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Moonlight filters through Talia's webbed fingers. When she pops her head, glimmering and scaled, above the crashing waves of the water, the sky looks utterly beautiful. The sight of constellations is always lovely. She closes her eyes, soaking in the warmth of the moon, and does not see when the dark shadow of a ship passes over her.
It is far too late to escape it, anyway.
Talia's mother is swimming at her side, and she cannot help but flinch at the sight of her.
The woman's inky scales glitter in the dim light, her dark hair drifts loosely about her head. Her eyes stare down at Talia with a certain, trembling fear within them. The sight makes a sharp zing shoot down Talia's lateral line. Her body feels disoriented, and she struggles to keep upright.
"Mother?" Talia's voice sounds high, sharp, and oddly foreign, "What—you are here?" She's speaking in soft hisses and clicks, the language of sirens. Her tailfin is flapping rapidly beneath her.
She looks down at her hands. They're small and delicate. Children's hands. Odd.
"Hush, my heart," her mother's response is soft and clipped. Her voice is low and reassuring alto. Talia does not think she's heard it in a long time. The woman's hand comes up to cup Talia's cheek, cradling it gently. Her expression looks pinched at the edges, eyes tight and mouth pulled into a thin, straight line. Her eyebrows quiver. "I am here, do not fret."
Talia's own eyes crinkle. She does not want to believe her, but it's not exactly as if she has a reason. The woman looks real, and the hand on Talia's cheek, caressing the scales, certainly feels real. Yet, still… something about it feels off. Fake. Her smile is too sharp, her eyes too gentle, and her voice too soft.
There is a loud shout from somewhere off in the distance—something in English, she thinks, though the words feel muffled and impossible to decipher. Talia's head tries to snap in the direction of the noise, but her mother's grip on her cheek is too strong. The woman's fingers tighten, digging into the scales there. Talia sinks into the touch.
"The hunters are coming," Talia hisses, clicking and whirring as panic rises inside of her, "We must go."
"You must swim away," her mother replies, "Can you do that for me, Talia? I want you to swim as swift as you can. Leave me."
No, Talia wants to respond, but her mouth feels stuck shut. Leave her mother? How could she possibly do that? Her heart is thudding painfully against her chest, so loud that the sound echoes in her ears. "Mother," she repeats, and that seems like all she is capable of saying.
"Please, my heart," her mother says, and the hand on Talia's cheek is like fire.
"Mother," Talia says again. Her vision blurs. "Mother, please—"
"Go find your Father," her mother says, "Get away for me."
There is a loud ringing in Talia's ears. It hurts her head. Her mother is shoving her away, urging her to swim. Talia does not want to leave her mother. She knows what will happen if she does, and the woman is left alone. She does not want to lose her mother, not now, not yet.
She blinks, and her vision goes completely blood red. She reaches up and presses the palms of her hands against her eyes, opening her eyes and closing them again. Her eyes are burning.
And then—she wakes with a start, entire body heaving.
Talia's eyelashes flutter. Her head is pounding and it takes her a long moment to come back to her senses. Her fins are aching. It… it was a dream. A memory. Her mother is not here with her; she has not been with Talia since she was a very small girl, not since being captured and killed by siren hunters…
For the past few days, Talia has dreamed of absolutely nothing but her mother. Courtesy of the siren hunter who caught her—a odd man who she sees lurking around the bowels of the ship only during mealtimes, when he comes to provide her with food. She's never seen his face, as he tends to wear a strange ratty mask over his face.
He calls himself Scarecrow. He's some sort of bizzare mad scientist, experimenting with alchemy and magics and other such things he should know better than to touch. She grits her teeth.
Her dreams. The ones that have been plaguing her, ever since the monster of a man captured her, just off the coast of Gotham Island. They've all been caused by him, and the fear toxin he's been feeding her—a thing of his own creation, a poison that does absolutely nothing at all but make her relive her greatest fears and memories, over and over again.
She swims up to the top of the glass enclosure she's been trapped in—her own personal prison—and sticks her head out of the water, blinking back at the harsh coldness that suddenly brushes against her face. There is a heavy glass lid several feet above her head. She's tried many times to escape this cage, but none of her attempts have been successful. No matter how many times she pounds against the glass, not even a crack has been able to form. If she could just shatter it somehow… but then what would she do? Flop around on the dry ground like a beached whale, slowly dying from the lack of water? It is not as if she can simply just walk away.
