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When the time finally came, Talia al Ghul gave birth alone.
She’s 9 months and 2 days along, crossing the border from Iraq into Saudi Arabia when the contractions hit. It’s terrifying, but not unexpected, especially after the physical strain of such a long journey. It comes as more of a shock that it didn’t happen sooner. Nothing about this pregnancy has been easy. She’d spent the last 2 months laying low in Vietnam, and a month before that in Australia. But Riyadh was to be her final destination. She’s familiar enough with the area that she knows she can get in and out quickly.
By the time she reaches the city, she’s having trouble staying upright with each wave of pain that hits her. A hospital is out of the question. That would leave behind records that can be traced back to her, witnesses who could be questioned. Her father is growing suspicious of her long “vacation” – to recover, she told him – and for all she knows, he’s already looking for her. So she grits her teeth, buys the necessary supplies, and checks into a hotel. She gets a judgmental look from the front desk worker for being a heavily pregnant woman checking into a hotel room alone, but he doesn’t complain when she slides an extra few hundred riyals his way. Hopefully it’ll be enough to make him to ignore any cries of pain he hears.
She waddles into her room and locks the door behind her, grabbing towels from the bathroom and laying them down on the bed. Her contractions can’t be more than 15 minutes apart now. She’s progressing quickly. Hopefully that means this will all be over by morning.
She doesn’t get the quick labor she prayed for. The sun rises and sets again while she’s still bearing down and screaming into the pillow she has pressed over her face. It’s messy and painful and Talia is so, so scared. More scared than she thinks she’s ever been in her almost 23 years of life. She spent so much time trying to stay in hiding and trudge through this pregnancy that she hadn’t given much thought to the actual event, much less the added difficulties of doing it alone. Her single year of medical school gave her just enough knowledge to do it safely, but not enough to soothe her fear of complications happening. Some things are unavoidable, unpredictable. Even if she had stayed in school, she wouldn’t have graduated by now. She’s too young.
She’s felt old her entire life, but now she realizes just how young she is. Too young to be having a baby.
But she was too reckless, too in love and too naïve to care. When she found out she was pregnant, she was happy – blissfully so. She had envisioned a beautiful life with her beloved and their child, the kind of life her parents hadn’t been able to give her. Any problems that existed between them wouldn’t matter, not if they loved each other enough. It was a stupid little girl’s fantasy that shattered the moment Bruce shoved her out of the way and jumped into battle to protect his pregnant wife.
She loved Bruce so dearly, wanted a real family so badly, that she was willing to ignore the impossibility of it all. What kind of life could she give a child? One where they’re forced to be the next Demon’s Head? Or one where they watch their parents die in front of them?
It’s been over a decade, and she still has nightmares. In them she’s a child again, hiding from sight while her mother falls into the pit over and over and over. There’s no way she could promise her child wouldn’t experience the same, not as long as she’s an al Ghul. And not as long as her beloved is Batman.
She thinks maybe he would give it up, if it came down to it. But she can’t let Bruce give up being Batman. The world needs him more than she does. And he needs Batman more than he needs her.
If he ever really has needed her.
The labor drags on and her grief turns to anger the more she thinks about her beloved. She was little more than a child when they met, but he wasn’t. He should have known better. He shouldn’t have agreed to marry her or shared all those nights with her under the desert sky. He shouldn’t have ever kissed her to begin with, no matter how much they both wanted it.
That’s one of the only things about them that she’s sure of anymore. Even though he didn’t fight for her in the end, she knows at least at some point, he wanted her.
Just never quite as much as she wanted him.
In the early hours of the morning, when Talia decided to finally stop fighting her pregnancy-induced insomnia, she occupied herself by drawing shapes on her beloved’s bare chest. Her fingers automatically gravitated towards the spot right over his heart. She traced her own name, like an artist signing their work. It was hers, after all. Why should she not claim it?
At some point, she became aware of his breathing changing, his heartbeat speeding up ever so slightly. He was awake but said nothing as she continued to absentmindedly run her fingers up and down. Her beloved wasn’t one for idle chatter, but that was okay, because neither was she. They both preferred to let their actions speak for them. So she laid her head on his chest, right over the spot where she’d been drawing her name, and hoped Bruce would understand what she was trying to say.
When the sun started to peek through the drapes, Talia finally broke the silence.
“I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a month,” she lamented. “If the baby keeps punishing me like this, you may have to start sedating me.”
