Talia Āl Ghūl

- @yasmina-todd-retireddeadgirl (// a transfem!Jason Todd blog :D)

Greetings, Yasmina.

-@theorist-of-conspiracy

No offense taken. Being cautious is a healthy instinct. I would be disappointed if you weren’t a little nervous.

You need not be afraid. I did not find you, I noticed you; there is a difference. If you’re very good, I might share a conspiracy with you.

Do you ever feel watched in Gotham? You should trust that feeling.

Hello, Rose.

Thank you. I appreciate the welcome. That was kind of you. Kindness is often underestimated in people like us.

@verdant-star

Some habits die hard, Oliver. Curiosity, among them. It was hardly difficult.

My father persists, as history does—and has developed a sudden interest in holiday traditions.

I.. who knows with him, honestly? It could be a genuine gift, it could be an ever-looming threat and reminder that he's always around, and there's a possibility that one of us opens a gift and we get swarmed with assassins. Hard to say.

Let us hope goodwill prevails over theatrics. We can call it seasonal diplomacy.

@verdant-star

Some habits die hard, Oliver. Curiosity, among them. It was hardly difficult.

My father persists, as history does—and has developed a sudden interest in holiday traditions.

??? NOBODY SAW ME WITH THE BABY BUMP

TALIA HAD THE BUMP.

…

I’m low key scared I hope it’s not a Damian 2.0

If you’re offering protection I hope you’re prepared for the work. I get pretty hectic to deal with.

I would tolerate it well. I think we make a great team.

@clawsoffury

It's about Lian. I'm taking her with me on a job, it's an easy one because i want to keep her safe.

I'm torn between keeping her safe and trusting her skill. I know she's absolutely capable but the fear of losing her makes me want to be overprotective. But every time i try to keep her out of danger she's not happy about it, and i know it's because she thinks I don't have faith in her.

It is simply the tax we pay for loving a child. Lian’s unhappiness isn’t about rebellion; it is about wanting you to see her as she sees herself. And she deserves that. I know that torment well. My Damian was made to conquer the world at ten, and I still wanted to hold him behind my cloak. What I learned—painfully—is that smothering them out of fear only teaches them to hide their growth.

I'll see how our job together goes and decided what to do from there.

I know Roy won't be happy if i loosen the leash but she isn't little anymore and i want to give her trust.

Talia lingers at the edge of the balcony, her gaze fixed on the city sprawled beneath her. The night air carries the weight of an impending storm, thick with the scent of rain, the low murmur of traffic weaving through the silence like a distant pulse. She does not turn—not yet.

"Fate has an interesting way of bringing people together, wouldn’t you agree?"

Her voice is smooth, somewhere between intrigue and amusement. Only then does she shift, just enough to glance over her shoulder, dark eyes glinting with something unreadable.

She dosen’t shift under her mother's gaze, instead offering a reluctant smile.

"Intent, mostly. I have a few things to tell you, but first... How are you? It's been a while." She speaks with the easy confidence of any child born to Talia and Bruce.

Her eyes flicker downward, briefly, to the bracelet, the shift in her jaw—small tells, quietly revealing. She notes them but does not speak on them. Not yet.

“You have grown.” A pause, before she finally regards her daughter. “You carry yourself well. Your father must be pleased.”

A child of two worlds, yet one who walks Gotham’s shadows. Choice always demands a price. And distance.

"It has been some time. Though, I cannot say I am surprised. Your father’s path has never left much room for closeness. Still, you are here now, and that is enough."

Distance is inevitable, not insurmountable.

Separation is a certainty, not an impossibility to bridge.

“I am as well as one can be in our world.” Her expression softens, eyes searching, “And you, my daughter—what weight do you carry that has led you back to me?”

She sounds a little bitter about the 'for now' part. She stops messing with her bracelet and takes a measured breath.

Her shoulders relax just a little, as if she's letting go of some unseen burden. "I'm glad you're well. I guess there's two things..."

