Archive of Our Own

“Are you loved?”

He asked her, his questions few and far in between, his curiosity a fading feature of his early childhood that he had grown out of far too soon. Damian looked at his mother, 7 years of age and still holding the baby fat she loved so dearly, so secretly. Talia looked down at him, an expression on her face one Damian had not recognized, one no chart or psychology book could explain or decipher. He finds out later that it was pain, a somber merciful pain mixed with love and acceptance. 

“By you, by your father, I have enough love to last many lifetimes.”

“But what of the others? Our followers, what of grandfather?”

She paused, her expression tightening, the emotion fading.

“That is not love.”

She could not bear to tell him the truth of the matter, that her mere existence was a fault, that she was hated as much as feared, if not more so, but she couldn’t lie either. Deceit felt like she had taken a dagger and slit her baby’s throat all on her own, it felt as if she had purposefully kept him in the dark from a harsh life she knew she must prepare him for. She was hated, but he didn’t have to be. Not her beautiful little boy. 

“I am not quite liked, hayatti. That does not hinder my actions”

That does not hinder me loving you .

“But there will come a time, where you will meet your father and his family. You will find that their emotions towards me are akin to hate.”

“Why?”

He was full of questions today. His voice was firm, expectant of the answer, but his eyes- his eyes Talia could read as easily as his fathers. His eyes displayed his unsurety, his hesitance, as if knowing he was stumbling upon a topic he did not quite want the answer to. 

“I am not a ‘good’ person, hayatti.”

“ You’re not? ” 

Talia had given him a wistful smile, running her hands gently, oh so gently, through his thick hair, tucking the stray strand behind his ear even if it was far too short to stay. She didn’t do it to fix his appearance, to alter it to standard, no, no she had an ulterior motive, a cruel idea of affection, of love. She wanted to love her son, how he needed. She wanted to love her son how she thought Bruce would love him, how his other children would love him, but she was Talia Al Ghul , and there was no such thing as affection in a household built on the blood of their own. 

“No, ya albi, I am not.”

The confusion in his face had her tempted to backtrack, but she couldn’t. How else was he to handle the future? A place without her, a place better. If he could not hate her, if he was incapable of throwing her away, he’d be trapped in the demon’s claws for the rest of his life. She could not stand for that. 

“I do not understand.”

“It is not for you to understand just yet, but one day you will. I wish for you to hold the capacity to hate just as the others.”

She did not specify who or what to hate, but the pair knew. Damian had shortly retired after. The next day remained the same as all the others, the only anomaly being last night. 

He forgot.

Talia never had. 

“I can’t stand that woman! I don’t know what he even sees in her”

“Damian, forget everything she taught you, she can not be trusted.”

“Bruce, are you serious! That woman has stabbed you in the back repeatedly! And you still trust her?” 

“Damian, you can’t just kill people. It may have been how you worked in that place, but not here. Murder may be all she taught you but that is unacceptable here.”

“Who told you that? Who let you believe that people are worthless, it was her, wasn’t it? Her and that that insane grandfather of yours-”

He wanted to tell them no. Tell them that his mother loved him. That his mother taught him a lot. That his mother taught him how to survive, how to protect himself, how to do as expected but also as he wanted, taught him how to live , how to love . His mother was not evil. She was not ‘that woman’ she was Talia Al Ghul, and before Damian Wayne he was Damian Al Ghul and proud of it. 

Murder is bad. 

Assassins are evil.

Spilling blood is wrong.

But only toward the innocent.

Who was innocent?

His mother had taught him innocence. Had taught him that some women, some men, some children- truly had nothing to do with their greater cause. They were bystanders to the changes of the world right under their noses- idiots, Damian had called them, ignorant is what Talia had corrected. 

But what his mother said was wrong.

They were saying she was wrong.

And Talia had always said that his father was right, his wards were under his direct jurisdiction, so that meant they were correct as well, right?

They were saying to forget

But what did he have left? 

What did he still hold of his life, of his being if not his mothers teachings, his grandfather's lessons, his bloods history and depth? 

Bad, good, all old words holding brand new meanings he could not comprehend.

Who decided good or bad, and why was he the protector of the supposed good when he could not distinguish.

The bad, they’d say, were people who harmed others, but is that not what they did? Did they not galavant around each night harming those that harmed others? Becoming what they routinely destroyed, imprisoned? 

His mother had taught him differently. She had taught that people die for their cause and that did not matter. She had taught that there is no need to end the lives of the uninvolved,

Dick would call them the ‘innocent’

Were they innocent, or uninvolved? Could they be both? Could they be one and not the other or- or-

This had been different. 

Damian stared at the mirror before him. A private bathroom of his own, not suited to his tastes, but that structure of housing was not befitting of this American mansion. His tastes had dwindled and drowned, left to the bare minimum of half of his heritage, his father’s son. His mother’s eyes were fading every day he looked into that mirror. 

“But there will come a time, where you will meet your father and his family. You will find that their emotions towards me are akin to hate.”

A distant memory surfacing, less of a scene and more of a feeling . His mother’s voice rang into his head, recalling how she is not ‘good’, how she is not loved, but how he is, how he always will be. Why? He had asked, and now, now he found himself mirroring the same question. 

