#scribblesfromthelair

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Richard never thinks of Talia as his mother—not once. The thought is so distant, so outlandish, that the mere suggestion of it feels laughable. And yet, despite himself, he does.

It’s his first birthday without his parents. The day feels stretched thin, heavy with absence and grief. Almost a year has passed since their loss, and Bruce, restless and uncomfortable in his own skin, becomes insufferable in Talia’s shadow. Still, she lends a hand to Alfred in preparing the celebration – a small kindness.

This is supposed to be his special day, though it hardly feels that way. He is the centre of attention—regretfully so—later that evening, when Gotham’s socialites close in on him, their chatter grating and their hands insistent, pinching his cheeks, as though he were a doll to admire. Across the room, Bruce plays the perfect host, leaving Richard stranded.

Stranded, but not alone. Talia stands beside him.

He hears it then—a whisper, faint yet cutting, from one of the women behind a champagne flute: “That must be his mother, then.”

His face tightens, a sharp protest forming on his lips. He is ready to snap, to declare with all the certainty of a child scorned, “She is not my mother—”

Talia speaks first. “I am not,” she says.

Her voice is steady. Her smile is gentle and deliberate.

“–but I would be proud to be the mother of a boy like him.”

For a moment, her gaze lingers on him, and in that moment, she sees herself reflected back—a child manoeuvring through dens of serpents, learning to navigate their venom – to survive.

The memory imprints itself on him.

The next time he finds himself drowning in the relentless tide of Gotham’s elite, their questions and attention pressing down like a suffocating weight, he doesn’t hesitate. He grits his teeth, gathers his courage, and with a breath, he yells across the room:

“Mom!”

The word cuts through the noise, sharp and deliberate, turning heads and silencing whispers.

Talia answers without hesitation.

Jason knows Talia before he ever knows Batman. She is a familiar figure in the shadows of Crime Alley. Her presence is peculiar—so starkly out of place in that world of grime and despair, grace amidst its squalor—yet she extends a kindness he doesn’t question. She buys him a meal once, and clothes another time.

Unlike Dick, Jason doesn’t wrestle with the notion of another maternal figure in his life, at least not for long. He doesn’t need words to accept her; the connection forms in the quiet spaces between them.

When he rises from the Pit—shattered, unmoored, consumed by anger—hers is the first face he sees. Her arms encircle him without hesitation, anchoring his trembling frame. His voice is a whisper, hoarse and broken: “Mother.” She holds him tighter, voice softening, as if caressing his fractured soul. “My son,”  is all she murmurs.

In the time that follows, Jason is never far from her side. He clings to her presence as though it might hold him together, trailing her like a shadow through the winding halls of the League’s base. He lingers at the training grounds, watching Damian’s lessons as if tethering himself to her and his younger brother will mend the jagged pieces within him.

At night, he and Damian slip into her bed, wordlessly demanding the comfort of her presence. She humours them, weaving stories or singing lullabies until they drift to sleep. 

Sometimes, even Ra’s joins them. These moments become their solace, a reprieve from the chaos of their worlds.

Years later, when Jason graduates from Metropolis University, he spots her in the crowd. To anyone who will listen, she declares, “That’s my boy.”

At family dinners, when Jason speaks through a mouthful of food, Talia scolds him. His only reply is a long, drawn-out protest, tinged with fondness: “Ma.”

She is nothing like Catherine or Sheila—neither in temperament nor in presence—but to Jason, it matters not. She is his mother in the ways that truly count, and that is enough.

Tim Drake is the son of Janet Drake. Once, Talia had crossed paths with his mother, briefly and inconsequentially, moving in the same polished circles of Gotham’s elite. It was a fleeting overlap, ending the day Talia left Gotham and its hollow grandeur behind. Tim, even as a boy, was curious—keen-eyed and observant—traits she had noted from a distance.

As the third Robin, Tim has never thought of Talia as a mother. Not because of animosity, but because their lives have rarely intersected. Her father, the Demon’s Head, may be an eccentric sort of grandfather to Bruce’s expanding family of wards.

Talia, however…?

It happens, though, on one unremarkable day, that Tim Drake finds himself in the custody of the League of Assassins. He has exhausted his repertoire of excuses, each one less believable than the last. In truth, he really should consider drafting new ones if he plans to keep infiltrating League strongholds.

He doesn’t need another lecture on Workplace Safety. Nor on the Art of Reconnaissance. Certainly not on the Principles of Stealth. He has heard them all before — and could probably teach the lessons himself, at this point.

Tim Drake, however, is resourceful. Ingenious. When one approach fails, he adapts. And so, he thinks. He recalls how the shadows of Crime Alley seem to recoil when Red Hood’s mother walks through its desolate streets. There’s an unspoken reverence there, an instinctive fear.

Perhaps, he can channel that.

“My mother will be extremely displeased by this,” he announces, his voice steady with the confidence of someone who knows how to bluff. “I suggest you put me down at once.”

The assassins, cloaked in their dark robes, offer no response. Their expressions, hidden behind layers of fabric and discipline, are impossible to read. Tim isn’t sure if they are ignoring him or simply unmoved.

