Sins Of The Father Chapter Zero: Original Sin.

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The wind's voice hollowed her out, turning wounds into heaving lungs. Shredded muscles took the place of her burning chest, while iron-drenched gasps passed through her. It was a rattled act that clung to staggering steps and blood-stained fingers breaking into flesh-smeared walls. Whispered comforts seeped through the cracks in immortal white stone, a lullaby from the watching statue's lips. A haunting melody was carried by the bitter cold and soft emerald-tinted fog swirling around the never-ending room. Spindles of fog formed into emaciated fingers that caressed the pitch-black sling resting upon its owner's pounding heart and the fussy newborn within it.

Its embrace was gentle, as if to carry the weight of grasping hands and a wide, tearful gaze. One not searching through the carnage of busted lips and shattered bones that held him close. Rather, they followed the bounce of his mother's matted curls like it was some kind of battered prey. Every unstable step seemed to shake the cool focus and push a long-held wail through the child's throat. The coming sound loomed like a threat far more pressing than her legs caving inwards or the scrape of stone eyes against a sculpted blindfold.

“Hush, my child, dig into the strength you have given me for a few hours more. “Talia’s voice was a soft yet pained whisper as small fingers grabbed her shaking hand.” Just a few hours more, and you will never know my father’s blade as I have.”

Although those words were a light plea, they hung heavy in the thickening air. They seemed to slice through the fog, rearranging it into scattered curves, thrumming with life. It seemed to rise and fall like a growing pulse of blinding light, creating sickening shadows. For a moment, these shadows seemed to change; ivy-covered arms and hair shifted into the more organic curves of a cape or the edge of a sword. Adrenaline worked its way from the corners of her sight into her screaming nerves as if it were the settling smell of copper bolstered by the cold. Where the trick of the mind once was now stood her weary form with its dry throat and ceaseless pulse, awaiting comforts.



Subtle tones shifted on the taut planes of her face, as if to burrow into the depths of her tanned skin. The fog seemed to spill through her throat, returning what the wind had stolen, no longer content with stone-bound lullabies. Instead, that pulse was covered into her bones and unweaved Talia's vocal cords with a voice not quite her own. It fought against shaking inhales as it attempted to weave thoughts through something made of flesh. Even among the uneasy scene, the Fog's voice was slow and sweet like warmed honey that covered demands in poetry.

“Only a few more hours and nine months of planning will bear fruit, my dear. The taste might be sweet, but you must run hard and fast before you can indulge.” A slight sense of being forlorn crept into the fog's words.” You deserved a kinder end, but I can not be by your side while achieving this one. We both share a prison, as I am stuck in my stone joints and these waters. However, we will meet again.”

The halls seemed to ring out, filling every shadowy corner with a growing scraping sound. What should have shaken the air and prompted her body to scream out in its last desperate throws held something meek within it. A sense that was found in the restless moving of chairs and hands tracing lines in walls or floors, wanting to grasp the steadiness for themselves. If her legs weren't beginning to sink into the warm, tacky puddles of blood that spilled through torn pants, she might have spared it a laugh. One not of joy nor born from the frantic energy puppeteering her. Rather, it would be small and frail in its own way, hoping it would slip past the body and embrace a tormented soul.

“ I hope one day they will forgive me both for this, but there is no use mourning what could have been our endings. All I can seek is not to repeat my father's sins; I wish I could take you with me. You've seen them all, and I'd rather not be alone in that crude city…” Talia’s words were interrupted by the white stone pressing against her spine as if to seal her fate.

“ You will not be. You are more than any heir or costumed man, and you will hear my voice. It might be just my voice for a long, long while as the waters are old, but you have done harder things than say goodbye.”

Her feet had yet to grace the snow outside, but the cold continued to pierce her. Its edges were sharp while it tore, locking tendons from bone. The walls grew imposing, like towering guards outside a cell, as the floor slipped away from her heels. Hands flew to break not her fall but to brace the child's sob-wracked form. The weight of the world settled in her limbs as the wall slipped away from her spine, high-pitched wails filled the spaces in between the vertebrae.

