Without Hope

The Story

When Dick Grayson opened his eyes, he felt the familiar guise that was usually on his face to preserve his identity, gone. Instead, blue orbs filled with masked fear, stared wearily at the blurry figure standing over him. Somehow, he could not recall anything that happened before he had awoken. The only thing that came to mind was when he was riding on his Night-cycle, alone in the streets of Bludhaven. He felt a trickle of something hot and wet slowly run down the side of his face. Smelling the stench of iron, Dick immediately tried raising his hands up to wipe the blood away. He found out that he could not move. Not only that, but a huge tsunami of nausea smacked right into his temples, and he had to fight the urge to yell out in pain.

The figure in front of him raised a hand to his eyes, and Dick struggled to get out of the compromising condition he found himself in. The figure said something to him, but Dick only heard quiet mummers that buzzed in his ears. Then, as if a spell was put on him, the reality of what he had been through slammed down on him. Literally. Pain radiated from every inch of his body. It was so intense; Dick asked himself how he was still alive. Wounds opened, and blood came roaring out of him. The raw scream that came from his dry throat even made himself surprised, and the blinding hot agony that was surly etched onto his face was enough to knock him out. But, Dick had been raised by the best, and he was trained not to fall unconscious, no matter what situation he was in.

Dick almost left himself drift off, but caught himself before he could. He had a horrible feeling that if he were to fall down the spiral of blackness he would never awaken again, and let the illusion keep him awake. He had long stopped screaming, his sore throat only letting occasional grunts out, and his eyesight slowly regained itself. Dick almost wanted his blurry eyesight back, for when he did open his eyes, he saw the true image of the hell he had been through. His black and blue Nightwing suit was no comparison to his black and blue skin, which was littered with bruises and gashes. Of course, his suit was slashed in many places, and Dick was surprised that it even was still on him. For some odd reason, the only coherent thought that got processed in his brain was "Alfred's gonna have to stitch that."

His stomach churned at sight of the-his scarlet blood, running down the slab of stone that he was laying on. He curled his hands into fists, his nails biting into his skin, and saw the shackles. The shackles were melded onto the stone, as if someone had flame-torched the metal to the stone while his hands were still in it. The burns on his wrists certainly proved his discovery. He would never be able to get out of the restraints; no matter how hard he tried. With a sickening thought, he looked at the detailed carving on the stone he was laying on and saw that it was a star. A frickin' star; like the ones that the phony supernatural series he used to watch showcased. What was he, an offering to some make-believed god?

The figure that had been with him when he had woken up was still in the room, chanting strange words, in a different language. With the width of the shoulders and the low voice, the person was definitely a man, possibly in his mid-thirties. He was wearing a red robe that did not allow anyone to see his, face, yet a dark aurora certainly surrounded the man. There were others in robes, all men in their mid-thirties, but the rest were wearing black.

Dick pushed back the second wave of nausea he felt, and caught the numerous words in English that happened to slip through the tongues of the chanting men. "Talon" and "Owlman" were whispered in raspy voices, the rest an incoherent babble. The two words made his brain's cogs run on overdrive; he had heard those names before. Suddenly, a memory popped up in his mind in a vivid image.

A very young Dick Grayson was sitting under the protective shade of a weeping willow; a cup of cold lemonade in his hand to chase the summer fumes away. He was picnicking with his mom and dad, and the couple was sitting on a faded pink and blue blanket on the grass that had little elephants sewn in detail on it. "Mami, Tati, tell me a story!" Dick had bounded up to his mom and dad like an over energetic puppy, his round blue eyes huge and full of happiness.

His mom patted the empty space next to her, and Dick sat down. "Well, since we are in Gotham today… How about me and your Father tell you a story that originated from here?"

Dick had nodded, full of eagerness.

His Mother started the story. "There once was a little boy. He was a very lonely boy, who had watched his parents die in front of his eyes." Dick's eyes had widened at that part, and he clutched his Mother's shirt, and his Father's hand.

"You'll never die, right?" He asked, trembling at the ugly thought. His Mother and Father had smiled.

"We would never do that to you."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He had smiled, satisfied at the answer of his very mature question. The story went on.

"The man had a brother, and he wanted to protect him from the very same thing that had killed his parents. He immersed himself into the shadows, and very soon, people began to forget about the little boy. After a few years, the boy's brother even forgot about him. The boy had now turned into a man, and as the years came passing by, everyone forgot about him. Somehow, he had found the power of immortality, of living forever. He went to his younger brother to share the secret; but since the younger brother had forgotten about him, he had refused the gift. The man was outraged, and he stopped protecting his brother. He instead focused on the city that his dead parents had built and began to protect that. He rounded up many others, who were his loyal followers, and taught them the power of immortality. At first, he was ridding the streets of the filthy and greedy people, using justice and helping the police. Then, as the years passed by, he began to feel the pain of immortality. His younger brother, who was no longer younger than him anymore, was slowly dying. He had forgiven his brother, and rushed to his deathbed in which he had offered off the immortality again. His brother refused and died, saying in his last breath, "Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word about them, or they'll send The Talon for your head." No one knew why he had said that, but the man held his brothers cold hand and took his words to heart. He named himself Owlman, and he and his followers collected the perfect Talons, all made to look like his deceased brother. His methods turned dark, and he sent his Talon to take lives, instead of justice. Years came passing by, and the story of The Court of Owls slowly faded away, but many believe that they are still there in the shadows of Gotham."

His Mother finished the story, and his Father whistled. "Can't believe you still remember that. I barely do."

Dick had asked, "What did Owlman's brother look like?"

His Father had finally distributed something of the story.

"They say he had black hair and blue eyes."