Archive of Our Own

It was just after noon when someone knocked urgently at the door of Tim's home, a small white-washed earth and wood building, located at the edge of the forest in the Gotham countryside.

Tim was still abed, groggy from long hours of midnight rites and meditation, but he threw back his blanket and shrugged on a cloak over his sleeping clothes. Trudging to open the door, he found Jim Gordon, the town sheriff, and Leslie Thompkins, the village wise woman, looking back at him with dour severity and the wide eyes of a man and woman who had witnessed something from a nightmare.

Tim, having expected the normal sorts of visitors—those needing advice from an authority who could commune with the divine, or blessings and charms of protection, or even the occasional curse—and ready to shout a demand they come back at night when the power of his God was the strongest and he wasn't half-asleep, immediately swallowed his rebuke. These weren't normal visitors for charms, rather something was very wrong, and he was pretty sure he knew what, too.

“Another death?” he asked the two, but Tim already knew the answer. They wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Gordon gave a solemn nod and Tim held his door open to admit the two and direct them to sit down at his table. As they moved to take stools, he threw a new log from the stack onto the embers of his hearth and dipped his iron kettle into the bucket of well-water he filled every night to make sure he had some on hand upon waking. He couldn't get going without the stimulation of his specially crafted tea, made up of choice herbs for focus and strength. Given the nature of his colleague's visit, he would need all his wits about him as soon as possible.

The two sat down and Tim took the remaining stool, brushing a hand through his dark hair and rubbing at the circles under his eyes.

“So the charms didn't hold,” he said, then cursed under his breath at the waste. He’d spent three days on those charms, bending branches of ash and securing them with dried animal sinews to form a bat-shape, then weaving an intricate net of sinew and dyed twine strung with bone beads between the branches. It was the most powerful warding charm he could create and he’d made enough to hang above every entrance to the village-proper. He had no choice but to make lesser charms for the scattered farms and more distantly located outbuildings, but even they had been as formidable as was practical.

“This time it was the Callahan lad, the one apprenticed to the woodcutter,” Gordon said, weariness wearing at the edges of his words. “Dead in his home, throat cut, a trail of blood through the whole town.”

Tim shook his head, at a loss as to how his magic was being so effortlessly thwarted.

“This is a very powerful spirit to break through the protections powered by my god's blessing,” Tim could only conclude with frustration and not a small amount of anguish at the deaths he’d been unable to stop. “Honestly, it shouldn't be possible for anything but another god to do such a thing.”

“This is the fourth death in a fortnight,” Gordon said with a sigh, a hand rising to massage at his brows with worry. “The people are terrified. They hear the creature spitting curses at night, every night. Sometimes it's in the village, other times at the barrows, other nights it stalks the isolated farmhouses and forest huts or the main road.”

Tim frowned. Not many things had such wide territories. Trooping faeries had well-worn paths everyone knew to avoid, ghosts had their own haunts, usually a particular building or other landmark, and other beings tended to prefer wild places, not the city. “And still no one has seen it?” he asked with little hope. “If I could identify it, better protections could be made. I've tried staking out the areas where it appears but there are too many, and it can sense my god's powers and avoids me.”

Leslie shook her head. “You would think such a powerful god of justice like Bruce would be able to protect his own worshipers from whatever this thing is,” she said, her tone grown bitter from her helplessness and grief. “You helped us with the banshee easily enough, two years ago. Why can't you do something about this?”

Tim pursed his lips into a tight line, trying not to take her remark personally. “I'm not sure. There is something going on here that I have yet to understand. I will consult my familiars and my god.”

The chief and wise woman weren’t happy with this unsatisfactory response, but it was all that Tim could do with his most powerful wards defeated by an unknown enemy, and Tim walked them out of the house with assurances and promises he only hoped he could keep.

– – –

It was night and Tim had gathered the things he needed and made his way to an alter built in a sacred grove not far from his home. Moonlight filtered through trees above him, the whole world painted in blacks and grays with silver edges as crickets sounded and night birds cried. The path was paved with worn flat slates and soft moss, the trees carefully groomed into arches overhead, meandering down a crevasse until it reached a henge of pale stones circled by massive ash trees, the contours of their dark trunks glimmering in the starlight.

In the center of the henge was a stone table, an alter, where Tim lit a flat bronze urn with his flint striker and tossed a dried blend of sacred herbs and sages onto the small flame he’d made, watching the tiny orange fire burst into a crackling blaze with a whoosh. Roiling shadows danced in the firelight from the urn, stretching their black fingers out from the ash trees and the stone pillars around Tim as he knelt before the alter and waited for the smoke to rise into the air.

Breathing in the aromatic and vaguely noxious scent of the holy vapors, Tim wrinkled his nose and felt his head take on a light-headed haze as he drifted closer to the border between worlds and opened himself to the spirits. Finally he judged himself deep enough and began calling for his familiar.

“Nightwing. Nightwing. Nightwing—come,” he chanted into the darkness, his voice carried by the vapors out into the night and deep Under Hill, in the places where faeries and more frightening things walked freely.

It could have been moments or it could have been hours, it was difficult to tell when under the effects of the sacred sages, but at the very edge of the urn’s light something seemed to emerge from the darkness, separating itself from the shadows.

It began as a faint lightness in the crook of the ash tree located directly in front of him. Eventually the features of a massive gray owl with haunting deep blue eyes, took form.

Tim smiled, recognizing his familiar in his owl aspect. “Nightwing. I need your power and your counsel,” he spoke into the quiet.

The owl blinked lazily, then crouched to take flight, gliding in complete silence to the alter, powerful wings spreading to take up Tim’s entire vision, blocking the light from the moon as he descended. The mere beat of his wings scattered the ashes from the urn and nearly blew out the fire, swirling the smoke of the holy vapors as he landed on the stone alter, razor sharp talons scratching deep into his chosen perch.

Tim had only an instant to marvel at the fantastic creature before it changed shape into his familiar spirit’s true form. No sound, no flash of light. Just one instant an owl, the next something altogether different in less than the time it took to blink.

Where the owl had stood was replaced with the figure of a man, seated provocatively on the stone table of the alter. His bare, finely muscled legs were crossed beneath his naked sex and rippling chest of abs and pectorals, all covered by smooth olive-toned skin, like the ancient peoples of the isle. Tim was tempted to allow his eyes to linger too long on that attractive body, a chiseled masterpiece of inhuman perfection. In lieu of clothes, the being was artfully smeared with a bright blue pigment, in a line across his eyes like a mask and in an arch across his bare chest with another vertical stripe over his heart. The man’s black hair shined in the flickering light of the urn over luminously blue eyes, a match to the owl's, beholding Tim intently.

“Tim, it's been a while,” Nightwing said, the fae canting his head to the side in a distinctly avian gesture.

“I know,” Tim allowed and for some reason he felt as though he should apologize. To his knowledge, most bound beings would be happy to go unbothered, but Nightwing seemed to crave attention. “I haven't come across something I can't handle on my own in some time. I didn’t want to bother you for anything that wasn’t dire.”

Nightwing smiled softly, expression turned fond. “You know you don't have to wait until you have a problem to commune with me. I'll answer you any time.”

Tim fidgeted under that deep blue gaze. “I visit the shrine I built you along the road almost every day. Sometimes I see you watching as an owl.”

“The shrine isn’t the same,” Nightwing pouted and rose from the seat of the alter to step toward Tim, who forced his gaze to stay on the spirit’s face and not stray toward his manhood, despite it being at immediate eye-level.

With liquid grace, Nightwing knelt before Tim, a hand with blue-stained fingers moving to stroke his cheek before sliding down his neck, slow and sensuous, Tim’s heart pounding nervously all the while.

Nightwing was always like this, touch-starved, or maybe possessive. Tim knew that with a being as powerful as Nightwing, a type of fae often called a 'sylph', and powerful enough that he was worshiped as a local god, he was straining a human’s ability to maintain control of the relationship to its limits. A being less noble than Nightwing could use its power to hurt Tim, influence him, even steal or marionette is body, or just kill him outright and escape to wreak havoc. It was only Nightwing’s inherent benevolence as a protective spirit and the debt of his life that he owed, which allowed Tim to safely continue their bond.

“I can listen at the shrine, but I can't share my power with you. I can't touch you,” Nightwing said with longing, hand moving over Tim’s chest.

Abruptly, the spirit’s hand shoved at him with inhuman strength and a faint thrill of surprise, arousal and maybe a little fear stole Tim’s breath as his shoulder hit the earth. He blinked up into the darkness and found Nightwing had moved to straddle him, the lines of his athletic limbs gleaming gold from the light of the urn’s fire behind him. Nightwing’s hands wrapped around Tim's wrists, pressing them into the earth, his body moving above him, lithe as a cat as he watched Tim for his reaction with an interested and yet detached expression, as if Tim wasn’t quite a person.

Tim heard the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears as Nightwing bent to brush his nose against the skin of Tim's jaw, his breath rustling the fine hairs at his neck. “I can't taste you at the shrine. Not like this,” came a whisper into the shell of his ear that made Tim shudder and brought an embarrassing, tight heat to his loins.

Tim swallowed and forced himself not to visibly react to Nightwing’s advances, despite how much his body wanted it. He had no doubt it would be a euphoric experience, letting his familiar take him again, or taking him in turn, but such a coupling was dangerous, and gave the inhuman spirit too much power. Power he could use to ill purpose against Tim if he chose. As much as Tim wanted to think Nightwing was kind and loyal, even knew it for a fact when it came to most spheres of nature, this was a risk he wasn’t prepared to chance. Especially not without protections in place.

“You know it’s dangerous for me to do something like that,” Tim said, as much a reminder to himself as to Nightwing, who doubtless knew that and may even be counting on it.

Nightwing frowned and Tim could see every beautiful quirk of his expression, he was mere inches away. “I wouldn't take more than you want to give. I'm a faerie of protection. I wouldn't hurt you.”

“Hurt me, no. Possess me, or pull me Under Hill, maybe,” Tim suggested.

Nightwing gave a throaty chuckle, lowering himself to smooth his body along Tim's, and as much as it made him blanch to think his god might be watching this compromising situation he was silently praying to Bruce for patience and resolve.

“I'm powerful enough to take form here on my own,” Nightwing argued, dipping his head to land fluttery kisses against Tim's neck that had the druid's blood warming in his face and other, lower places. “I don't need your body, Tim. At least, not for that.”

Tim took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure, even though he wanted to just melt under Nightwing and let the fae have his way with his body. He knew from experience that Nightwing's attention was a pleasure that would leave him dazed, spent and satisfied. If not for the dangers and the fact that he had other business tonight to get to, he might already have given in.

