Damian's fingers trailed along the edge of the box and he contemplated opening it. It had been forever and a minute since he'd last played, yet each movement has been worn in to his hands and fingers with time. There would be no trouble therein. Decision made, Damian lifted the lid, revealing the masterfully crafted instrument within.
Raven's unexpected yet wholly appreciated gift was a thing of beauty, and its sound would no doubt be of the same calibre. There was one way to determine that- to play it. Drawing a thumb along the strings, Damian ascertained that the violin was in tune, adjusting ever so slightly the four tuning knobs to achieve the desired sounds. Any external aid wasn't needed- if the League of Assassins was good at one thing, it was drilling in to the minds of the assassins. Gods have mercy if Damian ever missed a note in front of an instructor.
Withdrawing the bow from the box, Damian verified that the hairs were taught, twisting the silver at the bow's end as he had done the tuning knobs. Once more satisfied, Damian sighed, securing the violin in his left hand and the bow, sure to spread his fingers along the bow grip.
Raising the instrument and resting it on his shoulder, Damian stood, a chill running through his spine as his bare feet met the bedroom floor- which the opened window had chilled: he was cooling himself down after two hours training. The crisp air flooded his lungs as Damian breathed in and gushed out as he exhaled.
Every violinist who hasn't reached the stages beyond intermediacy always keeps their eyes trained on the fingers on the neck of the violin- they don't know how to play well enough to know where to place their fingers instinctively. Damian was no amateur nor an intermediate violinist. The song he wished to play was set in his mind like carvings in stone- a fraction eroded with time, yet plain as day. This was a song he'd played a millions times before; one he would play a million times again.
The bow was lain by the A string, bouncing just the slightest. Posture impeccable, Damian drew his arm back, a loud note resonating within the room. For for beats it lasted, then he stopped, shook his head, let the violin fall so that he held it only by the neck, and paced about the room. Wearing the wooden floorboards thin, Damian relentlessly shook his head, muttering to no one.
"غبي غبي غبي!...يا ربي دخيلك!..."
(Stupid stupid stupid...God please!...")
Huffing, Damian regarded the violin in his hand, memories flying through his mind like debris in a hurricane. It had been so long...so, so long, yet his recollection was as ripe as ever. Perfection. He had to perform to perfection. Whether sparring or dancing or playing an instrument, perfection was a standard requirement. What a failure he would be if perfect was not achieved.
Damian slumped on to his bed, the violin and bow resting besides him. Head lulling, he stared out of the uncovered window, eyes trailing over the spiky outline of evergreens in the distance, bathed in the moon's silvery glow.
Ghosts played on his mind.
What had he done with himself? How far this current Damian had fallen from the one trained to take the mantle of Ra's al Ghul. That disciplined nature he once held had slipped so far. If he'd dared to train less than seven hours totally in a day a few years ago, he'd have withered in shame. Now...
He sat up, viewing the gifted violin.
He had become so much more trusting, not in everyone, but in the ones closest to him. How could a person turn from rejecting any form of emotion contact, to relying on the safety and security of another. In the room besides his rested a person who'd infiltrated the walls of his heart and slipped through the cracks in the stone. Talia would carve his heart out had she known...or not been away from the land of the living. But demons and their kin were notoriously driven by lust, and all too often amongst their kind, that lust could grow to something more. Circumstance and situation had brought an Al Ghul and a half-demoness together, it was a story repeated again and again throughout Preternatural history.
It was odd to think about, that if Damian and Raven hadn't left the League and Hell respectively, they would have connected in two juxtaposing instances. Either a greater alliance would be formed between the two legendary houses of Al Ghul and Ad Djinn through their tying of souls (matrimony)... or they would partake in a bloody war of ancient prejudices and millennia of bad blood. Thank the gods for this outcome.
Damian's brow furrowed, he shook his head once, then stood up. Assuming the correct stance and posture, Damian placed the bow on the A string. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
His eyes fell shut and the first note hummed in the air, then the second, and the third, and he lost himself in the haunting song of his childhood,
The next day, after a night of contemplation and a regular morning of training and tea-drinking, Damian curled up in the refuge of the safe space provided by three conveniently placed bookcases, leaning against the comforting wooden walls, slumped on to a bean-bag finessed from Grayson's room. He figures Dick wouldn't mind if he used it while the acrobat was at work.
