was there to greet Slade when he arrived when Damian was eleven, and was pleased to see Slade had brought the slave with him again.
He was also pleased to see that his memory of the slave, whom he had idly thought of often, had been mostly correct.
Aware of the attention of the court now, rather than being tucked away in the old spying alcove, Damian did his best not to stare at the slave, although he was too keen to catalogue the differences from his memory to the reality to keep his eyes away for long.
The slave was younger than Damian had previously imagined – although an eight year old is terrible at judging ages, and an eleven year old not that much better – he thought the man was actually not much older than Jason, perhaps only a couple of years.
The slave kept his eyes down mostly, as befitted a slave, but Damian had caught glimpses of them, and it was apparent that from the distance of the alcove Damian had not been able to see quite how blue they were.
Damian waited patiently through Slade and his father’s conversation. He was at an age, now, where attendance was required at court, but not actual contribution. His father was sharing and discussing matters of the kingdom more and more with his children in private, and even listening to their views, but in public King Bruce was still very much the sole voice of Gotham’s royal family.
Damian started suddenly as he realized that the conversation was finishing up, and that Slade had not made the offer for his slave to dance tonight. It was not a requirement of etiquette for a guest to do so, and perhaps Slade had decided to defer to his father’s position on slavery by not suggesting it, but Damian felt a surge of dismay. Would he not get to see the slave dance again?
“Sir Slade,” Damian could not help saying impulsively, as the man rose to leave. “I understand your slave danced last time you visited. Will he not do so again tonight?”
Slade’s eyebrows shot up, and the slave froze in place.
Damian’s father frowned at him; it was not unheard of for them to speak in court, but unusual, and Damian had no doubt his father was annoyed by him choosing to say something so known to be against King Bruce’s views.
Damian felt a slight flush creep up his neck at the sudden scrutiny, but kept his face impassive.
“Richard,” Slade said after a few agonizing moments. The slave looked up at him, face blank. “Young Prince Damian would like to see you dance.”
The slave’s, Richard’s, eyes flicked briefly to Damian before dropping again.
“It would be my honor, Master,” he said, voice soft.
“Indeed it would,” Slade seemed amused. “Of course, Your Highness, my apologies for not offering before. I thought perhaps a different entertainment this time – it would not do to bore such honored hosts – but of course you did not see last time, did you? It was past your bedtime.”
Damian scowled, knowing his face flushed at that statement, and opened his mouth to retort, but his father spoke up.
“Thank you, Sir Slade, your graciousness as a guest is legendary. However, you are right. I have engaged some players and minstrels for this evening, thus we need not impose upon you again.”
Slade bowed, still smirking. “Of course, Your Majesty. Until this evening.”
***
“Damian!” his father’s voice was annoyed a soon as they were in private. “What on earth were you thinking, asking such a thing?”
Damian crossed his arms. “Jason and Cassandra told me Slade’s slave danced last time they were here and I didn’t see it, so I wanted to see it this time,” he lied.
“It was rude, Damian, and unbecoming of a host to request such a thing,” his father said, irritably. “And while I don’t imagine I’ll ever get to a place in my lifetime where we will be able to ban slavery, the disapprobation of the royal house does prevent the grossest excesses in this kingdom. A pleasure slave dancing at court by request would severely undermine that.”
“I am sorry father,” Damian said, with true regret. His father’s displeasure was something he abhorred. “I was careless.”
“It is also,” his father continued, voice softer now after Damian’s apology, taking on a teaching tone, “impolitic to let a man like Slade know what you are thinking. And foolish to put yourself in a position where you might owe him anything, especially for something so trivial.”
Damian hung his head, and his father sighed, but ruffled his hair before leaving.
“How did you even know it was the same slave?” Timothy asked as soon as Father had left.
He sounded suspicious, and Damian knew that while his father appeared to have forgotten, or dismissed, the fact that Damian had been found out of bed the morning after Richard had danced here, Timothy had not.
Damian’s excuse that he had woken early and gone to see the horses had been accepted by his father, as it wouldn’t have been the first time, nor indeed the last, that Damian was not where he was supposed to be for that very reason, although never so early.
