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Nur-e cheshm-e man (farsi) “the light of my eyes”
He knew he had fucked up. It had been a simple order, one which he had completed without fault many times before. A motion of second nature. But this time? He hesitated. Looked her in the eye just as he was about to bring the sword down.
It would have been a clean, swift kill. Merciful
But the heartbreak that he saw in those amber eyes nearly made him drop his sword. For they were the same eyes of the woman who had held his hand as he took his first steps, who sang him lullabies each night when sleep would not come. Damian couldn’t think of a time when she wasn’t there by his side. Supporting him, encouraging him.
She assured him that his suffering would come to an end one day, that there would be a time where he would rise above it all.
It was she who had taught him the meaning of love. Gave him the insight to what it meant to believe, to dream. Not only through words, but by actions. The smaller they were, the more powerful.
And Damian, somehow, had the audacity to pick up the katana, holding it above her head.
He may have hesitated, his heart catching up to his actions. Withdrawn his sword. But his grandfather's guard didn’t waste a second to strike down. To finish off what Damian had neglected to finish. Condemning her to an end which was indubitably much more laboured and excruciating.
“No.” His voice barely came out, drowned by the clattering of the metal against the floor.
Why? How? How did he allow this to happen?
His mind swirled endlessly with questions. Questions which only he was answerable to.
He may not have been the cause, but he was still the reason for her death. It was his fault. It always was. He shouldn’t have become so attached. Shouldn’t have shown such a sign of weakness. Especially in front of his grandfather. He’d knowingly, actively put the target on her back.
For weakness , it had to be eradicated.
And Noori, his first and only mrbty – had been his.
He didn’t move or flinch when the body hit the ground, but it was the dark red blood that snapped Damian out of his trance. The flow was fast, stuttering at points – spraying upwards at an angle that left Damian’s lower half covered in blood.
Damian dropped down onto his knees, grabbing onto her hand. It was still warm. He could feel the phantom touches to the forehead, her thin fingers brushing through his hair.
Slowly, his eyes grew wide as he took in the scene in front of him. Letting the damned realisation wash over. Noori was dead. Gone from this world. A result of his mistakes.
He was accustomed to killing his teachers and mentors once he had outgrown them. So why? Why did it hurt so much to see her fall?
His chest felt constricted, a vice-like grip keeping him frozen in place. Each breath became more laboured as his eyes scanned over Noori’s still form. The sheer black veil that covered Noori’s face fluttered, a result of the breeze that travelled through the mashrabiya – revealing her slowly greying features.
Without thinking, Damian reached out to touch her, stopping inches from her face. He stalled, unsure if he still had the right. Instead, Damian gently closed her eyelids, a prayer escaping his lips for the protection of her soul.
It made Damian want to puke. The stark contrast between the living and the dead left a burning sensation that crawled up his throat. It wasn’t his first time witnessing death. But it was his first time in which he couldn't just look over it. The pain remained within his veins, his heart, his mind.
Left lost and wrecked. An integral part of him now missing. A part he never knew he needed.
He could hear her words, soft spoken and airy. There was nothing that he could hide from Noori. She read him like an open book.
“ Sokar , you can try to hide your feelings all you want, but you forget that your eyes still speak.”
Shaking, he knew there was nothing that could be done now. His pleas would have been silenced. His knowledge of the pit null. Instead, he sat there, mindlessly holding onto the only person that he could truthfully say he loved. He couldn’t lie to himself. Not anymore at least.
Everything inside of Damian cried, except for his eyes.
Unaware of the time that had passed, another guard had entered the room. His grandfather’s second in command, Cyrus. He came in with grace, no noise to indicate his arrival to the untrained ear. His presence radiated power, demanding respect.
He was one of the few that Damian truly held fear towards – cowered in his presence. He was the ‘ideal’, the one which Damian would one day have to overthrow if he wished to be the only successor to the throne.
They both remained silent, neither of them taking the initiative to acknowledge the others presence. But it didn’t last long.
“Your grandfather requires you to present yourself in the throne room.”
So the news of his failures had travelled fast – He should have known.
“I would also suggest that you change your robes. The King will not appreciate your poor appearance. I shall be waiting outside. I would advise that you hasten your pace.”
