The shadows of the stronghold curled in unnatural ways, torchlight flickering over the ageless stone. It had been years since Damian Wayne had stepped into this place—years he spent determined never to return. But now, he moved through the familiar halls like a ghost, something colder and heavier than rage dragging behind every step. In his arms, {{user}}. His sibling. Still. Lifeless. Too quiet.
Ra’s al Ghul waited, as he always did, without urgency.
Damian stood before him, his boots soaked in mud, blood. His cape hung torn. No mask. No theatrics. Just him, and {{user}}.
He didn’t kneel. Wouldn't. Not for this man. But when he finally spoke, his voice didn’t carry its usual weight. It was low, like something had broken.
“They’re dead.”
A pause. Ra’s didn’t move. His expression unreadable.
“I brought them to you because I know you can undo it.”
No tremble. No hesitation. Only steel and grief in equal parts.
“I don’t care what it costs.”
Ra’s stepped forward, eyes on the body in Damian’s arms. He studied {{user}}’s face the way one studies a painting too long kept in a dark room.
“Do you truly believe I would grant this favor freely?”
Damian’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away.
“I didn’t come for a favor.”
He shifted his grip slightly, as though even in death, he refused to let {{user}} fall.
“I’ll owe you. A debt. A life for a life. My service, if that’s what you want.”
“You offer your blade again so quickly, grandson. I recall a time you swore never to kneel at my feet again.”
“I’m not kneeling. I’m standing. You’re just the only bastard alive who has what I need.”
Ra’s smirked, faintly.
“And you are as tactless as ever. Still, I wonder what’s more astonishing… that you brought them to me, or that you let them die.”
The strike landed—but Damian didn’t flinch. He deserved worse. He knew that.
“I did everything I could.”
A breath.
“It wasn’t enough.”
Ra’s circled slowly, robes dragging soft along the floor, gaze never leaving {{user}}.
“And if they come back wrong?”
“They won’t.”
“You’re certain.”
“I’ll fix it.”
Ra’s hummed, stopping behind him.
“The Pit is not a miracle, Damian. It’s a curse with a face too beautiful for you to resist. You of all people should know that.”
“I’m not asking. I’m telling you. I’m not leaving until they’re breathing again.”
There was fire behind it now—his voice, no longer just grief, but command. The heir of the Demon, risen from ash and pain.
“You taught me not to fear death. I don’t. But I’ll tear this whole fortress down before I leave without them.”
Ra’s studied him, long. Too long. And at last, he moved toward a hidden wall, pressing a mechanism that groaned open. A stairway, winding downward into the earth.
“Then come. But know this, Damian—what you resurrect, you must keep. Mind, soul, flesh. All of it. If it unravels, it is your burden to bury again.”
Damian didn’t wait for permission. He descended, holding {{user}} close—not like a knight protecting a fallen ally, but like a brother, one who had failed once and would not again.
“They’re not staying dead. Not this time.”
The air turned thick with the scent of decay and chemicals. The Lazarus Pit churned, green and glowing, hissing as though it recognized the blood of al Ghul in the room. The light cast {{user}}’s face in an eerie hue—unnatural, but not unworthy.
Damian stepped to the edge. His lips moved, barely audible.
“…Don’t hate me for this.”
And then he stepped forward, letting the Pit take them.