His siblings had been rather more doubtful than his father, having shared rooms with him in previous years and more aware that Damian was not, and had never been, a morning person.
Damian shrugged, “I just assumed.”
“Bold of you,” Jason said. “He’s got to be older than me, maybe, what, nineteen or twenty or so, getting a bit old for it, I should think? And it’s been three years. Pleasure slaves don’t tend to stay that long in their Master’s favor.”
“His dancing was incredible, though,” Cassandra said, looking slightly dreamy-eyed. Cassandra loved dancing – one of the very few good things about when there were formal dances at the castle was how happy they made her.
Jason pulled a face. “If you say so,” he said. “I think I fell asleep.”
“If you’d fallen asleep the dancing would have been interrupted for fear of an earthquake from your snoring,” Timothy said. Jason’s snoring was an old, favorite joke within the family.
“I do not snore!” Jason said, on cue, throwing a cushion at Timothy who immediately retaliated.
The conversation was forgotten, then, and Damian slipped away, to regret his father’s anger, and, worse, that he would not see Richard dance again.
***
The evening was worse than he’d thought it would be. Not only was Richard not dancing, he was not even there.
Slade sat by his father in place of honor as the minstrels and players did their work, but Damian felt Slade’s eyes drift to him frequently. Damian tried to keep his own attention fixed on the performances, but could not help it when his own eyes strayed to those serving the tables, seeking out Richard but not finding him.
After the performance Slade wandered over to Damian, who was waiting impatiently for his father to dismiss Timothy and him. They were still considered by their father a little too young to be there for the more serious drinking of the later evening, for which Damian could only be grateful.
“Were you looking for my slave, Your Highness?” Slade asked as he approached.
“No,” Damian said shortly, still annoyed at himself for betraying his interest to Slade so foolishly.
Damian was not so young that he was not aware of the power plays between his father and his grandfather, that Damian was inevitably part of, and that Slade was too. He had unwittingly given Slade some small advantage by showing an interest in his slave; he had been hopelessly naive.
“He could not be here,” Slade continued as though Damian had not spoken. “Regretfully, he is still recovering from his punishment.”
Damian’s head jerked up to stare at Slade, who looked anything but regretful. He looked pleased and knowing.
He shook his head in obviously fake sadness, but said no more, forcing Damian to ask the question.
Damian resented giving him the satisfaction, but his need to know won out.
“Punishment? For what?”
“It became clear from our conversation this afternoon that his performance when we were last here displeased his Majesty. And while we were representing your grandfather, too,” Slade sighed, but his eyes glittered. “Such a stain your grandfather’s honor had to be punished, of course.”
Damian’s stomach rolled.
His fault.
His foolish eagerness to see Richard dance again, to know if it had truly been as mesmerizing as he remembered, had gotten him into trouble with his father and brought who knows what consequences to Richard.
“What did you…” The question of what Richard had suffered for Damian’s mistake clearly had to be asked, but the words failed him. “How did you…”
“I do believe your father is summoning you, Your Highness,” Slade interrupted him, gesturing over to where the King was, indeed, beckoning him over to say goodnight and dismiss him for the evening. “I shall see you in the morning. I look forward to discussing your progress to report back to your grandfather.”
Damian nodded, unable to force any polite words through his gritted teeth, before going to his father. He’d managed to fail a test no one had even known to set him, and his throat burned with humiliated regret.
The regret made him glad that Richard did not accompany Slade again when he met him in the practice yard the next morning to show off his ever-improving weapons skills, and discuss what he’d learned from his tutors over the past year.
He did see Richard one more time, however, that visit as he was required to join his father to see Slade off from the courtyard that afternoon.
Richard was dressed almost normally for the first time in Damian’s experience, the diaphanous materials he had always seen him in replaced with normal travelling clothes, although the gold of his collar and cuffs at his neck and wrists was still visible.
Damian did not know if he usually dressed like this when they travelled or if it was some power play by Slade to keep him wondering what had been done to Richard for his misstep, allowing Damian’s imagination to run wild.
