She comes to get him in the stillness of the deep night, long after most sensible, normal people are asleep.
Talia peeks in through the curtains that serve as a meager door to his room, catching sight of his lanky form curled tightly beneath several silk blankets, and does not allow her heart to clench. "Jason?"
He comes awake when she calls his name, starts to sit up in that slow, absent way of his, but they don't have the time for his exhausted movements; she paces forward to his side and casts the blankets off him, ignoring his faint noise of protest at the sudden cold as she pulls him unsteadily into her arms; she is strong, and with his thinness he is not especially heavy, but he is still strangely tall for his early years of malnourishment, and balancing him without letting his head tip back too far is a momentary challenge.
Normally, she would not stoop to carting him around like a toddler; normally, she would have left the task to one of her father's men if there was no other choice but to do so.
But she cannot risk it, not now, not after what her father told her just hours earlier.
"This pet project was a waste of time and resources. It is time we disposed of the boy."
Talia cannot let that happen. Not when they are so close.
Not when Jason knows her face, knows his father's name, is still in there, somewhere, trapped within horrific damage to his skull, the result of a crowbar and the trauma of returning to life with no real oxygen to breathe.
Jason's head settles awkwardly against her collarbone, lolling a bit in his drowsy state, and she shushes him gently as he makes another little sound of confusion. Even three months ago, such a sound would have been seen as some kind of progress, but her father has lost all patience, and she cannot wait around and watch her Beloved's son die.
She tells herself that as she sneaks through the compound, past guards she will likely have to dispose of for their negligence later, past the hidden door behind the large tapestry in her father's study, down, down, down into the dark depths surrounding the Lazarus Pit her family has watching over for centuries.
The eerie glow of the Pit casts ominous shadows across Jason's slack face, and for a single instant, the thought of dropping him in there makes Talia ill.
He can still recover without it. She's sure of it; give it a few months, years perhaps, but there is still the possibility of Jason waking from this state without the use of magic.
She looks down at the boy's slack face, and momentarily envisions Damian's face instead, imagines Ra's demanding his grandson be cast aside in favor of a more useful pawn, and the reluctance dies in her chest dies quickly.
"Hold your breath," she warns him, though it will do no good; she gently taps his mouth shut and pinches his nostrils closed before dropping him in.
The effect is not instantaneous; the token struggles his body puts up from lack of oxygen start out as simple twitches and movements, before abruptly a hand clamps around her wrist and she is shoved aside as his head breaks the surface, sobbing for breath and screaming.
It is a terrible, animal sound, but she reaches forward and grabs him before he can hurt himself, dragging his hands down from where they were clawing at his head and holding his flailing form for dear life.
"Jason," she shushes, fighting to be heard above his sobs, "Jason, dear boy, quiet. I've got you. I've got you."
A/N: I don't like Talia all that much, but I can respect that she does care for Bruce and Damian in her own way, and I am grateful that she brought Jason back, so this works.
~Persephone