[Edward isn’t entirely sure when he first realized his life isn’t normal. For a long time, he doesn’t know better. The isolation, the hiding, the training, it all seemed perfectly average to him as he grew up. And whenever he questioned it all, as young children tend to do, his father would make it clear how unacceptable that was.
Soon enough, even thinking about asking questions made his skin sting and he learned it was better to stay quiet. Better to keep his mouth shut and reduce his bruises to rough training sessions, spars where he wasn’t quick enough.
He was never quick enough.
This was fine for a time. Well... not fine. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like learning to fight or learning to run or learning to climb. God, learning to climb. Fighting was awful, but climbing was a special form of torture. It had been fun, for a little while, once. He thinks it must have been, anyway, when he was too small for his father to demand too much from him. But once he grew tall enough, his own pace was no longer acceptable. He’d have to climb quicker, higher, and if he fell, well, that was just another lesson.
He remembered once, when his father was in a particularly foul mood and Edward was just a little too “mouthy”, whatever that meant, and his father ordered him to climb higher than he’d ever had, to the very top of the training tower. Except this time, he was not allowed to climb back down slowly -- he was supposed to jump. There was a pile of leaves, gathered for this very purpose, that was there to break his fall. Or so his father assured him.
Edward didn’t dare. But he was not allowed down unless he jumped.
In the end, he stayed up there long enough to watch two sunsets before he made it down. His jump had been panicked, desperate; his landing inelegant. His arm had taken months to heal. His father, enraged, took to using the top of the tower as a punishment, sending him up there whenever he was being difficult. A misguided attempt to get him used to the height, perhaps? Or maybe he’d already given up on Edward at that point.
Regardless of the intent, it instilled the fear of heights deep within him. Not that it stopped him from running his mouth; a bad habit he’d picked up in his teenage years. The pain and fear wasn’t enough to stop it anymore. If anything, it made him more brazen. His tongue was his only weapon and every time he annoyed his father was worth it. He’d hurt after training anyway. He may as well actually earn his pain.
Pain, of course, was also just another kind of training. Going beyond the sparring and the running. Sometimes, it was just because of his father’s anger; a common thing. Edward felt as if the man was always angry. Other times, however, it was part of his “special lessons”. Ones he was meant to keep quiet. This, it was explained to him, was to increase his pain tolerance. So that if anything ever happened, he would be able to push through it.
Edward had his doubts about that. Somehow, none of it ever seemed to get easier.
And that had simply been life, for so long. Once he was old enough to think for himself -- around the age when he’d started to become so combative -- he’d realized this wasn’t normal. That most people likely didn’t have to constantly run and climb and fight and learn. That this small corner was just that. A small bit of a much larger world.
Asking did nothing to satiate the curiosity building within Edward. He still did it, anyway, to engage in his own form of rebellion, but he wasn’t expecting to get any actual information. For that, he’d taken to collecting whatever scraps of information he could. He was allowed some books, but his father was very particular about which. Much more than even the other families here were. So he traded with the other kids or used his training to steal from the adults. Slowly, a picture of the outside world was being painted for him... albeit a limited one. So limited.
If he wanted to know more about it, he would have to see it for himself. Not just get by on what little tidbits of information his father deigned to allow him.
...He hadn’t planned on leaving, really. Not forever. It had been him and a couple of the other kids who’d planned it, to go out and just... see the sights for a bit. They were young and stupid. The Templars -- Abstergo -- weren’t really real to them. It was just this faceless thing that had their families freaked out, but it hadn’t ever been relevant to their lives. They didn’t get it. How could they? They hadn’t been friends, not really -- Edward couldn’t stand most of them, and he was sure the feeling was very mutual. But they’d been united, for a brief time, in their desire to go out and see... something.
Later, much later, Edward would understand exactly what kind of risk they had been taking. How that stupid outing could have gotten them and everyone else in their community killed. It only made him angrier at the unfairness of it all.
Not that the trip went anywhere. They hadn’t even gotten far into the woods before they’d been caught. The trouble they’d been in...]