Richard’s face looked untouched as far as Damian could see, and that was really all Damian could see, but Damian felt sickened when Richard moved to mount the horse next to Slade, as his wonderful grace was gone. He moved stiffly and slowly, and flinched perceptibly as he settled in the saddle.
The sight of that flinch, and Slade’s smirk as they left, stayed clear in Damian’s memory for a long time.
***
Aged 13
Damian first spoke to Richard when he was thirteen years old.
His grandfather did not send Slade when he was twelve, and Damian was uncertain if he was disappointed or pleased about that.
When the message informed them that it would be Sir Slade visiting them this year, Damian knew enough to at least consider the possibility that Slade would not bring a slave, or indeed have a different slave.
He did not expect that though; Damian had given Slade a tiny advantage last time they were here and Slade was not the type of man to give up any advantage. If Slade still had Richard he would bring him, Damian was certain of that.
And so it was; when Slade entered the throne room Richard was a step behind him.
Damian kept his tongue in check this time, but was aware he was less successful with his eyes.
Richard looked entirely unchanged from the last time he stood in the throne room; the same diaphanous-style clothes, golden jewelry and impossible grace – the stiffness from the last time Damian had seen him completely gone now, of course.
His siblings’ looks at him were a little knowing as his father and Slade exchanged the usual banalities, and Damian was annoyingly aware of the court’s eyes on him even more than usual.
Damian’s previous slip had not gone unnoticed by his family or the court, and the story had somehow grown in the retelling.
The court was, of course, fully dedicated to achieving the greatest closeness to members of the royal family possible, and watched them with excruciating attention. While Damian was, generally speaking, excellent at the family’s approach of giving as little of themselves away as possible, the court had learnt something about Damian that they felt they could use.
Handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed sons had been thrown in Damian’s path in frankly ridiculous numbers over the past two years.
Older court members he had never spoken to before had started casual conversations with him designed to feel out Damian’s thoughts on slavery for when he was king, mentioning how lucrative the slave trade was for the kingdom, trying to pry a little further into the crack Damian had inadvertently made in his father’s previously impeccable position.
Numerous noble families had invited him to their estates for the out of season months, subtly – or not so subtly – making it clear that while they had no pleasure slaves here of course, their own estates were practically dripping in them, all of whom would be only too delighted to dance for Prince Damian until their feet bled.
Damian had borne such indignities as stoically as he could, but had got into quite a few cathartic fights with his siblings when then they had mocked him for it, as siblings were helpfully so wont to do.
He escaped all the knowing eyes as expediently as possible after court was dismissed, and returned to his rooms.
He was pleased to know that neither his memory, nor his paint brush, had failed him.
Damian had discovered that he had a talent for art some time ago. He had mentioned to his family in passing that his tutor had said so when he’d been working on maps for geography, and his father had proceeded to acquire significant art supplies and a tutor for him.
Damian had been uncharacteristically hesitant to accept; art supplies were difficult to obtain and extremely expensive, and he had managed to acquire the idea, although upon reflection he couldn’t have said from where – perhaps from his geography tutor’s casual dismissal of the skill – that art was somehow womanly and unbecoming of a prince…?
Jason and Timothy had laughed at him for that, and Cassandra had punched him, but Father had just looked confused and said all talents should be nurtured.
His father perhaps regretted his generosity when Damian was more frequently than ever found by the horses, or the hunting dogs, or the kitchen cats, as animals were his favored subjects, when he ought to be elsewhere.
Damian’s art decorated the private royal quarters extensively; animal portraits and portraits of his family.
Damian was sometimes embarrassed by how frequently he painted his family, but sometimes his fingers just itched for his paintbrushes at the elegant curve of Cassandra’s neck, the untamable fall of Timothy’s hair over his eyes, the strong muscles in Jason’s arm at sword practice, the stern fondness in his father’s eyes when the siblings bickered.
He showed his father all his paintings, even the terrible ones, in return for his father’s investment and interest, and he felt, oddly, that his father might just be equally as proud of his progress in art as he was of his progress in arms.
