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The blow that knocks him to the ground is enough to make half his back go numb for a shivery flash of a moment, and Jason sucks in a breath and rolls to the side to avoid the enormous slab of steel that buries itself in the ground where his head was. His heart’s pounding, muscle aching and nearly trembling as he staggers to his feet and tries to get enough air to make his chest stop hurting.
The owner of that massive steel sword, a man too tall for Jason to believe he’s fully human, pulls it free from the dirt with alarming ease and strides towards him as if this battle hasn’t been going for a good hour, as if the war being fought is a mild amusement instead of a slog of bloody exhaustion. As if their fight hasn’t affected him at all, and Jason finds that really profoundly unfair in a way that he’s pretty sure is coming from either hysteria or the growing knowledge of his own imminent death.
Jason can barely feel the fingers of his right hand, his sword is off somewhere in the dirt and snapped in half by this monster, and he’s pretty sure that the last, flat blow to his back buckled his armor or something because he can feel a sharp edge digging in just to the side of his spine. He hasn’t got anything to fight back with, and he’s pretty sure running is just going to get him chased down. If he could even run with how his breath is whistling through his teeth, every inhalation feeling like not enough. If he could bring himself to risk getting a sword in the back instead of standing tall and at least dying with some honor.
The warrior spins the sword in his hand as if it isn’t nearly as tall as some people Jason knows, advancing on him with steady focus. He can only see the man’s jaw and the neat white beard that covers it, the rest of him hidden in unadorned steel armor and black leather. He doesn’t even have a crest on him, so Jason can’t make any guesses about who he is or who he’s with.
Except Jason’s damn sure he’s not on their side.
He bares his teeth, backing up to try and keep the mystery warrior away from him. Except his heel catches on something and he nearly trips, flailing to keep himself on his feet and the man is lunging at him, sword driving in—
Jason drops as fast as he can manage, letting everything go limp so he topples backwards and the sword comes in just over him instead of driving right through his chest. He comes down on something hard enough to make him gasp, and a frantic glance to the side tells Jason it’s a soldier, undeniably dead and his sword still in one hand. He grabs for it without thinking.
His fingers scrape at the hilt, and just manage to get a hold of it. That sword’s coming down at him again, and Jason can’t help the yell that bursts out of his throat as he swings the scavenged sword into the way in one last desperate burst of motion.
The clang of them connecting rings in his ears. His arm hurts, fingers nearly losing the sword all over again as it rebounds off and hits the ground, but the massive sword is knocked to the side and just misses him. Jason takes one sharp breath, starts to pull away, and the man above him twists his whole body into movement to follow. Jason’s only real warning is a scrape of steel and dirt and then suddenly his head is being snapped to the side, his skull exploding with pain as the steel slams into the side of his helmet.
His world tilts. He can taste blood.
Something closes on his throat and drags him up, and Jason feels the helmet slide off his head as it lolls back. The world is spinning, and he swallows thickly, pushes weakly at what he’s just realizing is a gauntleted hand tight around his neck.
A deep voice growls something at him, cutting clear through his dazed world. He doesn’t understand the words, but the tone is unmistakable. Demanding and rough.
Jason bares his teeth in automatic reaction, even before he manages to lift his head and look the man in the eyes. Eye. Blue and narrowed; just visible through the slit of his helmet. He grabs harder at the man’s wrist, fingers digging in against the steel and the leather as he gives a breathless snarl.
He can’t quite find words, can’t get them together, but Jason finds enough defiance in him to gather the blood in his mouth and spit it right at that neat white beard. It’s petty, vicious satisfaction to see it fleck red.
“Gods take you,” he manages to breathe, pulling his other hand up to grab higher on the man’s arm and try and pry the hand off his throat.
His left wrist burns, and Jason yelps before he thinks about it, letting go and not quite realizing that the other man’s hissed and done the same until he staggers and has to find his own footing. He keeps his feet, barely, and his gaze stays stuck on the mystery warrior — looking down at an open palm with a small sneer — for a second before he yanks it down to his wrist, where there’s—
What?
Jason stares at the dark red thread he can see just appearing out of the top of his glove. As if the fabric isn’t even there. Follows it, in stunned shock, as it waves through the air and to… That’s not— That can’t be.
“You?” he asks, staring at the man in front of him. “It’s you?”
The man flexes his hand, and then twists his wrist, curls the thread around one of those fingers, and tugs at it. Jason inhales sharply at the sharp pressure around his wrist, like there’s wire strung around it that someone’s holding tight. And the thread between them is drawn tight, strung through the air and inevitably, inescapably bridging the gap. Jason swallows and stares at it, caught between reactions and unable to settle on the one he should be feeling.