She takes a moment to figure out how to explain things. This is her mother. She knows if she were in danger, it would have already happened.

But sometimes explaining the hard choices one makes feels insurmountable.

"I adopted a baby last month. It's a whole story, really, but I wanted you to know. If you want to be in his life, I'd love that, but if you don't or can't, that's okay... I'm also going to retire from being a cape next year if that changes your decision."

She speaks of her baby with the fierce pride that mothers have. Warm and soft and made from the same steel of her own parents. She sounds far less proud of the retiring part, but there is a conviction in her voice she learned from Alfred.

"A child."

A mother’s love is an unshakable thing—this, she knows well. And yet, it is one thing to be a daughter, another to be a mother.

The words taste unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome.

"You never fail to surprise me."

"Retirement is a curious word to hear from you. Conviction suits you."

Talia studies Ivy as she once studied her father—searching for any waver in her resolve, any trace of hesitation.

There is none.

She steps forward, reaching, not hesitantly—carefully, brushing her fingers over her daughter’s bracelet.

"You are certain of this path? Then walk it without hesitation. That is all I ask."

Her fingers twitch, an old habit, a fleeting thought of what it means to carry new life. She remembers feeling of small hands in her own, the fragile might of a child who would one day carry the world on their shoulders.

The thought threads itself into something deeper.

A breath, softer now, edged with something almost indulgent. She cannot quite suppress the fond amusement that curls at the edges of her voice.

"And I suppose I must hear the story behind this grandson of mine."

"I will." She says, certain in her choices and path.

She knows this choice of hers will distance her further from many in her family, but the trade-off for her own health and for her son is more than worth it

The moment she's prompted to talk about her son, she recalls the night she first saw him. The way his small fists curled around her fingers.

"Well, it's was such a weird situation. I woke up to someone banging on my front door and found a baby outside like in the movies. I saw him, and I just- I just knew I would do anything for him. Jay is perfect, mom."

She means it too. It's- terrifying how far she knows she will go for her son, but she wouldn't change it either.

She's always held unconditional love for her family. She thought she knew how deeply she loves. Loving her son, though, is... different. More, somehow.

She gives a softer smile, a little bitter.

She has learned this, long ago. It is not something passed down in stories or instruction. It is something felt—bone-deep, inescapable. The moment a child is placed in your arms, the world shifts. Everything else becomes secondary.

"You say you do not know how I did it. But look at you. You already are. You speak of him as if he is yours in blood and bond. That is what matters."

The instinct to protect, to shape a future worth surviving, that is what defines a mother. Talia has never needed to be taught this—it was simply truth, one she carried as easily as her own name. And now, her daughter carries it too.

"It is no small thing, raising a son. I would know."

Her lips press together briefly, a flicker of memory stirring at the back of her mind.

"Your grandfather always said it was better to have me than a son. I was much calmer, much gentler than your uncle."

And yet, even that had not been enough to ease his longing. There was always something missing, something unfulfilled. No amount of loyalty or skill could truly erase the absence of the son he had wished for.

Talia had never doubted her place. She had never questioned the love she was given or the path she had been expected to walk. It was only later—when she held her own child, when she knew what it was to love without condition—that she understood the depths of what had been denied.

"It is terrifying, is it not? To love so wholly, so irrevocably. To know you would burn the world for them without hesitation."

She had felt it before. She had lived it. It had shaped her into who she was. And now, it had shaped her daughter as well.

Her thoughts drift, briefly, to Damian—to the fire in his eyes, the sharpness of his mind, the way he had never been meant for Gotham, and yet, had made it his own. To the knowledge that if she had ever been forced to choose between him and the world, the choice would have been simple. That it still would be.

"When I held you for the first time, I knew. There was no room for doubt, no space for regret. You understand that now."

She breathes in slowly, watching the way her daughter speaks of her son—with the kind of love that does not falter, that does not break. A love she has known all too well.

"Love has always come easily to you. It changes you, in ways you do not even realise. You will do anything for him. I have no doubt of that."