She glances around, but doesn't see Scarecrow. She knows the man likely has other crew members on his ship, but she's yet to meet any. She's glad. Scarecrow himself is vile enough. She does not want to meet any of his men, either.
She is tired of this room. She has seen nothing but the bowels of Scarecrow's ship for days, has been able to swim nowhere but in circles in this damned aquarium. She finds herself missing the sight of the night sky. She is not even graced with a port hole to gaze out of here.
She swears under her breath for allowing herself to get captured. How in the seven seas had she managed to be so utterly foolish? She knows that she should not have been swimming so close to the surface. It was an incredibly risky move, one she should have been too intelligent to fall into, and yet still…
Days pass like this. Keeping track of time is difficult, without the light of the sky filtering down onto her. She knows that her father must be searching for her, though she knows he is bound to not react very well, to find out that she's been captured by a human ship. Her father has always, always despised humans, and the blight they bring about on the world, but she knows the death of her mother at the hands of siren hunters only made matters even worse.
Days pass, and Talia does her best to not lose hope that her father will find her and aide her rescue. It will happen eventually, will it not?
Talia dreams of her mother, looking down at her with very, very sad eyes. There is a dash of blood, smeared across her cheek.
"I am sorry," Talia tells her, but the older siren seems unable to hear her words. She only gazes longingly into the distance, blinking softly against the light.
"I am sorry," Talia says again.
Her mother does not respond.
Talia is woken one morning by a sudden banging sound in the distance.
Then, there's shouting. Someone swears, high and sharp. There's shinging and clanging sound, that of swords meeting and bouncing off one another. Talia's ears perk up, fins splaying out like an open palm. Her head cocks to one side, and she tenses. What is happening out there, beyonf the confines of her tiny aquarium?
The shouting continues, Talia listening in silence, until quite abruptly, it all just… stops. One moment there is a cacophony of noise, and then there is just nothing. She grips the edge of the aquarium, frills on the backs of her hands tense.
A dark form slips into the room, nd stalks across it in several long, deliberate strides. She squints at it. It is absolutely not Scarecrow, but she has no idea who else it could be. She pulls herself up, readying to fight if necessary. She feels rather weak, not having been given very much sustenance these past days—that, and how little sleep shes been running on with all of her nightmares, she doesn't think she could be anyone in a fight if provoked. Not that she'd go down without trying.
For a moment, Talia is not quite sure what she is seeing. The person scuttles across the room, and they seem distinctly inhuman.
The creature is humanoid shaped, yes, though taller and broader than any man she's seen before. It has wide shoulders and a head topped with a set of arched, pointed ears. It wears a long, sweeping cape, the same color as an inky night sky. It looks like a beast.
"Hello," it says, voice deep and gravelly.
Talia does not respond. She lifts her chin defiantly.
There is a tiny open window at the top of her glass tank, big enough for Scarecrow to pass her food, but good for little else. The creature turns to it, moving to meet her eyes. She is met with a surprisingly human face. She thinks it's a man, but he's simply wearing a metal helm. The strange ears on his head appear to be a part of it, spiked metal things pointing toward the ceiling.
His lower jaw is exposed and his face is square and pale, chin covered in stubble. Much of his towering bulk is armor, she sees now, dark, thick-plated metal that sits snugly against a muscled body. A shirt of chainmail hugs his arms, and his gauntlets make a quiet chinging sound when he touches his palms together. He still looks quite terrifying, even if he is only a man.
She wonders what a knight is doing all the way out here. He's likely boarding the ship to make arrests, since she is fairly certain that Scarecrow and his crew have been participating in piracy to keep up his scientific endeavors.
If she were a human, she would have felt some hope at the chance of being freed—but she is not. The piracy that Scarecrow likely commits is illegal, but not the siren hunting. Siren hunting is encouraged, even, in many human communities around the world. A human knight would do nothing for her here. Perhaps she would have been better off if he truly was a creature, and not a man.
"Begone," she tells the man, in English, "I have nothing for you. I am not a part of this crew." The language feels rusty. She's outright refused to speak to Scarecrow in English, despite his numerous attempts to try. She's not entirely sure why she finally is giving in now, to this strange knight.