“Help me understand, son.” [His father hadn’t looked at him, then. Simply stood there, back turned. Edward sat at the table, staring down at the wood. Trying not to show how tense he was... and failing.] “Exactly which of my lessons made you think this was a good idea?”
Well, I--
[He was cut off by a smack, as his father turned back to him. Edward bit his lip, cheek stinging. Probably red, now -- his father never held back his strength.]
“Keep that smart mouth to yourself. I already know you weren’t thinking.” [Untrue. All he ever did was think. It was maddening, sometimes, not being able to slow his brain down. Especially here, with so little to put that mental energy towards.] “Looks like this will be another lesson, one you’d best pay close attention to. One about consequences.”
[...It had been an unpleasant few weeks, after that. Worse than all the training before, combined. Sure, they’d all gotten into trouble, but none of them like Edward. When everyone else’s punishments were already done, his were just beginning. He had the scars to show for it.
His father had said it would make him stronger. Edward didn’t feel strong. Not even a little.
He still didn’t, even when he finally worked up his courage again and stole the key to his bedroom before getting sent there -- a new security measure that had been in place since his last escape attempt. Except this time, it would be forever. This time, he didn’t bring anyone along.
This time, when he heard voices, he didn’t freeze or hide. He just ran. An instinct, finely honed. Finally with a use. He didn’t look back, he just kept going, past the points where his legs ached and his lungs burned.
When Edward finally stopped, he fell right down, onto the cold dirt. Staring up at the night sky. It wasn’t a pleasant night. What he should’ve done was try to find some kind of shelter for himself, but he ended up passing out right then and there.
It was lucky, really, that he woke up feeling mostly okay. Tired, sore, anxious, but not in danger. Good enough.
The hard part came after. He didn’t know how the world worked. Just that Abstergo controlled most of it. All those stories made him anxious, now that he was out, as if one wrong move would cause a bullet to go through his skull.
The reality was less dramatic, but no less difficult. It was making his way through the woods, trying to find clean water when what he had in his water bottle ran out. Finding a road and trying to hitchhike. He succeeded, eventually -- a stroke of pure luck. The kind of luck he wouldn’t find again, but he was immeasurably grateful for.
...And, like so, he eventually found himself in Gotham.]
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Soon enough, even thinking about asking questions made his skin sting and he learned it was better to stay quiet. Better to keep his mouth shut and reduce his bruises to rough training sessions, spars where he wasn’t quick enough.
He was never quick enough.
This was fine for a time. Well... not fine. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like learning to fight or learning to run or learning to climb. God, learning to climb. Fighting was awful, but climbing was a special form of torture. It had been fun, for a little while, once. He thinks it must have been, anyway, when he was too small for his father to demand too much from him. But once he grew tall enough, his own pace was no longer acceptable. He’d have to climb quicker, higher, and if he fell, well, that was just another lesson.
He remembered once, when his father was in a particularly foul mood and Edward was just a little too “mouthy”, whatever that meant, and his father ordered him to climb higher than he’d ever had, to the very top of the training tower. Except this time, he was not allowed to climb back down slowly -- he was supposed to jump. There was a pile of leaves, gathered for this very purpose, that was there to break his fall. Or so his father assured him.
Edward didn’t dare. But he was not allowed down unless he jumped.
In the end, he stayed up there long enough to watch two sunsets before he made it down. His jump had been panicked, desperate; his landing inelegant. His arm had taken months to heal. His father, enraged, took to using the top of the tower as a punishment, sending him up there whenever he was being difficult. A misguided attempt to get him used to the height, perhaps? Or maybe he’d already given up on Edward at that point.
Regardless of the intent, it instilled the fear of heights deep within him. Not that it stopped him from running his mouth; a bad habit he’d picked up in his teenage years. The pain and fear wasn’t enough to stop it anymore. If anything, it made him more brazen. His tongue was his only weapon and every time he annoyed his father was worth it. He’d hurt after training anyway. He may as well actually earn his pain.