“I-I'll think about it,” he told the spirit and tried to gently push him away.

Nightwing rolled his eyes and finally sat back to let Tim sit up. Thank the gods. “You druids,” the sylph said unhappily, and even his pout of displeasure was attractive. “Always willing to use sex to seal a familiar but then never do it again. A bit like false advertising, don't you think?”

Well, that was true, but it wasn't as though the sex was a bribe, just a part of the binding ritual. Tim really couldn't help that.

“It's not like you have a fertility nature, your element is wind,” Tim argued. “I didn't even think you'd want it again. Most spirits wouldn't, you know.” Not unless they had ulterior motives, anyway. Faeries having sex with humans wasn't uncommon exactly, but it was frowned upon by both species, and extremely dangerous for humans to give up control to something supernatural.

Nightwing seemed to drink in Tim's body with his eyes, a tiny peak of his wet tongue at the corner of his mouth. “I didn't know I wanted it until I'd had you. You taste of your dark god. Like earth and shadow and the power of the divine.”

Tim frowned, considering that for Nightwing sex with him might just be a means to taste his god Bruce's mark on him. “Is it me you want, or my god?”

Nightwing flashed a hungry smile. “Mm, both?”

Tim sighed. Faeries were capricious, it was just in their nature and Nightwing was especially wily, even if he was also especially noble. He doubted he'd get a straight answer from the fae. “We can discuss this some other time. Right now, I need your help.”

Nightwing's expression turned serious and he stood to move back to the alter. “Yes, I've heard,” he admitted, and displayed his body on the stone table as if he were a king retaking his throne. “The people come to my shrine to ask for my protection against this thing stalking the night.”

Tim wasn't surprised. In Gotham, Nightwing was second only to Bruce in worshipers, and many prayed to both. “Do you know what it is?” he asked.

“A goblin, a dullahan, a vengeful ghost. Something of that nature,” Nightwing said, sounding genuinely apologetic that he couldn’t be more specific. “Us beings from Under Hill don't always fit into convenient categories. It could be all or none. I've made attempts to investigate but have yet to see it manifest, so it's difficult to tell what it is.”

With a sigh Tim admitted, “I haven't been able to glimpse it either. Most faeries and spirits dwell in a particular location and guard it jealously, but this one seems to wander everywhere, even the cities.”

With a thoughtful nod, his familiar corroborated Tim's observations. “I've heard it on the wind from every direction, spitting and cursing. It stalks the whole region, leaving behind bloody foot-trails and the scent of smoke, but it seems that it won't take material form unless specific conditions are met.”

Tim had been afraid of that. “So unless these conditions, whatever they are, are met we can't know what it looks like? Great. From what Gordon tells me, when it takes form it kills and even my god's blessing can't seem to prevent it, which is even worse.”

Nightwing's brows furrowed and his lips pulled tight as he contemplated Tim's confession. “That's troubling. Your god is powerful and you are skilled. Ordinary demons and dark things shouldn't be able to balk your protections.”

He wasn't sure if Nightwing's confusion was good, because it meant he had a high opinion of Tim's power, or bad because he was as at a loss as Tim, and he quickly decided it was the latter. If even a being from Under Hill didn't know what they were dealing with, then Tim was really in trouble.

“I know, and it's frustrating,” Tim said with a harsh exhale of breath. “This thing is terrorizing the villagers and nothing I've given them has been able to prevent the deaths or even ward off it's presence. The only time I've been this powerless, was when I tried to banish you from the barrows.”

Nightwing closed his eyes and lifted his face as if remembering back to the incident two years ago when an unnatural tempest, heavy with sharp hailstones had kicked up and refused to be banished by any means Tim knew. In the end, Tim had braved the wicked storm that had made itself a permanent fixture over a field of ancient graves, its winds howling with the sounds of spine-chilling screams and wails, to find a corrupted Nightwing chained to the ground, overwhelmed by a veritable army of corpse-like wights.

“That happened because I am a being of night and goodness, like your master.” Nightwing reminded him. “Your spells did not recognize me as an enemy because our power calls to each other and I was not truly evil.”

Tim brought a hand to his chin absently in deep thought, suddenly seeing the similarities between then and now. “You weren't quite a banshee yet, only terribly corrupted by the wights of the barrow. The transformation wasn't complete. Could it be something similar here? Could this be a spirit of justice, gone twisted?”

“It would make sense.” Nightwing decided after a moment. “It's a powerful thing that's been here for over a hundred years. Mostly it lies quiescent, but on occasion it does stir, a death here or there, but not usually like this.”

Tim blinked in surprise. “So this thing isn't new?” He hadn't considered that. There was nothing like this in recent memory, nor in the sheriff’s or the wise woman's, or he was certain they'd have mentioned it. If this was something old rather than a newcomer than its manifestation conditions most be very specific indeed, and it was possibly even more powerful than he'd guessed.

“No, the people knew it of old,” Nightwing confirmed. “It's watched over these lands a long time—though not as long as me.” Nightwing flashed a faint smile, smug at his seniority as a Gotham spirit. “The children even had a rhyme for it.”

Tim's brows climbed at this rarity. “A rhyme?”

Any supernatural being or phenomenon with a rhyme associated with it must have been popular or common once, and the proliferation of its name both spoke of and contributed to its power. Like Nightwing, this wasn't an ordinary spirit, but something on the level of a minor deity in it's own territory, and it's territory seemed to include the whole of Gotham and them some. That just further confirmed all of Tim's worst fears. But on the other hand, if Tim could hear this rhyme, perhaps it would give him clues as to the spirit's form and identity.

Tim looked up at Nightwing, trying not to sound too hopeful as he asked, “You wouldn't happen to have remembered what that rhyme was, would you?”

Nightwing grinned, wide and dazzling and Tim's heart lifted at the sight as his familiar began to recite a poem in the sing-song tone of children's rhymes: “He rises from the ruins where the battle tower stood/ He smells of steel and fire, his steps are red with blood./ And when the sins of men go unpunished as they should/ The wicked meet their bloody end at the hand of the Red Hood.”

Tim repeated the verses a few time under his breath, trying to glean all the information he could from the four short lines. “So it's called Red Hood and it punishes the wicked. That sounds like a spirit of justice to me. Something must have happened to wake it up.”

Nightwing shrugged. “That's obvious isn't it? Someone's sins went unpunished. Your sheriff being the competent man he is may be why the specter hasn't been seen in some years. It kills to right wrongs, but wicked souls can taint a spirit, and each death at its hands furthered it's corruption.”

Tim frowned. “And now it just keeps killing?”

Nightwing's nod was solemn. The fae knew first hand the madness and grief that filled a spirit, corrupted by the blight of evil. There was a hunger there, to take life, something that Nightwing had fought hard against, it's love for living things at war with the gnawing insanity creeping through his mind. Now that same thirst for death had taken the Red Hood, a being already prone to killing, and not likely to hold out long against the urge. If they didn't work quickly, Tim had no doubt the murders would escalate into a full on massacre of the village.

Mind racing, Tim tried to pull together all the disparate clues he had, piecing them together into a full picture at last. A plan was forming there, like a dark cloud on the horizon. “So if we can catch it, call it out somehow, then I can cleanse it and bind it as a familiar like I did you. Otherwise we have to let this thing keep killing until it becomes a true demon and my master's power becomes effective.”

Nightwing crossed his arms wearing a wry expression. “Honestly I'm not happy at the idea of sharing you, or putting you in the kind of danger that a cleansing would, but as a spirit of protection I can't exactly condone letting murder continue to the point that the thing can be exorcised, either.”

An odd feeling fluttered in Tim's heart at Nightwing's acknowledgment that he wouldn’t want Tim in danger. If Tim died, Nightwing would no longer be bound, something many spirits so restrained would desire above all else, but here he was trying to protect Tim and their connection. “Thanks to you, I know its name. I can call it out. Will you be there to help me?”

Nightwing smirked, standing from the alter and rolling his powerful shoulders as if stretching for a fight. “Of course. I haven't had a good opponent in a while. This ought to be interesting.”

He'd been fairly certain Nightwing would agree to help, not that he had much of a choice if Tim pressed the matter with their bond, but being such a high-ranking spirit, Tim would rather not try as Nightwing might very well be able to break free if he desired. Still, the sylph's eagerness filled him with a sense of optimism he hadn't had in weeks, since the Red Hood began his bloody spree.

“Then it's settled,” Tim said, “This thing seems to be most active at night, so tomorrow at sundown I will call on you. Together, we'll cleanse this Red Hood.”

– – –

The rhyme had stated that Red Hood could be found at the ruins of a battle tower, and Tim did recognize the location, but confronting the spirit in it's home base seemed unnecessarily dangerous, even if it would give them a higher chance of calling him out. Luckily, since the Red Hood seemed to be unusually mobile with a truly extensive territory, Tim had his pick of locations for the summoning.

The place he chose was a triple fork in a road, one lane splitting into three paths, like a crow's foot.

Forks in roads had liminal properties, the barriers between the realms becoming thin and confused, and many a travelers on a misty night had taken the wrong path and found themselves Under Hill—the dwelling places of strange beings more magic than material where time and place didn't quite make sense. In a crow's foot path, like the one where Tim was setting up, the separation was even thinner than in a simple bi-split.

The path was old and predated Tim's presence in Gotham or he'd have advised against such a road's creation to begin with. It was always safer to split a path once and once again further down then to make a triple path, a crow's foot path was that dangerous, but in this case it suited Tim's purpose so he would take advantage of it. With Under Hill so close, it would be easier for Tim to spot their quarry lurking in the folds between worlds and force Red Hood to manifest. And even better, one of the paths eventually lead to the ruins themselves, where Red Hood was alleged to rise.

It was only minutes to sunset, and Tim could sense the coming darkness as if the night was an additional limb, a part of him that went to sleep during the day only to rise as the sun died, bringing with it a stronger connection to his god, increased power, and a boost to his third eye. Tim would need all of those things for the confrontation with Red Hood.

He set about readying the area for the ritual, making a protective circle with a chip of chalky rock that he'd brought for the purpose. How well it would work against Red Hood was anyone's guess, but at the very least it should keep other beings or spirits from interfering. Next he cleaned the area of anything that could interfere with the ritual or the summoning, though there wasn't much. Crystalline stones and the like, sometimes iron bits from old tools, but Gotham roads were generally clean and he was finished quickly with that aspect of his task.