"Certainly not," the knight agrees, cocking his head. She cannot see his eyes behind his helm, and the lack of emotion she's able to garner from him is strange. She has met many who are capable of hiding their thoughts and emotions, but this man seems especially good at it. She sees nothing, feels nothing, and has not an inkling of what he may desire.
The knight turns his head to gaze at the doorway he came through, and says, in that monotone, gruff voice, "I have defeated the crew. I assume they were your captors?"
Talia is silent.
"I was led to this ship after discovering a plot Scarecrow had," he continues, without waiting for a reply. "He has been planning to attack Gotham Island soon. I am certain you know of his fear toxin."
Talia swallows thickly. "I do," she tells him, because she does. Being made to wallow in the stuff for days on end has made her feel semi-feral. She resists the urge to lunge at the knight, to splay her hands against the glass, or to bare her teeth at him.
"It would be silly, if I did not," she continues, giving him an amused smile, "What use would I have to be here, if not to spy?" She twists in the water, her tail a wondrous spiral. Her golden scales glimmer when the light hits them, glinting even in the dull, mostly dark room. His head tracks her, watching her movements with rapt attention.
The knight nods solemnly. Then, astonishingly, his voice softens. "It is alright," he says to her, "I will free you. You mustn't worry about them any longer." He sounds so… gentle.
Talia squints suspiciously. "You are an odd knight," she says.
The knight cracks a smile. His teeth are pearly white. "You may call me Batman."
And—that name sounds familiar. She knows it, she is sure. She has heard tales of Batman—not a knight, not truly. He is a rogue vigilante that protects Gotham Island, working mostly outside of the law. Her father has spoken of him, though Talia has little knowledge beyond that. It is odd, still, to see him on a ship.
"I am Talia," she says in reply, "Talia al Ghul."
He gives her an appraising look. "I am sorry that Scarecrow captured you," he responds, "It is my duty to handle him, and I failed."
"He may be your responsibility," she says, "But I am not."
Batman's lips quirk. "No," he says, "You are not." His expression is almost amusing, like it should not quite fit him, or that she should not be able to see him smile. Like he should be a stoic man, not one who keeps having the corners of his lips tugged up at her remarks.
"It is my duty to help, all the same," he says, pressing a hand to the glass. Talia swirls, locks of hair drifting across her face. She ducks beneath the water, chuckling and allowing a few choice remarks to escape in a whispered hush of siren clicks and whirs.
"Can I carry you? Will you be able to last above water until we reach the ocean?" he asks, voice muffled by the water in her frilled ears. She nods in affirmation, bringing her hands up to touch the glass gently with the tips of her golden fingers.
She pops her head back up, "I am able to sustain myself above water for quite a while."
Batman nods, and in one swift move, frees her, breaking open the seemingly impenetrable glass with a odd solvent he pulls from a pouch at his hip. There are just about a dozen pockets and pouches there, and she wonders what else they may contain. The entire front sheet of the glass container pops right off, clicking off as if it were a door. She carefully hides her astonishment.
She rushes from the cage as the water spills over the floor, and she is left flopping there for a beat in the puddle. She squeezes her eyes shut, and the next thing she knows, she's being scooped into Batman's strong arms, held bridal style. She blinks at him.
"You are strange, Batman," she says up to him, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Let us go," he says, "We must make our way from here swiftly."
For a beat, Talia is reminded of her mother—telling her, warning her, to flee as swiftly as she could before the siren hunters got them. She is no longer a defenseless child, though, no longer small and young and afraid… and still, somehow, she has managed to find herself in a situation where she feels tiny and weak. Stuck above land, relying only on the arms of another being, unable to walk or to run or to swim…
"Let us, then," she repeats.
There are a few men that Batman missed when making his way to her.
He swears under his breath in a language Talia doe not recognize when he sees them. He shifts her weight to one arm, and Talia admires his form while he fights. He does not use a sword, like a proper knight would. Instead, he wields his fists as his main weapon. She watches him take down a man with a single punch to the side of the head with an appreciate eye.