That’s a string of fate, that’s his destiny and future and it— it belongs to a man that was half a step away from killing him. That’s fighting on the other side of the war and—
Gods, the fight. The battle. He can’t just be standing here staring at some mistake or joke of the gods while his friends and allies die around him. He has to get away from this man, has to pick up a weapon and get back to the fight to help. Has to—
The crack of the hand across his face catches him completely by surprise and Jason hits the ground on both knees, barely catching himself on one hand as pain flares all down the side of his face, bursting back to life and dragging a cry from his throat. His vision is tilting again, but he forces his gaze back up, forces himself to push backwards and try and focus on the threat. Exactly in time for the second backhand to hit its mark as well.
He’s out before he hits the ground.
There aren’t many men that Slade finds are worth his time. Some are good for an easy bit of coin, others for amusement, but almost none present him any real challenge. And those that do, he usually avoids for the sake of simplicity. As entertaining as a challenge can be, they’re not efficient and they’re not generally conducive to completing the jobs he gets paid for.
Much easier to cut his way through a battlefield with simple grace rather than waste time on drawn out duels and figurehead opponents. Most men don’t last more than a swing or two after they step into his path, and most are reluctant to do even that much given his size.
The one that does, this time, is a tall, younger man. His armor speaks of a wealthy family, and he’s skilled enough to be a passing distraction. Enough that when Slade scores his winning strike — a stunning slam of his blade to the side of the boy’s helmet — he feels enough respect to drag the boy back to his feet instead of skewering him through while he lies there in the dirt.
“Come on, boy,” he growls, holding him up by his throat and looking at his face, revealed now that the helmet’s slid off. He’s dazed, his face reddened from the blow and lip split. “Get back up and die on your feet, like a real soldier.”
The boy bares bloody teeth at him, then spits that blood in his face.
Slade’s impressed by the defiance, honestly. When the boy grabs his arm with the other hand, and then his wrist suddenly burns like someone’s closed a red-hot iron around it, at first he thinks it’s some last-ditch magic sabotage or something. Except that the boy yelps like he’s been burned too, and Slade finds the cause of both their pains fast enough when he looks to his wrist.
Fate’s string. Red and damning as fresh blood, and easy enough to track to the boy standing in front of him, staring in open shock. Shock that turns to torn disbelief and confusion, as Slade quickly considers his options.
Threads of fate aren’t to be ignored. There are enough warning tales and myths out there for him to know that the gods get petty when mortals ignore or resist the directions planned out for them. He could kill the boy and end this attempt at control, but the results are entirely unpredictable, and Slade’s never enjoyed situations where the odds aren’t in his favor. So, bringing the boy with him.
He’s not going to go willingly.
Luckily, the boy’s distracted enough that striking is easy. One hit stuns him again, the second sends him sprawling into the dirt.
Slade takes a glance around, making sure that the main portion of the battle hasn’t come back their direction. For the moment, the stillness prevails; he’s done enough already to weaken their opponents and get them driven back. That’s good enough. If his current employer wants to fight him on that decision Slade's fully willing to argue the point, and if the battle turns, he’ll go out again and force it through.
There's a dead soldier not far from where the boy's fallen, and Slade sets aside his blade and pulls his knife instead to strip a piece of cloth off the body's clothing. Binding the boy's wrists is easy, and he fits neatly enough slung over a shoulder. The weight isn't enough to bother him much, even with as tall as the boy is. He picks his sword up with the other hand, just in case anyone feels like bothering him, and turns around to leave.
The boy’s going to have to be a spoil of war. Slade isn’t known for his mercy, and keeping him as hostage or prisoner isn’t going to do it. By right, those go to the commanders even if Slade might get a portion of the ransom, and he’s not about to hand the boy off to rot in some cell. Defeats the point of keeping him at all.
So, as a prize then. A bit of scavenged treasure taken from the battlefield, as is his right as a warrior. That ‘treasure’ being an opponent isn’t unheard of, and who would dare try to deny him anyway?
Jason wakes inside a small tent, and it only takes him a dazed minute and some exploratory shifting to find out that his arms are bound to the center pole of it, tied tight and keeping him where he is, lying on his side on what he thinks is a… bedroll.
Definitely wasn’t a miracle rescue after he got knocked out then; that’s good to know.