Finally it was down to summoning his familiar. The sun was just a sliver above the horizon and sinking fast, the perfect time. Like road forks, twilight had strong liminal properties, bridging the realms. Dusk was the strongest, then dawn, then midnight, then midday. Some beings responded more strongly to one or the other times, but as a creature of the night, Nightwing was especially well suited for a dusk summoning, as was Red Hood in fact.

Tim knelt on the ground in the center of his circle and pulled a rough-hewn soapstone owl totem from his satchel, carefully placing it before him. He placed a leafy branch of ash, plucked from the sacred grove where he communed with his familiar, and lit a stick of incense, the blend a lesser variety of the holy vapors, it's smoke working to further increase his supernatural sight and carry his summoning call into the places Under Hill. Last he drew his athame and made careful cuts on his palms, just deep enough to draw a drop of blood each and let them fall onto the totem. This would count as his sacrifice and give his familiar extra power to manifest in his human-like form outside of the grove.

After breathing enough incense to make the edges of his vision begin to blur, Tim became his chant. “Nightwing. Nightwing. Nightwing—come.”

And suddenly Nightwing was standing before him, the same raven-wing hair and deep blue eyes he'd grown accustomed to seeing, the bright blue pigment smeared across his eyes and shoulders. Unlike he'd ever seen before, however, Nightwing was equipped for war, a black tunic synched at the waist falling to his knees over a coat of linothorax, mail as strong as metal but woven of linen and animal sinew. Additionally he wore black leather arm and leg guards, and carried two fighting sticks made from the sacred ash trees; nearly as dangerous to another from Under Hill as cold iron, and even more deadly to incorporeal beings like revenants and wights to whom metal weapons might as well have been feathers.

“You're anticipating a fight then,” Tim deduced as he examined Nightwing's appearance. He'd never actually seen his familiar with so much armor—or many clothes at all, really—but then they'd never come across a spirit this dangerous before. Arming themselves to the teeth was just the smart thing to do.

Nightwing quirked a brow and tilted his head in a bird-like gesture. “Aren't you?”

With Tim's luck? Yes. “I like to plan for every eventuality, including a fight,” was what Tim said as he carefully stowed away the owl totem in his satchel. The ash stick and incense he would need again to summon Red Hood, so he left them out.

“Alright. Any advice for me before I try to call Red Hood?” Tim asked Nightwing, suppressing his nerves. This might very well be the most dangerous thing Tim had ever done. At least when he'd cleansed Nightwing, the sylph hadn't yet killed anyone, just frightened the hell out of the village with the sounds of constant wailing and screaming drifting in on the wind from the old burial grounds, eventually culminating in a vicious, unnatural storm. His driving emotion had been sadness, the fight had been intense, but brief, Nightwing quickly accepting his offer of cleansing and binding to escape the corruption eating away at him from the inside out.

But Red Hood mightn't be that way. His driving emotion seemed to be anger, and he'd already killed. How eager he would be for cleansing was difficult to say; maybe very, maybe not at all. They could only call him and see.

After a moment of thought, Nightwing said, “What either of us do is going to depend on what kind of spirit he is. Different beings have different weaknesses, as you know. When he appears, make your offer, but if he tries to attack then let me step in. I can fight another from Under Hill on the same level. You, not so much.” Nightwing's smile was apologetic at suggesting Tim wouldn't be helpful in the fight.

Tim returned the smile with a hint of amusement, not at all insulted. “Leave the fighting to you. That's my kind of plan.”

Nightwing laughed, a bright sound like a bird's song. “Well, I am a spirit of protection,” he reminded Tim. “I might as well fulfill my mandate.”

Tim sighed and shook out his shoulders. “Right. Let's do this.”

From his satchel, Tim pulled a large piece of uncut soapstone, which would become a totem like the owl he'd made for Nightwing if all went well tonight. Then an offering of herb-seasoned, cooked lamb and strong wine, along with a container of sacred white ash, taken from the urn at the grove. Tim drew the sign of his god on his forehead in the ash to give his call extra authority, then waved the incense stick he'd lit earlier over his offering, thoroughly mingling the scents. The incense smoke would carry the essence of the offering with it as it drifted, across Gotham and into the realms Under Hill. Red Hood would hopefully catch the scent of the offering, providing an additional lure to the circle, on top of the pull of the call.

Now for the hard part. Red Hood seemed a being that appreciated blood—it was even in the rhyme that he had bloody foot steps and made bloody kills. So Tim made deeper cuts in his palms than usual, letting the blood flow enough to make a small pool in the cup of his hands as he sat cross-legged before the stone, his offering and the stick of incense. He made himself as comfortable as he could; Tim might be there for a while as there was no telling how long this could take, if it would even work. He had a name to call though, which increased his odds significantly, and in Tim's experience even the most fickle of beings were tempted by fresh lamb and wine both. With all of those elements in place, hopefully he would be successful.

“I'm going to begin calling,” he told Nightwing as he settled in, probably unnecessarily.

“Be careful,” the sylph responded, even though calling wasn't dangerous at all, it was whatever you called that could kill you.

Tim took a deep breath and evened his tone to something authoritative and calm. “Red Hood. Red Hood. Red Hood—come,” he chanted.

Over and over and over he called into the quiet dark, chanted until his throat went dry and his lips chapped from the chill night air, all the while Nightwing stood alert at his back, poised on the balls of his feet, his eyes darting about the road, searching for signs of their quarry.

The sun was now well below the horizon and a salty mist rose from the ground, blown in from the sea, reflecting the moonlight in an eerie glow as it ringed the circle and blocked their sight of the road, as if Nightwing and Tim were in some hollow between realms. It was the exact kind of conditions that would break down the door to Under Hill and empower Tim's summoning.

“Red Hood. Red Hood. Red Hood—come. Red Hood. Red Hood. Red Hood—come. Red Hood. Red Ho—wait, do you hear that?” Tim stopped, listening hard as Nightwing did the same. “It sounds like...”

“—fucking bastards, they'll pay! They'll fucking pay those cock-sucking cunts, those—”

“Curses,” Nightwing finished, and drew a fighting stick, crouching low, readying himself to defend or attack as the voice grew nearer and nearer.

Tim squinted into the dark but didn't see anything through the mist, despite the voice sounding close enough that he should. A strong whiff of smoke and the mineral-tang of blood filled his nose like a perfume and he felt pressure building in his ears, the world bending, bubbling, boiling in turmoil against the presence of a powerful being, waiting just under the surface, unmanifested. Just like with Nightwing in the barrows two years ago, he caught the rotten taint of corruption, like a sickness, eating away at the spirit, driving it mad.

“Look at the ground,” Nightwing whispered and Tim glanced down, swallowing at the sight. Boot tracks in the dirt, black with soot, drips and flecks of red and brown in a clear trail of blood approaching the circle. Just like the rhyme. The summoning had been successful, it was here. Red Hood was here.

“—they'll pay, they'll all pay! Those shit-eating fuckers won't get away with this, those sons of—”

“Red Hood!” Tim called out, and abruptly the foot steps halted and the string of curses stopped, the road now dead silent. Tim's ears ached from the pressure of the specter's presence, and he swallowed again and worked his jaw, trying to clear his ears. “I'm Tim Drake, druid of this village, dedicated servant of my Lord Bruce, god and protector of the Night. On behalf of Gotham and my god, I would ask that you present yourself to face His justice!”

There came a ruckus laughter that echoed against the mist, seeming to come from everywhere at once, bitter and frenzied, with snarls of, “Fuck you!” and “Fuck off!” occasionally fracturing the cackles into something demented.

Tim bit his lower lip against the insults, trying to remain calm despite every instinct telling him this was bad, very very bad. Even with all of his tactics, the call, the demand, his location and the lucky atmospheric effects, the being remained stubbornly invisible, slinking in some pocket Between.

Tim dipped a finger in the small pools of blood in his palms and traced over the ash-drawn bat on his forehead, repeating his demand with still more power. Red Hood just hissed like a snake, body imperceptible over a set of black footprints and increasing amounts of blood, dribbling like a fountain, every drop loud in the quiet as it hit the dust of the earth in a rough crescent.

Nigtwing shifted his weight from foot to foot with anticipation as Tim frowned, growing frustrated and frightened that he might not actually be able to force Red Hood out. Furthermore, it could choose to attack at any moment. The thing was obstinate and powerful, easily ignoring his attempts to bend it to his will. But the spirit was still here, that was something. Maybe if Tim just explained himself it would come out on its own?

“Red Hood,” Tim said more softly, “You're in pain. You're drawn to protect people, to punish the wicked, but now all you can do is kill and it's tearing you apart. I can cleanse you. Please, let me. My master and I can help you.”

For the first time, Tim sensed a twist in that presence waiting just beneath the surface. It had heard him, he had its attention. Just as it had sent a spike of cold terror through Tim's spine when he'd felt the full weight of the power and intelligence of something that was just beneath a god when he confronted the corrupted Nightwing, he felt it here again. The mad, spitting thing he'd confronted was the corruption, pulling whatever the Red Hood was along, dumbing-down its actions, splintering its will and its mind.

Whatever Red Hood did next, would be the closest Tim could get to the true being unless it was cleansed. Corrupted spirits were more wanton, unpredictable, and violent, but what a being like Nightwing or Red Hood could do when clear of purpose was in many ways much more dangerous.

Tim waited with bated breath in the silence, staring at the space where he knew Red Hood to be as the pressure in the air built again and his ears popped.

“What do you know about pain?” he heard a tortured voice whisper.

Tim's eyes widened as there was a roar and a flare of brilliant red-gold fire lit the earth and another black boot print appeared, one step closer from the others. Beside him Nightwing muttered something in the language of fae, Tim recognizing the words as a charm against fire.

“What do you know...about wickedness?”

Another black boot print burned into the ground and Nightwing took a step beside him only for Tim to fling out an arm to hold him back. If a fight broke out, he might lose his chance, and if they lost their opportunity to cleanse the Red Hood, then Gotham lost a protector and gained a bloody demon, it's chain of death impossible to stop until the corruption had completed it's course.

The boot prints continued and Tim felt heat against his face like the lick of flames and watched as drops of blood trailed their way towards him with slow purpose, burning heat from seemingly nowhere making the air shimmer. The mist around them glowed a mean crimson as if lit by hellfire. And despite it all, still there was nothing but those black prints in the dust and the pooling flecks of blood, no form to see, just those ominous signs in the ground and the pressure tightening Tim's chest and stealing his breath.

Tim flinched as a voice hissed directly in his ear. “What...do you know...about death?”