She felt Bruce’s chuckle vibrate against her cheek.
“None of the baby books I’ve read have a section on how to sedate your pregnant wife.”
It always made her heart stutter in her chest when he called her his wife. Sometimes, when she thought too hard of her wedding day, she could conjure up an image of her beloved’s face – impassive, like he was making a business deal with Ra’s rather than committing to a lifetime with Talia. There were moments when she worried that he viewed their marriage as a temporary alliance that was set to end as soon as Qayin was stopped.
But then he would call her his wife, or talk about bringing her back to Gotham one day, and all her worries would melt away for a little while.
“It’s not funny, Beloved,” she insisted, but she was unable to keep the smile out of her voice. “Our child hasn’t even been born yet and he already hates me.”
Bruce gently turned her onto her side and wrapped his strong arms around her middle, pulling her back flush against his chest. One of his hands rested on her stomach, as usual. Her bump was practically non-existent at that point, but her beloved seemed to believe he could feel it.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You’re the one giving our child life. Even if fetuses could hate, I doubt she would hate you.”
‘She’. Talia referred to their baby as a ‘he’ from the day she found out she was expecting. It wasn’t until another week in that Bruce started to contradict her. Since then, it became somewhat of a competition between the two. She sometimes wondered if he actually wanted a girl, or if he just wanted to be right.
“Maybe he doesn’t hate me yet,” she conceded. “But there’s still time.”
She meant it to be a joke, but her beloved could see right through her as always. She could tell by the way he held her closer and tighter, pressing a soft kiss to her neck.
“Is that what you’re worried about?” he asked.
She sighed, placing her hand over Bruce’s.
“I’ve told you about my mother.”
Bruce just grunted in response, an acknowledgement that he was listening.
“I remember the small things, like what her perfume smelled like, and which lullabies she sang to me. But all the important things... all the time we spent together, I can hardly remember any of it. I remember my mother, but I don’t remember having a mother.”
Bruce was silent for a long time, just gently stroking her stomach.
“And you’re worried you won’t be a good mother because no one taught you how to be one.”
“Something like that,” she admitted.
Bruce hummed.
“Well, I’m not worried at all about what kind of mother you’ll be.”
Talia scoffed at the bluntness of his statement. That was her beloved; never one for meaningless platitudes. He knew that wasn’t something she would accept anyways.
“And why is that?” she asked, turning over to lay on her other side.
They were face to face now, their foreheads pressed together. His arms automatically encircled her waist again to pull her closer. His skin was hot against her chilled body.
“Because no one loves like you do, Talia,” he breathed.
The absolute reverence in his voice knocked the wind out of her.
“But what about –”
“You should try to get some sleep, my love,” he interrupted. “Doing this every night can’t be good for you or the baby.”
She couldn’t help but grin like a lovesick fool. Bruce rarely called her anything but her name. It was only in these quiet moments, when there was no one around to hear besides her, that he would let the occasional “my love” or “darling” slip out. She treasured them in their rarity.
Still, she argued.
“It’s not my fault your son refuses to let me sleep.”
Bruce gave a long-suffering sigh and rubbed her stomach.
“Be kind to your mother, baby girl.”
Another contraction hits her, and she grunts as she pushes with all her waning energy. Her hands ball up into tight fists at her sides. Maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s the exhaustion, but tears start to run down her cheeks. She curses Bruce for doing this to her. She curses herself for letting him.
It must be 30 hours before a loud wail and a great feeling of relief indicate to her that it’s finally over.
She brings the child up to her breast automatically – not out of any maternal instinct that was supposed to awaken by now, but from knowledge she obtained through books. She’s mentally flipping through pages as she cleans the baby off with a towel, trying to coax it into latching. When it does, she grimaces. Breastfeeding is a lot more unpleasant than the books make it sound, she thinks. It’s uncomfortable at best, slightly painful at worst, and it takes far longer than she expected. There’s nothing “beautiful” about it. At least, not to her.
She knows there’s a large mosque around the corner from the hotel. In an hour or two, congregants will start flooding in for Salat Al-Eid, which means Talia doesn’t have much time. She allows herself a quick 30 minute reprieve before she forces her shaky legs off the bed. Her head starts swimming the moment she’s upright. The amount of blood covering the bed is... not insignificant.