“No, no, no, I have to keep moving, keep going…” Talia's words were heavy against split lips, “Mother, Lady Lazarus, please, please, please, I need to move. Need to crawl, he will not stay down for long. Please “

The floor pressed against wounds, sending waves of nauseating pain through her nerves. All while the fog was packed under ripped, bloodied flesh, and restless as the wind shifted into rocking waves beneath the marble. It roared, mixing with the scraping and wails in some orchestra built for her surrender. Those sounds bounced through walls like ghosts in the heavy air, ready to expel their sorrows, much like the cracks and carved, lifeless gaze of the watching sculptures as the waves crested through them. In place of tears, rushing waters consumed where dry land once was, smothering the blank estate in green depths.

While the fog pulsed with a mimicry of life, the waters were brazen. Its glow beat like a panicked heart, catching its breath as it crept to her side, lapping against curled legs. The rocking waves eased into soft ripples, a sense of frantic power hidden within the emerald reflection. A tightness seized her chest as the water weaved gashes together like a frigid needle and thread going through the motions. Wails subsided into red-faced sniffles, filling the space with pained groans. Ones that seemed unsure whether they were leaving her tight-set jaw or belonged to that restless soul whose signs of life were swept away in the panic.

There was, however, one sure thing within her grasp. A power carried in the beads of water that danced along with her tensing fingers. Every pained twitch would send them floating into the air, curves morphing into pointed edges. Posed and eager to slice through wounds rather than mend. In the light, they shifted from the green glow that seeped from her lungs and chest to the warm amber tones of gold. Although an obvious threat clung to them, the small movement was welcome in the stillness. Where a home might have been was now something akin to an abandoned forest floor. Every sign of life was tucked away before the coming storm, leaving her as the sole being left to face the quickening footsteps and smell of rot.

Under, the steady but furious pace hid a growing tension. One that bubbled to the surface through the screech of a blade against stone. It was a long, drawn-out sound that rearranged her bones with a death cry and shook the ground. The storm had arrived not in the form of rain or thunder but as the flick of a cape and the gleam of blood-soaked metal. Still, she focused on the man, a fighter's frame that seemed to spite the feebleness that should come with age. Even from the other side of the room, there was a shared calm behind his scowl, like it was nothing more than the passed-on angles of the face.

“If it were not for your folly's daughter, this might be an admirable death. “Ra’s said, every calculated step closing the cavern that was the room. “Yet it seems a dishonour to soil my blade with such ungrateful dirt like you. “

Tendons threatened to rip through half-healed legs, not quite ready to support the weight of standing. Instead, leaving the remnants of gore and silk to hang like Talia’s screaming nerves. Their message was unheard except for the tightening grip on the child's far too small, far too light form. Any other day, it would steal the air from her struggling lungs if the sting of stone against her shaking heels hadn't already. Blood-soaked palms and smothered grips threatened to return her to the crumpled limbs she was seconds ago, the floor twirling in the corners of her eyes.

“ You may place it on your blade, but remember, this is not my first dishonourable death. The spilled blood of your child and heir will be on your hands, she will not wash them clean this time.” Tala’s words were steady in place of her body, while those droplets began to connect and curve.

The arc hung in the air for a second, a threat mirrored in the pulsing reflection against metal. All while the water crept forward to match his steps, dragging the earthy notes of decay and myrrh with it. It seemed to share new energy with its former droplets as it burrowed through sleek armour and consumed the cape's tatters. A few olive-colored shreds refused to succumb to the growing depths, as if to protect scarlet-stained skin. The very same skin that was scarred by deepening wrinkles and inhuman grace as he raised the blade towards Talia's neck.

“Take my last mercy, and I will not repeat history. Give me the child. Do you think he will love you if you hand him his bastard in replacement for the dead one, the one you hid?”

“ What difference would it make when you don't need a child, you have that thing? A clean artificial slate will be better than something that will grow to resent you.”
Even though those words were strained through a blossoming wound, a clam remained. One that pushed through pain, locked muscles and heavy gasps as the blade dug like teeth at her throat. Iron returned to the air as warm streaks of blood rested on bruised collar bones, only to find their twin in smeared handprints. All while seconds stretched like an elastic ready to snap with the twitch of a finger.