“Let me help you. Please,” Tim all but begged, suppressing a shudder as the hairs on his body stood on end at the knowledge that there was a murderous phantom whispering death in his ear.

“You can't help me,” the voice said as if from a distant well and Tim felt that he was losing Red Hood's attention, the spirit's mind beginning to succumb to its corruption.

From beside him, Tim saw Nightwing squinting at the thin air, trying to see past the layers of realities to the true form hiding just Under Hill. If the Red Hood fled, then he would have Nightwing give chase, but so long as he was here Tim wanted to draw it out, to have it submit to the cleansing, that was the best way, the only way to make this end.

“I can try. I helped Nightwing. Like you, he was a spirit, corrupted against his will, but my god and I cleansed him. Please. Please, you don't have to hurt anyone anymore. You can be a protector again, like you were meant to be.”

Tim held up his hands, where the smears of blood still lay on his palms, half-dried.

There was silence for a moment, except for the dull roar and crackle of something burning and the sound of harsh breathing, and Tim got the impression that the being was fighting against it's corruption, thinking, considering.

Tim flinched as a few stray drops of blood splattered against his face and he heard an almost inaudible, “You can't help me...you can't even help your own damn self.”

And then Tim was screaming, all thoughts torn from his mind but the agony of his shoulder burning, the smell of his own cooked flesh making him gag, the excruciation of his nerves set aflame causing his knees to buckle as he sank to the ground.

Nightwing leapt like a streak, winds gusting in a whirlwind around his body as he engaged the Red Hood in combat, the specter finally manifest in a terrible halo of fire and blood, spitting and cursing as he stabbed at the fleet form of Nightwing with a black dagger in the rippling shape of a flame, and a blazing red sword of true fire.

It took immense force of will, but eventually Tim caught his breath and bit his tongue, rising up from where he'd crumbled to the earth in pain, ready to reassess the situation. On his shoulder was a blistering, black hand print where Red Hood had touched him, had burned him through his clothing and deep into the layers of his skin. He was shaking with chills, but Nightwing had stopped Hood before he could truly damage Tim, and despite his pain he judged himself to be still physically able to do the ritual.

That was, if he could make the Red Hood accept it.

Tim bent to retrieve his staff, moving gingerly as he used it to haul himself to a standing position. After a moment of rest to fight down his pain and the urge to throw up, he raised his head and finally saw their enemy in his true form.

The Red Hood's manifestation was a terror of a man, towering above Tim, his strong, broad body cloaked in a tunic and leggings as black as shadows, a cuirass of dark mail and plates of black iron armor, like those the armies of the old kings wore in ages past. Over his head was a tattered cloth of crimson red that left only a snarling mouth bare, it's frayed ends dripping a steady fountain of blood with every movement, leaving vibrant red tracks down the spirit's lips and neck. Every step it took was fire, it's movements flowed erratically like smoke and it fought with a fury Tim had never seen, it's strength a match for Nightwing in every way, it's nightmarish features lit with the crimson of it's darting flame blade.

Nightwing had guessed a goblin, a dullahan, or a vengeful ghost. He wasn't that far off the mark.

Tim choked out an ironic laugh, and shook his head at himself. Whatever Red Hood had been before, the corruption coursing through it was transforming the spirit into a red cap. Of course.

A red cap was a spirit of vengeance, identified by a bloody cloth, or sometimes skin, of some kind over their heads. They could be goblins, or ghosts of men, or even faeries, but what identified them was the bloody cap and the driving desire to kill. The fire was unusual, not a typical aspect of red caps and an uncommon element in those from Under Hill to begin with, as was the ability to wear metal armor. All of this lead Tim to believe this spirit, unlike Nightwing, had once been a human.

Too much power to have been a mere ghost, though, he realized. The transformed servant of a god, maybe? Difficult to know for sure, but maybe this knowledge could help him cleanse the spirit. Tim prayed to the night that it would.

Nightwing dove through the air like a bird, his form as light as the wind as he flipped away cleanly from a blazing fast strike of Hood's iron dagger, and the sylph sent out a cold gale of air that parted the mist and shuddered through the trees, smothering his enemy's flames and tearing at Red Hood's clothing, attempting to blast the red cap off his feet with sheer force. Tim shut his mouth tight against the urge to gape at this display of power, his familiar bending the elements to bring his adversary to one knee against the pressure and removing his best offensive and defensive weapons, the flaming sword and aura of fire.

“Bastard sylph!” Red Hood spat, leveling his dagger at the fae, the metal heating in his hand until it smoked and glowed red.

At a mere touch of his toe to the ground Nightwing was already dashing forward with his sticks ready, ducking under a swing of the dagger and jabbing into Hood's gut with one stick, then striking at his face with the other. Despite the sylph's swift attacks, Hood displayed his own prowess in battle by blocking or dodging his opponent's hits, at first clumsily, with angular movements of his arms to send the sticks glancing off their mark, and then with more sureness and power as he began to intuit Nightwing's strikes, open palms hitting Tim's familiar in the forearms and rattling him to the bone even as flames sprouted from Red Hood's touch.

Nightwing's eyes glowed midnight blue, wide and intent on the fight, a wild sort of grin finding its way to his face as he realized the strength of his attacker. “Not bad, Red Hood!” Nightwing jeered after a particularly close call had him dancing away with airy movements that seamed to tease with their easy beauty.

Red Hood dashed forward, whirling at the final moment before striking, and spattering a line of blood from his hood across Nightwing's eyes, the sylph staggering back in surprise even as the red cap landed a slash at the fae's thigh that smoked and blackened against golden skin.

With a gasp of pain and something that might have been close to panic, Nightwing made a stabbing gesture with his finger and a javelin of lightning erupted from the sky.

Tim threw up a hand to shield his eyes too late to make a difference and he blinked at the bright after-images against his eye lids. Over the reverberation of thunder he heard Red Hood's menacing cackle of “Sky-fire is still fire, dumbass!” and the red cap leapt toward Nightwing, unaffected by the devastating bolt.

“You're kidding me.” Nightwing's lips spread into a tight smile tinged with disbelief at the sight of his adversary shaking off one of his most powerful abilities like nothing.

The sylph dodged Red Hood's leg sweep with an acrobatic flip into the air, kicking off from the sky itself to turn the movement into a diving strike. The red cap was able to step just out of the way, not fooled by Nightwing's erratic movements gained from being able to walk on the air like solid ground, and swiped with his dagger at Nightwing's side as the sylph landed and tried to roll out of range.

Tim heard Nightwing make an angry shriek like an owl and blood gushed from a deep gash at his side that was charred black, half-cauterized.

“Fucking fae,” Red Hood spat, almost sounding coherent in his madness as he stalked towards Nightwing with murderous intent, the air clouding again with heat, flames blooming at his foot steps. “Twinkle-toed little shit. You call this protection? Some fucking familiar you are!”

Nightwing limped to his feet, raising an ash stick in one hand and holding a palm over his wound with the other, visibly affected by his injury. Quick as an asp, Hood snaked his dagger toward Nightwing's throat, while at the same time Nightwing jabbed at his face with his ash stick. Curling out of the way at the last second with a frustrated curse, Red Hood fell to the ground and Nightwing leapt on top of him, his limbs moving to pin Hood by the arms, legs wrapping around his trunk, skin burning as it touched the red cap's iron armor.

“Tim, quick! Take off his hood! If we can get it off, he'll lose a lot of power!” Nightwing gasped as Red Hood reared up and came down hard enough to shake the others' grip on him. Red Hood spat and jeered, thrashing like a crazed animal, screaming nonsense profanities and threats like, “I'll get you! You'll fucking pay!”

Tim followed Nightwing's instructions without hesitation, ignoring the pain of his shoulder. Nightwing's hand white-knuckled, clenching at Red Hood's wrist, struggling to make him drop the flame-shaped black dagger, the red cap refusing to submit even as the blade cut into his own skin as it slipped in his grip. Tim sat, more collapsed, on the red cap's chest, adding his weight to Nightwing's to keep him down and using his own staff of ash to pin the hand with the dagger, the holy wood adding some spiritual power to the effort.

Still Red Hood was too strong—or too crazed, or too contrary—for it to have much effect, and Tim was nearly bucked off before he could even reach toward the blood-soaked cloth.

“Fuck you! Fuck all of you! You can't make me stop! I'll kill you all!” Red Hood screamed and this close Tim could see his gums were black with corruption. He wasn't sure even Red Hood knew who he wanted to kill or why, just that he felt he had to with the taint coursing through his being.

“Just let us help you, Hood!” Tim pleaded as he was able to land shaky hands on the edge of what appeared to be the tattered, blood-soaked remains of a cloak.

Tim had barely begun attempting to peel away the fabric from pale, human-like freckled skin, stuck fast as if fused to the red cap's body, when the most blood-curdling, mind-shattering scream Tim had ever heard ripped from Red Hood's mouth.

Tim flinched, his hands hesitating, but one look at Nightwing's breath coming in pants and gasps as he struggled against Hood's efforts to kill him, to kill Tim, to get away and kill someone, anyone, let him know he had to continue. This was his chance, his one chance, he wouldn’t get another and Nightwing couldn't last long.

Tim felt liquid pool in the corners of his eyes and trail down his own cheek as every minute tug on the hood split the night with another full-throated cry of something between anguish and outrage. It was hard to go on despite those screams, to believe Tim was doing something good by this even as the cries echoed in his very soul, piteous and pained. But as he pealed away the red tatters, revealing more blood-smeared, but seemingly healthy and human-looking skin, Tim's heart lightened.

His efforts revealed a nose, cheek bones and finally open and staring gray-silver eyes, dilated almost black as they glared into Tim with, not hatred as he'd suspected, but fear.

Finally Tim ripped the hood away and placed a hand on each side of Red Hood's face, now framed by short, blood-matted soot-black hair, looking into those passionate gray eyes, the body beneath him shaking and taut, panting in terror like a wild creature backed into a corner.

“I can help you,” Tim promised, looking into those gray eyes, trying to wade past all of the unfocused fear and wrath brought on by the corruption to a mind that could understand what he was trying to offer. “Just let the corruption go. Give it all to me. I can take it.”

“No,” Hood shuddered with huge eyes and he suddenly looked less like a murderous night-stalking phantom and more like a scared young man barely older in appearance than Tim, trapped with nowhere to go and the whole world closing in on him, howling for his life. In his eyes, Tim saw flames and he suddenly realized that his hunch had been right and Red Hood had been a man, a man who met his end by fire.

“Yes,” Tim said with a new sense of resolve. “I've done it before. It will work. Just let the corruption go. Give yourself to me, and I'll take care of you.”