Pain, of course, was also just another kind of training. Going beyond the sparring and the running. Sometimes, it was just because of his father’s anger; a common thing. Edward felt as if the man was always angry. Other times, however, it was part of his “special lessons”. Ones he was meant to keep quiet. This, it was explained to him, was to increase his pain tolerance. So that if anything ever happened, he would be able to push through it.
Edward had his doubts about that. Somehow, none of it ever seemed to get easier.
And that had simply been life, for so long. Once he was old enough to think for himself -- around the age when he’d started to become so combative -- he’d realized this wasn’t normal. That most people likely didn’t have to constantly run and climb and fight and learn. That this small corner was just that. A small bit of a much larger world.
Asking did nothing to satiate the curiosity building within Edward. He still did it, anyway, to engage in his own form of rebellion, but he wasn’t expecting to get any actual information. For that, he’d taken to collecting whatever scraps of information he could. He was allowed some books, but his father was very particular about which. Much more than even the other families here were. So he traded with the other kids or used his training to steal from the adults. Slowly, a picture of the outside world was being painted for him... albeit a limited one. So limited.
If he wanted to know more about it, he would have to see it for himself. Not just get by on what little tidbits of information his father deigned to allow him.
...He hadn’t planned on leaving, really. Not forever. It had been him and a couple of the other kids who’d planned it, to go out and just... see the sights for a bit. They were young and stupid. The Templars -- Abstergo -- weren’t really real to them. It was just this faceless thing that had their families freaked out, but it hadn’t ever been relevant to their lives. They didn’t get it. How could they? They hadn’t been friends, not really -- Edward couldn’t stand most of them, and he was sure the feeling was very mutual. But they’d been united, for a brief time, in their desire to go out and see... something.
Later, much later, Edward would understand exactly what kind of risk they had been taking. How that stupid outing could have gotten them and everyone else in their community killed. It only made him angrier at the unfairness of it all.
Not that the trip went anywhere. They hadn’t even gotten far into the woods before they’d been caught. The trouble they’d been in...]
“Help me understand, son.” [His father hadn’t looked at him, then. Simply stood there, back turned. Edward sat at the table, staring down at the wood. Trying not to show how tense he was... and failing.] “Exactly which of my lessons made you think this was a good idea?”
Well, I--
[He was cut off by a smack, as his father turned back to him. Edward bit his lip, cheek stinging. Probably red, now -- his father never held back his strength.]
“Keep that smart mouth to yourself. I already know you weren’t thinking.” [Untrue. All he ever did was think. It was maddening, sometimes, not being able to slow his brain down. Especially here, with so little to put that mental energy towards.] “Looks like this will be another lesson, one you’d best pay close attention to. One about consequences.”
[...It had been an unpleasant few weeks, after that. Worse than all the training before, combined. Sure, they’d all gotten into trouble, but none of them like Edward. When everyone else’s punishments were already done, his were just beginning. He had the scars to show for it.
His father had said it would make him stronger. Edward didn’t feel strong. Not even a little.
He still didn’t, even when he finally worked up his courage again and stole the key to his bedroom before getting sent there -- a new security measure that had been in place since his last escape attempt. Except this time, it would be forever. This time, he didn’t bring anyone along.
This time, when he heard voices, he didn’t freeze or hide. He just ran. An instinct, finely honed. Finally with a use. He didn’t look back, he just kept going, past the points where his legs ached and his lungs burned.
When Edward finally stopped, he fell right down, onto the cold dirt. Staring up at the night sky. It wasn’t a pleasant night. What he should’ve done was try to find some kind of shelter for himself, but he ended up passing out right then and there.
It was lucky, really, that he woke up feeling mostly okay. Tired, sore, anxious, but not in danger. Good enough.
The hard part came after. He didn’t know how the world worked. Just that Abstergo controlled most of it. All those stories made him anxious, now that he was out, as if one wrong move would cause a bullet to go through his skull.
The reality was less dramatic, but no less difficult. It was making his way through the woods, trying to find clean water when what he had in his water bottle ran out. Finding a road and trying to hitchhike. He succeeded, eventually -- a stroke of pure luck. The kind of luck he wouldn’t find again, but he was immeasurably grateful for.
...And, like so, he eventually found himself in Gotham.]