my lifetime,
his training.

SON OF THE SKYDANCER, THE BIRD OF THE NIGHT.

#THEIRPOLARIS.
18+ independent & selective rp writing account. wielded by Achilles.

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Dick Grayson is twenty one-something years old when he learns of the death of Jason Todd. It’s almost a running theme now, when it comes to things concerning Jason, not finding out from the horse's mouth. Two months out to space, the news is revealed by one Danny Chase, who gloats and drops the revelation like it’s the daily weather.Jason Todd: Deceased.( No one ever told him that grief feels so close to guilt. )What a terribly familiar feeling.

The first time Nightwing actually meets Jason Todd it's in the role of Robin. His clothes, his colors, his legacy. Congratulations, chimes a bell: you've been replaced.Here is the thing: Batman needs Robin, but Batman has never needed Dick Grayson.Bruce loves him, and he knows it in the way the replacement ( Jason, his name is Jason ) later confides in him. He knows that Bruce loves him in the way Jason’s dark hair and light eyes shine, in the way that he watches Bruce drag in another kid into his crusade and compare them to him when Dick himself wasn't enough.( He cups his hands around his mouth and asks God If you wanted to protect me, then why take another boy? What is he, some kind of martyr? And the lord turns around, all-piercing white gaze focused on him and replies as long as it wasn't you. )But it's not Jason's fault, is it? Dick's the older one, the one who ran away, the ward who didn't get adopted. He pulled, pulled, pulled on his leash until he was let go of. ( Or the leash simply broke. He'll never really know. )So no, it's not Jason's fault.See Doctor Parker? He's learning. She may call it shifting around of blame, but he'll stick to calling it rationalizing.“ I had a dream again. ”Pacing around the sanitized office, a little too perfect, designed for maximum comfort in the most optimized percentage of the population. White walls, non-offensive paintings that added muted color, a deceivingly kind-looking detective. She's watching him, and he knows it.“ The one with the gargoyle .ᐣ ”Like clockwork, thrown around your own memories and mind —— not quite here, not quite not there. It's punishment, the gargoyle explains.Roll call: Richard John Grayson, Dika Goral, Dicle. Robin, Nightwing and everything in between. Failure to the Titans, Failure to Batman, to Jason, as human or hero.So what is it this time?Amusement Mile: 16th August.One of the rare-few times he actually interacted with Jason, the only birthday he ever spent with the kid.He admired you, the Gargoyle points out, as Dick watches himself, younger —— sharper, stare at the sky as two not-quite brothers sit next to each other. Melting ice-cream that came out of a measly paycheck drips on the ground as nineteen-year old Dick Grayson counts down the minutes until they can be done with this act.A boy who had wanted a brother, a barely-grown adult who had wanted his father: what a pair they made.And then he's in his own body for once, a fun little breaking of traditions. Dick glances up at the Gargoyle in all its wretched stony glory and then glances back at —— Oh god. Jason.There's no melting ice-cream and there's no Amusement Mile. This is not a memory, it's a presentiment.An outsider, this was never meant to be seen by you, Grayson, Dick watches as Jason is laid out on a table in the Batcave.Once upon a time in a life once lived, there was a strong-man named Caesar who used to carve for him wooden animals. Mon petite aile, Caesar used to smile as he handed him a bird —— a dragonfly —— an elephant —— you name it. Lifeless oak eyes that stared up at you despite however sweet Caesar attempted to make the animals. Dragonfly eyes, the ones that stared up at your when the life left a person’s eyes, his daj’s final twitchy moments spent staring up at him.Dick Grayson stares into the lifeless eyes of Jason Todd splayed out on the medical table, skin flayed and pinned. Bruce, who can't seem to let go of Jason’s bloodied hand.The mortician’s sheet slips and Dick can't help but think of a meal, neatly laid out for a feast. He thinks of Mary Grayson and her lifeless dragonfly eyes. Death, death and so much death.He vomits over his feet, bile rising and burning.“ Get him OUT .ᐟ ” He hears Bruce roar through the ringing in his ear, as his spine and stomach clench, acid sharply making its way once more.And isn't that funny? Kick out the living to make room for the dead. This is a moment for family and you lost your spot the moment you decided to walk out.But this isn't mourning anymore, it's perversion. Should have, Could have, Would have been. Dick's had his fair share of fear toxin before, sure, but this? This is worse —— it's a sinking lung-burning feeling of wrong. Mulo, Mary had called it when they'd lost an old member of the circus, Haly’s sweet old aunt that had travelled with them. Don't play with the dead, Dicle, you never know when they may come back.“ Put him in the ground, Bruce, ” Dick gasps wetly, intestines twisting. “ Just get him off the fucking table and bury already! ”To die was not to cease, where Dick came from. To die is to become something of worship, to become something new, and yet to linger, to haunt not as a ghost, but as another stage of existence.Jason Todd needs to go into the ground of Wayne Manor. He should be placed under a nice fucking tree in a nice fucking corner of the garden where he can feed the grass and the dirt and the birds and the plants and the earth. Where he can continue to have purpose, to make something of himself beyond Bruce Wayne’s crusade.Bruce makes a whimper, like a wounded sound. “ Get him out, ” he hisses —— whispers, even. The cave has never been so loud. “ Get him out of my sight. ”Jason Todd is fifteen years old on a mortuary’s table, ribs caved in, jaw dislocated, barely recognisable. Dick thinks of—— the birds he used to rescue as the world around them melts once more, sanguine red gurgling. Little birds, with broken wings and beaks, that he would take care of in their final moments before laying in their rest. Oh how he wished that was actually true this time.( Mon petite aile —— my little wing. )A wry smile, a half-white lie. “ Kind of. I have a tendency for self-blame, Doctor, and I know it. It always comes back to the gargoyle. But I've been doing better. ”