The exception, however, were his paintings of Richard, which he did not show anybody.
He had painted them, genuinely, as a technical exercise at first. Richard’s exquisite movement was the first thing Damian thought of when he thought of him (more often than he would confess) and capturing the idea of movement in paint was a challenge indeed.
Later, as he got older, he found his thoughts and paintbrush lingering more frequently on Richard’s face, the shade of his lips and eyes, the outline of his body beneath the barely-there clothes, the length and elegance of his fingers. Later, he used the paintings in ways he really hadn’t intended when he painted them at all.
He had begun to wonder if his memory had been faulty, and if Richard had really looked like that. He need not have worried, though, it was clear as he looked at the many portraits of Richard he had done. Damian had an artist’s eye; sharp and discerning and sensitive to beauty, and he had inherited his father’s steel-trap memory.
His fingers twitched to paint more, the fresh images of Richard in his mind, but he refrained. While Richard was here there was the possibility of adding more images to Damian’s mental collection to be later captured in paint. He would wait.
***
Although Richard did not dance that evening, Damian was correct in that he was able to acquire considerably more mental images of Richard.
Slade’s visit had coincided with a particularly renowned troupe of entertainers passing through Gotham and his father had engaged them for the evening.
There were dancers, acrobats, contortionists, fire-eaters, jesters, minstrels, bards; entertainers of all kinds, and Richard was clearly entranced.
He stood at Slade’s elbow to serve him, but when he wasn’t engaged in that his attention was glued to the performers.
Damian had never had such an excellent view of Richard’s face; as a slave he kept his head down usually, and when he had been dancing Damian’s view from the spying alcove had been inadequate.
Now, though, Richard’s face was up and open – he’d always been suitably impassive when Damian had seen him before, but now his face was animated as he watched with clear delight – and he, he glowed.
Damian was fully aware – did not need his siblings’ elbows and eyerolls to tell him – he was exactly repeating his previous mistake of showing much too much interest in Sir Slade’s slave, but he could no more look away from Richard than Richard seemed to be able to look away from the troupe.
He saw Slade’s frequent amused glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but he could not bring himself to care. That was a problem for tomorrow.
***
Tomorrow came, and Damian met Slade out in the practice fields. This was the usual pattern of the report on Damian to return to his grandfather; the emissary would see Damian’s skill with weaponry, quiz him about his studies, and then leave.
Damian’s father had been slightly concerned the first time Slade had been sent rather than an ancient ambassador, that the intention might be for Slade to actually spar with Damian as a test.
Even Damian could not pretend that would have been anything other than ridiculous – Slade was one of the most famous warriors in all the neighboring lands, and rumored to take a secret elixir which enhanced his strength and speed, and Damian had been eight – and the thought that there might have been an ‘accident’ had been high in King Bruce’s mind, but that had proved not to be the case.
Damian had exhibited his skills with his weapons masters, as he always did, and it had appeared to simply be Slade’s experienced and discerning eye that had been the reason the warrior had been sent.
Damian had expected more of the same, but his approach to the practice fields slowed in surprise as he realized there was another figure next to Slade.
Richard. Dressed in clothes similar to the travelling clothes Damian had seen him in once before and once again completely impassive next to his Master.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” Slade said, cheerfully.
“Good morning,” he replied stiffly, wary of whatever made Slade look happy. “What shall I start with?”
He usually wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, but he hoped Slade might choose the sword.
Damian was extremely competent with all weaponry, as he had been trained as soon as he could handle them safely enough with chubby little fingers, including the bow and knives, staffs, maces and axes, or hand to hand, but he excelled at the sword.
He felt a slight, growing excitement that he might be able to show off in front of Richard.
Slade’s smile was wide.
“I thought perhaps we might start off with something a little different, today,” he said. “I recall you wished to see my slave dance last time we were here, but alas, the slave’s dancing was inadequate for your father’s court.”
Richard’s jaw clenched a little at that, but otherwise he showed no emotion.