Red Hood's breath came fast, nose flaring like a bull, but he didn't speak again, just stared with those eyes, blown nearly black with a thin ring of silver looking into Tim like he could see to the depths of his soul. Well, the rhyme said Red Hood targeted the wicked, so who knew, maybe he could see to Tim's soul?

“I'll take care of you,” Tim repeated as he bent down, Hood watching his every movement for signs of danger, but no longer protesting. “I'll take care of you.”

Tim pressed his lips to Hood's and breathed in.

Corruption, a black mess of death and murder spilled into him, overflowing, and Tim saw every one. Child-beaters, rapists, bandits, murderers, mothers who'd drowned their babies in their baths, children who'd killed their parents for an inheritance, crimes of passion and dispassion, stalkers who took women in the night and killed after having their way with them, drunks who killed beggars for sport, lords who killed husbands to take their wives to bed. High and low born, women, children, beggars, cripples, Red Hood had avenged them all. They didn't even need to pray, he didn't want power, he just wanted justice.

Back and back in time, death after death of righteous kills, in Gotham and Blüdhaven and Bristol and even the city across the bay. Back and back, decades, centuries, until...

The man that was the Red Hood, the garb of a soldier cut away from his back. He's been shoved to his knees on a stone floor at the top of a watch tower overlooking the Gotham of long ago. Bloody stripes rent his skin, proof he'd been whipped to within an inch of his life, oozing red from every part of his body, eyes swollen shut, lip cracked, ribs broken as air wheezed from battered lungs.

He coughed, an aching haggard sound and spit on the ground in defiance. He teetered on his knees, swaying with weakness but refused to fall. “You'll pay...” he said to someone Tim couldn't see. “You shit-eating fuckers won't...won't get away...with this, you sons of—”

A boot kicked him in the face and Red Hood's head hit the stone with a crack. “Shut the hell up!” spat a faceless soldier, entering Tim's sight.

Red Hood coughed again and tried to pry himself from the ground with his hands bound behind him, only really managing to roll over enough to face the sky. “You idiots can't do this...don't do this...please...”

“We need the supplies, Captain. With or without you, we're raiding that town,” came a different, more sympathetic voice.

Someone spat on the ground and growled, “He's not our Captain anymore. Just peasant-loving swine with no backbone.”

Red Hood snarled. “They're your peasants, your people. Your own...fucking people. You're going to raid your own fucking people...you godless bastards,” Hood accused tiredly, struggling to breath.

“If they'd just give us what they had, it wouldn't have come to this!” someone countered angrily.

Red Hood laughed bitterly, blood dripping down from his mouth. “They're already starving worse than us. What, exactly, do you think they have to give?”

“Don't know, but we're going to find out,” someone threatened.

Red Hood's biting cackle turned into a ragged cough and he said, “So you're going to slaughter a town, rape the women, take everything not nailed down and leave the children to starve to death, all for a few dried up turnips and wheat worse than we've got? You stupid fucks...”

Someone bent to kick him in the gut and Red Hood's body bowed at the blow and forced a moan. “Of course you'd side with them, you low born trash!” another man spat, “You deserve every stripe on your back, you damn traitor. We're your soldiers, but you were just going to let us starve!”

Red Hood managed to bite out, “No solider of mine...would attack their own.”

“Fuck you, Iason!” one soldier seethed. “Those peasants of yours need to be taught a lesson. We're the ones protecting them from invaders and things in the dark. They owe us everything. They draw breath at our mercy!”

Iason coughed again, weakly. “Mercy...what mercy have you ever shown to a peasant?”

“Your life is a mercy. We're raiding that town come sun up. If you live until then, maybe we'll throw you the scraps after the hounds have had their fill.” The soldier turned to another and commanded, “Toss him in a dungeon to die!”

And they did, into a frigid hovel lit by a single torch set into the wall, just beyond a gate of steel bars. A lazy watchman's attention devolved into snores almost immediately, having drank his fill of the caskets of wine Iason had been carefully rationing through the winter until more supplies would come with the spring harvests.

High above them, in the barracks and dining hall, his so-called men were stuffing themselves with their meager stores, turning all of his struggles to keep them alive through the desperate season to nothing. He'd grown up poor, a peasant just as they'd accused him, worse, he'd been gutter trash and he knew hunger, famine and disease like an old friend. They didn't know true starvation, the gut-eating ache that stole one's strength as the body began to cannibalize itself, dying by measures one day at a time. These were hard times, maybe even hopeless times, but Iason had done his best to save everyone he could, to keep his people and the town both healthy enough to make it through. But with this mutiny his soldiers were all doomed, along with the small town of Gotham.

He couldn't let this happen.

So while his guard dozed like a stone, Iason knocked the torch from the wall and into the deep rushes, and the tower burned. It burned to the ground, with himself and his soldiers in it. His people had dug their graves with their own hands and they would lie in them, but the town at least would be saved.

Tim gasped back to consciousness, shaking from the pain and emotion of his visions.

Beneath him, Nightwing's muscles were quivering with the strain of holding the being down, though the spirit was now lying boneless and sucking in air as raggedly as the human man in Tim's vision.

“He watches from the ruins where the battle tower stood,” Tim rhymed with sudden comprehension. “That's where you died. You torched the tower to save the town from your own men.”

Tim cupped the red cap's face in his hands, saw his blood-smeared eyelids fall closed at the gentle touch, his panting evening out, as Nightwing finally relaxed his hold on the spirit. “And then what happened? In death you must have been claimed by a god. Who?”

Red Hood drew in a few more breaths, his eyelids rising again to stare into Tim with silver-grey irises. “Koriand'r,” he answered and Tim blinked in surprise.

“The Starfire,” Nightwing added with his own surprise, sitting up with aching slowness, Red Hood's head resting in his lap. “She's a goddess of dawn, along with her sister Komand'r, a goddess of dusk. Neither are known to make claims on humans. It would explain the fire, though. We've got a rare one here, Tim. She was impressed by the ridiculously heroic death, I'm guessing?”

Red Hood snorted. “Fuck you,” he snapped at Nightwing, but it sounded tired more than anything and lacked the crazed quality of his previous speech.

As Tim observed him, Red Hood seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness. It was a sign that Tim needed to perform the binding as a familiar, or the being's essence would dissipate into nothing, the corruption that had eaten away at the sinews of his spirit no longer there to hold him together.

“Koriand'r is a powerful goddess. Is she going to strike me down if I try to seal him?” Tim worried aloud, watching Red Hood for further signs of deterioration. “She's not my god, and she might think she's powerful enough to take a crack at me even though I'm a servant of Bruce.”

Nightwing responded with a loose shrug, hand clasped tight over the wound on his side. “She's vengeful. More vengeful than Bruce, but she's also benevolent. You're just trying to help her servant and binding him is the only way. She should understand, I think.”

It wasn't the 'she definitely won't smite you, Tim', he was hoping to hear, in all honesty. “An 'I think' isn't very encouraging, Nightwing.”

Nightwing made an annoyed face and muttered a grumpy, “We're not exactly on speaking terms at the moment, Tim. I don't know for sure what she would think about this.”

Tim figured Nightwing's irritation was from the pain of his injuries, but he stared at his familiar because he hadn't realized the sylph had ever been on speaking terms with a goddess, much less one as high tier as Koriand'r. It just went to show that as friendly as Nightwing seemed to be, he by no means divulged everything about himself to Tim.

“Well, I guess I'm taking my chances, then,” Tim acknowledged reluctantly, then moved to slide off of the former red cap's chest and gather the things he needed from his satchel, nearly tripping over himself in the darkness.

Red Hood caught the edge of his robe as he tried to walk away and croaked a desperate, “No...”

Tim took the larger hand in his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It's alright, I won't go far. I need to bind your spirit as a familiar.”

This time Red Hood's brows furrowed and his, “No,” was stronger, suggesting he wasn't happy with being bound. Tim didn't exactly blame him, but he wasn't doing it to get himself another powerful familiar, it was to save the spirit's life.

“I have to, or your power will drift apart into nothing. You'll die,” Tim explained.

The expression on Red Hood's face was an almost heartbreaking resignation as he said, “S'fine. I've...died before, I've lived...long enough...”

Nightwing's lower lips quivered and his mouth set into a stubborn line as he frowned down at Red Hood who was trying to convince Tim to let him dissipate into nothing. “No way!” Nightwing declared, brows furrowed as he pinned Hood with his brilliant azure stare. “No heroic deaths on my watch. Not you, not Tim, not anybody. The Nightwing won't allow it!”

Red Hood's gaze climbed up to Nightwing, eying him with something like confusion. “Fucking faerie prick...” he grumbled, but even as he protested, he lost strength in the hand holding Tim's robe and it fell limply to the ground, nearly transparent. Red Hood's silver eyes rolled up into his head and he fell deeper against Nightwing, still as a corpse.

“Quickly, Tim! The binding,” Nightwing pressed urgently, and began to strip Red Hood from his armor, tugging at leather straps to avoid the cold iron plates, guards and links of his cuirass.

By the time Tim hurried back to his side with his paraphernalia, Nightwing had Red Hood nearly naked and Tim tried not to blush at the well-formed body spread out before him even as he thought he could see what the goddess Koriand'r might have been interested in from the human Red Hood, aside from suicidal hero tendencies. If it weren't for the pattern of scars across his arms, his chest, his back from nine-tailed whips, his body would have been a perfect specimen of masculine beauty.

Nightwing grinned at him as Tim smeared sacred ash across the Red Cap's blood-stained brow, then his heart, hands and skin below his navel and above his manhood, and began to strip himself to do the same. “So lucky, Tim. One might think you're collecting attractive familiars on purpose.”

Tim rolled his eyes and refused to comment. He traced again over the bat on his forehead to help the binding stick with some extra power and rubbed a spot of ash over his heart, then his palms over the dried blood from his athame cuts, and finally above his groin.

Tim breathed out nervously, shaking out his limbs. “Alright, hopefully this works.”

“It'll work,” Nightwing said, and the assured tone of his voice was a comfort right up until he added, “Then afterward, maybe I can have a taste.”

Tim tossed Nightwing a half-lidded glare. “Of me or the Red Hood?” he asked, curious despite himself.

Nightwing smiled lustily. “Mm, both?”

All Tim could do was sigh. “Are you sure you're not a fertility spirit?” he deadpanned.

“I'm not, but sometimes I think it would be fun,” Nightwing confessed, giving the quip way more thought than it deserved.