Smirking smugly, she extends her claws to slash at another one of them. So these are Scarecrow's men? They seem pathetic. They wear the same odd clothes Scarecrow himself: an odd cloth sack with eye holes torn into them, drawn over their faces. They use swords and daggers, but it feels like they are no match for either of them. It is even more pathetic that they are being beaten by a man dragged down by an entire siren cradeled in his arms.
Are these really the men of the man who captured her? She feels cheated. If only she had been able to break free of her glass enclosure, she might have been able to make an escape all on her own, even if it involved dragging herself across the floor. She grins up at Batman with a mouthful of pointed, ravenous teeth. She can't see his eyes behind the helm, but if she could, she thinks they would be mirthful.
"You are a good fighter," she tells him, reaching out to touch his bicep. Her wet hair hangs in long, straight lines across her eyes.
"As are you," he replies, "How did you manage to get captured by this pitiful lot?"
Talia can hear the sarcasm and teasing in his voice.
"Their Captain is much more vicious," she says in her defense. She does not mention his fear toxin, and the way it rendered her absolutely useless the first time he used it on her. She internally shudders at the memory, pushing it away without another thought. It is best not to dwell, especially not now, in the middle of battle.
Batman rush through the maze of the ship, Talia still cradled in his arms, until they eventually make it onto the deck. The sails sag above their heads, half-mast. Many of the ropes holding everything in place hav simply just come undone, flapping rapidly in the wind. Turning to the horizon, the two are met with the sight of distant ships quickly approaching, black smog rising into the sky.
"That must be Gotham's guard," he says, "They also had plans to capture the ship." He tilts his head toward her. "I could not leave them to handle it alone. I had heard rumors Scarecrow had captured a siren, and I would not trust them with that responsibility." He looks away.
"Humans and sirens do not have the best relations," Talia agrees, thinking of her father, and then of her mother. She clings to Batman's chest.
Everything that happens next goes along so quickly that Talia nearly misses it. Batman turns to rush to the edge of the ship, obviously wanting to lower her into the water before she is above it for too long, when a dark blur whizzes past and something slams into the side of his head. He staggers. He cries out, a thick gasp escaping his lips.
"Gods," he mutters, falling to one knee. Talia stumbles out of his arms, rolling across the floor. Looking up, she sees a heavy metal shield laying across the floor, obviously the object that just slammed into the back of Batman's head.
She lifts her head and, there—it is Scarecrow, standing just in front of Batman. He has yanked his mask off, exposing a face that is grinning widely. The smile is so disturbing that he feels more like a monster than a man.
"Hm," he cocks his head to one side, "Was the Bat trying to steal my experiment?" Before anything else happens, he slips a dagger into his hand—shimmering with an odd golden liquid—and slices it across the vulnerable spot between Batman's helm and chest plate. Batman lets out a sharp gurgling sound.
Scarecrow is laughing, cackling. "Oh, I hope he's excited!"
Batman has not moved, and he trembles on the ground. Talia recognizes the symptoms of the fear toxin at once.
"That's my newest recipe," Scarecrow says in a hush to Talia, "Sirens
Talia moves before she thinks. She drags herself across the floor, before launching herself at Scarecrows, claws extended. She rips and slashes and tears, fighting with all of her strength. It was all she had been thinking of doing the entire time she was stuck inside that awful aquarium.
Scarecrow growls, and tears himself away from her, staggering. He kicks at her, so hard that she goes flying—right off the edge of the boat. She hits the surface of the water with a loud splash, frilled ears ringing, all sounds becoming muffled.
She struggles to move, disoriented and head buzzing. The water rushes about her, bubbles escaping her lips. The coldness embraces her, comforting and delicate, wrapping arms around her body. She is silent a long moment. Distantly, she can hear more shouting, swearing, another splash, all muffled by the dull ache of the water.
She closes her eyes.
When Talia comes back to, it's to the sight of Batman, a dark smear against the ocean, several feet away.
He is sinking, drifting down deeper into the water's embrace. His arms are outstretched towards the surface, reaching uselessly for the sky. Blood blossoms from his throat, inky tenrils also reaching skyward.
Talia swims closer. She wants to help… she really does, but she has no idea how. She is not strong enough to carry him up towards the surface, and laced with fear toxin, Batman himself is obviously incapable of doing it himself.
