Chapter Text
She had finally reached the age of seven – the proper age, her father had said, to begin. Her nimble ears overheard her father’s closest advisors and their suggestions for a suitable age. Six, ten, twelve, fifteen – one advisor had gone far enough to suggest the age of eighteen. But she didn’t want to wait so long. She was eager to join her father and the bold and glorious warriors that marched alongside him. Even her earliest memories had her sitting in the training yard and watching in awe at the sleek and swift assassins spar with an unlimited variety of weapons. As much as she enjoyed her books and learning, she had counted down the days when she would physically train for the first time.
Nyssa elegantly dipped her quill in ink and wrote her name in calligraphy on the yellowed parchment in front of her. She was in her extravagant chambers in Nanda Parbat, hunched over the mahogany desk her father had gifted her the previous year. She was waiting for her father to emerge from the double doors at any moment, for the excitement was almost killing her. She had already dressed in her white training robes.
One door sprung open and a middle-aged assassin stepped in. She quickly recognized him as one of her father’s closest associates and jumped out of her wooden chair, bowing her head with respect.
He returned the bow with a small smile. “It is time, my child,” he spoke to her in Arabic.
She followed him through the door and was exposed to the heat of her dry home. They climbed down the steep steps to a path that led past the small dojos and through the training yard. Nyssa glanced at the recruits that tumbled and hastily returned to their feet. The thick sound of wood hitting wood encompassed the surrounding area with shouts of Arabic. An archer some yards away from her stood tall, shoulders back, hand gripping the bow and fingers letting the slim black arrow fly. It implanted itself in the center of the target with precision and ease. It was in that moment that Nyssa decided the first thing she wanted to learn was archery.
She was led to her father’s personal dojo, a large and exquisite building that stood a distance away from the rest of the population. It was clear Ra's al Ghul enjoyed his privacy.
Her father’s associate stopped in front of the doors and turned to her, bowing deeply. “Best of luck, Princess,” he said to her before retreating back up the path.
Nyssa smiled at his acknowledgement of her. “Princess” was a term the people of the mountains used to describe her importance, although the term itself proved to be a euphemism. Her father had taught her to always introduce herself as the Heir to the Demon – a title, he promised, that would strike fear in any wise man alive. Nyssa did as her father commanded, but she still preferred to be a princess.
She pushed open the pair of doors and entered her father’s secluded dojo, an area in which she had only been allowed in once before. She could still remember the Arabic and Latin inscriptions engraved across the top of the walls and the showcase of detailed armor and weapons propped up underneath it. She remembered the feel of the delicately weaved mats lying underneath her feet and the flickering of the array of candles scattered across the room. Her father had prepared his dojo exactly the way Nyssa remembered it.
Ra’s al Ghul was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room in front of a small table barely six inches from the ground. It held two bowls of water; one, Nyssa noticed, had an abundant amount of steam rising from it.
“Sit, my child,” he instructed, gesturing in front of him to the other side of the table. She obediently sat down and mimicked her father’s sitting position.
“Are you ready to learn to become an assassin?” he asked. She could have sworn she detected a hint of amusement in his voice.
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, father.”
He laughed -an act Nyssa found odd since her father rarely laughed. “I am afraid you are not, my child,” he said, his grin erasing from his lips. “You have much to learn. Hold out your hand.” He indicated one of the bowls with a nod.
Nyssa extended her small arm and let her hand hover over the bowl of water that didn’t have hot steam streaming from it and waited patiently for further instructions. This wasn’t the type of training she had expected, but it was physical training nonetheless. Her father’s pause heightened her anticipation.
“Don’t move your hand,” he ordered as he lifted up the second bowl of water. Nyssa’s blind trust in her father didn’t make her question his actions until the steaming water splashed across the top of her hand.
She yelped and shoved her hand in the first bowl, relishing the coolness that soothed the burning sensation. She looked up at her father, hurt and betrayed, only to find anger creased in the features of his face and severe disappointment in his eyes.
“What did I tell you?” he demanded. She hated it when he was mad.
“To not move my hand,” she mumbled, her gaze casted downwards to the hand submerged in water.
“And what did you do?”
“I moved it.”
His fist slammed against the table, sending ripples through both bowls of water and a shiver down Nyssa’s spine. “You disobeyed me,” he growled. “Never do that again. Put your hand up.”
Nyssa hesitated – which was a mistake she should never have done. Her father pulled her hand from the water and gripped it tightly with his left hand while his right hand reached for the second bowl.
“No!” She involuntarily cried out and attempted to pull away. His eyes shot up to meet hers with anger as clear as light on the blackest day.
“Do not disobey me!”