There is nothing more to say. No warnings to give. She does not need to tell her daughter what this path will demand of her. She already knows. She has already chosen.

She thinks her mother is probably right. Motherhood seems to be ingrained into her deeply enough that she loves her son with the same unyielding strength she's seen in her own mother.

"It's still terrifying... He's just so small. If this is how you feel for Damian and I- thank you. For all of it..." She says, voice softening in her gratitude.

She shifts her weight again, settling more whole into standing.

"I'm so excited to watch Jay grow into himself... It's why I'm retiring. Honestly, I think I'd go back to the league if it would make him safe and happy." She admits this with little guilt.

For all that Bruce taught her his code of ethics, she has her own look on things shaped from her time spent as her brother's guard in the league of Assassins. Her time as Damian's guard taught her so much, she's never regretted it.

Besides, it let her meet her mother. Even with all the distance and clashing views on their personal goals, Ivy has always loved her mother. She's known she's safe at Talia's side, that she's allowed to be herself. She hopes to give that to Jay the way it was given to her.

"Would you like to meet him?" She asks finally.

She understands. More than that, she recognises the truth in it. "Sacrifice is easy when it is for the ones we love. Protection is not only the act of shielding."

Another lesson learned through the years. Through distance, through time, through the ache of knowing that love alone cannot hold someone in place. The words are not unkind. If anything, there is something fond in the observation. Then, softer still. she says—“The League will always welcome you with open arms. You and your son will be safe there, should you ever need refuge. Your grandfather does indeed miss you.” The League has been many things—sanctuary, prison, home. For all its flaws, it has always been hers to return to. That choice has not been taken from her. It never will be.

Despite everything, Ivy is here. She is happy. And that, Talia knows, is what matters most. She looks at her daughter. The question gives her pause—not for second thought—for what it means. "Of course."

A quiet exhale. A faint curve of her lips.

Ivy listens, finally starting to understand some of the things she's been told both today and in the past.

She knows she is welcome in the league. She also knows she isn't made for it. She isn't made for a cape, either all honesty. Her calling is something different, even if she could potentially do either of the previously mentioned.

She thinks her mother is right about the difference between protecting and surrendering. There is a difference, though it's hard to see in the moment sometimes.

She's lost all her nerves now, a pride only found in motherhood soaks into her being. She feels silly now for thinking this could have gone badly. She's speaking to the woman who taught her what maternal love is.

She remembers her own silences, the unspoken gaps between her and Ra’s. Love, even when it is certain, does not always translate to closeness. There is no shame in that. She wonders if Ivy feels that same pull—of loyalty without comfort, of a love that demands more than it gives.

Still, Talia does not push. She has long since learned when to let her children come to their own conclusions. There are wounds that time does not mend, that even love does not soothe. Ra’s is not an easy man to love. That is something she has always understood—long before she had a daughter of her own. Long before she had to watch her own children traverse the tangled lines of loyalty and expectation he weaves so effortlessly. It is not so different from how she once stood before her own father, a lifetime ago, when she first began to understand what it meant to hold life in her hands. Ivy’s path is not hers, not Bruce’s, not Ra’s’. It is one of her own making, and that is all a mother has ever wanted for her children. There is strength in it, a strength far different from the kind the League would ever ask of her. Perhaps, that is why she smiles. She allows herself a moment to take it in. To see what her daughter has become—not a soldier, not an heir, but a mother. And a mother who is willing to fight, as Talia has always fought. "You are your own," Then, more gently, "You will always be mine as well."

She hopes Ivy knows she will always have her. Something warm settles beneath her ribs. Her daughter speaks of things Talia once feared she would never hear. Not duty. Not war.

It's easier to deal with knowing that her mother does not demand more than she gives. Her mother's love has never had claws and teeth aimed at her, not as far as Ivy is concerned.

She nods. Of course, she is her mother's. "I know I am."