Even if she could somehow get him to surface, what then? Would he just be forced to tread water until he gained enough consciousness to swim back to shore? She had only been on the deck for a few minutes, but she has seen no hair of land. He would simply just drown.
He will die alone, eaten by the sea like so many others before him. It is the fate of man, Talia knows, to be consumed by the ocean.
Talia knows this, and yet…
She cannot help but the think of the way he saved her. He would not be wounded, if not for her. He would have successfully escaped the ship, unharmed, without a need to be slowed down by her. No need to cradle her in his arms. No need to take that blow for her. No need to protect her from Scarecrow…
She pauses, swimming closer. His mouth is open, but no bubbles escape it. He may be dead already. She lifts a palm and raises it to his face, lifting his helm off. He looks astonishingly normal, handsome, even, with a strong face but soft eyes. She drags her hand down his chin, down his neck, coming to rest her fingers on his chest. There's an odd symbol there, a wide bat-shaped mark engraved into the metal chest plate. Blood spurts from his lips.
It would be oh, so easy to leave him here.
She grips his chest. Her shimmering golden scales glow brightly against his dark chest plate. Her other hand comes up to cup his cheek, holding it gently in the palm of her hand. The skin there is oddly warm.
His armor melts away into sand, evaporating as if it were never there in the first place. Metal drifts away on the current, and cloth dissolves. There are scales creeping up his pale skin, dark and inky in color. They start at his feet, but they do not stop there. They climb up his calves, up his thighs, reaching their glimmering hands all the way past his naval.
His legs hug tightly to one another, glowing so vibrantly that Talia has to blink. When she reopens her eyes, they've been replaced by a long, glimmering tail. His face turns a glimmering shade of sky blue, darkening as it creeps lower down his body. The scales of his tail are inky, but with each glint of light, they shimmer with hidden dark blue undertones. It's… beautiful.
Fins and frills erupt from his sides, and down his arms. Gills slash themselves down his neck. His dorsal fin twinges in the water, fluttering gently. His caudal fin flexes, as if testing out how exactly to move. It's ghostly black shade reminds her strongly the way his cape had moved above water, floating and twisting.
Then, she leans forward, and presses her lips to his own. The wound on his neck stitches itself closed neatly.
His eyes finally snap open, and he gasps into her mouth. Those eyes—a bright blue shade, not unlike the color of the midday sky—meet hers, but he does not pull away. His hands come up to touch her side, gripping her hips tightly. She wraps her arms around his neck, holding him back just as tightly.
When they finally part, she sees him suck in for an instinctive gasp of air. She chuckles lowly, and lifts a hand to hold his face. "You do not need to breathe, anymore," she says in a smattering of hisses and clicks. She speaks in the siren language, not English, which certainly would not work here under the waves.
"It is alright," she tells him, chirruping. "You will learn to speak, eventually."
She reaches up and traces her finger across Batman's cheek. He seems surprising lucid, for a man who had just been drugged by fear toxin. Perhaps the transformation had healed him.
They do not know each other. Not yet, not truly. They have barely met, barely exchanged a handful of words, and she has already done something so sacred and intimate with him that it makes a knot grow in her stomach.
To turn a human into a siren is such a powerful pact. It creates a bond that can never be broken, never be altered, or changed. It is a magic that is frowned upon, by many. To turn a man that she barely knows is blasphemous.
Yet, she did it, and she finds that she does not regret it.
Talia learned that Batman's real name was Bruce, and that he was not at all what she expected.
She expected him to be furious with her. She expected him to hate her for changing him, from ripping him from the human life he has always known. What she had not expected is simple compassion and sadness.
"I would have died," he had told her, after she had managed to drag him to the surface to speak in hushed, English whispers, "If not for you. Thank you."
That was a month ago. She has spent all this time with him, teaching him to be a siren. That is what she tells herself, at least—that she mustn't leave him, not yet, because he still has so much to learn. She fears going back to greet her father. What in the seas would he say? Once he learned that she turned a human?
So, instead, she finds herself living a simple life with Bruce, never straying too far from Gotham Island.
"Bruce," she whispers to him, always, gently, in the the night. Talia thinks, secretly, that this is a very wonderful name. When she says it under her breath, it sounds soft and lovely on her lips.
