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Talia had been on a mission when it happened.
It hadn't been a long one—only a week, barely seven days. But those short seven days had been enough.
She didn't suspect anything when the jet landed in the Al Ghuls largest hanger, focused entirely on the quietening hum of the engines and preparing her report in her head.
She didn't suspect anything when she departed the aircraft, handing the case containing her targets head to an awaiting servant.
She didn't suspect anything when she began making her way to the throne room, where her Father was likely anticipating her appearance.
She didn't suspect anything until one of her most trusted came rushing down the hallway toward her, the woman's normally trained expression almost—panicked.
All members of her inner circle knew better then to show such emotion carelessly, especially within the compounds grounds—Talia, after all, trained them personally.
That was the moment she started to worry.
"My Lady!" Amina, the woman, addressed her when she was close enough to grasp Talias arm in a tight grip. "You must come, quickly!" Her voice was as panicked as her expression, arabic flying from her lips without discipline.
"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded—she would not tolerate being ordered around by anyone, not even a member of her inner circle. Still, her chest felt tight, unease slowly breeding beneath her ribs, though she refused to show it.
"It is the Prince."
Talia felt her expression crack at that. Suddenly, she didn't care about debriefing her father the success of her mission.
"What happened." Amina's lips pressed into a stressed, thin line—another reason to worry, all her women knew better then to refuse a direct order. "Speak, girl!" Her lips curled back to bare her teeth, a hiss building up in the back of her throat.
"It is best you see for yourself." The woman finally replied, her voice severe, warm brown eyes flicking to the shadows at their sides, their backs, the even present threat of unworthy ears overhearing.
Talia forced down her swelling, unwelcome panic—she was better then this, regardless of her instincts attempts to prove otherwise—and nodded. Amina took it for the order it was and began leading the way, hands twitching towards the blade hidden in the fabric of her League uniform, nervous.
They made their way through the twisting halls of the compound—a deliberate design, to confuse any and all potential intruders and to train recruits the importance of never loosing your barings—their steps silent as they disguised their rushing with displeasure. It ensured all the servants steered clear.
Soon, they found themselves in the Al Ghul's personal wing—the sandstone yellows and greys suddenly engulfed with royal green silk and desert gold. Amina fell behind after that, stepping only where Talia did to avoid setting off one of the thousands of traps hidden in the stone floors. One wrong step, your torso could be severed from your legs or your head could become one with the wall ornaments.
It was a non issue for Talia, she had been walking this wing since she was a girl. At this point, it was impossible for her to misstep, the route engrained into every cell in her body. A necessary muscle memory.
Talia made a beeline for her sons quarters, hardly remembering to allow Amina time to safely follow, almost breaking out into a run within the last few meters.
She threw the armoured doors open with a resounding thud, her Lazarus green eyes seeking out Damian, and when she located him, her heart stuttered and froze.
He appeared feverish, his thick hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, chest heaving with the effort it took to breathe, and the way he was hunched in on himself, even laying down as he was, portrayed his utter discomfort.
Instantly, theories were running through Talias mind—was he poisoned? It was her immediate thought, but it seemed unlikely, especially considering her sons tolerance to most known poisons; a tolerance she oversaw the creation of.
She was quick to usher herself to his bed side, to examine him beyond basic physical observations so she could gain a better understanding of what was going on, leaning down to note his scent, to detect any changes perhaps triggered by a possible poison or other illness—
She froze.
No.
She sniffed again, a larger inhale, leaning closer to her boys neck.
No.
Damians scent was that of sand, a lingering smell that clung to everyone in Nanda Parbat, drowned in warm honeyed milk—an immature and young scent, a pup scent, one that reflected his age of only ten years.
That is what his scent should be.
It was what his scent was when she left.
Now, a scent of roasted paprika and sugar filled her nose, the sweet aroma of ripe dates leveling out the spice that tickled the back of her neck with each new inhale. It was soured, slightly, in distress, and the milk wasn't yet completely washed away, but the change was undeniable.