She dosen’t mind being Talia's, there is no fear in it, only comfort. As dangerous as the woman is, and was taught to be, there is no need for hesitation in belonging to or with Talia.

Her smile grows warmer still at her mother's agreement. "I'll be right back then."

She leaves again, going to get her son. She is gone for seven minutes.

While she is returning, she is left wondering yet again how someone's so small can have such a sway over her.

Ivy returns to her mother after the seven minutes, holding a six month old baby boy that wears a onesie in the same shade of green associated with the Al Ghul name. The boy has wild wispy blond hair and holds a rattle. (The same rattle Talia gave her own daughters all those years ago.)

"Mom, this is Jason, Jay for short. Jay, this is your grandmother." She introduces as he proudly holds her son so her mother can see him.

"You are bold," she tells him, as small fingers wrap around her own. "Good. The world does not grant peace to the hesitant."

She gave her son the rattle for similar reasons as her mother did, but she also did it, so he might grow up with a claim to both sides of his family.

"Thank you." She says when Talia praises her. A warmth she's come to associate with motherhood blossoms in her heart.

She thinks the name 'little falcon ' fitting, a symmetry between both of her old paths.

Jay grins up at his grandmother, shaking the rattle at her as if trying to convey something important. He has yet to learn what caution is or that he could ever need it.

The boy squeezes her fingers again, tugging lightly.

"I think he wants you to hold him, if you're willing." Ivy says, warmth in her tone.

It is obvious to anyone with eyes but especially those who know her well, that she has finally found her peace. That the family she's created and her choice to retire the cape have agreed with her even if she hasn't quite retired just yet.

She holds her son so that if Talia wants to hold him, she can.

It's strange how hands that were trained for violence and bloodshed can be so gentle. But for all that motherhood has softened some of her edges, there is no doubt that she is still dangerous. (Perhaps more dangerous because she has more to lose.)

The warmth in Ivy's expression makes her something both softer and sharper at once.

The pieces are already there, laid bare in the choices her daughter has made. A name is never just a name. A gift is never just a gift.

"A fortunate number, then. The number of transformation, of cycles that begin anew."

She does not miss the symmetry.

Jay shakes the rattle at her, bright-eyed and insistent, as if urging her to listen. Unafraid, unaware of the blood in his veins.

"He will not be easy to contain..."

It is a quiet kind of power, this act of tying past to present, of choosing what to carry forward.

Talia watches him, and for a moment, she remembers another child—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, relentless in his own way. He had not yet learned patience then, but neither had she.

She has been many things in her life—warrior, leader, daughter—but above all, she has been a mother. That does not change.

She does not need to be asked twice. When she reaches for him, it is with the same steady hands that once cradled his mother.

She takes him without ceremony, hands practiced and steady. He is so small in her arms, but that will not last. Children grow, and Talia has always known how quickly the years pass.

The quiet weight of him, the small warmth pressed against her.....

She laughs a little, "I don't want to contain him, only nurture."

She feels no desire to control or contain. She wasn't contained, and it was that choice that let her find her own strength.

Ivy lets her heart swell when Talia takes Jay. The image of her mother holding the boy is fulfilling in a way she can't quite explain. Though she is a woman aware of the dangers in the world, she does not fear for her son now, not when it is Talia holding him.

Jay babbles up at his grandmother with a gummy smile. He is small, but he seems to recognize the older woman as important to him.

He giggles, the sound one only a baby can make. His laughter comes at the statement that he is loved. He is not yet old enough to understand that there is anything else in the world.

"You should see him with Damian. They share no blood, and yet they both pout the same. The way their brows furrow is uncannily identical."

Ivy will always have the soft spot in her heart for her family, especially for Damian. She can't express how precious it is that her son and her brother make the same face. It joins some of the best parts of her life in something as simple as a furrow of brows.

“Containment only breeds rebellion,” she says. “You learned that early.” She remembers, vividly, the child who would not bend even when the world demanded it. Nurture, not imprisonment—something she wishes she herself had been given.