A release came in the slow slip of a hand, a show of power masquerading as weakness. The arc of water leapt through the air like the heels of a skilled fighter carried it. Golds and greens spat out shrapnel as if it were nothing more than their reflection, all too eager to finish its work. Once pristine metal began to melt and writhe like a serpent in its death throes. Nerves and flesh tore away with the liquified remains, leaving only bone to be sawed through. A warrior's steadfast shoulder was reduced to a festering wound and a slipping sword.

Remnants of straining muscles held on like rotting stitches, breaking free under a primal rage. Some deep, reckless urge slipped out through pained heaves and the slow lean of a limp arm. The last of his control was replaced with the hunch of a feral beast frozen in its bloodlust. Planned attacks within Ra’s’ gaze seemed to contradict the staggering of his steps.

“I will skin you for this child.”


Those words did not hit their mark. Rather, they stuck into Talia’s back as her form slipped away, begging to disappear into the shadows. A tension was strung between the half-empty threat and battered but hastening footsteps. Gone were the small inching side steps of a prisoner free from the blade. In its place was passed down brown hair for skeleton-like hands to drag across the grounds. Flailing limbs and screams would be reduced to a mere aftermath, like a shattered doll being thrown away. Still, the hiss of rage pressed in on him like white-hot breath against his back. Every rising ember filled his senses with misshapen temptations.

Once again, the air was filled with the wailing screeches of a dragging sword. Its echoes covered the desperate sounds of a freshly broken into a sprint as walls and corridors stretched into a labyrinth. For all its sterile beauty, something slumbered beneath them; An old, weary death trap covered in never-drying blood. The longer she hid in the twists and turns of her old home, the more a strange hope began to form. Amidst the scrape of metal or blending walls came thick strands of painted ivy, each leaf crafted from Talia’s much calmer hands. Now her straining fingertips traced each stroke as she ran, using it to pace the mantra on her lips and cover the breath brushing against her back.

" I will not repeat my Father's sins, I will not repeat my Father's sins, I will not repeat my Father's sins. " Those words came out in hushed promises that drove her forward long before the cold ache of fresh snow worked into her bones or the wind stole her breath.

Still, those untouched sheets of snow that dulled the sharp cliff faces held a kinder embrace than the white stone she fled. Even as the chill sliced through silk and skin, it stopped just before the muscle, like the stones under her feet. They reached past the slick snow and wrapped around her ankles as if to push her down, taking with it her thinning breath. No longer would Ivy settle burning legs or fried nerves set ablaze by the whine of a blade. Now danger came in the slow slip of shaking feet and twisting shadows, even in their footing, but unable to hide their pained groans.

Time became measured in dimming stars and shiver filled sobs. All while a dampness collected between rattling breaths or caving in limbs as those cliffs slammed against her stumbling form. Murr packed her throat like the drawing in darkness, tuning every move into a tightrope routine, and yet those hushed promises remained. Even after they were carried by the wind's mournful howls. Never quite the hum of an engine that would mark salvation.

" Mother, give me strength, I will not repeat my Father's sins. I will not repeat my Father's sins, I will not repeat my Fath- " Limbs gave way like the words as her knees slammed into the snow.

A chill ripped through her body with a skill, much like the sword against her back. Silk was rendered into bloodied cloth as it dug into her hunched form. For a second, silence fell on the Himalayas save for a single choked sob as Talia's hands flew to cradle. Any remaining wails were replaced in an instant by wide, unblinking eyes, as a small grip tightened around her fingers as they drew closer to the snow. All while her remaining hand tore at the knot keeping the very sling together, grace was a long-gone memory. Now replaced with the fresh river of blood as steel broke through skin and shattered vertebrae. Muscles turned into nothing more than limp carnage to feast upon as lungs began to twist under a blood-soaked edge. One that returned on the other side was painted in scarlet.

" I will not repeat your father's sins, my Damian."