Nyssa knew she couldn't get out of this. She relented and allowed her father to retrieve the second bowl. Tears pushed their way through, unfortunately, and was something her father never liked. He declared it as a sign of weakness; an act that showed the lack of strength. So she never cried in her father’s company, and her father’s advisors were too kind to reveal these secrets to their Head. But her father had seen her tears which provided fuel to his fire within.
“You must learn the world is cruel,” he hissed, slowly pouring the steaming water over their hands. Nyssa cried out again and sobbed even harder. She tried to pull away from the hot and prickly pain erupting across her fingers and her palm, but her father’s grasp was too tight.
“You wanted to learn the ways of the League,” he stated as he continued to spill the water across the tops of their hands. “And this is your first lesson. To be a member of the League, you must understand that pain is inevitable. You will never stop feeling pain.”
He tipped the bowl upside down completely to allow the last few drops out. He stood up and released her hand, then grabbed both bowls and walked to the corner of the ancient room. Nyssa hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there was a large pot over a small fire hidden in the darkness. She could have sworn even the flames flickered black.
As her father refilled the streaming bowl, Nyssa cradled her burned hand. She had expected her training to be filled with exercise and weapons. She could remember all the times she saw recruits dodge their teachers’ attacks and return their own blows. Nyssa has desperately wanted to be one of them - people her father was proud of to be part of the League. Now she could only see his displeasure as he walked back over and replaced his seat.
“Hold out you hand.”
She didn’t have a choice. All she could do was hope the pain would be so unbearable her hand would be rendered numb. She closed her eyes as the hot water poured over her hand and reflexively pulled back. But, before her father could do or say anything, she put her hand over the bowl again.
“Good,” he praised her as he continued pouring the water, not taking note of her apparent flinching. “Because pain is inevitable, you must understand and accept it. Do not allow pain to be your weakness, but allow it to be your strength.”
“Yes, father.”
“The League is at war. I have many enemies, my child. They will come for my heir. To protect you, I must teach you to protect yourself.”
“Yes, father.”
“Your duty as the Heir to the Demon is crucial. Everywhere you go, every action you commit, you not only represent the League, but you represent me as well. I am the most feared man that has ever walked upon this earth. You must live up to my name.”
“Yes, father.”
There was silence as Ra's seemed to get caught up in a lost memory. After a moment, he uttered, “It would have been easier if you were my son.”
Nyssa didn’t expect her father to say those words, but she did know this statement was true. Her father’s top advisors insisted a daughter wasn’t suitable and only a son could be a true and proper heir. Ra’s al Ghul ignored them and claimed Nyssa would bring about more greatness than any son he could ever have. Nyssa felt flattered her father had such a vast amount of faith in her, but it came at a price. She spent her first seven years of life learning languages, mathematics, an assortment of sciences, history, philosophy, and any books she could get her hands on. A male heir would need to be strong, reasonable, and an adequate strategist. A female heir would need to be beyond strong, fast, unemotional, near-genius, extremely beautiful, an excellent strategist, an expert in every form of fighting known, and must come second to her father in everything possible. It wasn’t fair, but it was reality.
“I know your strength, my child,” Ra’s said, lowering the steaming bowl. The pain still felt like fire on Nyssa’s hand, but she didn’t dare succumb to her desire of feeling the cool water lapping her burns. Her father placed her small hand in his large hands and gently massaged her wounds. “You are the Heir to the Demon, not a princess. War is not as glorious as you have thought. It is pain. It is suffering. It is death.” He used one hand to wipe away the tears that continued to emerge from her eyes. “This is the first of many lessons to come. You need to know you cannot defeat pain, but instead, welcome it like an old friend.” He softly led her hand to the cool bowl of water and allowed Nyssa to recover temporarily.
Nyssa sighed with relief. Her sobs grew short to small breaths and her eyes were becoming drier. “Yes, father.”
Ra’s didn't hear her. He watched the shadow of one of the wavering candles dance. “In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have you do this. I would let you choose your own path.” He looked back at her with a grim expression. “But this isn’t the perfect world. You have been cursed as my heir, the Heir to the Demon. I know what is best for you, and, in some instances, it may be pain.”
Nyssa nodded in understanding. She couldn’t despise her father for caring about her and the League of Assassins.
“You are stronger than I am,” he continued. “I will show you your capabilities and your potential. I will show you the strength inside you that I can never possess. I will show you how to be a leader of greatness and respect when you must become the Head of the Demon. You are, after all, my most prized possession.”
Nyssa nodded again, a half smile surfacing from his confession. “Yes, father,” she said once more.
“Good. Now give me your other hand.”