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Ever since little Damian was born, he was yours. Yours to care for, yours to teach, yours to love. He was, for all intents and purposes, your child. As Talia’s personal bodyguard it’d been obvious to choose you to be his nanny. And of course that meant that Jason, your lover ever since he fully came back to himself post-Lazarus Pit, was the boy’s de facto father.
And your position as his mother was the exact reason you could feel fury pulsing and burning lava-hot in your temples at the sight that greeted you when you returned from running some errands for the League. Your sweet little boy–who was already proving to be far too smart for his own good given the way he was taking to poisons like a moth to a porch light in his lessons–being hit across the backs of his knees with the flat of a sword by none other than the Demon Head himself.
“What the hell is going on here?” you demanded, better judgement be damned.
“Mama!” Damian cheered, only to be smacked again, this time on the outer thigh. “Ow!” he yelped.
“Never let your attention stray from a threat,” Ra’s snapped.
“Habibi, why don’t you head upstairs and get your books?” you suggested through gritted teeth, trying to hide your anger from the child. “It’s time for your lesson.”
“It is not your place to dismiss him, Shadow,” you were informed, your codename spat at you like an insult.
It was a good thing Jason was off with his latest tutor; you weren’t sure you could have prevented him from attacking Ra’s for using that tone with you.
“But I’m sure you will agree that discipline is important, sir. We wouldn’t want to teach him that shirking responsibilities is a good thing, would we? Your voice was cold, as devoid of emotion as you could manage.
Damian, the darling that he was, knew not to point out that it was not, in fact, time for his lessons.
“My heir,” Ra’s grit out, “you are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir,” the little boy bowed respectfully before scampering off.
“You will never defy me again,” the undying leader of the League of Assassins snarled as soon as your son left earshot.
You, of course, refused to back down, and squared your shoulders defiantly. “Then explain what the fuck you were doing.” There was a time, many years ago, when you would have trembled in terror at the thought of the retribution that would be brought down upon your head for speaking against the Ra’s al Ghul like this, but that time had long passed. Distantly, you blamed Jason’s rebellious streak for influencing you, but part of you knew it was your love for Damian that drove you to it.
His lip quirked up in an honest-to-whatever growl. “The boy is my heir, and he must be trained as our fiercest warrior. You knew this when you were assigned to him.”
“No, I knew that he would begin his physical training when he turned ten. He is four years old.”
“He must begin now if he is to–”
“If you hurt him and slap him around at this age, you will ruin his growth,” you interrupted, pulling the most effective card you had in this argument. “Can’t have your heir losing his father’s stature because of carelessness, can you?”
The bastard seemed to mull that over for a few moments, which was precisely what you wanted. You knew exactly how important appearances were to the man. Damian growing into an imposing figure like that of his father was infinitely more preferable than him acquiring a leaner frame like that of wiry little Tim Drake.
A pointless worry, you knew. Stature did little to change lethality if properly trained; every assassin knew that. It was a fact easily proven in the way you could go toe-to-toe with the burly form Jason had built over the past few years. But if it kept your son safe from the abuse …
“Fine,” Ra’s bit out. Your heart skipped hopefully, “but you will have him start physical conditioning immediately.”
That you could agree to. Exercise was important for a growing boy; abuse was not.
“And he will begin his real training in two years.”
Judging from that tone, you knew if you pressed the man any harder Damian would likely be taken away from you or he’d just kill you right out, so you only nodded.
“What do you have to say to my kindness and leniency?”
Of course he would do that. Of fucking course. “Thank you for your generosity, my lord,” your tone was frosty once more.
“You are dismissed, Shadow.”
“As you wish, my lord.” With a practiced bow, you stalked out of the room, swearing to yourself that you would ditch that cursed moniker the instant you could. Jason had once suggested Corvid as a joke, a darker play on his own bird-themed moniker, when you were alone in bed and he’d been plotting against Bruce Wayne. I like the sound of that.