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When Talia rests a hand atop her bed, the sound of paper crunching beneath it fills her ears.
She pauses. Glances down. With a quick flick of her unoccupied wrist, she sends off the ninja who’d been standing silently in the corner of her room. It's only once he's gone that she removes her hand to pull back the blanket.
Hidden between the folds of her sheets is a homemade card made from light green construction paper. Along the border crawls a beautifully detailed vine with roses blooming on it.
The front, in painfully neat handwriting with sensible gold ink, reads “Happy Mother’s Day.”
Talia’s hands do not shake when she picks up the card, and so she allows them a moment to lightly trace over the letters, letting her eyes linger on the hand drawn roses. So beautiful, so perfect.
She flicks her eyes towards the door and opens the card.
Mother, the card reads. In my years at Father’s home, I have come to discover two days to which I now hold with great importance. The first is one meant to celebrate Father. The second is meant to celebrate you.
No one here knows how to properly take care of Katana the way they demand. Not even Father. No one except me. Do you remember teaching me how, in the dead of night, whispering so quietly I could barely hear you? I have not forgotten, Mother, even in this place of safety. I remember everything you taught me.
I love you and I miss you, forever and always. -Damian
P.S: Father says you are welcome to visit at any time.
Talia reads the letter. Then she rereads it. She scans over the words until they’re imprinted in her brain, until she can recite them drugged and dying, in her sleep and freshly dunked in the Pit. She closes the card and looks at the roses carefully drawn just for her until those are burned into her brain, too.
When she is sure she has memorized every last detail, she rips the card in half.
She rips it into halves, then quarters, and then keeps on ripping until she has a small handful of shredded paper between her palms.
Untouched, it would’ve never burned as easily as it does now.
By the time the ninja leads her father through the door, there’s nothing but ashes in her fireplace.
“Nothing of importance,” Talia dismisses at Ra’s raised eyebrow, waving a hand lazily. “Merely a small assassination attempt, hardly worth all this fuss. It will be dealt with.”
Ra’s doesn’t leave immediately, his gaze lingering. She holds his stare evenly. When he glances around the room, she does not flinch when his eyes land on the fireplace before moving on.
“See to it that it does,” he finally allows, turning on his heel and leaving as quick as he’d appeared. The ninjas that had followed him in trail after his retreating back. The door clicks firmly shut behind them, and Talia finds herself alone.
She doesn’t let her mind wander as she slips into a nightgown. She allows no indication of anything occupying her thoughts as she brushes her hair out, entwining it into a single braid, and then wrapping her head with a silk hair cover.
It is only when she slips into bed and raises the covers over her head that she dares to close her eyes and think of her baby.
Mother, she silently recites in her head. She tries to picture him as he is now, but the only image she has is one from three years ago. She wonders how much he’s grown, if he’s already taller than her now.
The ache in her chest is a physical weight, but she repeats even in this place of safety and it recedes, somewhat.
She closes her eyes and prays for dreams of a small face with her eyes and her beloved’s hair. Her nose and his dimples. Her strength and his boundless love.
I love you, she recites.
I love you, she recites.
I love you, she says.