Mentally, Bruce does not seem to take well to being a siren, not at first. Talia wants to be able to say that she understands, but she doesn't not truly. She was born a siren, not made one, and she knows she will never be able to understand the strife that comes along with that sort of life changing transformation.
He struggles, though she knows he does his best to not show it. He misses his life back on land. He misses family and friends. He misses being… human.
Physically, on the other hand, Talia finds that Bruce takes to being a siren so well that it is almost like he was born for it. He learns to swim quite well, soaring across the waves with such ease that Talia struggles to understand how he does it. He does flips through the water, graceful and sleek, as if trained for that exact thing.
He learns to speak the siren language in hushed whispers, fluent enough that within mere weeks, they are capable of holding a legible conversation with one another.
"What of your family?" he asks her, one day while they swim through the open ocean. The sun is filtering through the waves above, casting beautiful shadows across his nose. "You cannot spend all your time with me, can you?" His voice is just as deep below water as it is above water—his chirps and trills all low and heavy, thumpy like a the beat of a drum.
Talia beats her tail faster in order to keep up with him. "My father would not approve of me," she laughs, though it does hurt to make the sound. She misses her father, she finds. Perhaps not as much as Bruce may miss being human, but enough that it makes her heart ache. She knows her father is not a very good man, but she misses him regardless.
Bruce tilts his head very minutely,
"If he knew that I saved you," she tells Bruce, "He would be very angry."
"Would he?" he asks.
"… yes," she replies, though it takes her a long moment to say the word. "He dislikes humans. And to change a human into a siren is a very great misdeed."
Bruce stops swimming. Talia follows suit, watching the way his tail flutters softly in the current. "Would he also be happy to know that you are okay?"
"Yes," she says again, this time much more firmly.
Bruce cups her cheek. His hands are soft. "Perhaps, then, I should meet him."
"Perhaps," Talia agrees.
They share a kiss. They've shared many kisses by now, since Bruce's initial turning. Their first one, shared under the plight of Bruce's near death, feels insignificant now. Nothing at all compares to when Bruce actually, truly kisses her, full and there and knowing that he loves her.
She kisses him again, just because she wants to do it. Then, again, and again, and again. She smiles, against his lips. She does not mean to fall in love—truly, she does not—but by what means is she to prevent it? In what ocean would she be able to stop?
She brushes her webbed hand across his jaw, and he smiles at her, very gently.
Talia's father is joyous, when she returns home with Bruce in tow.
He is even more joyous when he learns that soon, he is to become a grandfather.
Damian is born the next winter.
He is the tiniest thing Talia has laid her eyes on, and she struggles to believe that she too, was ever that small.
He looks just like her father—a little thing of green, shimmering scales and dark hair. There are faint traces of her own coloring in him, too, small flashes of golden scales that glimmer when the light hits them. His eyes are wide, and bright green. His little gills flush against the water, and his arms reach for her whenever she dares sit him down. His face is round in that guppy way, all big cheeks and wide eyes and pudginess.
She finds that she never wants to tell him no to anything.
He swims just as well as his father, circling her in tiny little flips and flashes. The way his little tail moves is mesmerizing. It beats against her chest, soft and aching. Bruce seems amazed by just how capable he is, fluttering about them, even while so small.
"Human babies are much more delicate," he tells her, a hush into her hair. "Not nearly as independent."
Damian falters in the water, toppling forward and drifting nearly horizontal.
"Not independent," Talia says, scooping the tiny guppy up into her arms. "He will always need me, will you not, little heart?"
Damian makes a gurgling chirp, and Bruce sighs very fondly.
Later, his first word is "Mama." A soft little chirrup that makes her grin and glance to Bruce with a smug smile, as if to say "I told you so. I told you he would say my name first."
She cradles him in her arms and hums traditional siren lullabies. Often, Bruce's low bass will join, lulling even her to sleep. He sleeps on her chest, and she sleeps on Bruce's, one perfect little family.
After Damian, their family only grows.
There is little Dick—a tiny orphaned guppy, perhaps only ten or so winters, who Bruce drags home by the scruff of his neck. There is Jason, only a few years later, small and strong and with the biggest smile she's ever seen. There is Tim, who likes to scowl at her, and at his brothers, with little blue eyes that seem like they know every single thing in the seven seas.