Undeterred, he escalates. The next few moments are filled with increasingly dramatic threats about the consequences of holding him. Dire consequences, he insists. Yet the Head’s throne remains unoccupied, and the only figure moving through the quiet, menacing halls is Talia herself.

This is ridiculous, Tim thinks. It’s a desperate gamble, one destined to fail. At least Ra’s isn’t present to witness this debacle—that, at least, spares him one humiliation.

He hesitates, takes a breath, and then drops to his knees with all the exaggerated sorrow he can muster. He tilts his head upward, letting his expression shift into something fragile, almost pitiful. The moment stretches unbearably before he forces out a single, hesitant word:

“—Mom?”

There’s a pause, heavy and uncertain. Talia’s expression flickers—amusement, disbelief, perhaps both—and then she almost laughs. The sound is soft, unexpected, and even the guards falter at its rarity. She straightens, her voice steady as she speaks.

“Child.”

It’s not a rebuke, nor an affirmation. Just one word, delivered with an authority that leaves no room for argument. And it works.

The guards release him, and Tim stumbles free, a mix of relief and bewilderment washing over him. His ridiculous, last-ditch effort had succeeded.

A small, triumphant smile tugs at his lips. 

Dick Grayson would be proud.

The Weapon knows the woman as the daughter of her father’s master. The Daughter of the Demon. But the boy—another weapon, like her, wasn’t he?—calls her Mother. The little boy does, too.

Mother. Mom. Ma’. Ummi. The boys use a variety of names. At first, it’s bewildering. She doesn’t understand why or how the words differ, or what significance they hold. But slowly, patiently, she learns. She begins to understand what names are—what they mean. And one day, tentatively, she calls her that, too.

Talia greets it with a gentle smile, a quiet acceptance that feels as steady as the earth beneath her. Each time the girl steps out of her shadows to trail them through the grand halls of the Palace, Talia meets her with the same warmth. Each time, she draws the girl closer with gestures that speak louder than any words could.

With Talia, she begins to unlearn the singular language of Death that has defined her life. She learns new ways to exist. She sits still as Talia braids her hair, fingers deft and calm. She watches how the woman wields a blade – as if the weapon were an extension of herself.

In return, Talia trims her uneven locks with care, and matches her strike for strike in the training grounds.

Her name is Cassandra Cain, and she is the daughter of David Cain. That is what Jason says, and Jason is rarely wrong. Yet, not long after she encounters the Bat of Gotham, Jason tells her something new. Batman, Jason says, is his dad.

Cassandra thinks about this—about names, about connections—and she decides. She has a Father, a Mom, a Dad, and a Mother now.

And she has brothers, too. Jason and Damian, as fierce as they are fragile, who look to her as much as they look to her protectively. She is their older sister, after all.

Contrary to popular belief—or, rather, as Gotham’s intrusive media likes to suggest—Stephanie Brown is not Bruce Wayne’s daughter. She has a perfectly capable mother and a father – villainous, though –  he may be.

The connection between Talia al Ghul and Stephanie is tenuous at best. Beyond the shared reality of their fathers as frequent adversaries to the Bat, and their unexpected alignment with his mission, they seem worlds apart. 

Yet, there are two unlikely threads that bind them: a mutual appreciation for combat and an unlikely love for waffles.

This peculiar common ground has grown into a ritual, one partly born of Cassandra’s boundless enthusiasm for uniting her two favourite people. Every time Talia visits Gotham, they observe "Waffle Day." Different diners, different flavours, but always the two of them, sitting across from one another in a quiet corner.

At first, Stephanie participates out of politeness, persuaded by Cassandra’s infectious excitement. Yet, over time, she begins to anticipate it, drawn in by Talia’s genuine joy in the simple tradition. Talia’s demeanour surprises her—unexpectedly happy, in those moments.

It is an odd juxtaposition: the formidable Daughter of the Demon savouring syrup-drenched bites, warmth disarming.

Talia is nothing like the woman Stephanie once imagined her to be.

So, on those days when Bruce becomes insufferable, as he is prone to do, Stephanie finds herself reaching for a name she never thought she’d use so naturally – to toss the name ‘mother’ in Talia’s direction.

“Whatever, B. Talia was always my favourite parent, anyway ,” she quips, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair.

The comment halts Bruce mid-sentence. He stares at her, his train of thought completely derailed, while Stephanie revels in his rare moment of speechlessness.

She never expected it to work so well—and she’s not entirely sure why it does.

Duke Thomas can’t quite understand why everyone refers to the mildly (well, maybe more than mildly – seriously terrifying?) intimidating assassin lady as ‘mom’. It’s a curious thing – it feels like one of those unwritten rules, a secret initiation he missed. By now, he’s too frightened to ask, the confusion only growing with each passing day.

What he does know is this: she’s Damian’s mother. That much is indisputable. And, from what he’s observed, she might as well be Jason’s, too. That’s obvious, written in the way they interact – in the subtle authority she exudes when she’s near them. 

There’s a certain logic to it. 

If he’s already calling Bruce ‘dad’, whether in jest or sincerity, why not extend the title to her? 

Over time, he sees it—the steadiness of her presence, the quiet strength (a grounded resilience that feels maternal in its own right) she lends in crises. Whether on patrol or in moments of chaos – she is there.

