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In the end, Batman's disdain towards magic and those who use it had been their downfall.
Because for years and years on end, Zatanna had been offering up her services to at least put some protection spells on their suits, just in case. By then, she'd known, no matter how she'd tried convincing the Bat, his views on magic and metas would never change. Batman had, however, refused for all of them.
And then, a magic user came from the future. Sick and tired of Batman's ways and ready to burn the world to the ground if only to satisfy her own grief-ridden mind.
She didn't seem to discriminate between anyone the Bat had ever seen as an ally either.
(Later, it would extend towards all without powers of their own. It would turn into a worldwide witch hunt of the past, except, this time, anyone without such gifts would be hunted down.)
And so, for the first and last time, Superman had met his match.
After that, there was a civil war.
Magic users agreeing with the witch and those who found her methods far too cruel and unjust.
It had all happened way too fast for Damian to comprehend.
First there had been Dick fighting with father about possibly negotiating with the witch, and Father soundly refusing. Then there was the entire family splitting on two sides.
Todd had chosen Nightwing's, Damian never figured out if it was only to spite Batman. Then there were Cain and Drake both choosing Bruce, if reluctantly. Then both Brown and Gordon had chosen Dick. Finally there were Thomas and himself. Thomas had at first chosen Batman, but then had soon disappeared to God knew where.
As for himself, the choice had been as easy as breathing. Nightwing, his Baba, had earned his loyalty long before Batman had even started trying to do the same. And Richard had only done so by truly caring for him.
Batman would have never.
The conflict had lasted less than four months before both Drake and Cain joined them against the Bat. The broken trust would be slowly repaired, but not without hardships.
In the end, Dick had managed to sort out a negotiating place with the witch and force Batman into the meeting, because the witch had wanted his word specifically that things would change. By then, more than a third of Batman's allies had fallen.
They had met and talked and finally seemed to come to an agreement.
And then Bruce-Fucking-Wayne had had the bright idea to attack the witch with an experimental weapon.
Apparently that had been his plan all along.
Too bad that this weapon (magical weapon, the bloody hypocrite), had only taken away the witch's remaining sanity.
And so, the hunt for all non-powered had begun. The war had begun.
--
Batman had effectively disappeared after that stunt.
But for the rest...
Slowly, one by one, each of them were picked off. Killed, brutalized and tortured for the Bat's location.
Until it had been just Damian and his Baba left. Until graves had been all they had left to keep them company outside of each other.
No one had known where the Bat had gone. And people were actively searching for him, if only to sacrifice him to the witch to satiate her thirst for blood, if just a little.
Almost two years after he'd gone to ground and no one had found him.
Too bad. At that point, Damian would have given him up to the witch himself if he could.
--
Damian woke up with a start.
He could still hear their dying screams in his head, still feel the blood seeping through his torn gloves, still see the horrors of the future that would never be.
Because it would never be.
He'd make sure of it.
It took him a little while to realize where and when he was - to disentangle the past from the present, but he managed it.
He ignored the memories of a shout for him to duck, but Damian not being fast enough to, after days of hunger and no sleep to keep him alert.
He ignored the cut off scream he remembered hearing as a body had slammed into his, covering him from any attacks directed his way.
He ignored the memory of the absolute rage that had come over him, long enough to kill their attacker and go to the bleeding out body on the ground.
He ignored the other memories too. The ones of him holding his Baba, tears obscuring his vision, begging him to not go, but knowing in his gut that he would. That the wound was too deep, the damage too much for a mere human to handle, even if that human was Dick Grayson.
The ones of a gentle hand cupping his cheek and a voice telling him "I love you" in Romani and Arabic, both. The ones of a one last blood soaked forehead kiss and a promise he would never believe of "Everything will be okay, baby." The ones of strong arms turning weaker every second holding him close and him clutching onto his Baba even tighter. The ones of words encouraging him to live despite it all. The ones of the last lullaby his true father ever sang to him in his last moments.
The ones of feeling firsthand as his most precious person's heart stopped beating.
Damian had never before shed as many tears as he had on that day and the days following right after.
He'd just turned seventeen, back then.
Finally coming out of his mind, he realized he was hyperventilating.
He was about to have a panic attack.
He tried using the techniques past-Drake had taught him to deal with them. Counting things out like what he saw, heard or felt had never worked for him. Putting weight on top of his chest had only made him feel trapped. No, there were only two ways they'd found worked for him.
One was someone (most affectively - Dick, no surprise there) actively trying to get him out of it, by talking him through it or talking in general, while he did breathing exercises. And two, was a fast semi-strong shock to the system. Most affectively - pain.
And so, Damian gritted his teeth through the controlled breaths he was attempting to take, and pinched his arm as hard as he could, digging his nails in. That made his brain focus on an actual existing problem, outside of his own mind. He didn't really know why it worked, but that's what he'd guessed on his own.
It took him a few minutes to get himself together adequately enough, but he could finally breathe and think properly. Or, well, as much as his ten-year-old brain would allow him to.
Ever since he'd come to the past, he'd found that he had the urge to seek approval, guidance and comfort more often then he remembered having when older. But he wasn't quite sure if that was because of his physiology or because of the time-travel in general.
And now, he had the foolish urge to go and seek comfort from his Baba in this ungodly hour.
Damian heaved a deep sigh.
How childish.
It was ridiculous. Damian did not remember having such urges at that age before Richard had gotten him used to physical comfort. But then again, maybe that was the problem. In his mind, he was still used to it, despite being given far less of it ever since he came back to the past. (Ever since his Baba died.)
He laid back down.
He'd try going back to sleep, if it didn't work, then... Well, he sure as hell wouldn't wake anyone else up just because he had something as ludicrous as a nightmare.
His digital clock showed it to be a quarter past three AM. He gave himself twenty minutes to fall back asleep. If he couldn't, he would just have to find a way to occupy himself, he supposed.
When twenty minutes turned into forty, and he was still unable to fall back asleep, he knew it was a battle lost.
He was still tired, but the images from before were still at the forefront of his mind. Perhaps, if he changed locations, he would be able to fall back to sleep?
He would try it.
With a goal set in mind, Damian grabbed his pillow and strode into the manor's hallways.