With that Cyrus left the room, his boots purposely making a thudding sound as he walked. A clear dismissal. Had it been any other day, Damian would have been fuming at the prospect of being disregarded by someone of dirty blood – a nobody in comparison to an Al-Ghul. Yet today, all of the fire within him had been smothered by the hands of guilt.
Damian gave himself a moment before standing up. Lifting his chin, he willed himself to remain calm. Taking one last look at Noori and her statue-like form, Damian set off to bear the consequences of his actions.
Each step down the hall was burdensome. His body felt heavy, though his attire consisted of the lightest of silk – no armour worn. He had stalked down this path many times, but never with this amount of remorse buried in his chest.
It confused him. Instead of the unfounded fear of his grandfather, and the punishment that awaited. Damain was focused only on Noori.
He had been unable to protect her, and it weighed heavily on his mind.
All of these emotions were becoming too much for him to bear.
A deep ache remained in his chest. Standing to his full height, straightening his back and shoulders. Damian tried to hide his underlying fear. Clasping his hands behind his back with a tight grip, preventing them from shaking, Damian continued onwards.
To an outsider, each hallway looked identical. The same layout, ornaments and paintings. No defining feature to set them apart. A strategy implemented long before Damian was born. A guise to confuse those who came to ambush or for those who tried to escape.
Escaping one, only to just enter another.
It took time, much less than others, to realise that there were small minute features that helped to recognize and differentiate each hallway. Sometimes it was the writing on a vase, the position of the candle sticks that lit the hall at night, or the type of paint used in a piece of decorative art.
For Damian, he knew the hallways as though they were the back of his hand. He’d grown up here, and would continue to live within these walls for as long as he lived.
The thought depressed him at times, there was a small part of him that wanted to escape. To leave all the responsibilities and torment behind. But as much as he wanted to leave, he also knew that there was something much greater that lay ahead in his future if he chose to stay.
Damain was sure that he could walk through them blindfolded at this point.
Walking through the hallways allowed Damian time to prepare. He knew what to expect, what exactly was to come. Though it had been a time since the last, the dread remained deep within his gut. His head pounded as his thoughts were scattered.
The guilt and regret of Noori’s death was heavy on his heart, but his mind screamed something else. That he was acting weak. Not like an Al Ghul should. It was a battle between the two, and Damain was having difficulty keeping up. Especially as he entered through one of the entrances of the Quba , his grandfather's throne room. A gilded cage for those beside the man himself.
It served as the official league headquarters. This was where decisions were officaited, rules put in place, as well as where punishments were carried out. It was where the king's advisors would come together, kneeling on the marble floor in front of him – ready to serve.
It was much cooler here. By virtue of the spherical dome placed upon the pendentive, less heat was absorbed by the burning desert sun. Looking up from the entrance, Damian let his gaze linger upon the muqarnas vaulting that decorated the ceiling. It added texture, a juxtaposition to the intricate mosaic tiling. A repetition in the pattern, a sign of infinity. How the Al Ghul reign would forever remain. The symmetry in the art – a symbol of harmony within the league. A united front.
“Tt,” Damian scoffed pitfully. It was just a show, a performance. Nobody could hold trust in another within the league. Damian couldn’t even trust his own mother .
Taking his shoes off, and swapping them for the silk lined slippers that were placed ready for him, Damian walked towards the centre of the room. Climbing a few steps, he came face to face with the demon head .
Set upon his throne, in the centre of it all was his grandfather. Relaxed and posed, a deadly glint in his eyes fixated straight upon Damain.
Damian didn’t want to upset him any further. There was no good outcome to his current situation. These were the consequences of his own actions, of his feeble heart. He had no right to complain.
Gulping, Damian tried to address his grandfather, only to be cut off abruptly. The words were sharp, embedding themselves in his mind.
“So, it seems as though the cub refuses to grow up.” The slight downturn at the corner of his lips was clear at indicating his distaste. “Was such a mere task too much for you?”
He wanted to retaliate. Speak up and defend Noori’s name.
But Damian knew not to answer such a question. SIlence was always preferable in his grandfather's presence. Hence he remained quiet, eyes fixated on the ground before his feet.
Before he could even react, Damian’s head was whipped upwards, his grandfather gripping his jaw with great force. His teeth clacked at the speed of the movement, eyes directed at the frown upon Ra’s face.