Scratch. Rewind.

“ You’re usually better than this, mi amour, ” Catalina comments, trailing polished fingernails down your chest. Where are you? What day is it? Stupor, you're stuck. Good luck getting out, Grayson: you're stuck in the bird-trap again, you've bitten off more than you can chew. You're better than this—— better than 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 .ᐣ What's this .ᐣ“ I had a brother once, ” he hoarsely responds through the haze of January—December—May. A brother, was he .ᐣ Try again, says the version of Jason that looms over him, unspooling intestines, pulling out viscera from the cavity in his chest. 𝘔𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦, Caesar had said. 𝘔𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦, chants not-Jason as he turns his head to Catalina.Play your part. You're Dick Grayson: boyfriend—romantically involved to Catalina Flores. You're on the run. Stop. She loves you. Stop. You're in love with her. You killed a man. STOP.

Scratch. Rewind.

She loves you. Let's start and end it there, yes .ᐣShe hums an apology and Dick swallows something heavy that rests against his chest.“ It's fine. ” Not-Jason stares from the corner of the room. This is me now, brother, says not-Jason, too big, too rough, too bloody. Mulo.He sits up as he turns to her, watches Not-Jason from the corner of his eye grin and wave from the, motion something as if he's asking a question.“ He asked me once, y'know .ᐣ ”Catalina lets out an inquisitive noise. She always enjoyed him actually talking for once. It's been a rare occurrence recently, he can't quite remember why.“ Why I didn't come home that often. Asked me while digging through my room, clutching my old toys. ”Clear as day, fourteen year old Jason Todd clutching one of Caesar's remaining two birds from his set of wooden three. Dick had eyed it clinically, one deep breath —— two, and had rolled his eyes and asked Jason to keep it if he wanted to.“ I lied, of course. ” Not-Jason finally stills in the corner. “ Told him I was busy. He finally gave up on calling after that. ”Catalina rolls over on to her stomach, sits up on her elbow, perfectly manicured nails tapping out tunes against his arm. Quietly, comforting, “ All relationships can be mended, Querido. ”“ It's not important. ” Dick replies. “ I barely knew him, like I was supposed to. ”
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ON HALY'S.