“Well, don't get too involved,” Tim warned as he settled himself on the Red Hood's lap, the rest of the spirit's torso propped against Nightwing. “It could mess up the binding.”

“I'll try to keep my hands to myself,” Nightwing said, which was probably the best Tim was going to get.

Tim took the Red Hood's hands in his own, the pads rough, scarred and bearing weeping cuts from his own blade, their size enough to swallow Tim's whole. He pressed them together ash smear to ash smear, pushing power into the spirit, using his own mind and body to fill the parts that had been eaten away by corruption. Red Hood stirred beneath him and cracked his eyes open.

“You don't...have to do this...for someone like me,” he managed to say.

Nightwing's blue-stained pigmented fingers moved to the Red Hood's bare shoulders, bright against his pale skin, keeping him upright as Tim pressed his chest against Red Hood's much broader one, his face reddening involuntarily as he hitched his hips with a gasp and a coil of arousal to do the same with the spots of ash above their groins.

“You're a spirit of protection,” Tim said, feeling his own chest rise and fall against Red Hood's, their hearts beginning to beat in time as he forced energy into the spirit. “You looked after Gotham's people when no one else would. You're exactly the kind of spirit—exactly the kind of person—I want to do this for,” then Tim let his eyelids fall closed and pressed their foreheads together, dropping his lips into a full-mouthed kiss.

Tim flooded the spirit with all the power he could to fill in the gaps, tugging, synching, sowing and binding the delicate fibers of the Red Hood's being. The chest against Tim heaved like a man possessed and Hood's blood-, ash- and soot-smeared hands tugged against Tim's fingers, but he laced them tight and refused to let go. He followed the pattern laid out at the Red Hood's creation, returning him to something as like his original, pre-corrupted state as Tim could manage, though marks would still remain if one looked deeply enough.

As Tim poured strength into Red Hood and knit him back together he felt a rough thumb along his bare hip, sending a shiver through his naked body. It triggered a sigh from Tim as his brain fogged with desire and he dipped a tongue into the Red Hood's hot mouth, tasting fire and cinders and all the things that went along with them, from warmth and safety to wild destruction.

Red Hood's tongue slid against his own in a heated tangle, their lips meeting and breaking apart, each time passionate force fading into gentleness only to repeat, and Tim could read everything he needed to know about the man from those kisses.

Lost in his work on Red Hood's spirit and the being's thorough attention to Tim's mouth, he barely noticed the spirit's thickly muscled legs fidgeted beneath him. Suddenly something soft, heavy and rapidly expanding was pressed up against Tim's member, and his body instinctively ground his hips against it, the friction drawing all Tim's blood to his cock.

Tim heard an obscene moan loud in his ears and smothered embarrassment when he belatedly realized it came from his own throat. Oops. It wasn't as though Tim was doing this for his own pleasure, but he couldn't help feeling guilty that he was enjoying it as much as he clearly was. It was a good thing he'd nearly finished flooding and stitching Red Hood's spirit because Tim had a feeling he wasn't going to be able to keep a clear enough head to maintain this point-to-point position for long. At some point soon he was going to be desperate to move.

From somewhere Tim heard Nightwing give a frustrated whine and say, “It's really unfair that I can't get involved in this.”

Red Hood's lips broke away from Tim's own just as the druid had finished his work. Tim heard himself whimper as that luscious tongue and the delicious things it was doing to him pulled away and Red Hood growled deep in his chest, a sound more animal than human.

“Do you really need to be here?” Red Hood snarled at Nightwing.

“I'm Tim's familiar. I'm protecting him,” the sylph responded with a huff.

Red Hood scoffed. “From what, a hangnail? Fuck off, fairy-boy, I'm not going to hurt him,” he argued, before his voice dipped a truly sinful octave and he finished with, “At least not until he begs me to...”

“Right, because a declaration like that really fills me with confidence,” Nightwing snarked, but he refrained from interrupting again.

Tim's vision drifted back into the normal plain and he was able to admire Red Hood through fluttering lashes, the strong line of jaw, the way his eyes flared like molten silver, those lips that had so easily taken Tim apart. The man's eye lids lowered in a smoldering look as he planted a wet, swirl of his tongue on Tim's jaw, then over the artery in his neck, and dipping to lap at the crook of his shoulder, tongue laving across Tim's collar bone and over the black, puckered mess where Red Hood had burned an imprint of his hand into Tim's skin.

Tim flinched, eyes widening in anticipation of pain, but as Red Hood's tongue trailed over his burns, the nerves pulsed with a knifing ache, only to dull into something soft and itchy. Melting into the comfort of Red Hood's talented mouth salving over his shoulder, Tim looked down curiously to find silvery scar tissue where he expected to see fresh, angry burns. His eyes widened with wonder at the sight.

“That's...a good skill,” Tim said, breath hitching as Red Hood jerked their hips together with a grunt, every inch of his hardened shaft rubbing sinfully against Tim's aching cock.

“What, this?” Red Hood said with a teasing tilt of his lips as he rocked his hips, an arm moving to wrap around Tim's waist and press them tighter together, trapping their erections between their bodies and proving that he was a significantly larger man than Tim in every way.

Tim blushed. “No! I meant...the healing.”

Hood's mouth fell into a more serious line and he stared into Tim with his silver eyes as he made a troubled sound in his throat. “Only burns and wounds. Nothing...internal.”

“So no poisons or illnesses,” Tim confirmed, fascinated.

“Right,” Red Hood said, and Tim gasped as he was shoved to the ground, suddenly looking up at the stars as Red Hood climbed over him.

Tim's pulse raced as he watched Red Hood run his large hands across Tim's torso, tracing every muscle and sinew with delicate care, eyes blazing with lust as he drank in the sight of his druid naked beneath him. Tim dragged his eyes over Red Hood in turn, his mouth watering at the waves of muscle under the man's skin, those massive thighs and the swollen erection bobbing between his legs, reaching for the flat, tight stomach. And just as Tim's cheeks began to darken with embarrassment at the long examination, Red Hood struck, biting a halo of teeth marks around Tim's nipple, and he yelped in surprise, arching up from the tiny prick of pain as the spirit gave a throaty chuckle.

Tim raised a hand to hide his face with embarrassment. “You might have started off human but you're every bit as mischievous as anything that's ever come from Under Hill, aren't you?” he chided Hood.

Red Hood licked over Tim's stiff nipple and fading marks there, dragging across the nub in small circles as the druid's breath hitched and he squirmed beneath the spirit, the arousal going straight to his groin until he was moaning like a whore. Red Hood smoothed his palm down Tim's side to squeeze his thigh. “I like to think that anything a creep like Windy here can do, I can do better,” Hood boasted.

“Hey!” Nightwing protested from somewhere. Tim wasn't really paying attention.

Red Hood ignored him too. “So how does this work, master? How do you make all of this binding stick?”

Tim's brain was completely broken already and no use at all for anything but fucking at the moment, but he somehow managed to get out between pants, “Virtuous circle...I just put my power...into you, now you put...your power into me.”

Red Hood looked somewhat nervous as he confessed, “I've never really shared power before, I'm not exactly the social type.”

“Nothing to it. Put that big cock of yours to work and make sure he has a good time,” was Nightwing's crude explanation as Tim groaned.

Though he silently agreed that yes, it really was quite big.

Red Hood's wide mouth spread into a devastating leer, eying Tim up and down hungrily. “Oh good, that's what I wanted to hear.”

Red Hood moved down Tim's body wearing a predatory smile that made Tim faintly nervous—some beings from Under Hill really were man-eaters and cannibals, and how human they looked wasn't necessarily an indicator of their diets. And there might have been something to that as Hood pulled Tim's legs apart with tantalizing slowness, breathing deep as if he could smell Tim's burning desire like a pheromone. Tim watched with anticipation as Red Hood kissed along the inside of his shaking thigh, sucking and licking and nibbling until Tim was writhing in his hands, hips thrusting into the air in desperation, cock beginning to leak in earnest.

“You're a tease. A horrible tease,” Tim accused the phantom, as Red Hood's mouth skipped over his erection completely with an amused chuckle, his hands moving to cup the mounds of Tim's ass and haul him closer with a jerk of supernatural strength that made Tim cry out.

Suddenly Tim's lower body was hauled into the air and he made a sound of triumph as Hood's lips dipped between his legs, lined up with his straining, needy cock. When his lips mouthed at Tim's balls, sending stabs of pleasure and an urgent heat swirling around his groin, his hips gave another involuntary jerk and he whined at the sight of his hardness still being ignored. He was starting to feel truly desperate, so he shoved his fingers down, kneading them into Red Hood's hair and yanked, urging him to get on with it, but Hood just chuckled again, the vibration further stirring up Tim's arousal.

A moan ripped through Tim's mouth at a particularly hard squeeze of his balls along Hood's tongue and he heard himself begging, “Damn it, Hood, touch me! Please, just touch me. Hood, please!”

But he still wouldn't touch him, and when Tim's hands strayed to his own erection, Hood just smacked them away, dragging his teeth over the soft, thin skin of his balls like a warning.

Hood's hands splayed along the globes of Tim's ass, squeezing the meat tight to spread his cheeks, long fingers gently probing his hole, pre-stretched and oiled in expectation of the ritual. Tim's abs strained to accommodate the position he was being forced into, staring up at the length of his body, his cock swinging as he groaned and tried to rut upwards, even as Hood was rolling his testicles in his mouth and circling his rim with his fingers. Tim's cock throbbed, greedy for friction, every part of his body sensitized and ready from attention that just wouldn't come.

Red Hood smirked down at him and lightly brushed along Tim's erection with his nose and slick lips as Tim panted at the sight in desperation, now shouting, “Yes! Please, touch me, suck me!”

And then Tim almost broke into tears when Red Hood grinned and licked hot and wet around the very base of his cock, dusted with dark hair and refused to go any higher.

At Tim's heartbroken cry, he distantly heard Nightwing chuckle and say, “You're a sadist, Red Hood.”

“You want me to suck you, Druid?” Red Hood asked with half-lidded eyes and a cocky smirk.

“Yes! Please,” Tim pleaded, his hips fighting against the being's hold with no hope of breaking the tight grip on Tim's ass. His cock wept precum, sliding down the vein to pool on his balls, and Tim couldn’t remember ever being this hard in his life, he thought his manhood might burst before he could even be stroked to orgasm.

Then Red Hood grinned and before Tim could get suspicious he was keening as two fingers thrust deep inside of his entrance, brushing over something that sent sparks through Tim's body. At the same time, Red Hood's lips circled his tip, pulling off it with a pop before sucking him all the way into his mouth, gliding smoothly down his throat all the way to the hilt in one motion.