“You will look at me as I address you,” the hold on his jaw was sure to leave a bruise, “You have shown disobedience. Carelessness .”
Forcing Damian down onto his knees, Ra’s chose to let go of his jaw and instead grabbed a handful of his hair. Damian couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped his lips.
There was a click of disapproval heard from behind him.
Damian’s eyes widened in realisation. There was an audience to his humiliation.
Looking over his grandfather’s shoulder he came to see the league's highest ranking assassins. Standing tall, adorned with gleaming armour, guarding each entrance – forming a perfect circle around the room.
How had he not noticed!? What was wrong with him!? He was making mistakes upon mistakes. – It was starting to unnerve him.
“The League of Assassins contains the blood and sweat of our people. Of myself. I will not tolerate the heir to the throne to act so pathetic and weak.” The grip in his hair tightened, lifting him a few centimetres off the ground. “There should be no hesitation when striking down the opponent. Every moment, every second counts. You should know this. Or do you need to be taught the importance once again.”
Damian didn’t waste a moment to respond. He attempted to nod but was unable to do so.
“No!” His voice came out louder than expected. Scolding himself, he tried to lower his voice without letting it quiver. “I-I apologise. I made an error, one that shouldn't have occurred in the first place.”
Ra’s seemed to think long and hard before letting go of Damian, pushing him backwards. He stumbled slightly, shame washing over him. He could feel the piercing eyes on his back. Degraded in the eyes of the finest.
“I have regrets at times. You were raised weak. You could have been one of the best. But your mother continuously interfered with my plans.”
Huh? My mother?
Damian didn’t have time to ponder or to figure out what Ra’s had meant by that.
Strolling forwards, Ra’s seemed to give a signal to Cyrus, who promptly brought over a golden chest. The chest was opened to reveal a seven segment chain whip, modified to have a double metal dart at one end. Damian knew that the edges of the blades were sharp, he’d seen the damage it could cause. Permanent and debilitating. The speed of the whip – the most powerful part of the design.
He had once been enamoured by the weapon, unlike the unease he felt now.
Ra’s turned to the assemblage within the quba . Addressing them before he spoke, “The act of weakness has its consequences. And for all there will be punishment. For we are the * principle people. No matter your ranking, no matter the name you carry.”
He felt a pair of rough hands being placed upon his shoulder, forcing him out to the front. Pressing him down, Damian was forcefully manhandled onto his knees, his arms placed in front of him.
A state of submission.
A puff of hot breath was felt against his ear, the words honed, leaving a shiver down his spine.
“One shouldn’t dream of things bigger than him.”
Damian twitched, an impulsive need to swat the hands upon him. All such thoughts disappeared, as he heard his grandfather pick up the whip. With his back to him, Damian couldn’t see his grandfather, but he caught the clattering sounds of the darts as they moved against one another.
Bracing himself, he held his breath hearing the whip in the air, a cold electrifying burn spreading across his back. Without prompt, he knew what was expected of him.
“O-one”
Squeezing his eyes, he awaited the next, ignoring the seeping blood that trickled down his back.
“Two”
This was to make him stronger. A more powerful leader.
“Thr-ree”
No rose came without its thorns. He had to be better .
“Fo-ur”
The next whip left his vision blurred, the silent tears dropping to the ground. It was becoming too much to bear. His body screamed in pain, bile coming up his throat. He felt as though he was on fire, no reprieve within reach.
He could cry all he wanted, but he had to carry on.
“Ten”
If we wanted to save innocent lives – men and women like Noori, he had to give up his own.
(Talia POV)
Something inside of her broke as she attended to her son. Unconscious and pale, beaten to the bone. The healing properties of the lazarus pit may have healed the physical scars that marred her son’s body, but she new from experience that the pain and humiliation would remain deep rooted in one's mind.
Damian had been marked for life, an emotional wound that would not recover.
For she had experienced the same. Time and time again. And yet she allowed her son to be hurt as she was.
She really did love her son. In the only way she knew.
She wanted to give him everything she had strived for in life. The throne, power, respect. Her son deserved the title that was stolen from her because of something as petty as her gender .