Then, many, many years later, there is Danyal.
Talia is watching the stars, near the surface, under the light of the slowly setting sun, filtering through the waters, when she is interrupted by a tiny cry.
"Mama!" the little voice chirrups, clicking and whirring and so full of excitement that it makes Talia smile fondly. A dark blur races up to her, swift as the current, neary barreling straight into her side. It stops just before, bobbing up and down in the water as if unable to completely stop moving.
"Yes, my little heart?" she asks, turning to face Danyal's tiny form.
The little siren is completely upside down, his inky black hair drifting towards the sea floor. His tail—nearly the same shade, a deep black that reminds Talia quite strongly of her own mother—flickers back and forth impatiently, swirling in the waters. His eyes, the exact same shade of bright blue as his father, blink at her widely.
"Damian is mean," Danyal pouts at her, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Is he?" Talia asks, reaching forward to grip Danyal's shoulder, twisting him so that he turns upright. He's still so small, little enough that she is able to grip him just under his dorsal fin to hold against her chest. The motion only makes his pout grow more dramatic, more of a scowl than anything else.
"Don't have ta hold me," he says, "Not a guppy."
Talia muffles a smile by moving her free hand to cover her mouth. She does not think she is very successful at it, because somehow, Danyal only looks more frustrated.
"Am not," he says again.
Talia nods knowingly. "You are not a guppy," she agrees, and she supposes he isn't anymore, not really—Danyal is already six entire winters old, which makes her heart ache just slightly. When had her little guppy gotten so big? She moves to stroke her hand through his hair, playing with the curls.
"I can still hold you, though," she tells him, "Even if you are not a guppy."
He scrunches his face up at that, almost disbelievingly. "Are you sure?" he asks.
"Certain," she replies, "I still hold Damian sometimes, does that make him a guppy?"
Danyal just giggles, bringing his own hands to his mouth. "No," he says, as if the very thought of Damian still being a guppy was preposterous. Speaking of her eldest, though…
Talia sighs dramatically, "You said that your big brother was being mean?"
"Mhm," Danyal huffs, leaning his head against her shoulder. "Said—said I'm too little to help Daddy." His little mouth is still screwed up into that pout, lower lip jutting out. "Said I can't be a… a vig—vi—vigil…"
"Vigilante?" Talia asks, wryly, brushing a lock of hair away from Danyal's forehead. The boy nods vigorously.
Bruce had returned to being Batman, not long after Damian's birth. It seemed to be a thing he was born for, unable to stay away from. It made her happy to see it, the way he protected the ships and sirens who passed through teh waters by Gotham Island. Eventually, little Dick, and then Jason, and then Tim and Damian—they joined him, doing their very best to protect the waters they called home.
"Yeah," Danyal replies, "A viggy—land—tay."
Danyal though… Talia knows that Danyal is still far too small.
"Hmm," she says in turn, "Damian may be correct, my little heart."
His mouth falls open in an expression of deepest betrayal. "No!" he says, "But, Damian is not too little!"
"And Damian is already ten winters," she tells him, adoringly flicking the tip of his nose with one of her fingers.
"He said Daddy let him help when he was only eight winters," Danyal rebuts, and Talia laughs.
"And are you eight winters?" she asks.
Danyal is silent for a long, drawn out moment. His inky black caudal fin beats gently against her side, thrumming a tiny little thrum that she can feel deep under her skin. "… no." he says at last, turning those big blue eyes up at her.
"That is right," Talia agrees, letting the little siren go so he could swim about around her. He indulges, circling her form with tiny little laps and flutters of her tail. "You are only six winters."
Danyal's pout has still not left him.
"How about," she says instead, "We watch the stars together. Would you like that, my little heart?"
Danyal nods very slowly.
"Hm," Talia hums very softly, and
She mourns the day he will be big enough to go out with his older brothers, to protect the oceans. She knows that he will make a mighty warrior, but the thought of him growing up pains her.
He is not a guppy any more, he says, but she knows that he will always be her guppy. Always.
Not a day goes by where Talia feels regret about her decision to change Bruce into a siren. Every last one of those days—she sees her love for her family grow.
She sees herself in her children. She sees Bruce in them. She sees her father—and she sees her mother.
And she has never been more happy.