It all clicked. Amina's distress, the fever, the scent—
Her son, her pup, had presented while she was gone, and he was an Omega.
NO.
It was far too early—he was only ten. Presentations, on average, occurred from sixteen to eighteen. Perhaps fourteen at the earliest, but never before then. Never at ten.
She knew, without a doubt, her Father was to blame. He did something. She was livid.
"Mother...?" Damian called out to her, pulled from his half-sleep—if it was by the anger blooming in her scent, or the furious hiss spilling from behind her clenched teeth, she wasn't sure. She didn't care. She pulled her focus away from her anger and towards her son—her pup, he was still just a pup, he was only ten—and took note of his expression now he was more lucid.
There was a haze to his green eyes, but it was mild and seemingly fading, and his flushed cheeks made him appear more flustered then heat alied. His first heat was in its last stages, then. Good.
"Damian." She greeted, her voice far softer then she remembered it being in a very long time. She does not think she'd be able to raise her voice in that moment if she even tried—a soothing pur built in the back of her throat, a hand coming up to brush the hair from her pups face.
"What do you last remember, my love?" Regardless of her instincts coiling around her mind, she was not a woman to beat around the bush—she needed to know what happened.
Talia was not worried it was anything of sexual nature—the mere idea of such a thing happening to her pup made her want to rip someone's throat out. An omega's first Heat was nothing more then a glorified fever where new instincts surfaced, scent glands finally matured, and yes, some certain organs began forming; it was a time meant for, however domestic it may seem, cuddles and comfort. When the Omega matured further, it was a period that was supposed to promote stability and strengthen bonds throughout entire packs. It was, overall, a bonding period.
Heats never become anything more unless there was the concious desire to mate with someone they deemed worthy prior to the heat arriving and given the partner was physically present. A Heat-Scent reflected this. Not to mention they physically could not become of sexual nature unless the Omega in question was physically mature enough for it. Which her son very much was not.
So she did not fear her son had been assaulted. She knew for a fact he was not.
No, she feared worse.
"Grandfather... I was in his quarters," Damian began recounting, his brows furrowing with the effort. If what Talia suspected happened indeed did, it would be a miracle he remembered anything at all. "I couldn't think, or- or.. his scent was everywhere. He put his hand on my nape and- held it? It is hard to recall it all, I am sorry, Mother."
"No, my son, you need not be sorry." Her Father, however, did.
He had mentioned forcing Damians presentation early before, to understand how his training should progress, what... arrangements needed and didn't need to be made. Talia had made her opinion on the matter incredibly well known—she did not support it.
It was an horrifically dangerous notion, forcing a pup to mature in ways their body simply wasn't ready for yet. The shock could kill the child—which wasn't much of an issue with the Lazarus pit always readily available, but even so. The stress could irreversibly stun their grow; scent glands half developed, organs never finished, insticits unstable. Not to mention...
She was very aware of certain viewpoints her Father held for each of the dynamics—most of which she happened to share, to an extent—and how he had no issue with certain... customs long since outlawed by the rest of the world.
Especially in relation to Omegas.
Talia took a deep, soothing breath—wanting to choke when she all she smelt was that roasted paprika, sugar and date blend—and made a decision.
"You want to meet your Father, yes?"
She needed to get Damian out of Nanda Parbat.
"Of- of course I do, Mother." He sounded confused, caught off gaurd by the sudden subject change, unable to hide it in the face of his slowly fading Heat; likely the reason he was even in his own quaters to begin with and not still in her Fathers, she realised. Talia was glad she returned when she did—had she been early, it would have been much harder to do what she needed to do.
She smiled at her sons answer. "Well, then you finally will. I will have Amina pack your things."
"What? But—you said I could not meet him until I was ready?" She hated how innocent he sounded, hated how it made her heart plummet to her stomach and her instincts wail to hold him close and not let go. He was her pup.
"I deem you ready now. Come, I'll help you dress into something more appropriate."
