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These times became known as team time, the time where Alfred would spend an hour each day, talking to the young boy about anything of question, helping him to understand helping him to try.
But 4 weeks after the start of this activity, Damian asked a question that left Alfred unable to answer.
“mother said I was a gift, a loved gift. I have come to the conclusion that it was just with her that I was a gift. To my grandfather I was just a body… that turned into the person he could never look at. To you I’m another ward. What am I to father?”
Alfred couldn’t answer that question he himself didn’t know “ a child” that much was certain.
“his?”
Alfred smiled “certainly”
“he pays me no visit's?” Damian was confused he wanted answers, just like when he asked about, things you do here, or the time he asked what was everyone like outside of the files. He wanted an answer.
“perhaps he just needs time… like I did…”
“time…? Okay, I will give him time”
… 2 days later…
“Alfred do you think you could get me, paper and charcoal?”
the butler was pouring tea at the time. “what for?”
“I want to draw again.”
the boy was looking listlessly out of the window, his father still had not spoken a word to him. Even though Alfred tries he knows the boy was slowly dying the lively boy, who would ask about the room he was in, or why he barely saw the sun or about the flowers in the garden bellow his window.
He was dying mental he was getting put back, his spark outing. Alfred fears for the eight year old’s mental well being.
“in the league.. if we were captured for longer than a month we are told to simply kill ourselves.”
Alfred hand shook, a small amount of tea spilling to the side of a cup, he quickly cleaned it, “well this is not the league and you are not captured. You are in your fathers home”
...2 days later…
he manged to convince Bruce to give the boy drawing supplies, a few sketch books, pencils, erasers, crayons and a paint kit. He saw the flame in the boys eyes light again.
…3 months had passed since the punishment started…