Duke watches and learns,  even if he still can’t quite reconcile it with the notion of her being ‘mom’.

And one day, without thinking, he calls her “Mom.” It slips out casually, but when she doesn’t correct him, something in him settles.

Barbara Gordon never calls Talia ‘mother’, not once. 

It isn’t out of resistance or pride, but rather because their connection exists outside titles or familial ties. For Barbara, Talia has always been a constant presence in her most defining moments.

When Barbara was Batgirl—when she had her legs, her agency, her life intact— it was Talia’s shadow that sometimes loomed just out of sight.

Everything changed the day Barbara lost her legs, the day everything she had known about herself, her identity, and her strength was taken in an instant.

It was a brutal moment, one that shattered her in ways she had never expected. Then, Talia returned, not with pity, nor empty words of comfort – but, as a lifeline in her reawakening.

When Barbara found her strength again, rebuilding, rebuilt herself from the rubble of what she thought was lost – Talia knew the soundless might required to rise from the depths of despair.

And so, while Barbara never calls her ‘mother’, she understands, as only the Oracle can, that Talia's role in her life is beyond words. 

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while the results of the poll are far from out yet, i'm extremely grateful for the overwhelming amount of votes on it!!!! this prompt was in the lead when i last checked (by a whopping majority lol), so here it is :) quite frankly, this was marinating in my drafts for a while. this is soooo self-indulgent (>_<) headcanons galore as always, this is also posted on my ao3, brucestalia ! :D

Damian has never known his father. His father is a ghost in his mother’s tales, a valiant knight whose name she whispers in fables like a prayer. Once, as a child clinging to her skirts, he believed in them. But belief fades with time, and questions sharpen where faith once dulled their edges.

Now twenty, the young Prince looks back on those stories with wonder and resentment.

What man of honour would leave his wife and son behind? The tales he once cherished now feel like a fragile veil draped over a harsher truth. Perhaps his father fell in battle, or, perhaps, he simply turned his back on them. His mother’s silence speaks volumes, but Damian has learned to stop asking. He has lived long enough to know that answers often come with scars.

He remembers nothing of the man who once held him as an infant, cradling him with arms that should have stayed. His earliest years blur in fragments—a visitor in the palace, unfamiliar, a presence never explained. Those memories have become as distant as a fading star, too far to illuminate the shadows of his understanding.

In their absence, others have filled the void. Jason Todd, the foreigner with a sharp tongue and a heart as fierce as his loyalty, is his brother in all but blood. Silent and watchful Cassandra Cain’s unspoken connection to Jason threads them together – a mystery Damian doesn’t try to unravel. 

Some silences, he knows, are best left undisturbed.

It is on an ordinary night, under the weight of moonlight and unanswered questions, that everything changes. Damian stumbles upon a cloaked figure in his mother’s chambers. The man stands like a shadow carved from the night. Talia is absent, and suspicion flares in Damian’s chest like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Without hesitation, he seizes the intruder and drags him into the court’s empty halls. The throne of Ra’s al Ghul is vacant, a silent witness to the scene. Damian forces the man to his knees, his sword angled for the strike, ready to demand answers.

The great doors creak open, and his mother steps inside. Her face is streaked with tears, mouth agape in horror. Damian falters, his blade lowering. He expects her grief to be for the danger she has narrowly escaped. But she walks past him, her gaze fixed on the man before her.

The cloaked figure rises, his movements deliberate, unhurried. As the heavy fabric falls away, it reveals robes of black and gold, worn with an understated dignity.

Talia’s voice trembles, her hesitation sharper than any sword. “The Bat-Prince,” she says at last. “Bruce Wayne.”

Damian’s world tilts.

“Ah, so, the knight returns?” Prince Dusan's voice is light and laced with mockery, shattering the fragile moment as he strides in, oblivious to the reunion unfolding. Then, mid-step, he freezes, his confidence stilling.

The sword slips from Damian’s grasp, clattering to the floor. He cannot reconcile the ghost of his mother’s stories with the man who stands before him now. His breath catches, his mind racing. This man…was his father?

Bruce steps forward, his eyes filled with something Damian does not yet know how to name. He does not wait for permission, pulling his son into an embrace that feels inevitable. 

The days that follow are a blur of questions and reluctant answers. The truth is heavy, but it settles into the cracks of what was once missing. Together, they return to Bruce’s kingdom—a family pieced together from fragments of time and loss.

In the great hall, the portrait is finally complete.

The Bat-Prince is clad in black and gold. His bearing is strong, his gaze steady. Beside him, Talia sits gracefully on an ornate chair, her hand resting gently upon the bundle in her lap—infant Athanasia, swaddled in soft silks, her peaceful form the embodiment of new beginnings.

To the Bat-Prince’s right is Dick, dressed in blue and silver, his hand lightly placed on Bruce’s shoulder. Jason is behind Richard, attire edged with red, hinting at a fire that still smoulders – though, his stance betrays a rare calm.

Towards the left is Tim, holding a journal close to his side. He dons deep crimson and dark grey, contemplative, eyes forward, as if turned toward the future.

Cassandra stands near Talia, draped in a similar muted black with golden embroidery. Her smile softens the overall formality.