Eyes flicking from side to side as he devoured the page's contents, Damian's finger slid down the side of the paper, relishing in that irreplaceable feeling of a well-worn and well-loved classic. A Tale of Two Cities. No doubt his father had read this when he was a boy- his father has told him of his boyhood obsession with Charles Dickens.
There was a musty, warm atmosphere to the library that no other room in the Manor could replicate. It was like this place, with its aged walls and worn couches, dusty books and extravagant yet faded carpets, was an entire other world. A large safe space with nooks and crannies to hide in when everything else became overwhelming.
Damian checked his watch: it was only ten AM, the day was still in its infancy. Leaving a strip of leather on the page he left at (an unconventional bookmark) Damian closed the novel, squirming his way off the bean-bag. Carrying the large bag of synthetic beads in one hand and the book in the other, he walked through the library, feet cushioned by the plush carpet. The mahogany door with the brass handle was in sight when a voice called out.
"What're you reading?"
Damian turned to the black-haired girl sitting on of the sofas, sipping something from a mug. Several books and a laptop sat besides her.
"A Tale of Two Cities. For the seventh time.", he tilted his head. "And you, what are you doing Cassandra? I haven't seen you in six days."
His sister sighed, passing an eye over the data collectors around her, "There's a situation. A contact asked for help, I'm having some trouble delivering on that promise."
Dropping the stolen item where he stood, Damian approached Cassandra, taking a seat on the sofa with the tech between the two of them. Setting the book down on a table besides the sofa, Damian mimicked her analysis of the information before them, scanning over data, descriptions, eyewitness accounts and so on.
"I've scoured Gotham from head to toe. No sign of any individual fitting the descriptions given.", Cass explained.
Damian read though the recounts, eyes narrowing: one of the documents open on the laptop told of the theft of a precious item that was 'very dear' to the owner. The open books revealed all the Wayne Manor library's information (quite inaccurate from what Damian could see) about magical artefacts. He beheld pages divulging the possible amulets, weapons and power stores utilised by magicians in the practice of magic.
Fixing a bemused look on his sister, Damian asked, "Who is the owner? More so, what were the properties of that stolen object?"
"I have been left to figure that out- the owner is being...difficult.", a small smile gee on Cassandra's lips. "Would you like to help?"
***
Thin fingers grasping the edge of her hood, the demoness tree it over her head, sure to draw her cloak around her lean frame. Boots dipping in to the puddles of collected water between the cobbles, Raven slinked through the alleyway, dodging the odd junkie- they were relatively harmless but smelled like shit. There was a general scent of narcotics that hung around this part of town. More so, the pungent odour of pure sin: it was no wonder so many of the Dark kind lingered here, the atmosphere alone was delicious enough. It was always better to go to this end of Gotham (not that the others weren't also sin-ridden) at night- the night life was exceptional and the most hostile of species rendered hospitable after a little drink. The locals Gothamites had learned to firm it, unnatural occurrences were all too natural. What was there to be fazed by?
Scrunching her nose, the demoness' senses flared as she sensed two approaching presences. The ssshtt of metal on metal was the next warning before Raven had a man by the neck. Having kicked the butterfly knife out of the first man's hand and holding him in place, Raven sent a flash of pre magical energy at the other man, knocking him to the floor. Taking in the struggling man's breath- as expected, it reeked of marijuana- his thuggish clothes, bald head and ear piercing (not to mention the aura that spiked off him) Raven concluded that this man was a common mugger, a petty thief.
Snorting, the demoness threw him to the ground and picked up the discarded butterfly knife from a muddy puddle, her spine shivering as her fingers touched the icy water. Leaving the two grounded thieves, Raven made haste out of the alleyway and in to the street. The first shop on the left was her destination, and if she knew anything about its mole of an owner, the woman within already knew she was coming.
Shoving the door open, Raven instantly raised her hand as the bell twinkled above. A fog of decay raged in her direction yet is did not touch her, barred by an invisible wall of magic. A few seconds later, the cloud of death receded and Raven heard a laboured panting from about two meters away. The door closed.
"A disappointment on your part Marlena.", Raven clicked her tongue, boots making a similar sound. "A witch as accomplished as yourself ought to be more powerful than that, was it supposed to be a deterrent? What happened to the might of your death gas?"