Tim had to bite his tongue against calling out for any gods in his pleasure because one showing up was about the last thing he wanted at the moment. All he needed was Hood's sweltering mouth to keep swallowing him down to his balls and those fingers to keep thrusting as deep as they could, swirling and scissoring wider and wider, closer to fullness.

But just as he felt his muscles begin to tighten, his pleasure building to a peak, Tim's eyelids fluttered at the fingers' removal and the cold night breeze against his wet, aching cock.

“No!” he cried, as he felt his legs being manhandled until they were resting on Hood's shoulders.

“What? Change your mind? Not gonna seal me? Not gonna make me yours?” Hood asked with a husky lust-clouded voice, lightly pressing the blunt head of his engorged member between the cheeks of Tim's ass, small thrusts grazing the tip over his hole and nearly catching on the rim with delicious friction.

“Put it in,” Tim pleaded through breathless pants, “Become mine, let me save you.”

“You already saved me, this is just a bonus,” Hood said and thrust with a deep grunt, forcing Tim wide open, pushing inch by inch, deeper and deeper until Tim was completely filled, his walls straining to contain the intrusion he was stretched so wonderfully full. The druid violently threw his head back with a strained cry of euphoric pleasure and nearly brained himself on the ground.

“Never thought I would feel this again,” Hood said, voice strained and almost pained with strong emotion. He swirled his hips experimentally, Tim making noises between pain and pleasure at the additional stretch from the movements before Red Hood picked up his pace and beginning thrusting in earnest, Tim feeling every ridge and vein as it forced him open, sliding against his walls until Red Hood bottomed out inside him, heavy balls slapping against his cheeks faster, then faster still.

“Ngh. You f-feel so fucking good,” he told Tim.

“Ah, n-no! You feel s-so fucking good,” Tim tried to argue back stupidly, and Hood laughed that devilish cackle and thrust hard enough to have Tim seeing stars. His breath was coming so fast Tim feared he might be running out of air and he'd already gone past where he thought his peak was, the pleasure building to heights almost unbearable.

“Hood, I'm coming! I coming!” Tim cried out as his balls tightened against his body and his abs clenched as he thrust up into Hood's navel, stripes of cum painting his broad, perfectly muscled chest.

And now Tim panted trying to catch his breath, watching in a daze as Hood kept rutting inside him, sweat on his blood-stained brow, abdominals working under the tight skin in beautiful movements with each thrust inside of him. With every jerk Red Hood's determined frown broke down into something more urgent and almost tearful and his thrusts became erratic, noises escaping his throat with each breath and snap of his hips.

Tim's whole body was being rocked harder and faster, his insides twitching with over-sensitization as Hood stoked himself to completion and finally threw his head back, finishing with a powerful surge, splashing Tim's insides with cum. The release of power shot through Tim's blood like liquid-hot metal in his veins. A kaleidoscope of colors and light flooded his vision as his eyes rolled up and his whole body sang with energy that he struggled to guide where it was needed, even as his body threatened to overflow with it.

After a few tense moments Tim finally managed to coil everything he'd been given into a string to make the last stitches on Red Hood's spirit and complete the ritual. Red Hood's body and power hummed with a new healthy stability, the amount of magic they'd raised enough and more to seal his form and cement a binding.

“I gotta say,” Red Hood croaked with a dry, still panting throat, where he lay collapsed next to Tim, looking up at the moon. “Sex with a druid might be just as good as sex with a god.”

“You've had sex with a god?” Tim asked with a jerk of surprise, at the same time as he heard Nightwing burst into laughter and warn him, “I'm pretty sure that comparison is blasphemous.”

Hood ignored Tim and snorted at Nightwing, like pissing off gods was something he couldn’t give two shits about. Tim hoped no gods were listening, you never knew what one might take offense to, though he was almost certain that his own wouldn't care. Luckily while Bruce was humorless even for a god, he was also slow to anger and known for his mercy.

Red Hood glanced over at Tim, where he lay boneless, physically and spiritually exhausted on the ground, still naked with Hood's seed leaking from between his legs. It wasn't exactly comfortable but he couldn’t find the effort to do anything about it just yet.

“What happens now?” Red Hood asked after a strange few seconds of staring at Tim's face with frightening intensity, as if memorizing every detail of his visage in this moment.

“Now,” Tim began, still feeling deprived of oxygen, soreness already creeping into his muscles. “Now, you two help me home, and later I'll set up a shrine for you along the main road, across from Nightwing's.”

Hood furrowed his brows in confusion. “A shrine? Why?”

Nightwing moved from wherever he'd been to sit stiffly on the ground nearer by, a blue-fingered hand over his lower torso where he'd been cut by Red Hood's dagger. Seeing the sylph, Tim felt rather guilty to be lying down, so very tired and yet with a lovely looseness to his muscles. Nightwing was still wounded with a shallow graze in his thigh and a much deeper one at his waist. His hands and other areas of exposed skin were an angry red from cold iron burns. Hopefully he could maintain his human manifestation long enough for Tim to treat his wounds when they got back to his house.

“You're a protective spirit of Gotham,” the sylph explained, releasing a slight grunt of effort as he tried to find a way to sit that didn't hurt. “You deserve the respect of a shrine, and people need to know where to go to petition you, don't they?”

There was a look of loneliness and longing in Red Hood's expression. “I've never had a shrine. Long ago, people would lay things at the tower, sometimes talk to me, but no one has done that in a long, long time.”

Tim smiled. “Then I'd say it's about time, don't you think?”

- - -

There were still a few hours of daylight left when Tim made his way to the road lined with shrines to the local spirits and divinities two days later. He wasn't much of an artist or craftsman, but his skills were such that what he cobbled together by hefting stones into place to make a small table, laying out a bronze dish for incense and a thorny wreath red with fire berries sacred to Koriand'r, as well as a few bee's wax candles—prayers and rituals with lit candles were something beings of fire adored, in his experience—wasn't outright heinous until he could commission something better from in town.

Tim was just propping up a wooden plaque that he'd carved Red Hood's name into the night before, to mark who the shrine was dedicated to, when Gordon came up the road and stood behind him, examining his work.

“So it's done then?” he asked. “It really was something like the banshee—a tainted god.”

“Not a god, exactly, but definitely something good that had been lead astray,” Tim explained, standing up to examine his work of the afternoon. “Red Hood is something like a draugr, one of the noble dead. Particularly he's a rekinn blóði, a judge and avenger of wrongs. He's also empowered by the goddess Koriand'r and has a fire nature. As far as local gods go, you can't get any stronger.”

Gordon frowned as he read the plaque Tim had anchored with stones to keep it upright and in place against the alter. “Red Hood? Like the rhyme?”

“You know the rhyme?” Tim asked, surprised. He'd been under the impression Red Hood's cult had all but died out. If it hadn't then the spirit wouldn't have been so susceptible to the corruption.

“I heard it from my grandmother as a child,” Jim recounted, staring at the humble shrine thoughtfully. “It used to be well known but even in her time it was mostly forgotten. He sleeps atop the ruins where the battle tower stood/ He smells of blood and fire, his steps are black with soot./ And when a sinful man goes unpunished as he should/ He meets a bitter, bloody end by the hands of the Red Hood.”

Tim listened, fascinated. “The version I heard was slightly different, but basically the same.”

Gordon was looking at Tim suspiciously. “Where did you hear it? You're way too young to know it, I thought that saying had died out a generation ago.”

Tim smirked. “A little bird told me.” It was even true, though the bird was by no means little.

Gordon sighed. “I guess you druids do have to keep up the air of mystery,” he said, resigned. “But I guess if this is the same thing that's been prowling around killing people, it makes a bit of sense.”

“Oh? Did you find something out about the murders?” Tim asked. He'd suspected that Red Hood's targets hadn't just been arbitrary kills, despite how tainted he was with corruption. Nightwing had all but confirmed that a sin unpunished must have woken the being up from his torpor, and when Tim had swallowed down the blackness, cleansing the spirit, he'd never seen a kill that hadn't been inspired by some terrible deed—even in his madness, Red Hood had never taken an innocent life.

With a solemn nod, Gordon explained, “Yesterday morning, before you sent word that all was well again, one of the village boys turned himself in. As it turns out, all the lads killed had been a part of a group that raped a young widow—only a widow in the sense that she had a daughter and no husband—and left her for dead on the outskirts of the village. They'd worn sacks over their heads so the lady couldn't identify them and figured no one would listen to her anyway. But this Red Hood had slaughtered four of them and this young man was the only one left, terrified it was coming for him too. It probably was.”

“Probably,” Tim agreed.

“So now that it's purified it's not going to kill anymore, is it?” Gordon asked, like he didn't quite dare to be hopeful.

Tim considered this question. He might have cleansed the corruption from Red Hood, but it's nature had been one unaverse to killing from the start and that hadn't changed.

“Well, it's still capable, but all the local spirits are under Bruce's authority and he doesn't condone that kind of behavior towards mortals, even guilty ones, so dramatic attacks like striking people down in the night isn't going to happen anymore,” he answered. “But on the other hand, evil-doers conveniently tripping into wells and drowning isn't out of the question.”

Gordon snorted bitterly. “That should keep the troublemakers on their toes. It could cause some hysteria if coincidences happen to people and everyone claims Red Hood's punishing them for some secret sin, though.”

Unfortunately Tim knew enough about human nature to agree with Gordon's assessment. If Red Hood became a local name, then everyone was like to claim any tragedy was divine punishment and use it as a reason to ostracize or harass others whether they deserved it or not. On the other hand, people already did that, claiming whatever god they could justify was behind the act, so it wasn't all that different.

“I can commune with him directly now, the same as with Nightwing. If there are coincidences like that I can find out for sure if they're his doing or not,” Tim suggested as a solution.

It was better than he could do with the higher gods, at least—none of them would deign to explain themselves to a mere druid, except perhaps his own master, though Bruce wasn't much into subtle punishments to begin with, so Tim didn't have to bother asking to know what he was up to. If Bruce wanted to teach you a lesson, you would damn well know it.

Gordon didn't seem impressed, though. “That might quell some of the bad feelings, but not all of them. People will believe what suits their agendas.”

“I'm a druid, I deal with the spiritual,” Tim shrugged, “the rest I have to leave to you and Leslie.” In other words, not his problem.

Gordon was silent, like he wasn't happy about that fact, but he was a capable man and Tim knew he'd figure something out if it came down to it. Who even knew if it would become a real issue? Red Hood's name had already all but disappeared from the island once before this, maybe his cult wouldn't catch on again even now that he had a shrine. Tim said as much to Gordon.