“It occurred to me that perhaps you might enjoy seeing him perform a different type of dance,” Slade continued, a glint in his eye.
“That is not necessary,” Damian replied instantly. His father would disapprove and Damian knew better than to think anything good would come out of any suggestion of Slade’s.
“Nonsense,” Slade said, and he beckoned two of the men of arms who had accompanied him from Nanda Parbat over and handed them each one of the staffs from the rack, and then handed a third one to Richard. “I assure you this will be much more to your father’s taste.” He smiled again, looking at Damian knowingly, “And possibly even more to yours.”
Richard looked up and met Slade’s eyes, but his face remained impassive.
Slade smiled again. “Attack,” he told the two men sharply. And they did.
They were large men. Not as large as Slade, of course, nor Damian’s father, but a few inches taller than Richard and considerably broader, although Richard was far more lithely muscled than any other pleasure slave Damian had ever seen. Men at arms were likely to be big, of course, particularly those chosen for travelling roles where appearing a deterrent was a useful aspect, and these men looked particularly mean to Damian.
They certainly did not hold back – the first swinging his stick unhesitatingly at Richard’s head, while the second moved swiftly around to his flank.
It did not make a difference.
Richard flowed underneath the intended blow, instantly sweeping the first man’s feet out from under him with one leg, while moving his own staff to meet the first strike from the second man.
Damian understood why Slade had called it dancing. It was immediately clear that the two men would be nowhere near enough, as Richard made them look slow and foolish as he moved gracefully, effortlessly around them.
The fight did not last long, but Damian drank in every second of beautiful, controlled violence. When it finished the two men were bleeding on the ground, one groaning, one insensible, and Richard stood over them barely breathing hard in the sunshine.
Damian was startled out of his complete focus on Richard by Slade’s slow clapping beside him.
Damian turned and found an utter lack of surprise on Slade’s face at the ease of the victory; he looked amused and he looked hungry, eyes dark as he smirked at Richard.
“As you see, Your Highness,” he said to Damian, although he did not take his eyes off Richard. “There are many types of dancing, and I assure you Richard excels at them all.”
“Now,” Slaid said, finally looking away. “Let us see what you can do, Prince Damian.”
***
Damian may not have been quite so aesthetically pleasing as Richard in the training salles, but he still comported himself very well, he was sure.
His skills with the training sword received an approving eyebrow raise from Slade, and he defeated his opponents swiftly enough in all disciplines.
He answered Slade’s questions on his tutoring easily enough, although he felt his way cautiously through anything that veered towards politics. He was aware all the time of Richard’s presence, but Richard had resumed his perfect slave pose of still, quietness and kept his head down.
“Very good, Your Highness,” Slade approved when he had finished. “Now, I need to send my slave to speak to the stable hands. Perhaps you would be so kind as to show him where they are?”
Damian drew in a breath at the complete lack of propriety of that request. A prince escorting a slave to the stables was ridiculous; Damian should take offence, should gesture a nearby servant to do so, should tell his father.
“I am actually going by there, myself,” Damian lied transparently, “so yes, I can comply with your request, Sir Slade.”
“Excellent,” Slade said, grinning widely. “Richard, be sure to inform the stables we will be leaving at 3 o’clock.”
Richard inclined his head and Slade left them alone. Well, alone as they could be, there were servants and courtiers in the area and Damian had no doubt they would be watching with interest.
“It is this way,” he said, awkwardly, and Richard moved to follow him as he set off for the stables.
Damian cleared his throat. He was not very good at small talk, but his father had painstakingly drilled a level of competence into all his children – none of whom it came naturally to – but Damian could not waste this opportunity on small talk or silence.
“I was surprised by your fighting skills,” he said, allowing his curiosity to make him obvious. “How did you become so proficient?”
Richard smiled at him and it was breathtaking even if it was small and sad.
“I was a warrior for my people before Slade took me,” he said, softly. “He has allowed me to keep up my skills.”
Damian frowned, it seemed foolish to allow a pleasure slave such an opportunity. He struggled to find a way to ask why on earth Slade would do so, but Richard preempted him.