His skull aches with every beat of his pulse, and for a long while all he can make himself do is lie there and try to breathe through it as he carefully tests how he can move and what hurts the worst. He’s pretty sure, at the end of his testing, that nothing is actually broken, but that’s about all he can say. He can barely see through his left eye, and the entirety of that side of his face feels hot and swollen even without touching it to check. He can only imagine the color. That seems to be the worst of it, but his back aches too, with each breath, and his right arm feels sore down to the bone. He can’t say he’s surprised by any of it.
He is surprised that he’s still breathing at all. At least, he is until he remembers the thread that snapped into being between him and his opponent. A string of fate, tying him to… whoever the warrior is. That must have been enough to save his life, and Jason can’t say he remotely understands how that warrior could be his fated partner, but he apparently doesn’t have much say in whether or not to explore it.
Once he’s managed to get enough of a handle on the pain to focus on anything else he turns his attention outward. The tent’s not that big, maybe a little bigger than a standard soldier’s in his experience, and there’s not much in it to help him identify where he is. Saddlebags in the corner, a bedroll that he is currently stretched out on (that’s sort of thoughtful), and what Jason realizes after a moment staring is a pile of his armor. He hadn’t even noticed that he’s not wearing it anymore, but once he does he fixates on that fact with a disturbed focus.
He’s been stripped down to the clothes he had beneath both the armor and the padding, a simple loose shirt and tight pants; just enough to protect him from the scratch of the padding’s material. His boots are still on, but that doesn’t make him feel any less vulnerable.
That feeling is still clinging tight in his throat when he hears the flap of the tent open, and the clank of metal announces the footsteps of someone who is still in armor. Jason tenses, but when he turns his head he can’t get it far enough to see who the intruder is, not with his face messed up as it is. He shifts, pulls against the bindings, and he can’t decide whether he’s relieved or not that the the footsteps circle him and the intruder comes into view.
It’s the warrior that beat him, looking even more massive in the small tent, even as he kneels down with easy grace in front of where Jason lies. The sword’s sheathed over his back, hilt showing over one shoulder, but the only part of his armor missing is the helmet.
Jason swallows, tastes just a hint of blood, as he looks up at the man.
Loose white hair, down to his jaw, to match the neat, white beard that no longer bears any trace of the blood Jason spat into it. His right eye is covered by a black patch, but the left is the clear blue Jason vaguely remembers seeing through the gap in the helmet. He does look older, but there’s a lack of wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and visible eye that jars with that white hair and gives the impression that he’s too young to have it. He’s handsome in a way, and Jason realizes it with an odd feeling, knowing that he’s tied to this man.
The man’s mouth curls at one corner, just slightly upwards. He says something short, something amused, and Jason recognizes exactly enough of it to recognize that he doesn’t know the language. It’s what the invading force speaks, but Jason only knows random bits and pieces and not enough to understand what’s being said to him.
He bares his teeth instead of voicing his lack of understanding, regardless of how it makes his face ache. The man huffs out something like a laugh, and a hand reaches forward and flicks his chin up with two fingers. Jason snaps his teeth and then spits a curse, and it feels just a little satisfying so he lets the vitriol building in his throat spill out instead of trying to rein it in.
He aims every foul word and curse he can think of at the man, pulling hard at the bindings holding him to the pole and scuffing his feet across the bedroll and the dirt beside it. His tone must be clear, but the man only watches him with that same clear amusement and Jason lets it drive him into spilling even more venom.
He runs dry eventually, exhausting all the things he’s heard in the bowels of the city, or on the battlefield. It’s not any meaningful victory, or blow, but he does feel… a little better. A little satisfied.
The man tilts his head to the side, then asks, “Are you done, boy?” There’s an accent, but the words are clear.
Jason stiffens, sucking in a breath, and the man chuckles.
“Some of that I don’t think I’ve heard before. Not bad, for some nobleman’s son.”
“You—” Jason bites down on the question that springs to his tongue first; of course the man knows his language, he just spoke it. “Who are you?” he asks instead.
The man lifts his left wrist, looking down at it and the red thread floating there with a raised eyebrow. “Your fate, apparently. Why don’t you tell me your name, boy?”
Jason draws his gaze away from the thread and up to the man’s gaze. “I asked first.”
“You think you’re in any position to demand answers?” The man reaches forward and flicks his chin up again, mouth curling in a smirk when Jason snarls at him. “Behave, boy. Tell me your name.”
Reusing a basic, “Screw off,” feels like the only reasonable answer to that. What’s he really got to lose here? “If you were going to kill me I’d be dead already, not tied up here. You want my name? Yours first you bastard.”
The man huffs a breath that still sounds amused, to Jason’s frustration, but he does answer. “Fair enough. I'm Slade Wilson; your turn boy."
