[He stops walking. His voice is small once more by the force of his-- surprise, of his disbelief. The stick he was about to throw is already forgotten, slipped through his fingers and into the snow. As relieved as he is that the circus is still in business, he doesn't even have time to dwell on the momentary pang of joy and relief before his chest feels cold again, and the winter air suddenly feels so much more malicious than relaxing. He didn't even know how long it was until March.
Twenty years.]
N-- No. You're lying. [He looks at Damian like he's grown a second head, bewildered and scared, and takes a step back. His shoulders go completely stiff and hands clenched like he's ready for a fight in response to the storm and terror brewing in the pit of his stomach.
He didn't-- he didn't know how long it'd been, but it certainly wasn't twenty years. He didn't know how old he was but he was hardly even tall enough to come up to Batman's torso when he stood up straight. His voice hadn't even started to crack-- he couldn't be that deluded, he knows that 26 is not even close to correct.]
That's impossible.
[But even as he says it, he knows that it's not impossible-- he squeezes his eyes shut, bows his head, and his hands betray the truth that he knows; they snake up to cover the grey veins on his face, and clamp around the back of his neck as he direly tries to deny it.
He knows it's possible. He knows how the Court keeps their old Talons stashed away, he knows the recipe that makes them nigh-immortal and he knows with a snap of their fingers the dead Talons can come back like they'd never been gone-- knows that there are men and women down there from one hundred, two hundred, even more years ago that don't look like they've aged a day over 25.
Knows that his memory's spotty and that things blurred together and he didn't even know how much time had passed.
He's losing the battle to maintain his composure in favor of waging the battle on reality: his knees have locked up, his limbs are shaking and his voice is wet and choked up, and a part of him is still critical of himself for sniveling like this in front of someone else.]
I-It's impossible...!
[It's not impossible.
(All of his friends must be grown up by now. They've had plenty of time to find a new acrobat act and move on with their lives. Some of the animals are probably old and dead by now, or retired. He wonders if Zitka's one of them.)]
no subject
[He stops walking. His voice is small once more by the force of his-- surprise, of his disbelief. The stick he was about to throw is already forgotten, slipped through his fingers and into the snow. As relieved as he is that the circus is still in business, he doesn't even have time to dwell on the momentary pang of joy and relief before his chest feels cold again, and the winter air suddenly feels so much more malicious than relaxing. He didn't even know how long it was until March.
Twenty years.]
N-- No. You're lying. [He looks at Damian like he's grown a second head, bewildered and scared, and takes a step back. His shoulders go completely stiff and hands clenched like he's ready for a fight in response to the storm and terror brewing in the pit of his stomach.
He didn't-- he didn't know how long it'd been, but it certainly wasn't twenty years. He didn't know how old he was but he was hardly even tall enough to come up to Batman's torso when he stood up straight. His voice hadn't even started to crack-- he couldn't be that deluded, he knows that 26 is not even close to correct.]
That's impossible.
[But even as he says it, he knows that it's not impossible-- he squeezes his eyes shut, bows his head, and his hands betray the truth that he knows; they snake up to cover the grey veins on his face, and clamp around the back of his neck as he direly tries to deny it.
He knows it's possible. He knows how the Court keeps their old Talons stashed away, he knows the recipe that makes them nigh-immortal and he knows with a snap of their fingers the dead Talons can come back like they'd never been gone-- knows that there are men and women down there from one hundred, two hundred, even more years ago that don't look like they've aged a day over 25.
Knows that his memory's spotty and that things blurred together and he didn't even know how much time had passed.
He's losing the battle to maintain his composure in favor of waging the battle on reality: his knees have locked up, his limbs are shaking and his voice is wet and choked up, and a part of him is still critical of himself for sniveling like this in front of someone else.]
I-It's impossible...!
[It's not impossible.
(All of his friends must be grown up by now. They've had plenty of time to find a new acrobat act and move on with their lives. Some of the animals are probably old and dead by now, or retired. He wonders if Zitka's one of them.)]