( The circus is the great equalizer. If you’re not smiling, you’re probably dead. Although if you ask my mother, the dead smile too. )

It starts with the first rain of spring. Dika Goral, Dicle is born to Circ d’Haleé with the first weeping of the spring clouds, the first bloom of the flowers and birdsong.“ Shall I carve you an animal, mon petite aile? ” Caesar asks, smoke curling in the wind between them, large hands whittling a block of wood into a sphere. Gifts, given to children in the audience. Little wooden animals to remember the circus by. Dika rips his gaze from the slackline set up a few twenty feet away, taking the round ball into his palms, feeling for splinters“ Something beautiful, ” he replies, passing the sphere back as Marie steps on to the line, all graceful limbs. “ Like my daj, monsieur. Is that possible? ”Barely four-something years old, Dika is far too young to be let up on the rig—— to not harm his little limbs, says Marie with a laugh. It's Caesar, a strongman with gentle hands, who now chuckles and rests a hand on Dika’s head. Caesar, who sits with Dika on the front steps of his trailer, cigar in mouth.“ Would a dragonfly suffice? With long wings that can keep it in the air. ”Both tough and fragile; fierce and mild, floating on an abundance of air. Marie, skydancer, thin limbs that lifted him right into the sky whenever he demanded.“ Non, monsieur. We're birds. Me, my daj and my tati. Could you do that? Three birds? ”And three birds does Caesar make, a matching set that slot together, rough wooden eyes peering out to the world.

Somewhere in the travels between Delhi and Mumbai, they lose one of the birds. Dika, six-something and traverser of sky, loses a wooden bird in a river he's knee-deep in with a knife thrower named Kepski.( It's all alone now, Dika thinks. Frowning somewhere it can't be saved. )Sahibi or Ganges—— Dick Grayson, at the age of nineteen, can't quite remember what river it was when he visits home and finds a small Jason Todd holding one of the birds in his hands.‘ It's mine, ’ Dick wants to snarl. ‘ Mine, like the name you're wearing is mine. Mine, like the role you're taking right now was mine. ’But contrary to belief, Dick wasn't cruel. Dika loved those birds, but Dick? Dick Grayson had lost the rights to love those the moment he decided to let the circus go.Mon petite aile Caesar had called him. My little wing.Jason takes one of the remaining two birds, and it gets buried with him, albeit not in the same soil.

( —— because they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings. )

Here is the thing: you are the sum of your people.

Dick Grayson watches as Tim Drake looks around his apartment, gaze stopping upon the altar shoved in the corner. A set of tarot cards, unlit crumbling incense, folded paper animals.“ I didn't know you were spiritual, ” Tim quietly comments, nimble fingers reaching out to a frog that threatens to spill over the wooden desk.“ I'm not. But my tati—— my dad was. You kinda had to be, to be a flier, ” echoes Dick, a facsimile of the explanation Dika received a decade ago.While a little wooden bird was lost in the depths of Sahibi-Ganges, their troupe had gained a fortune-teller named Miranjana. Dika was inconsolable at that time, the biggest loss he had ever felt—— loss of familiar wood.Even Kepski’s offer to fold him more paper animals, something that managed to soothe learning scrapes didn't work. In the end it was the arrival of Miranjana, a lady caked with make-up and a set of cards in hand that quelled his despair. Birds were always curious creatures after all.Miranjana, as it turned out, was a liar. Not in a bad way, no—— just small little white lies, spinning stories from her cards, keeping those who spoke to her entertained.“ It's to keep people happy, Dicle, ” she used to say, beaded shawls chiming from where she draped it around his shoulders, winter chill biting against bare knees under the circus roof. Kepski sat close by, folding a little paper elephant, a palm-sized Zitka.Miranjana was a liar, and John Grayson had loved her anyway.

Here is something: America was never meant to be his home.