But Gordon shook his head. “I can't say I like his methods, but I suppose it's nice to see a spirit actually doing something real. And spirits willing to claim grass widows and other low people aren't so common. Red Hood ought to be popular after this.”

Tim smiled wryly, a flare of pride growing at the idea that Red Hood's kind heart might be acknowledged by the people. “You think so?”

“I do,” Gordon nodded. “The woman those boys attacked already asked me if this thing had a shrine she could pray to.”

“He used to take offerings at the tower ruins, and probably still would, but this shrine I've set up is much closer and safer,” Tim said. “Wouldn't want anyone getting hurt trying to climb all the way up there, with wolves and bandits and who knows what else. And the building is ancient and crumbling, it's barely more than a wall or two and stone foundation, if I remember rightly.”

“I'll make sure to direct her here, then,” Gordon said, then placed a grateful hand on Tim's shoulder before he turned to leave. “Good work druid, hopefully things will be peaceful for a while. I'll see you soon, but hopefully not too soon.”

“Hopefully not,” Tim said with a smile and a bow of his head in respect. “Have a good evening.”

“And you,” the sheriff said, and made his exit.

Gordon had already disappeared down the road when Tim sensed a now familiar warm presence at his shoulder and turned to see the Red Hood, fully manifest in dark metal armor and a shroud of black clothing, but instead of the tattered and bleeding red cap, a new cloak of bright crimson shadowed his face and lay across his shoulders, and the dark blood that had dried on his brow was cleaned away from his silver-gray eyes.

“So this is it, huh?” Red Hood asked, looking down at the small shrine.

Tim gulped, not used to seeing spirits powerful enough to appear full-bodied out of nowhere, or bold enough to do so even if they were. Nightwing was another such being from Under Hill that was powerful enough to manifest at will and Tim was used to seeing him do so, but usually in his massive pale owl form sitting statue-still, eyes glimmering in the dark, just watching—which was possibly even creepier, to be honest.

“Sorry it isn't much yet,” Tim apologized, unsure what Red Hood was thinking as he examined his shrine, if he approved of it or not. “I need to visit a wood-worker for a real icon. I think I'm good enough with a chisel to smooth out the alter on my own. I still have to make your totem too, but that's for me, not the shrine.”

“It's fine,” he said, not quite able to sound dismissive. Despite his carefully blank expression, clearly he was moved by seeing the crude thing Tim had set up before him. “Better than anything I ever had before, anyway.”

Tim smiled knowingly, watching Hood's face as he noted the wreath of fire berries with a nod of acknowledgment before his gaze settled on the presence of the candles. True, it wasn't practical to keep something as intensive to manufacture as candles as a permanent fixture of a shrine, but as an occasional sacrifice Tim was happy to donate from his personal stores, and maybe others might as well, eventually.

“You like the candles?” Tim asked, already seeing how much they pleased him in the spirit's glittering eyes and the hum of interest he'd made upon noticing them.

Red Hood's eyes narrowed suspiciously as if he suspected all this generosity to be a trick, but eventually admitted, “I do. Why bee's wax? Tallow is more economical.”

Tim smiled. What other spirit would worry about the cost of his sacrifices on the petitioner? Only Red Hood. “Unlike tallow fat candles, bee's wax has healing properties, like you do,” Tim explained.

Red Hood bit his lower lip, a barely suppressed, helpless sort of look coming over his face as he turned away from Tim. “I don't...I can't...” he stammered, a strain in his voice as if the spirit was close to panic.

He wasn't sure what his familiar was trying to say, or why he was so afraid, but somehow Tim could just sense what he meant: Please, don't rely on me. I'll let you down. Tim had to remind himself that this was all new to him, people knowing what he'd done for them, what he could do. Before the spirit had lived a dark, lonely life as an avatar of revenge, hunting down sin like a wolf, never able to prevent tragedy, only reacting after the fact. No one had ever asked him for more, and he'd never asked it of himself.

But now Tim was asking, and Red Hood was terrified that he wouldn't measure up.

“Just because you've only ever been known for killing doesn't mean it's all you are, or all you can do,” Tim spoke gently, laying a hand that he hoped was comforting on the Red Hood's shoulder. “You healed me. And you knew those men were guilty of raping that woman. Was that because you were watching or did you just read it in them?”

“I wasn't watching, I was...sleeping,” the spirit said, and Tim nodded his understanding of that dormant state that a spirit could retreat to, especially if it was weak or otherwise living under difficult conditions. “So I tracked them down after, listening for the cruelty in their hearts.”

That explained why Red Hood had been stalking such a wide area, Tim realized. He hadn't been searching for a victim but the right victims.

“So you have revelatory abilities,” Tim declared, seeing all the possibilities to help his people that his new familiar afforded him. “And I already knew you were far-seeing, from your protector aspect. And you can be an advocate to both your god, Koriand'r and mine, Bruce.” With a wry smile and a look of wonder, Tim told the spirit, “As local deities go, you're actually pretty amazing, Red Hood.”

But Red Hood was staring at his leather gloved hands, cold metal guards sowed into their backs, as if they were instruments of betrayal he wished he could just hack off.

“I can't feed people who are hungry,” Hood argued in a haunted voice, clenching his palms into tight fists. “I can't heal people who are sick. I can't...do anything really. Nothing worthwhile.”

“No one can do everything, not even the gods,” Tim reminded him. “We just do the best we can. The fact that you love humans so much is already more than most anyone, mortal or non-mortal, tends to bother with.”

Even as Tim was speaking, Red Hood was shaking his head, Tim's message not getting through. He was a stubborn one, was Red Hood, a martyr through and through, trying to take all the world's hurts on his shoulders no matter the cost to himself. Tim didn't know him well, hadn't known the original man Iason, nor had he visited the spirit, comfortless and alone in the ruins of his home and his grave in those long, lonely years between then and now as the corruption preyed on his mind. Maybe Tim didn't have any right to feel anything for Red Hood, but how could he not when he saw the being ache for hands that could take away the suffering of the world?

Tim's hand left Red Hood's shoulder, moving to stand in front of him and grasp the spirit's gloved hands into his own, raising them to Tim's chest, pressing over his heart.

“You do your share, Red Hood,” Tim told him, trying to force every bit of certainty he could muster into those words, every power and authority at his disposal into the light squeeze of Red Hood's palms. “Let me, Nightwing and the people of the village do the rest.”

Red Hood stared at Tim, his silver eyes boring into his soul, no doubt seeing all the darkness there and hopefully something light and good too, because how could you have any hope in humanity if all you could sense were it's transgressions? The moment seemed to last forever until at last Red Hood dropped his gaze and nodded, carefully retrieving his hands from Tim's breast and stepping back.

“I suppose I'll be seeing you around then, Tim,” he said, an infinitesimal shake to his voice despite an attempt at a jaunty tone. “The windbag too, I guess.”

Tim smiled. “I'll be here. Nightwing too.”

“Yeah, I've already seen that bastard around,” Hood grumbled. “He's a robin in the daylight, you know.”

Tim blinked with genuine surprise. “Really? I didn't know that.” He'd only ever called the sylph at night. Tim had just assumed the spirit had only the one form.

Red Hood smirked, something like wicked satisfaction in the upward quirk of his lips as he revealed Nightwing's secret. “Figured as much. Serves him right for spying on me all the time. The guy is a damn voyeur, you know. It's only been a day and I'm tired of him following me around. You'd think he'd have better things to do, being Mister Number-Two-God-of-Gotham.”

Tim shrugged, wearing an amused grin. “He's interested in you. He said as much before.”

Red Hood frowned, shifting on his feet uncomfortably as he asked with halting stiffness, “You...don't think he was serious about...wanting me, do you?”

Tim just raised his eyebrows and Red Hood ground his teeth, his cheeks blooming dark with blush.

Oh no, Tim realized after a beat, the Red Hood was shy. It was too adorable. Tim had to bite the inside of his cheek not to giggle. One did not laugh at powerful spirits, even if that spirit was your familiar who was embarrassed by the sexual overtures of your other familiar.

As Tim was savoring the image of big bad Red Hood blushing at the idea of Nightwing lusting after him, his spirit's tone dropped back to serious.

“Tim,” he said, eyes nearly glowing in the shadow of his red cloak, drawn low over his brows. “Call me if you need me. I'll come. I'll come even without your fancy totems and incense.”

Tim nodded. “I will,” he promised.

“Good.” Red Hood said and disappeared into thin air, his spiritual pressure receding as he drifted Under Hill.

- - -

The next day, the final participant in the rape of Aislyn Mayhew was found guilty by a council of elders, including Sheriff Gordon and Leslie Thompkins, the wise woman. He, as well as the other men who'd already died at the hands of the Red Hood, payed the woman they'd raped a compensation that couldn't give her back security but would at least help her cloth and feed herself and her child for the time it took her to recover from the injuries sustained in the attack.

The surviving attacker's family was able to argue the council out of further punishment, despite strong disapproval by the sheriff and others, but on his first day back at work, changing the threshes on someone's roof, the man took a fall and broke his neck. He didn't survive.

That evening Tim was brushing the leaves off the shrines along the road, changing out herbs and incense sticks and doing the general sort of upkeep he did occasionally to all the alters there, when a woman approached him, her clothing threadbare and worn but her chin raised proudly. Her arm was bound and splinted in a sling, right eye in that ugly greenish state that bruises took on when they were half-healed. Holding her free hand was a child about six years old, a little girl with bright red hair and large blue eyes.

“Druid Drake,” she said, a strength in her voice despite her wounded appearance. “Leslie Thompkins told me you knew who I should be thanking for this end to my shame.”

“You never had anything to be ashamed of,” Tim said automatically, startling the woman who was no doubt used to being told she'd flaunted herself or some other ridiculous thing to deserve being raped. It was something he'd heard all too often.

The woman squeezed her daughter's hand and said, “Then...for this end to my fear.”

Tim smiled and gestured her to follow him to Red Hood's alter.

The woman knelt awkwardly with her arm in the sling, but it was more than that, as if she never visited shrines or offered anything to a god that wasn't the expected tribute to the higher deities on feast days. She clasped her hands as best she could, her daughter mimicking her as she closed her eyes for a spell, whispering words under her breath. When she'd finished, she looked up and asked, “Tell me about him, Druid?”

Tim smiled and began the tale of a street urchin turned soldier turned savior turned spirit. Red Hood had one more devotee that day, and there would be more to come.