An hour later, she fastened Damian into the co-pilot seat—he would not be flying, not even assisting, but she needed to keep an eye on him, she needed to, and the passenger seats where Amina was were too far away—of the fastest jet the compound had, situationed herself in the pilot seat and then they were off to Gotham.
It was very early in the morning when they landed, the near silent hum of the jets engine quieting as she brought it to a steady landing at what she knew to be an abandoned air field in Gothams outskirts.
It was not an arduously long flight—in fact, it was rather short, all things considered, being only a few hours. She pushed the jet to its very limits to arrive so quickly. Any faster and it very likely would have sputtered and died. A risk she wasn't entirely comfortable taking, not with her son as he was, but it was a necessary one.
She needed to be quick. She did not know how long she had until her Father caught wind of what she was doing. In fact, she was working on the assumption he already knew. Talia could not afford any minor hesitations or delays.
The moment the jet came to a safe stop, she unbuckled her seatbelt and turned her attention to Damian. He had fallen into a light sleep during the journey, a testament to his lingering exhaustion. She pressed the back of her palm to his forehead—his temperature was almost back to normal. Good.
Gently, she shook him awake. He fussed for a moment, held tightly by sleep, before his mind caught up to his body and he silenced his protests. Without needing to be told, he unfastened his belt and rose to his feet—for a split second, it appeared as if he would stumble. He didn't. He corrected his footing and stood tall.
(He was not tall. He was still so small—a 4'3 compared to her even 6'0. He barely reached above her elbow.)
Talia hovered nonetheless.
She couldn't help it. And, nearer to his right mind, Damian knew not to question her actions.
"Quickly, son," She urged, guiding them both past Amina—who was grabbing Damians hastily packed luggage—and out of the jet. The old, neglected concrete crunched underfoot, and the grime sunk into the groves of her shoes.
Normally, she would have scoffed and turned her nose up at the filth. As much as she admired Gotham, she detested its lack of cleanliness. It was abhorrent. As it were, she paid it no mind. She had more important things to focus on.
She knew it would not be long under her Beloved came to confront her—she made no effort to conceal their approach. In fact, she had all but advertised it. She needed him to notice her arrival. She needed him to personally confront her.
Talia located the nearest building that did not appear as if it were moments away from collapsing and hauled herself, and Damian—his body was regaining its strength, but she would not risk him falling—up onto the roof via its less then safe fire escape.
There, she placed herself behind her son, hands grasping his shoulders, shielding his nape. It was foolish—his heat had ended, after all, and even so, there was no threat that could appear, save for her Father, that she could not handle—but she couldn't help herself. Her instincts demanded she gaurd her pup, his greatest vulnerability. If a hand clasped his nape and squeezed too tight, he'd be scruffed; limp and helpless. Pliant and impressionable.
It was a weakness her Father had already exploited. She would not risk anything doing the same.
In the same breath, she layered her scent overtop his. It did not hide it, but it masked it. Damians knew scent would necessary soon, but if her Beloved smelt it too soon, he would react more drastically then Talia could handle at that moment.
(He was supposed to be introduced to his father with a pup scent. Not this. Not this.)
Some time passed.
And then some more.
After a solid twenty minutes of waiting—she was counting the seconds, minutes, in her head—Batman showed up.
He landed atop the roof with a resound thud, tension held like a shield in his muscles. Already, he had a hand on his battarang holster.
"Talia." He greeted, and it already sounded like he was threatening her.
Despite herself, despite the current situation, she smiled. "Beloved."
A moment of silence passed over them. It was the single reprise she allowed herself, basking in the warmth radiating from the bite on her own nape, a pleasant tickling brought on by her mates presence after so very long. She could not delay. She was working against the clock and she needed to beat it. She would not be the hare due to sentimentalities.
Her son was far more important then whatever feelings were circulating between her and Bruce. He would forever be more important.
And her Beloved, whose eyes had found Damian were staring at him in confusion, would soon understand that. He must.