You are the sum of your past, of your people. The Gadže, the non-Rom, with their sneers and leers only seemed to care about themselves, loud in their looks, louder in the way they looked at his people.“ Pay them no mind, Narbülbül, ” chides Mary Grayson— not Marie, never Marie here. A gentle finger runs down the bridge of his nose as Dika blinks, glitter falling down cheekbones as his mother hums. His father's anger towards America is justified, she tells him. The Gadže had stolen from him before, his name, his people.The map in their caravan marked the place they currently rested at — a dark city on the east coast, so unlike the burst of life that eminated from Haly's Cirus. No sunlight, the open skies covered by weeping clouds that stung against skin.“ You are Goral, you are ours. You're my bird, and you're the son of the sky. Don't let them take your name from you. ”Their names are changed, anglicized for the posters: Goral to Grayson. They're the Flying Graysons, people of the skies, performers of the heights.Dika Goral stands proud on his podium, high above the crowd, high above the world. No nets, it's a show with all limits removed. The Americans liked their entertainment with an edge of violence, Haleé had insisted. Their screams were louder, louder than the Europeans and the shows in the East. Their screams demanded carnage, for bodies to be pushed to their utmost limit, the fascination to take and take.It starts with three people on a platform, a mother's kiss on his forehead and the waving of hands to the audience. It starts with the familiar burn of rope against palms and it starts with a familiar leap of faith.

John Grayson, with blank wood-like eyes that gazed into nothing as he laid on the hay. Mary, his daj, crumpled like a paper animal, a crimson puddle around them. A wheezing rattling breath from his daj, and Dika watches as his world falls apart for the first time.( Oh, Dika thinks. I am alone now. )

Throat raw as he scrambles down, bare soles sticky with sanguine as he kneels. What they don't tell you about flying, is how hard the fall is. Bones jutting out, blood coating every slicked surface as he grasps at his mother's hand, blurry vision making viscera indistinguishable from the leotards that grace his parents. But above it all is that raw, inhuman wail of grief. It engulfs the screams of the crowd, the roaring animals, of Haley desperately trying for order at the podium. It goes on and on and on, shredding the throat of the boy as he kneels beside them, clawing at the dust and howling in heartbreak, of loss.A cat, fragile and delicate, locked in a box. A blood-soaked bird, locked in sorrow.
Here is the question: Are they alive, or are they dead?For to be without your people, so terribly alone, was hell. To be without others was to be as good as death, reserved only for the raiders and the damned.

Would have, could have, should have.

A heavy hand lies on his shoulder, belonging to a man with a heavier gaze, pale blue and all dark polished leather of a silver spoon. He sees expensive cloth seep blood as the hand pulls him into a hug, gaze pulled away from the carnage into a dark abyss.It ends with blood on his hands and blood on the snow, a policeman's bruising grip on his shoulders as he's dragged away — all snarling teeth and lost childhood.Passed from hand to hand, a child lost in the chaos, it's not long before he finds himself in the old, worn hands of Miranjana. A weathered lady in makeup, a fortune teller who travelled with the Circus. His father had always warned she was a liar, her real name was Adelajda, born to the country before it's partition.She was a liar, a reader of cards who'd spin falsities of truth, and she was the most familiar thing Dika had right now. She was a liar, and John Grayson had loved her anyways.John Grayson, with his callouses and shoulders that looked like they could hold up the entire world.It's a lifetime ago, Dika remembers sitting on the very same shoulders, watching from hay as the strongmen set up the rig for their act. Dika, far too injured to perform with his parents and Miranjana— who took him from his father's shoulders, away to a corner with her cards.You have to believe in fate to be a flier, she had explained. John Grayson believed in only two things: the fate laid by her cards, and his mother's hands. She was a liar, but Dika had loved her anyways.Miranjana was a liar, and Miranjana was familiar as Dika falls into her clawing hug, into worn shawls and beads. Her fingernails dig into bloodstained skin. The world rapidly spinning out of control comes to a halting grinding terrible stop.“ Listen to me Miláčik, ” Miranjana hisses, forcing up a face wet with salt. “ They're going to take you away from us, Dicle, and there's nothing we can do about it —— ” A gasp, a wail, the digging of a boy's face into a worn shawl. Her talons dig into his cheeks, far too young as blue meets an old lady's sympathetic gaze.“ Listen to me. Do not trust them, do not let them take away what's yours. America isn't kind to us, Miláčik, and it won't be kind to you. ” A boy grown up too quick, the hold turns gentle as gasping breaths barely even out. “ Don't let it take away what's yours. ”Every Rom has three names. One for the Gadže, one for your people and the aver nav. Your body, your mind and your soul. Freedom, Home, Protection. Richard Grayson, Dika Goral, Narbülbül.When they ask for his name, it is Richard Grayson who replies, sharp-tongued and spitting curses.You will take away my family, you will take away me, but you will never take away my name from me declares the boy, two remaining names clutched in hand.Dika Goral, too, dies that hour.