The idea of control drifts through her thoughts like smoke. Talia considers how she once clung to discipline like armour, mistaking rigidity for safety. Ivy grew beyond that. “Freedom reveals the true self,” she murmurs. “And you have given him that gift.”

She sees Ivy as she once was: a small figure with fierce eyes who demanded truth even from adults who feared offering it. Talia lets that memory rise. “Strength grows best in open air,” she says gently, as if speaking to that memory. The sight of Ivy’s heart unfolding as she hands Jay over is almost disarming. Jay’s soundless trust, the uninhibited way he reaches toward her, dislodges a quiet ache. Such unguarded affection is rare in her life—rarer still without conditions or fear. She lets it wash over her, a kind of purity she once believed she was unworthy of. “He understands more than he speaks,” she muses. “Children always do.”

His giggles—innocent, unburdened—rustle old memories of a much younger Damian, laughter hidden beneath layers of training and expectation. She can picture it clearly—two small scowls, identical in their stubborn tilt. “They mirror each other because their spirits align,” she replies. “Blood is irrelevant to that kind of bond.” Talia hums. “He will grow faster than you expect. Every moment you stand beside him becomes part of what carries him forward. Let him be small while he is. The world will demand his strength soon enough.

Jay just giggles again, waving his rattle without regard for the words. He is too young to understand all of the words, but he is having a good time.

"I'm learning that, watching him discover the world every day is exciting," Ivy says simply. "I'm excited to see him get to discover California when we move.*

It is an obvious choice, to move out of Gotham. She will always belong to the city, she lived and died there after all, but she is not going to condemn her son to being raised within a city that has such dangerous things it is mundane. She can't raise her son here.

She mourns the city, but to be raised in Gotham under the Wayne name and the Bat's legacy is.... trying. It is her father's civilian name that lead to her death, and she doesn't want her son carrying the burden of a cape if he doesn't have to.

"I'll have to get the pictures of Damian and Jay to you later. Damian has taken to being an uncle pretty well," Ivy muses fondly.

Jay perks up at his uncles name, smiling that gummy smile of before. "Dama?"

Survival was once the only future she could imagine for her children. Anything beyond that always felt like temptation. She thinks of other rooms, other children held with the same care, the same whispered promise that the world would not take them yet. She thinks of how rarely such promises are kept.

There is a time in every mother’s life when survival stops being the measure of success. She feels that threshold now. There is a moment—brief, almost dangerous—where she allows herself to believe this was always possible. That survival did not have to be the highest ambition. Ivy’s smile holds something earned, not borrowed, and it reminds Talia of nights spent counting breaths beside cradles, wondering if morning would arrive intact. Hope was once a discipline. Now it is allowed to be instinct.

Gotham’s grief is familiar. It takes more than it gives, and it remembers names longer than faces. It is a complicated thing. Gotham gave her purpose and took payment in blood. It crowned her children with symbols they never asked to wear. Bruce’s name—his inheritance—became a target long before the cowl ever did. The Wayne legacy is heavy even in daylight. A child should not inherit war simply because their parents survived one.

Damian becoming an uncle feels inevitable in retrospect. He was always observant, always protective. To know he has learned gentleness feels like vindication. Family does that. It changes the rules without asking permission.

California. The word carries sunlight, distance, a deliberate severing from shadow. She understands the choice without needing it explained. Gotham teaches its children vigilance before wonder. Distance from Gotham is not abandonment—it is mercy. She once mistook endurance for destiny. She will not ask her daughter to repeat that error. But, California represents absence as much as promise.

“California,” she repeats. “A clean horizon."

There is no accusation in it. Only care.

"I only wish to know that you are not leaving a part of yourself behind that you will later miss. Are you certain it will bring you peace, jaan?"

“If it is what you choose, then it is the right choice. Once you trade Gotham for the coast, you may find it difficult to miss the sirens and the constant expectation of sacrifice."

She smiles at Ivy, unmistakably proud.