Stephanie Brown is a burst of light. Her golden-blonde hair is styled neatly, and her lilac-toned attire adds a subtle vibrancy to the otherwise stately composition.

Duke’s stance is upright, golden accents speaking of vitality and purpose, the sanguineness of the core.

Finally, Damian stands just before his parents, arms crossed, his expression firm. His place close to Talia and Bruce speaks of a bond deeper than his stoic exterior reveals.

And there, at last, Bruce is no longer a ghost or a myth, but a man who has returned to reclaim what was his.

The portrait of the Wayne household hangs above the grand, winding staircase looming over the manor’s entrance. It has grown over the years, accommodating the likenesses of the Bat-Prince’s many squires. Yet, despite its embellishments, a vague silhouette endures—untouched and ethereal, a phantom of the portrait’s earliest form.

When young master Tim Drake inquires about it, Bruce finds himself adrift in memories of simpler times.

He has been a Prince, a King—even if only in name—a Knight, and, at his lowest, a Sellsword; a warrior reduced to a weapon for hire. How the mighty fall , he muses.

Each mantle carries its own weight, yet none heavier than the one he bears now. The thought stings like a wound.

The al-Ghul lands stretch endlessly—deserts, jagged peaks, and sprawling plains, vast, untamed. 

Bruce first encounters her there, in a foreign wilderness, bleeding and battered from wounds earned in battle against a chimaera horde. Distrust has long been his armour, even against beauty cloaked in mystery, but he lets her tend his wounds.

Her face remains obscured, veiled beneath layers of silk. She introduces herself as Talia, daughter of he who is called Ra’s al Ghul . 

The name is spoken amongst soldiers and merchants alike in hushed whispers, reverent and wary. The Emperor , some call him, a title carrying as much menace as majesty. That night, Bruce camps near the capital, the stars above dimmed by the brilliance of the city’s lights. It looms on the horizon, a city of impossible grandeur. 

A servant named Ubu ushers him to the bathing house, where the grime of travel is washed away. He’s cloaked in robes—rich and foreign. Alfred’s absence is a thought he quickly buries.

His armour is taken to be polished, leaving him feeling bare – vulnerable, as though the steel had been his skin.

She was there again—Talia—her presence disarming in its constancy. He dines in the Princess’ tent, finding in the warmth of her hospitality, a haven against the desert’s chill.

 Yet, unease coils in his gut like a serpent. It grows sharper within the Palace walls, where her family’s emerald eyes gleam with an unnatural light. It is a quiet tension that swells each time eyes of polished jade seemed to glance into his soul.

Still, he accepts her offer: to become her sworn protector – a knight for the al-Ghul Princess. In return, he gains tutelage under the Emperor and his most skilled generals across the continent. 

But, he draws a line he refuses to cross—he will not kill. Talia understands, though her father does not.

The al-Ghul family defies easy understanding. The Empress – benevolent , poised , graceful, guarding the horrors of ages past. The Prince burns with ambition, bold, to the point of recklessness. The older Princess is an enigma; a riddle he had not yet solved.

Talia was a labyrinth of quiet strength and fleeting softness. She was the one part of their world that made him stay, though he knew he should not.

In time, her presence became a balm for the hurt he did not know he carried.

No beauty compared to her. Not the sands glowing under a silver moon, nor the jewelled skies of the East. Her laughter, soft and unguarded, as she bit into a slice of mango, juice tracing her lips. The mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she fed him a grape remained long after the sweetness faded. The victorious grin after a spar, or how she let frustration darken her features after she faltered – each a thread more vivid than the last, it all etched itself into him.

She would be the eighth Wonder of the World, if there ever was one, he decided.

Most nights, they sat beneath the stars. He wasn’t meant to linger in her chambers so late, but no reprimand came. It reminded the Emperor of a familiar tale–the mercenary and the warlord’s daughter.

A romance doomed to end as swiftly as it began.

The city adored its Princess. Her dark-armored guardian? Less so.

One evening, she donned a maid’s garb, and dragged Bruce to the bustling markets. Without his armour, he felt the land in a way he hadn’t before—the heat of its sun, the press of its life. Spices, songs, and silken scarves weave a reality he might have loved under different circumstances.

She danced with him, her laughter spinning away with the fading music. It is a moment stolen from eternity.

The day of his departure arrives. His refusal to kill has become a wedge between him and the Emperor’s court. But, as he treads the path away from the palace, Talia appears.

“Did you think I’d let you leave alone?” she says, a sly smile curving her lips. That is when her entourage unfurled—camels, a palanquin, soldiers, and servants, the unending desert beyond.

Bruce’s return to his kingdom is met with jubilation – a hero’s welcome that feels hollow at the sight of her beside him –  streets teeming with lords, ladies, and wide-eyed children. News of the Princess spreads quickly, much to one Richard Grayson’s chagrin.

Talia’s charm extends to even Queen Regent Lara Lor-Van and the butler, Pennyworth, with whom she hosts tea parties. Kal-El and Zala are won over in time. She is no longer just a guest; she is his betrothed .

Their peace is short-lived. When a former al-Ghul ally orchestrates an attack on the Empress, Bruce and Talia return to her homeland. 

After they end the threat, their union is sealed in a quiet ceremony, and Ra’s al Ghul himself oversees their vows.