The baby – a boy – doesn’t make a sound as she swaddles him in one of the hotel blankets. It takes a few attempts and a lot of squirming before she finally thinks she got it right. She can only vaguely remember the step-by-step instructions from one of the books she read early on in her pregnancy. She would lay against her beloved’s chest while she flipped through the pages, occasionally poking him in the cheek to make sure he was paying attention. He usually wasn’t.
It took two of us to make this baby, she used to tease. We should both know how to care for it.
Talia strips the top-sheet from the bed and rips it in two, using the pieces to create a makeshift sling that she wraps across her chest. The baby makes a small gurgling noise when she nestles him inside but besides that, he stays quiet. By some miracle he doesn’t make a sound while Talia shimmies out the window with him pressed tightly against her, or when she weaves between buildings under the cover of night.
She holds her breath every time she feels him move.
The prayer hall is massive and unusually cold for such a warm morning. She presses the baby’s little head closer to her chest. There’s endless open space where she could set him down and then bolt, but she decides to deposit him on the bottom step of the minbar. The iman should be here soon, and he’s guaranteed to notice a baby on his pulpit. Still, Talia worries. How long will the baby be alone in this cold and empty place? She only fed him once. He’ll probably need to be fed again soon. Is it possible she’s making the wrong decision leaving him here? Maybe she should have gone to a hospital instead. She could have left him in a waiting room and snuck out before anyone even noticed her enter. But her window of time is slim, and it’s far too late now for any regrets.
She carefully lays the baby down, reminding herself once again that this is for the best. For the child and for Bruce.
He stares up at her with wide eyes and an open mouth as she arranges him comfortably and she can’t help but do a double take. Those are her eyes, aren’t they? She hadn’t really looked at the baby before now, because she already accepted that he wasn’t hers. She birthed him, but she’s not his mother. There was no point in looking for pieces of herself in his face. Now she’s forced to acknowledge that the baby’s eyes are the same almond shape and shade of green as her own. His nose looks like hers too – at least, she thinks it does. It’s hard to tell when it’s still so impossibly tiny. But the shape of his face and his chin, even as a newborn, is unmistakably Bruce.
Her throat tightens. He’s beautiful; the kind of baby people spend their entire lives praying for. She’s sure that wherever he goes, he’ll be well loved. That’s all she could ask for.
When she finally finishes adjusting the baby and pulls her hands away, she hears a little whimper. Then another one, louder this time. The baby’s face is starting to scrunch up and turn red and Talia feels panic rising within her chest because she knows what’s about to happen. She kneels next to the baby, her hands hovering over him uselessly. She doesn’t want to pick him up – doesn’t feel like she’s allowed – but she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to quiet him down otherwise. She doesn’t even know why he’s crying. Should she know why he’s crying? Do actual mothers have some latent instinct in them that tells them what to do?
“No no no no,” she whispers frantically. “Please don’t cry.”
Of course, he starts wailing. It’s loud and sharp and Talia freezes. She knows she needs to leave soon before she’s caught, but it feels cruel to leave him while he’s crying his little lungs out. So, she reluctantly picks him up. Just for a minute, she tells herself. Just until he calms down. The way she holds him feels clumsy and unnatural because she’s never even held a baby before, and she just knows he must be uncomfortable because he won’t stop crying.
She rocks him back and forth in a stiff-armed hold, near tears herself. She just wants him to be quiet. But he doesn’t stop. If anything, his cries only get louder the longer she tries to comfort him. It’s as if he knows something isn’t right. He knows he’s being abandoned.
Because that’s what Talia is doing, isn’t she? She’s abandoning her baby like her own mother before her, except worse. At least her mother didn’t leave her intentionally. She didn’t have a choice in the matter. Talia made her choice months ago in that hospital bed when she told Bruce she miscarried. She thought she made the right decision. It was for the greater good. So why does it make her feel like the most wretched person in the world?
Don’t be selfish, she reminds herself. This isn’t about you.
Just for once, she wishes she could be selfish.
A droplet of water drips onto the baby’s head seemingly out of nowhere. Talia brushes her fingers across her own cheek and is startled to realize she’s been crying. And she can’t stop. She thought this would be easier. After months of telling herself that she was just an incubator for this baby, she was almost starting to believe it. But the realization that this will be the last time she ever holds him, the last time she’ll ever see his eyes, so much like her own... it makes her feel hollow inside. Like someone stuck their hand through her ribcage and ripped her heart out. She hasn’t felt this empty since the day she lost her mother.