Gotham isn't kind to Dick Grayson. Gotham, with her sprawling grey skies and buildings with spikes that loom takes Dick Grayson and everything he loves, chews him with gnashing teeth and spits out a lone boy scorned.

His parents' funeral is paid off by a billionaire native to Gotham. It's charity, Dick Grayson is informed as he's taken from the juvenile detention centre. Bruce Wayne, philanthrophist, orphan is who bears the brunt of the funeral costs, hastily organized and a mere drop in his vast wealth.Half-stuffed in the detention centre's black hand-me-downs, bruised hands and knuckles clasp at each other, blank stare focused on the twin caskets that lower into the soil.His parents were never meant to be buried under Gotham's colourless sky.“ When I die, ” he had overheard John Grayson say to Haly, discussion quiet in the night where they assumed to be away from the prying ears of a child far too restless for his own good. “ I just want them to plant me somewhere warm. Anywhere far from the city, somewhere in the open fields. ”Mary, skydancer, the daughter of the air. John, born of the fields and hay. Graysons, buried in soil that never cared for them.Dick Grayson, orphan,  clad in cheap black hand-me-downs.(  The color itches against his skin. Their funerals wore white, Dika thinks. He thinks about his parents' possessions, ransacked and taken into police custody to collect dust. He thinks about the blood under his fingernails that doesn't seem to wash off.He thinks about his parents' spirits, teethered to the world simply because of his selfish desire to hold them one last time.Mulo,  his people called it. The grotesque twisting of spirits after their deaths, chained to the living by craving what was once theirs. Spirits, that caused havoc, making worse grief that already wrecked the living's body. )It starts the way it ends,  with ropes being lowered to Earth and Dick Grayson frozen in place watching them.The funeral is quick work, barely any people to let lay rest the performers that didn't belong to Gotham.He feels a hand on his shoulder, warm and firm —— gentlest he has felt in a while. “ Are you alright, ” asks the deep baritone of Bruce Wayne. Dick's words die in his chest.“ Thank you, Mr. Wayne, ” Dick manages to croak out instead, gaze shifting to watch the final funeral processing, dirt packed against dirt。Expensive leather, kind eyes.Mr. Wayne leaves him with a promise of justice and a home, and that's where it ends.Dick Grayson takes in a deep breath and lets the circus go.

( The great equalizer. )

At twenty-eight, it's a learnt schedule. The clock chimes twelve, he ignores the heavy pit in his stomach. You've lived more of your life without than with, and it's an unnerving feeling. Nineteen years since —— and he's still learning to love the idea of life.And really, he shouldn't feel guilty. Grieving meant thinking, thinking meant disturbing resting spirits.Like clockwork, a singular ticket to the local amusement park is bought with weary hands and an urge to rest.Nineteen years since and a legacy that refuses to die no matter how many lives it claims.Narbülbül, Robin.

( Grief can be a burden, but also an anchor. You get used to the weight, how it holds you in place )

It has been nineteen years since, when a young Dick Grayson looked Bruce Wayne in the eyes and held up his name, the last belonging from his mother and said: this is what she protected me with, and this is what I will protect others with.They remember him by now, the man who comes in once a year and sweeps the carnival games clean, yet never takes a singular prize home.It's a day spent smiling and grinning, as Dick Grayson passes along yet another plushie while in line to a rollercoaster.How long can you grieve, when someone's entire life was dedicated to making someone smile?Dick Grayson first let the circus go at nine, yes ; but it is now, at the crest of an arch, the feeling of a free fall drop as the rollercoaster descends that he takes it back. A sum of several parts that shift and change. Dika, Robin, Nightwing —— Dick Grayson. Haly's, Gotham, Blüdhaven.( Grief, it ebbs and flows, until one day you smile and look at the sky and think —— I wouldn't change anything, despite it all. )