But time, unrelenting, soon conspires against them. War breaks out, dividing kingdoms and hearts. She was with child, and Bruce knew she could not stay.

“Our son will be the next Alexander,” she whispers one moonless night. “He will bridge the West and the East.”

He studies her face as if it were a map of a world he would never know again. Perhaps, the moon hides in envy of her radiance.

And so, the portrait of the Wayne household remains incomplete. Talia left before it could be finished.

She never returned.

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The orchestra’s melody twists through the room, strings and brass, carrying couples across the polished floor in elegant, synchronized steps. Gotham’s elite whirl in their finery, masks glittering, their laughter mingling with the music, like the Narrows’ smoke in the air.

The building towers above the city, a monument of stone, illuminated windows against the inky Gotham skyline.

Bruce Wayne. The favourite son of Gotham. Masker and reveller. The cameras adore him, his effortless charm, the flashes catching the practised brilliance of his smile. The socialites swarm him. Their masks make a flimsy shield for their intent—excessively ornate, yet revealing in their artifice.

His every gesture is designed to disarm, to entertain, to deflect.

It’s a masquerade, a fitting metaphor for the man himself. To these people, he is the Prince of Gotham. Tonight, the cowl stays behind.

But, beneath the surface lies the man who never truly sets aside the Bat. And to this man, this is not merely a night of pleasantries and champagne. 

Somewhere in this sea of faces, an arms deal festers – somewhere in the crowd, lies his true purpose. A thread of Gotham’s chaos to unravel.

From across the ballroom, his cousin catches his eye. 

The look on Kate’s face makes it completely certain (if it wasn’t, yet) that they would be in dire need of Advil by the time their shows of privilege and pretence were over.

St. Cloud’s silver hair gleams under the golden light, her laugh tinkling like glass. She’s surrounded by admirers, a role she plays as effortlessly as breathing, but her eyes dart toward him in warning. A flick of her head, a barely perceptible nudge of her chin, and he knows—his mark is near.

“Brucie…” she murmurs when he approaches, the syllable drawn out like a caution. Her lips maintain their polite smile, but her eyes are urgent.

“Mhm,” he responds absently, his focus pulled elsewhere.

There’s a fragrance lingering in the air, a blend of jasmine and rose of taif. It’s faint, almost elusive, but it cuts through the haze of perfume and champagne like a sharp memory. He knows that scent—he remembers Metropolis, remembers her.

And then, he sees her.

She moves like a whisper, a ripple through the crowd. Her gown is a masterpiece of emerald silk that clings and flows like water. Her mask is black lace, delicate and intricate, but it does nothing to hide the sharpness of her features – the piercing intelligence in her eyes. 

She speaks with a foreign dignitary – his mark, naturally.  Yet, there is something—an invitation, that seems meant for him alone, daring him to approach.

Bruce swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and excuses himself from his companions.

“Gentlemen. Silver. Excuse me,”

Bruce crosses the room, the noise fading with every step. It swells, and then, dips.

He finds her on the balcony, leaning against the railing. The city stretches out behind her. The faintest smirk tugs at her lips as he approaches.

Her hair, a cascade of dark curls, frames her face, falling down her back and for a moment, Bruce forgets the mission, the man, the masquerade—everything, but her.

“Bruce Wayne, at a charity ball,” she remarks,  her voice lilting yet steady. There’s an edge to her tone, though, he can’t tell if it’s mockery or curiosity.

He can’t be sure. Her voice is sweet, like heaven’s nectar and intoxicating, like the most lethal of poisons.

It draws him in, regardless.

“Miss Head, isn’t it?” he says, finally, though he already knows the answer – the question is more formality than doubt.

She tilts her head, her smirk widening. “Even before you became a recluse, you never came to these things.”

She speaks with an ease that unnerves him, as though she’s known him far longer than she should. He decides, to meet her candour with his own.

“The proceeds go to the big fat spread,” he says bluntly. “It’s not about charity. It’s about feeding the ego of whichever society hag laid this on.”

Her brow arches, and he knows immediately he’s made a mistake.

“Actually,” she says, removing her mask, with unhurried grace. It reveals her full face, striking in its calm. “this is my party, Mr. Wayne.”

“Oh.” The word falls from his lips, a rare misstep. He blinks, his mind scrambling for a recovery. 

“And the proceeds will go where they should, because I paid for the big fat spread myself,” 

Talia’s voice bears the unmistakable edge of finality. 

He hesitates, then offers a smile that he hopes is charming. “That’s… very generous of you.”

She leans closer, her eyes narrowing just enough to make him feel scrutinised. “You have to invest if you want to restore balance to the world,” she says, her voice softening,if only slightly. “Take our clean-energy project.”

Wayne Enterprises and LexCorp’s sudden collaboration had puzzled him—until now.

Now, he knows the catalyst. He nods.

“Sometimes,” he admits, his voice quieter now, “the investment doesn’t pay off. I’m sorry.”

Her eyes narrow, not in anger, but in assessment. “You have a practised apathy, Mr. Wayne,” she says – her words are cutting (deeper than he’d like to admit), although, not unkind. 

“But a man who doesn’t care about the world doesn’t spend half his fortune trying to save it.”