The witch's regularly silky black locks had been traded for all but a mop, matted and wild. Nor did she don her usual provocative dresses of black lace and green accents. Before Raven was a mad woman, and oh was she dying to know why. Studying the young witch for a moment only served to confirm her suspicions. Around her throat lay a pure white chain bearing the weight of a pearl-like stone, beaming even in the dim afternoon lighting provided by the sun and the dimmer yet lamps around the room.
There had been one cause for such weakness in so promising a witch, and it stemmed from the dirtiest of all bad deeds- not sins, mind you, but bad deeds, two entirely separate things- betrayal. A two-faced witch would never survive in the worlds of Light and Dark.
Rusting from the door on the other side of Marlena's voodoo and witchcraft store confirmed all Raven's suspicions. The door (from which a shrunken head swung) was slammed to the floor as individuals in white robes streamed through the door, gushing in to the shop until they had the demoness surrounded.
Noting the triangles sewn in to their robes, a wicked smirk to bring envy to Damian's twisted her expression. So, the little mouse had ran off squeaking to the rat poisoners, not knowing that they'd want her exterminated too. How desperate.
Each of the robed ones raised their palms towards the demoness, waiting for some kind of command. In response, Raven removed her hood, facing the person standing the closest to her, radiating the most power and wearing a triangle of the palest blue.
"Is that any way to treat royalty?", she drawled. "When did the Light loose their decorum. Tt."
Damian would be proud.
The assumed leader of this Council unit (exactly thirteen members) spat, "There can be no manners when dealing with your kind."
"Aw,", Raven simpered, "that really is too bad. I thought we could be friends- you're pretty hot you know."
"Don't play your games demon!", the light-triangled one shouted, his features contorting. "You will be subdued or killed."
Raven laughed, taking a step closer to him, amethyst eyes sparking fuchsia, "What a shame.", she sighed, sure to sashay as she approached him. "And here I thought we were going to get on." She released a dark chuckle, "No matter.", and turned on her heel. "I'm sure you can provide some other kind of entertainment."
For the barest hint of a moment, pitch black engulfed her eyes and she threw her arms wide open, allowing a portion of the magic she kept contained within a dam to surge forwards, crashing in to the circle of Council members and casting them onto the floor or into the furniture with such grievous pains raking through their minds, tearing at the delicate foundations of mental framework. Marlena stood by the counter her mind not in the right place to be effected by such magic.
Whilst they were still grounded, and would be so for a few minutes in the least, Raven withdrew her phone from one of the several hidden compartments within her suit. Calling a contact, Raven waited for him to response, anticipating the arrival of another during her call. Constantine should have felt that magical pulse form the other side of Tartarus.
***
Slipping through the window first, the Orphan led the way for Robin, avoiding any floorboards she knew would creak as they crept through the suite. Of course, Cassandra's contact just happened to live in a flat on the eighteenth story of a flat, meaning that the two nightly skilled individuals were forced to scale eighteen floors of a building without the protection of complete darkness that the Night afforded and without detection. It was no severe difficulty, simply a hindrance.
I'm the lavishly furnished room, the adoptive siblings stalked past a king sized bed that looked softer than a cloud (Damian would have to ask Clark about that) and a chocolatey brown rug that lay in front of it. As soon as Damian looked down, rage poured in to his soul causing him to stop in his tracks.
That wasn't a regular rug. Gods no. That was a disgusting exhibition of the greed of mankind that boiled his blood and filled the air with static.
A bearskin rug. It was a fucking bearskin rug.
At that moment, Damian realised that he could never meet this person who has enlisted Cassandra's help. No.
He would kill that man if he ever laid eyes on him. Th Orphan could ask for assistance with the situation, but in no way, shape or form would he directly aid that person. It was beyond his reasoning that Cassandra agreed in the first place- he must have offered her something incredibly valuable.
Damian would not kill that man, he swore to himself, he would control himself. There was no way Father would forgive him. And Raven. She would understand, but he could picture her disappointment in his lack of discipline.
In the pin-drop silence, a buzzing noise sounded and something vibrated in Damian's belt the same time that he felt a wave of something go through his mind. The phone was ringing. Cassandra turned around, giving him a warning glare, yet, as he looked at the number calling and considered the strange pulse he felt, Damian answered the phone.
"Raven. What happened?".
A.N:
So, my darlings, I hope you enjoyed that chapter!
There's some pretty mad things about to happen! Hehe! And don't worry, the whole school idea will come back, remember that Damian, Raven and Jon are currently suspended. I've got quite a lot planned- sit tight!
Thank you!
-Bats :3