Son of Batman — Damian’s Perspective
I was raised among shadows. The League of Assassins was my cradle, and Grandfather Ra’s al Ghul shaped me into a weapon before I could even speak. Mother—Talia—was my teacher, my judge, and sometimes, the only warmth in a life of cold training.
I was the heir. The chosen one. The blade of the Demon.
And then, Grandfather was killed.
Slade Wilson—the traitor. He came with fire and death, and suddenly the world I knew was burning. Mother told me we had to leave, and only then did she tell me the truth that cut deeper than any sword: my father was alive. Not just alive—he was Batman.
Meeting him was nothing like I imagined.
Batman was stern, distant. A figure of control, not affection. He looked at me not as a son, but as a soldier who had gone too far down a violent path. I had spent my entire life proving I was strong, fast, lethal—yet he seemed disappointed in my every action.
He called my methods “murder.” I called them “justice.”
Living in Gotham was suffocating. Rules, boundaries, a “no killing” code that felt like a leash around my neck. Father put me under the watch of that irritating clown of a partner—Nightwing. He mocked me, underestimated me, but I showed him I was no child. I was the son of Batman, born to surpass them all.
Yet, beneath the bravado, I couldn’t silence the gnawing question: If I was truly my father’s son, why didn’t he claim me sooner? Why did I have to grow up under Mother’s shadow, instead of at his side?
But then Deathstroke returned.
The man who took Grandfather from me. The man who dared call himself more deserving of leadership than me. The sight of him ignited every lesson, every strike, every scar Mother had burned into me.
I wanted his blood.
Father stood in my way again—telling me that vengeance was a poison. That killing Deathstroke would not make me whole. But this time, it wasn’t just about my pride. It was about proving that I wasn’t weak. That I was worthy. That I belonged.
In the final battle, I fought with every ounce of fury in me. And when the moment came—blade at Deathstroke’s throat—I heard Father’s voice, steady, unyielding.
“Don’t.”
For the first time, I hesitated.
Not because I couldn’t kill, but because I finally understood what Father wanted from me. He didn’t want a weapon. He wanted a son.
I walked away from Deathstroke that day. Not out of mercy, but out of choice. My choice.
I am Damian Wayne. Son of Talia al Ghul. Son of Batman.
I am still a warrior, but maybe… I can be more.