She’s peeling back his mask, layer by layer, and he’s unsure whether to be impressed or irked.

“And isn’t so wounded when it fails…” She concludes, pointed, “that he goes into hiding,” 

The silence stretches between them.

Finally, he halts a passing waiter, grabs another glass, and takes a long sip before flashing her one of his trademark smiles.

“Would you care for a dance, Miss Head?” he asks.

Her lips curl into a smile, but she shakes her head. “Have a good evening, Mr. Wayne.”

She replaces her mask and vanishes into the crowd, her presence remaining even in her absence. He watches her, his eyes finding her no matter how many faces she passes.

Alone on the balcony, he looks down at the glass in his hand. It feels heavier now, somehow emptier.

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this is actually how that scene should've gone. another day, another self-indulgent slay. i really wanted to write this (even if it got very little votes on the poll.... :<) !!!!!! i originally intended for this to be a one-shot but if anyone wants to see more, i will gladly oblige :) also posted on ao3, brucestalia !

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ My mother, I barely remember her. 

But, she was so beautiful…

The room is dim, lit only by the faint pulse of a bedside lantern, its glow casting long shadows that ripple like whispers across the stone walls.

Melisande lies beside her daughter, her head propped on one hand, humming a soft melody to ease the restless child. 

Talia clutches her mother’s free hand, her fingers small and insistent as they glide over the smooth skin of her arm, tracing the pale lines of veins beneath. “Ummi,” she whispers, her voice a tiny thread of sound, fragile in the quiet night. “Do the—”

She doesn’t need to finish. Melisande smiles, her lips curving with a tenderness that feels infinite. “Yes, my tigress,” she murmurs, her voice like a lullaby. Her trimmed nails trace invisible lines of comfort along Talia’s arm, soothing the child into a near-dreamlike calm. Talia closes her eyes, her breathing slowing, and finally, she is at rest.

Outside, the world shifts. The air seems to change, the warmth inside the room disrupted by the sharpness of something foreign. Melisande’s eyes snap to the window, her body tensing like a drawn bow.

A shadow darts past the open window—a flash of movement, fleeting yet undeniable. She sits up swiftly. A mother’s instinct overtakes everything else.

“Stay here, child,” she commands; her voice is firm, but kind, and Talia nods reluctantly – but as soon as her mother leaves, the pull of curiosity is too strong. Quietly, the girl slips out of bed, her bare feet padding softly against the cold floor as she follows.

From the shadows, Talia watches, peeking from the corner as Melisande follows the shadow into a room Ra’s al Ghul had long forbidden.

Her mother moves with the grace of someone who has known danger before. The heavy oak door creaks shut behind her, leaving Talia alone in the silent corridor.

She creeps further.

The air crackles with raised voices. The sound of a struggle follows—a crash, a clatter of something heavy hitting the floor. Melisande’s voice is met with the stranger’s growling retort.

Talia’s small heart pounds in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears. Her tiny hands press against the door left slightly ajar.

Her mother screams.

The door flies open with a sudden, violent force, and the stranger bursts out, his figure a dark blur against the dimly lit hall. His wild eyes meet Talia’s for a brief, chilling moment. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the night as swiftly as he came.

Inside, the room is empty. Talia steps in, her breath caught in her throat. She hears it then—the distant splash. Her mother.

Her mother is in the pit.

Her scream pierces the stillness, shrill and shattering. It carries down the halls like a siren’s wail, reaching her father. But, when Ra’s al Ghul arrives, it is already too late.

Melisande is in the pit, her body swallowed by the waters.

“Beloved?” His voice wavers.

She is gone.

Ra’s kneels by his daughter, his hands trembling as he cups her tear-streaked face. 

Talia’s grief is wild, unrestrained. She pounds her small fists against his chest, her cries rising like a storm. “You’re not Ummi!” she wails, her voice cracking under her sorrow. “I don’t want you—I want her!”

He doesn’t flinch. Ra’s wipes her tears with the sleeve of his robe. His the look in his eyes, usually so sharp and unyielding, is haunted now, darker than ever. What can he say? What words could ever mend the gaping wound left in both their hearts? How does he explain a loss that has hollowed him to his core?

Melisande is dead. She leaves nothing behind. Her love, her laughter, her warmth is gone.  Her spirit lingers only in their memory – a trace of her existence.

Her scent taunts the rotting stench deep within his heart. Her silken fabrics hang untouched, unfit for the jagged thorns of the life she left behind.

It twists the knife of grief into his chest.

To the world, Ra’s al Ghul is the Demon’s Head. The League’s Master. A warrior forged in flame and fire, etched in legend.

His servants fear for Talia; they do not know what will become of her.

But tonight, he is only Baba.

That night, when sleep eludes her, when the silence of her room becomes suffocating, and the shadows seem alive with whispers, Talia slips out of bed.

She runs.

Barefoot and clutching the blanket her mother once stitched, across the darkened halls, she runs, her small feet ringing in the vast emptiness, until she reaches the door to her father’s chamber.

She bangs on it with all the strength her little hands can muster.

Ra’s opens the door. His gaze softens at the sight of her – trembling, her eyes red-rimmed. She looks up at him.