"I have a favour to ask." She did not bother easing into the topic. She never was one to do such, anyways.
Bruce ignored her. "Who is that?" He demanded instead, hand tightening around his holster, as if he was about to—
She hissed, a violent, open mouthed and furious thing—the suddenness caused her Beloved to flinch, and Damian tensed, mirroring his mother's display with caution.
Logically, she knew Bruce would never dare to harm a child intentionally, especially not one he knew nothing about.
Logically, she knew she'd be able to block the projectile if he ever did throw it. It posed not real threat.
But an irrational threat was still a threat, and Talia was a pin drop away from allowing her instincts to take charge and gut Bruce where he stood—her Beloved or not, her mate or not.
Damian is more important.
Still, with great effort, she dispelled the hiss and the rage in her chest—it would not do if she and Bruce fought, not if it could be avoided. Especially considering, if she knew anything about him—and she knew just about everything—his adopted brood was no doubt lingering near by, with his permission or not. She did not want to engage in combat with Bruce and them.
Regardless, she glared until he removed his hand from the holster.
"He is the favour," only then she answered. "Son, introduce yourself to your father." She switched to Arabic—if this was to be the last time she saw her pup for the foreseeable future, she was going to do it while speaking her first language.
"I am Damian Al Ghul. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Father." He obeyed quickly, the picture of etiquette she raised him to be. Had she not be holding his shoulders, she knew he would have bowed.
Immediately, Bruce's eyes snapped to hers—wide, grave, disbelieving. "Father?" He echoed, voice stiff, forced out of his mouth.
"You are his Father, yes." Talia confirmed. "He is ten years old. His birthday is January the 5th." She could see Bruce doing the math in his head. She watched as his gaze jumped back to Damian and scanned his features, she knew he was seeing the resemblance she saw everytime she looked at him. The moment her words rang true in his mind where marked with a sharp, choked inhale.
"You did not tell me." He said it more to himself then to her, but it sounded like an accusation nonetheless.
"Circumstances did not deem it necessary—"
"Not necessary?"
"—but those circumstances have changed."
"How?" Bruce narrowed his eyes, glaring back at her. He was angry. The air was devoid of his scent—sandlewood, kelvar and petrichor, a delicious combination that left her melting whenever she smelt it—hidden as it was by his military grade suppressants, but it did not need to convey his emotions for her to be aware of them.
In lue of an answer, Talia took a deep breath and forced her own scent to retreat—effectively removing the barrier it had created around her son.
Honeyed dates, sugar and roasted paprika filled the early morning air. Even though it was carried by warm milk, something that was still steadily fading—Talia wanted to wail—it was undoubtedly distinctly omegan.
By the way Bruce became horrifically still, the breath frozen in his lungs, Talia knew he understood.
"...you said he was ten." Already, he sounded as if he was mourning the fact.
(Good. She needed someone to share this pain. Her was the cause, her son was too young to properly comprehend it outside of what he had been told about the dynamics his entire life, her Girls only felt guilt in being unable to stop it from happening, her brother certainly wouldn't care, neither would her niece—she was effectively alone. But now, now she wouldn't be.
It was a selfish want. Talia never claimed to be selfless.)
"He is." She looked down at her pup, staring at the crown of his head. She barely stopped herself from smoothing his beautiful curls down. "My Father forced his presentation," the words were hissed, "I was not there to stop him."
She rose her gaze, locking eyes with her Beloved through his cowl. She knew what she planned to ask—what she needed to ask—was no easy thing. But he needed to agree. If he didn't...
She could not bare was the other only option was. She could not permitt her Father do that to her boy.
"I need you to house him," she began, carefully. "And I need you to find him an Alpha." Damian tensed under her hands. She sqeezed his shoulders, and the tension bled away at her wordless order. This was for his benefit.
"No." The refusal was spat vemonously. Bruce took a singular step forward, only seeming to stop due to an alarmingly high of restraint. One of his hands twitched towards Damian, as if he wanted to reach out and rip him away from her, as if she were intending him harm. The hiss bubbled in her throat, but she swallowed it down.