Had she always known? Has the green in his eyes always been a sign of evil? But that did not feel right. Green was the color of his mother, green was the color of her eyes, her dress, her underlying tone of brown skin. Green was the color of his robes, of his eyes, of his plaque engraved with “Ibn Al Xu'ffasch” he had been given upon the start of his training. 

Green was the color of his grandfather, was the color of the lazarus pits, the color of death and revival, the color of toxicity and poisons- green was the color his family had grown to hate, and yet, it was the color of his family. Had that truly been so wrong? So evil?

“I am not a ‘good’ person, hayatti.”

She had said that once, twice, maybe more, but every day his memory of her, of his previous life was fading in the face of new memories with the Waynes, the bats, rather than the demons. 

“I am not a good person.”

He repeated, studying his expression, trying to find the bits of him that looked like her. Her eyes, her nose, her eyebrows, but that was all. The rest of him was his fathers. His jawline, his bone structure, his black hair, his lips, his undertone, and now, his habits and being. Slowly half of him was disappearing and being replaced. Had his mother been evil? He does not believe so. Evil does not hold love, that is what they had taught him, but his mother loved him. She loved him dearly. He understands that now, he did not back then. He did not understand the difference between love and hate, love and idolization, hate and apathy. 

His grandfather did not love his mother. Ra's Al Ghul did not love Talia Al Ghul. Ra’s Al Ghul did not love Damian Al Ghul, and most certainly not Damian Wayne, but Talia did. Talia loved all of him and all he will become. She had made that clear and he had not understood. 

“Your mother is a horrible person”

Grayson had told him once, had said in a fit of anger at the new appearance of league assassins. They were not his mothers, that was clear to him, but not to the others. 

”Hardly.”

He had offered back, attempting to defend the only parent he had known for over 80% of his life. The look on the other’s face left him bewildered at best. It was one he understood as perhaps a mix of pity. He didn’t understand, there was no need for pity, or for any form of empathy from him simply defending his mother, a rather sorry attempt in comparison to the lengths she had gone to defend him . 

Was it pitiful to care for his mother? Was that wrong too?

What else was wrong?

Was the essence of his being forever to be tainted by his origins, origins he still found himself holding as dear as his animals, as his chances, as his swords. His swords, the last piece of his home that he had kept, that he had used daily, that he had been allowed . The familiarity a long standing comfort in what he had lost, but had he really lost them? His mother lived, unlike Grayson or Todd or the others. She was alive, she was right there , within his grasp yet always slipping through. 

Looking upon his reflection now, he finds himself envisioning her face behind him, what he could recall of it. The way she would alter his stance, solidify his grounding, gentle maneuvers that he had never found himself questioning until now. All his other trainers had been harsh, rough, not daring to touch his skin with their hands, using abusive tactics in correcting his ways. His mother was different, she had always been different. 

She had often fixed his hair, rubbed his cheek, brushed the dust off his clothes.

”You cannot hold such an unkempt appearance as the heir, Damian”

But that wasn’t it, was it? Damian had always been on top of his appearance, he had always been in the best of shape even upon his spars and training. No one would dare comment upon his appearance, yet Talia persisted in touching him, ‘fixing him’, but now, upon his life with the Waynes has he attributed such actions as one of affection. She had been touching him. 

No one had otherwise. 

She had been close when fixing his stance, often her figure enveloping his. She had brushed through his hair more than necessary, she had always found a reason to see him right before he slept. She had tried in all ways but verbal, and sometimes even then. He did not understand. He did not understand why she had been so secretive. Before he had not understood why she did it at all. 

Her affection had made the attention upon him here easier. 

But their hatred of her hadn’t. 

“ You’re not? ” 

He had asked her when she stated she was not good. She did offer an explanation, Talia hardly did. She spoke in statements that left no further room for discussion or questioning. She had only given the minimum of what was needed in the matters of her psyche, of her emotions. Talia had built a wall between her and her son, and there was no chance upon breaking it down. 

“I do not understand.”

He still did not. Damian had tried, truly, to understand where his new family had been coming from, but that was impossible. She was good in all nuances of the word, in all ways it had been defined to him.

She was kind to him, she cared for him, she protected him, she was constantly there, watching over him.

Talia had done more for him than many of the parents of his newly acquired siblings. 

Talia never shied away from him. Talia had never insulted him. Talia had never, yet the Waynes had. 

How could they be considered good, or ‘better’ than his mother? 

He did not understand good or bad yet, but one thing he did understand was that Talia Al Ghul was not ‘bad’, and neither were the parts of him that were hers. 

“Are you loved?”

Damian turned, facing his mother for the first time truly in years. She stood, and now, after their time apart, she hadn’t seemed as strong as before. She wasn’t the impenetrable force that ruled his childhood with an iron fist and a harsher blade. Talia was a woman, a mother, she was human for the first time in years. 

“Are you loved?”

She repeated. Her voice firm, a reminiscence to the childhood so far back in his mind it felt cruel. It was 3 years, mere years, since he had been completely in her care, yet it felt so far away. That wasn’t quite fair. 