“She’s not coming back, is she? Ummi,” Talia asks – her voice is steady, but each word is a plea for the truth she already knows.

He kneels, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. For a long moment, he hesitates – the truth is too much for even him to bear. The words are caught somewhere between his heart and his throat.

“You’re all I have left,” 

She doesn’t reply.

And though grief looms over them like a cloud that refuses to lift, he gathers her in his arms. 

For tonight, at least, they face the void together.

She remains so, in our hearts, daughter.

Never forget that.

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The Monarch Theatre, perhaps best remembered as the final stage for Gotham’s sweethearts, Thomas and Martha Wayne, remained a ghost of tragedy until it shuttered its doors, lives stolen in the alley just beyond its walls.

Years later, it reopened, its marbled facade gleaming under Gotham’s wary moon. Tonight, it played host to a performance of The Wizard of Oz – a glittering reprieve for the city’s elite.

Whispers flitted through the audience. The actor meant to play the Scarecrow had vanished—only to reappear just moments before the play began.

But, Gotham was a city of masks and deception. The man stepping onto the stage was no actor. The Scarecrow himself, had made his grand entrance, as if the theatre’s cursed legacy had summoned him.

Somewhere in the crowd, the Clown Prince of Crime leaned back in his seat, an eerie grin stretching across his painted face.  Before slipping away, he left behind a single card, fluttering onto the velvet cushion, whistling as he went.

The Gotham elite’s irritation was a mere prelude to the chaos ahead.

“Not so fast, Joker,” growled a low voice. The Dark Knight perched above, a gargoyle given life. But before Batman could finish, the world erupted—a blast of Crane’s fear toxin unfurled through the crowd like a living nightmare.

The Joker vanished. Shadows danced in the gas, and the screams of panicked civilians blurred into a cacophony. The Dark Knight’s body betrayed him, heavy and unresponsive, as the Scarecrow emerged, his straw-like fingers stretching toward the cowl.

 Fear rooted him in place as the toxin’s tendrils curled through his mind.

“Let us see what tragedy the cowl hides, shall we?”

The words gnawed at Bruce’s mind, but his body refused him the strength to respond. Batman wanted to resist, to strike, to speak. He braced for the unveiling, for the exposure of his wounds, until—

“No.”

A voice like a spear cutting through the din.

Her black dress whispered against the floor, fur draped regally over her shoulders. Pearls shimmered around her neck, a cruel vision of another night, another woman.

Talia al Ghul.

Batman blinked, dazed. Then, cutting through the haze, came the sharp crack of a heel against Crane’s skull.

He crumpled to the ground. She moved past the fallen rogue, and extended a hand to the Bat.

Bruce’s vision blurred.

“Mom?”

For a moment, her face shifted. Brown hair became raven-black, dark waves morphed into softer curls,  and piercing green eyes softened into the gentle blue of another.

“We have to go, Bruce,”  Talia hesitated – her voice wavered, just for a moment. Her grip faltered, but urgency called louder than grief.

It couldn’t be. Martha Wayne was a memory etched into his bones, a gloom cast by pearls scattered on asphalt. 

Behind this theatre, all those years ago, Martha Wayne had died. It couldn’t be her.

And yet, the figure before him felt too real. Her presence tugged at the fractured edges of his mind.

“Bruce, come on,” she urged, despite the persisting tremor in her grip. “We don’t have much time.”

The toxin gnawed at him, but he forced a nod. With her help, he rose. The world felt unsteady beneath him.

Talia shouldered his weight, guiding him forward. His limbs were sluggish with fear.

“Step with me. One foot, then the other,” she said, softly, leading him towards the safety of the Batmobile.

Scarecrow’s men were already regrouping at the theatre’s entrance, falling victim to a ticking Batarang’s wrath, exploding in a flash of smoke and light. Through the fumes, Talia caught sight of red hair—Batwoman, mouthing a single word: Go.

By the time they reached the vehicle, another group blocked their path, only to be felled by the sharp crack of Catwoman’s whip. The city’s dark defenders moved like clockwork, protecting their own.

Talia pressed on, manoeuvring Bruce into the Batmobile. It roared to life, and Talia’s hands moved instinctively over the controls, the streets of Gotham as familiar to her as the curve of her Beloved’s face. 

The journey back to the Cave was swift, but Bruce’s fever burned brighter with every mile. By the time they arrived, he was barely conscious, his breaths shallow. Talia peeled back the cowl with care, her hands steady despite the tightness in her throat.

She pressed a small kiss to his forehead.

The hours went by. Night crept on, and fevered dreams clung to Bruce like a second skin. 

Alfred prepared porridge that went uneaten, the bowls cooling beside an untouched glass of water.  Talia remained by his side, blotting his fevered brow with a damp cloth, even as Alfred brought her tea to ward off exhaustion.

In the pale light of dawn, Bruce stirred, gasping, as the memory of Scarecrow’s fingers clawed at his mind. His hands flew to his face, searching the cowl he swore had been torn from—but found only skin. 

Panicked, his fingers closed around a wrist—soft, familiar.

It was Talia, her other hand poised with the cloth.

Martha Wayne’s pearls remained locked safely in their glass tomb, as they always were. Tragedy remained, but so did love.