But it was in that moment, Talia had realised her mistake. Although Damian may have been the blood heir, the blood son, he was just a pawn in a much larger game. A part she had forced upon her child herself, a part she played willingly herself. For years she had been blinded, used.
Her son, now a spectacle of submission to the real players of the game – the fida’i.
She had been incompetent, failing as a mother – allowing her father to take her child into his clutches. She had allowed her son to be whipped, beaten and brainwashed. For too long she had watched from the side lines, doing all that she could to keep her son safe.
It was pathetic.
And the worst part was that she believed in her father at one point. Ceased all motherly interaction with her own son, passing the reins to Noori instead. Remaining emotionless to his call. Condemning him to a childhood without love or friends. But rather whips and lashes.
She had been convinced that her young, innocent child would grow up to be the perfect ruler.
Just like his father.
But as she watched her son fall repeatedly, all she could think about was the little girl that stood before her father many years ago, praying to god for a saviour.
But she didn’t need a saviour, Damian didn’t need one either. He needed a mother .
Her song may have been silenced, but the melody of her son would remain. A vow she would fulfil even if it left her dead.
She’d already dug a grave by her fathers orders. She would not dig another.
Adjusting the covers, Talia looked down at her son. He was a clear copy of his sire, holding onto his father’s genes much more than her own. His skin tone was a mix, giving him a deep olive hue. His eyes matched hers now, but that wasn’t always the case. Born with light blue eyes, a distinct colour that ran through the Wayne bloodline. Now, they were an emerald green, matching hers and all those who had experienced the pit.
Allowing herself a moment, she pressed a soft kiss to Damian’s temple. A strong urge to protect engulfed her as she watched his nose scrunch up. Not wasting a moment, she called upon her most loyal companions. It was time, and not a moment would be wasted.
Damian would grow to be a normal child.
Not a soldier.
Not as she did.
It had been a couple of months. She had kept tabs through the eyes of others – aware that contact with her son would put him at risk. But being able to see Damian with her own two eyes, flying across the Gotham rooftops, a hint of a smile appearing on his face as he followed after his father – it gave Talia a sense of solace.
Sending her child away had not been as easy as others had assumed. She worried that Damian would not fit in, that the strict moral code that Bruce abided by would be too much for Damian to understand. But it appeared as though there was no need to be on edge.
He was safe. Away from the hands of her father.
Her father would remain his conceited self. For time did not change, but rather it revealed. He was better off with him. With them.
Damian now wore colours of a bird, now a child of the bat. From what she had been told, he had surrendered his sword, instead choosing to fight with escrima sticks. His form and style still needed further training, but it could clearly be seen that his teacher was someone of great experience. There was a new found fluidity to Damian’s movement, a reminder of the first.
A gentle breeze fluttered through her loose dark locks, the hood of her cape falling backwards and sitting neatly on her shoulders.
Catching her attention, there was an inaudible shuffle to her right.
One of her oldest guards stood to her side, loyal as ever. She took a few steps to stand shoulder to shoulder with Talia. Gently touching her shoulder, “Do you love him?”
Talia thought for a moment, deliberating her choice of words.
“Speak of him over my grave, and watch how he brings me back to life.”
They remained silent for a moment. Both women looked out towards the dark skies, the moon barely visible with the dense fog obscuring any possible light passing through. Gotham wasn’t comparable to Nanda Parbat, not even a hint of its beauty contained within.
But she gave rise to the dark knight and her young warriors.
The bats and birds had changed her beloved, for the better. Though she still loved him, he was no longer a harsh and calculating man – he had been mellowed out by fatherhood.
From the child that soared the skies, claiming the Gotham skylines his own, to an established hero captivated by both friends and foes.
The second – his path had been paved in a different direction, only for him to end with them again. His true calling, different to the rest, marking the streets as his own.
The next was an enigma, but a diamond in the eyes of her father. A true detective, a parallel of the man before him.
And now, her own son.
Another family legacy to fulfil.
“Then why did you leave?” It was a simple question. One which was difficult to answer.
“My presence would have been just the same as my absence. It was better I left.”
She felt a subtle squeeze to her shoulders. Looking back once more, the fluttering of the capes out of sight, Talia lifted her hood up once again.
“It’s best we leave now.” Giving the signal, the two of them merged with the shadows once again, travelling with the wind.