"Beloved—"
"No, Talia. I will do no such thing."
"You must!"
"He is a child!"
"I know that!" She snapped, pulling Damian closer to her, pressing his back flush against her torso. Her hands on his shoulders dug into his flesh dangerously, desperately, mourningly. She was certain her expression looked half deranged. "But, Beloved, you must."
"If you do not, my Father will. And my Father will make that Alpha himself." This time, when Damian tensed, she let him be.
Bruce took several steps forward at that, face grave, digusted. He looked as if he wanted to deny the notion, but he had met Ra's Al Ghul. He knew the man would.
"I had a plan," she began despite herself. "That if Damian presented as an omega, I was going to send him out on a mission. He would be tasked to find an Alpha himself. Of course, from a group respectable, powerful Alphas I had approved and organised the gathering of prior, but nonetheless—it would have given him more options. It would have given him a choice.
"Like I had with you, Beloved." She whispered the last bit, reminiscing. Bruce was not her Father's first choice to be her mate in the beginning, but he was hers—and Bruce had earned Ra's Al Ghul's utmost respect in the end.
"But there is no time for that now. This was unexpected, sudden—I was supposed to have several more years to prepare." Her smile, as small as it had been, fell as quickly as it appeared.
"So my plans need to adapt. This is adapting. You need to find him an Alpha, Beloved." She knew it was a horrible thing, she knew it was. But there was no other choice.
"What you're asking me to do is impossible."
"Make it possible." He needed to agree.
"Talia-"
"Your brood. Many of them are Alpha's, yes?"
Bruce froze, staring at her with hard eyes. "You cannot be suggesting—"
"You trained them personally. Not only can you atest to their strength and virtue, but more importantly, my Father will tolerate the match." She urged—she was moments away from begging. "He will not accept it, but he will respect it. He will not try to lay an overmark. And he will only do that because they were trained by you."
Silence lapsed between them. He refused to agree. She refused to relent.
An innmoveable force meet an unstoppable object.
The silence was broken by a soft thud behind them, a deliberate sound—immediately, she knew it was Amina.
"My Lady," she began, "we cannot stay much longer. The Demons Head has been notified."
Talia allowed herself a moment to take a deep breath. Then she turned her attention back to Bruce.
"There is no time for anything else. I do not know how long I will be able to hold off my Father—it may be a few days, or it may be a few months. You need to pick an Alpha for our son as soon as possible and have a claim laid." She refused to humour his reluctance. "If not for me, Beloved, then for Damian. If you do not do this for him, it will be my Father that marks him. I will not be able to stop him. He has already begun Conditioning him." I could not bare it if he went any further, she left unsaid.
She saw how Bruce bristled at the term Conditioning, at what it implied. She could not blame him. But she could not address it. She didn't have the time.
(Why did she never have the time?)
Instead, she turned Damian around and kneeled before him. His expression was blank, but she could see the underlying distress. Her son was scared. Her pup was scared.
She cupped his cheek with one hand, ran her fingers through his hair until it cradled the back of his head with the other. The hold was gentle, but she made sure he was looking at her.
"Whoever your father picks for you, do not fight it." She ordered. "Listen to him. Understood?"
"Understood, Mother." How diligent her son was, even when scared. He was so strong. Soon, he would be even stronger. She had to keep telling herself that. This was for his benefit.
She permitted herself to smile at her pup, and with the final few seconds she had until she had to leave him, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I will come for you when I'm able. I love you, my life."
With that, she pulled away from her son, and without giving herself the chance to hesitate, she turned towards Amina. Within the next breath, both of them had jumped from the roof and were sprinting back towards the jet.
She ignored her Beloved shout her name.
She forced herself to ignore Damian's shout of "Mother!"
This was for his benefit.
This was for his benefit.
It was the only thing she could think to stop herself from crying. An Al Ghul does not cry.
(But a Mother does.)