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this is unabashedly self-indulgent, but oh well, we’re here now haha! inspired partly by that killer croc scene in son of batman, and brutalia’s first-ever encounter in the comics.

katelina mentioned woohoo :>

most of this really comes from the idea that talia might remind alfred of martha sometimes (maybe more than sometimes).

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set in the 1930s, the world is on the cusp of modernity – global tensions, the fallout of colonialism, and the rise of professional archaeology – but still deeply fascinated with ancient mysteries.

central to the story is a mysterious, primordial artefact created with the power to shape destiny. it is a relic of the reign of a pharaoh long gone, believed to hold the secrets of eternal life, untold power, and immense destruction. protected by curses, traps, and guardians, it is coveted by those seeking power—and feared by those who understand its true cost.

the climactic setting is the fabled city of the dead; hamunaptra, where the artefact was hidden after the fall of the pharaoh’s kingdom. thought to be a myth by most scholars, the city is a labyrinth of treasure, danger, and supernatural forces. its guardians, the medjai, have preserved its sanctity across generations.

the artefact – ib djet, or qalb al-abadiyah, is a crystalline object roughly the size of a human heart, made of a luminescent green material resembling an emerald, but far more radiant, inscribed with hieroglyphs and sigils representing life, death, and rebirth.

its surface seems to pulse faintly, as though alive, and it glows brighter in the presence of certain individuals.

the heart is the centrepiece of the buried city of the dead, hidden in a sanctum protected by the medjai. hamunaptra’s legends speak of the heart as both salvation and doom.

ancient texts foretell that only those with "a balance of love and duty" can wield the heart’s power without succumbing to its corruption.

bruce wayne the estranged heir to the wayne fortune, bruce abandoned his privilleged life to pursue adventure and a sense of purpose. after serving the french foreign legion in north africa, he became a freelance explorer, gaining notoriety for his sharp intellect, resourcefulness, and survival skills.

haunted by guilt and loss, bruce channels his grief into a relentless quest for redemption. though disinterested in wealth, his adventure is driven by the belief that uncovering untold secrets and preserving them for humanity might atone for his past.

bruce’s journey begins when he saves talia from a dangerous desert encounter. reluctantly agreeing to join her expedition, he becomes entangled in a larger destiny tied to the artefact and the al ghul family's legacy.

cynical yet charming, practical and resourceful, bruce often clashes with talia’s fiery intellect. despite his roguish demeanour, he has a strong moral compass. beneath his gruff exterior lies a deep loyalty and a yearning for connection.

talia al ghul raised amidst her father’s intellectual pursuits, talia became an accomplished egyptologist and historian, earning acclaim for her groundbreaking research. despite her professional success, she struggles to step out of ra’s’ shadow, determined to forge her own legacy.

in her past life, talia was the daughter of melisande, a powerful sorceress and ra’s’ consort. melisande’s mysterious death left a lasting mark on talia, though she remains unaware of its connection to the artefact and her family’s tragic history. talia’s initial motivation is purely academic—she seeks to uncover the artefact’s origins, oblivious to its role in her family’s history. however, as the expedition progresses, she is drawn into a larger narrative that challenges her understanding of destiny, loyalty, and her place in the world.

talia is fiercely intelligent, driven, and unafraid to challenge authority. her fervent resolve often puts her at odds with bruce, but their shared values and complementary skills make them an unstoppable team.

ra’s al ghul he who was once hailed the demon’s head, the pharaoh ra’s al ghul ruled with wisdom and an insatiable thirst for knowledge. he discovered the ib djet—a mystical object of immense power—but his ambition led to betrayal and tragedy, fracturing his family and his reign.

reborn as a celebrated archaeologist and scholar in modern times, ra’s dedicated his second life to studying the artefact and preserving the secrets of the ancient world. his academic achievements are legendary, though he abandoned public life to focus on personal projects. ra’s aids talia’s expedition, torn between protecting the artefact’s secrets and supporting his daughter’s quest for understanding. his past as a pharaoh and his ties to the artefact make him an unintentional yet invaluable source of knowledge, though his cryptic warnings often frustrate bruce and talia. his relationship with talia is layered—equal parts mentor and father, with a shared grief over melisande’s loss. his softer side emerges in his interactions with his daughter and protégé.

dusan al ghul in his past life, dusan was ra’s’ eldest son, the commander of the pharaoh’s personal guard, exiled after a bitter conflict over the artefact. finding purpose in his exile, after the fall of his father’s kingdom, he became the leader of an ancient order – the medjai, sworn to protect the city of the dead and its secrets.

reborn with fragments of his past life intact, dusan continues his role as protector while grappling with the emotional scars of his estranged relationship with ra’s and talia. initially seeing the expedition as an intrusion, dusan’s perspective shifts as he realises their intentions align with his. his knowledge of the city’s secrets and his combat skills make him a crucial ally. his presence forces ra’s to confront unresolved guilt over their shared past.

beneath his reserved demeanour lies a protective love for his half-sister, talia and a yearning for reconciliation with his father.

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here’s a little sneak peek of my brutalia mummy retelling! :D i’ll be posting the chapters once i get my ao3 set up, so for now, enjoy a few excerpts to tease you all.