Bruce doesn't want to admit to himself that Jason reminds him a little of himself against Ducard, because that would put a spin on things that he's just not willing to consider. There's a hollow sort of gladness, however, that at least one of them has had the sense to be bitter about it. The reverence and concern is just. Too much, and too wrong. Fear is understandable, hatred is understandable. He's a monster. There's no room to pretend otherwise.

Their gently sloping hike leads them briefly alongside a small pool formed from a barely-there trickle of a stream, lined with tiny, blue-glowing frogs. Bruce thinks they're fantastic, but doesn't say so.

A little while after they leave the frogs, he stops - not short, but one moment he's moving and the next he's not, fully alert in a pointed way, dead silent, hand on the hilt of his sword and staring ahead into the darkness. There's no sound.