“Yes.”

He had answered, stagnant. He was unsure, had that been truly all she wanted. Talia relaxed, he hadn’t even noticed she was tense. She smiled, her hands folded within each other at her front, clasped. She was unarmed. She was unarmed . 

“Why?”

He asked. He did not know exactly what he was asking, but Talia seemed to. 

“Do you hate me?”

She asked, as if it was inevitable, as if the thought of him loving her was holding onto her neck and pulling her to the ground. She did not shake, she did not tremble, she did not cry. Her reactions had long since been beaten out of her, but her expression shifted. A grace given to those she well and truly loved. There were two that fit that category, and one stood before her, confusion and almost hurt within his eyes.

She could always read his eyes. 

“No.”

He answered, bewildered, perhaps, maybe hurt. Ah, pain. Talia hadn’t seen that one in quite some time. She had hurt him. She didn’t mean to. This was for the best. 

This was the life she could not give him. 

This was for the best.

“Why did you leave?”

She did not intend to. It was dangerous. She needed to protect him, to save him. She wanted him to be better, to be good . He was Bruce’s son.

He was hers too .

“It was for the best.”

“Will you ever be honest?”

“I have always been honest.”

“No, you have been secretive. You have hidden. You have been gone .”

Regret, confusion, anger, that was in her baby’s eyes. Her beautiful little boy, expressive and free. Even now, even with this, she believes her choice was for the best.

She was not ‘good’.

“It was too dangerous.”

“On whose account?”

“On mine.”

Her tone was firm, and Damian had been sent back to when he was 7, to when he was 6 or 4 or perhaps further. His mother had always been a brick wall, but now he had gazed upon the cracks and was intent on pressing against them. 

“Unexcusable.”

Talia did not respond, and finally Damian could attribute the look on her face as the same as before. His memories resurfaced, as did his emotions, but this time, he could identify them. The expression was one of pain, a somber merciful pain mixed with love and acceptance. The same as before, repeating. She had not changed, at least, not in her treatment of him. Even now she did not shy away from his gaze, however punishing he had tried to make it. She did not belittle him, she did not ignore him, she did not shut him down. She was quiet. She was listening . 

“You do not get to decide whether I want you in my life. It was not for the best. It will never be for the best.”

She did not falter. She stood still, tanking his words as if they were physical blows, if only, she had partially wished. 

“I only appear to hinder you.”

“You are my mother ”

“A choice in the matter that was not yours to make.”

He is silent, as is she. They stand like that for some time, simply staring, but Talia does not shield away. She does not cement over the cracks. She does not hide her expression, her matching face of anguish. She did not hold regrets, but that was not what Damian wanted to hear. She never could lie to him.

“I do not regret my actions, hayatti. You are loved, you-”

“You loved me first.”

He whispered. His hurt turned to anger, to entitlement. He was owed . 

“You loved me first. Not my father, not Grayson, not the others, not the Titans, not Jon. You.”

He stepped forward. He entered her space, closing the ever distant gap between them. It seemed so small now that he had grown. 

“I do not care for the hatred they hold for you. I do not care whether the traits I share with you harbor that same hatred. You loved me first .”

His voice wavered, the strength leaving it as the hurt took over. This was his mother , this was the one who had raised them. She had granted secret moments of affection, of love, a taste of what he would later receive in the exchange of her. He was better, yes, he was loved, yes, but it was not the same . He was owed. He was owed. He was entitled. 

This was not about the mantle, about the rights of his birth, about the succession. This was about her choice in loving him, her choice in being so different to the rest, of making herself a person who tried for him, sacrificed for him. She had shown him a world he was unfamiliar with and made sure he would survive, that he would thrive . She did not get to leave him behind in a better place, stopping her pace at the gates. 

How could she push him forward to walk alone?

“Not how you needed it.”

She responded, yet the confidence was slipping. Slowly her surety in her conviction withered, dwindling down into the emotion of love and fear, paired in a cruel way that separated them far too long.

“Imme, you do not get to decide that.” (Mom)

He tried. It was his final stance. He did not want , it was unbecoming. All he desired was predetermined, was predestined by the blood line before him, yet now? Now he found himself acting on the principles his brothers had taught. He wanted his mother. He wanted her, regardless of the hatred, the strife, the history. He wished for her to alter his stances, to fix his hair, rub his cheek, brush the dust off his clothes. He craved her lessons, her voice, the color of her eyes. 

He wished to draw her. To envelope his memories into a physical form that would not wither over time. 

He could not bear forgetting her face a second time. 

“Ibn al Xu'ffasch.” (Son of the bat)

She called. 

“La’a.” (No.)

She stepped forward, the space between them mere feet as she kneeled.

“Damian Al Ghul Wayne. My son. My beautiful little boy.” 

She held his cheek, pressing their foreheads together. Her skin felt warm. She was warm. 

They had always called her cold, but how could they when she was like this? 

Damian decided. Grayson could be wrong. Father could be wrong. 

His mother was not horrible, was not bad, was not cold, was not evil. 

Not to him, never to him. 

And that was enough.