Jason chews over his answer for a moment, deciding if he wants to betray his actual name or not. Slade had called him a nobleman's son, and that's not exactly wrong, but if this man doesn't know that he has a Wayne, maybe it's better not to tell him. The whole string of fate thing is complicating everything, and he can't predict what this random warrior is going to do, but he at least knows that his death probably isn't on the table. He's a valuable hostage though, and Bruce won't know that he has that level of protection. Jason knows he could be used against his family.
"Jason Todd," he settles on, pulling his old name over him like a shield.
Slade watches him, and then comments, "Not a name I recognize."
He can't exactly back off now. "I don't recognize yours either. What, do you know all the noble houses?"
"Most. I do work for anyone with the coin to hire me; tends to be nobles." Jason stubbornly holds his gaze, refuses to give, and after a couple moments Slade gives a small shake of his head. "Seems impolite to lie when I've given you the truth, but fine, keep your secrets. I'm not interested in what house you're from, boy, only the path moving forward."
"Meaning what?"
Slade brings his hands together, idly stripping the gauntlet and glove beneath off of his left hand and then tracing fingers along the fine, red line traced around his wrist. As precise as if someone tattooed it there. "This. I'm not in the habit of ignoring the whims of gods, so I suppose you're coming with me until we sort out what 'fate' we're supposed to have together."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," Jason snaps before he thinks about it, and the answer he gets is pretty much exactly what then occurs to him.
“You can't stop me, so yes, you are.” Slade fits the gauntlet back on, then raises an eyebrow. “Listen up, boy. We’re in the middle of your enemies, and you have no reason to be here. You’re a noble’s son, and the fact you won’t tell me which one means you know it’s dangerous for you here. You’ll walk out of here nice and quiet with me, as a war prize, or you draw their attention and they string you up. You're slim on options here, boy."
He's not wrong, is the irritating bit. Jason glares, but ultimately demands, "And then what?" instead of arguing. "You think I'm going to let you cart me off while these people invade my home?"
"I thought we covered that you can't stop me." Slade shakes his head, eye narrowing. "I really don't care what you do. My stake in this begins and ends with this thread between us. If you had any common sense you'd know that it's not wise to piss off the gods by ignoring their games." Jason bristles, but Slade's continuing with a sharp, "So no, I'm not pleased to be tied to a naive fool, and yes, it's tempting to drag you out of here and make sure you don't get yourself killed by running back into a war half-blind."
Jason doesn't even think before he spits, "You're one to talk."
Slade looks almost surprised, and there's a moment of silence before he laughs, hand rising to cover his mouth for a couple seconds. "Not bad, kid. Not bad. You've got a hell of a mouth on you, I'll give you that." The gaze of that single eye is sharp, but warm with amusement once again. "How about this then? Pay me, and I'll come with you."
He stares. "Pay you?" he echoes, not understanding.
"Mm. It's a win for both of us, isn't it? You go back to your war, and I get some compensation for having to waste my time keeping you from getting yourself killed." There's no mockery in the explanation, which Jason doesn't fully recognize until Slade gives a curling smirk and adds, "I'm not loyal to any specific country, kid. I go where I'm paid to, or where my own self interest lies."
Jason clings onto that idea to avoid dealing with anything else, following it to say, "Then I don't have to pay you, do I? You'll come to save your own skin."
That earns him another laugh. "I don't think so. You can pay me to come with you, or I can truss you up and take you off somewhere safe to wait all this out. Coming with you is not the easiest path for me, kid, just my alternative to listening to you curse at me for weeks on end." Slade tilts his head as Jason flushes. "What do you say, Jason? Are we going to be civil about this?"
He doesn't like this. Doesn't like it at all. But, "It's not like I have much of a choice."
Slade chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes then. Alright, so I trust you’re going to behave when I cut you loose and get you in something a little more suitable for walking through the camp?”
Jason shifts, pulling a little at the cloth around his wrists. “Yeah, sure.” Slade shifts forwards, drawing a knife that makes Jason tense up even though all it does is come down behind him and saw through the bindings in two easy strokes. He sits up slowly, wincing at how his back and arm complain at the movement. “And after? What happens then?”
Slade sheathes the knife back at his thigh, shoulders rolling in an idle shrug. “I think questions of destiny can be postponed to the war’s end, don’t you? Plenty of time to get to know one another in the interim; let anything that might be grow naturally.”
He’s secure enough to glare. Intensely. “Like a deep hatred?”
Jason’s sort of trying for it, but no offense seems to be taken. “I guess we’ll see,” Slade says instead, through that smirk. “Now then, shall we?”