“Slade enjoys a fight,” Richard said, face blank again. “So long as he always wins.”
Damian thought of that darkly, thought of Slade’s huge body over Richard, forcing him down, and swallowed.
“Where did he take you from?” he asked, after a moment.
Richard seemed slightly surprised at the interest.
“From Haly’s Island,” he said quietly. “When Nanda Parbat invaded six years ago.”
Damian knew of Haly’s Island from his studies. The Island was some distance off the coast of Gotham and close to Nanda Parbat, and was notoriously difficult to get to due to the treacherousness of the seas surrounding it. It was by repute a place of violent weather and dangerous geography, but also was known to produce outstanding artists, athletes, bards and acrobats.
One of Jason’s favorite bards was a refugee from Haly’s Island who had come to Gotham along with many others following the conquest by Nanda Parbat, and stayed. Uprisings were common, there had been at least three notable ones since the conquest, but his grandfather had kept control of the island by ruthlessly crushing every spark of resistance and extracting bloody vengeance each time. The tales of what had happened to Haly’s royal family were notorious.
That was the way of the world, though. The strong took what they wanted from the weak. Damian would work tirelessly to make himself and his family strong enough to prevent such things happening to Gotham, to them, and to prevent it he thought he might be able to be just as ruthless as his grandfather, but he did not say so.
They continued on, and the way to the stables passed the kennels. Titus, Damian’s favored hound, jumped and barked at the gates as Damian passed, expecting to be let out, or at least petted or given a treat.
Damian felt slightly embarrassed under Richard’s sharp attention so he ignored Titus and the other hounds who had joined him hopefully, making a silent apology and promise to return with kitchen scraps later.
“Perhaps we could stop for a moment, if you are not in a rush?” Richard suggested, softly. “I am rarely at leisure to pet a dog and those look very friendly.”
It was an offer too good to pass up.
They petted the dogs together, and Richard laughed as Titus licked his face enthusiastically. Damian was gratified by Titus’s good taste even as his heart seized at the sight of Richard’s face lit up with laughter. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
“Well, thank you Prince Damian,” Richard said, smiling when they finally reached the stables. “I have enjoyed this walk. I can find my way back.”
“I could buy you from Slade,” Damian blurted out suddenly, and then stopped, shocked at himself.
Richard looked a little surprised, but just smiled ruefully.
“Many have tried,” he said, gently.
“They probably did not have the wealth of Gotham behind them,” Damian said, apparently entirely unable to control his tongue anymore.
“No,” Richard agreed, still smiling. He was clearly amused by Damian, and Damian felt his cheeks begin to heat. “But I know Gotham’s royal house does not keep slaves.”
“I could free you.”
Richard laughed then, clearly not believing him. “But then I would not stay,” he said, still laughing.
Damian face burned, Richard thought he was a foolish child.
“I will buy you,” Damian hissed angrily in humiliation, and Richard’s eyebrows shot up at the vehemence.
Damian stormed off before he could humiliate himself further.
He did not see Richard again that time.
When his father came to get him to see Slade off he said he was ill. His father agreed to let him stay in bed because his color was rather hectic and Damian never shirked his responsibilities, so he did not suspect a lie.
Damian plotted silently as he stewed in his humiliation. On reflection he knew his father would not give him money to buy Richard, nor did he truly believe Slade would sell him to the Royal house of Gotham.
But Damian was not just the son and heir of the King of Gotham. He was also the heir to Nanda Parbat, the grandson of the ruler fearfully referred to as the Demon Head. Damian had only visited Nanda Parbat once in his life, for a ceremony when he was crowned the formal heir at ten. He would be returning, however, in three years’ time to be part of the celebration of his grandfather’s jubilee for twenty five years on the throne.
What Damian might achieve in Nanda Parbat was an entirely different proposition to what he might do in Gotham. He only had to be patient.
***
Damian never went to visit his grandfather to celebrate his jubilee at sixteen, however, because when Damian was fifteen, a great many things happened, that destroyed his plans and set him on a new path.
When he was fifteen years old, his father died.
***