Because now she can finally admit that she does want this baby. She wants him more than she’s ever wanted anything in her entire life. More than she wanted Bruce, more than she wanted Qayin dead, more than she wants peace on Earth. She would give up everything for this baby.
And that’s why she can’t keep him. People like her and Bruce can’t afford to make selfish decisions for the sake of their own happiness.
It’s like her father always told her. Atlas does not smile.
“You have to understand,” she begs through her tears. “I can’t be a mother.”
He doesn’t understand, of course. Maybe he’ll never understand why she left him. All she can do is hold him closer to her chest and hope that he won’t grow up believing any of this was his fault. The guilt will always be her own, and she’s sure she’ll carry it for the rest of her life.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so, so sorry.”
She sets him down before she can talk herself out of it and starts backing away. He’s still screaming and flailing as she turns around and rushes to the exit. She needs to escape before anyone hears his cries and comes to investigate before the morning prayer.
Whether it be the iman or a passerby, she hopes he’ll be found soon. It kills her to think about him in that cold prayer hall, scared and alone. All because of her.
She keeps her hood up as she walks in the opposite direction of the mosque. The sun has risen and the streets are slowly starting to fill up. Nobody pays her any mind, holding their prayer mats and chatting amongst themselves. It’s Eid and the excitement in the air is so thick it’s choking her. She has to dart into an alleyway to catch her breath.
Tomorrow, she’ll go home to her father and tell him she had a relaxing vacation. She’ll claim she’s forgotten all about Bruce Wayne and her unfortunate miscarriage. He might believe her, he might not, but he’ll accept her back with open arms, nonetheless.
But today, she presses her back against the alley wall and bites her fist to muffle her sobs.
Her father’s disapproving voice rings in her head. Compose yourself, he scolds her. You’re not a child anymore.
She hasn’t felt like a child since the day she saw her mother’s murder, maybe not even before then. But that baby, whose name she will never know, he will have a childhood. He’ll live a safe, anonymous life with two normal parents. He won’t be burdened by his mother’s legacy. Or his father’s.
She repeats this to herself, over and over, until she knows it’s too late to go back for him.
They didn’t really discuss her pregnancy outside of the present – what symptoms she was having, what foods she could and couldn’t eat, all the same things she discussed with her physician. Neither she nor her beloved spoke much of the future, when they would go from being expecting parents to actual parents. It was always something to talk about later when they weren’t busy tracking Qayin.
Until one day when Talia woke up with a nasty bout of morning sickness. Bruce sat next to her on the bathroom floor, holding her hair back while she dry-heaved over the toilet. After an hour of hacking, she accepted that she wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. And so, it seemed, did Bruce. She laid back on his chest between bouts of nausea, closing her eyes and trying to rally her strength.
They sat in silence for a long time, even after her stomach started to settle. She wasn’t sure she could walk back to their bed yet without falling over.
“Have you thought any more about names?” Bruce asked, unprompted.
Talia tilted her head up at him, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought we already decided.”
“I’d love to name them after my parents,” he assured her. “But only if you want to.”
‘I do want to’, she almost said, but bit her tongue. The names Thomas and Martha were… fine. A little too American for her taste, but fine. She supposed she could have suggested the name Melisande, for her own mother, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t know what she wanted.
Having children wasn’t a thought she ever entertained until she met her beloved. Even then, it had been in the most abstract sense. A fun little daydream. Her daydreams had never gotten this far.
All she knew was that she wanted her child’s name to mean something, and not just because it belonged to someone else.
She thought of all the books she had stolen from her father’s library over the years. When she was young, she was fascinated with his extensive collection of Greek myths. Ra’s al Ghul believed in no gods, but Talia sometimes liked to think they could be real. Maybe winters in the mountains were so harsh because Demeter missed her daughter, and maybe the Persian Gulf was so tempestuous because some sailors had incurred Poseidon’s wrath. But Talia liked the minor goddesses most of all. The ones no one would think to worship anymore. She could empathize with living in the shadow of someone far more powerful than herself.
She was especially drawn to the nature goddesses. Like Auxesia, the goddess of spring growth. Or Damia, the goddess of fertile earth.
She was sure she was having a boy. Auxesia was out of the question, along with Demeter and Persephone and most nature goddesses she could think of. But Damia… she could masculinize that, right?
“Well... I have a few ideas...”