A Memory Rebuilt in Silence
”
Wayne Manor – West Wing, Two Weeks Later
Peter stood in the garden behind the manor. The spring air smelled like wet earth and lilacs. He didn’t know the names of the flowers, but something about the scent tugged at him — like a song he couldn’t remember the lyrics to.
Damian watched him from the balcony.
He didn’t say anything at first.
He never did, now. Not unless Peter asked.
Peter had changed — quieter, slower. Still sharp, still fast. But like a sword dulled by too many resharpenings. His mind had cracks in it. And inside those cracks were pieces — of laughter, of blood, of his mother’s voice whispering, Stay with me, my son.
“Did we used to spar out here?” Peter asked suddenly.
Damian walked to him, voice low. “We did. You’d always trip me, then pretend it was an accident.”
Peter smiled faintly. “I don’t remember the accident. Just… your voice when you laughed.”
Damian swallowed.
“That’s a start.”
Peter turned to him. “Do you think I’ll ever be him again?”
Damian looked away. “No.”
Peter’s chest tightened.
“But maybe,” Damian said, meeting his eyes again, “you’ll be someone better. Someone who carries both halves — who you were, and who you are now.”
Peter looked at the scar on his arm — from a blade he couldn’t place, a wound he couldn’t remember receiving.
“…I still dream of the Pit sometimes,” he admitted. “And when I do… she’s there. Always waiting.”
He didn’t say it with anger.
He said it with grief.
⸻
“The Mother’s Silence”
League Sanctuary – Hall of Echoes
Talia sat on her knees in front of the ancient fire, a small box in her lap.
Inside it: Peter’s childhood belongings. A wood-carved pendant he once made her. A threadbare sketchbook. A broken flute he played on quiet mornings before Ra’s came to train them.
She hadn’t spoken in days.
The League moved around her, silent, unsure. No one dared disturb her.
Ubu entered finally, hesitant. “Mistress… word from Gotham. The boy—Peter—is stable. No sign of relapse.”
Talia closed the box and held it against her chest.
“Leave me.”
Ubu nodded and left.
She waited until the door closed, then whispered:
“You still call me mother.”
The words caught in her throat. A gift she didn’t deserve.
But she clutched it anyway, like a sword to her heart.
“Even now… you love me.”
A tear slid down her cheek.
“And that’s why I lost you.”