"Do not be afraid; our fate
Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift."
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

prologue.

Once, I had everything.

It was a small price to pay for the love of a wanderer.

.

.

.

I was young when he came to us. Young and bright and a promising warrior, taught by the hand of my own father. Though I had the skill of a man twice my age, I did not have his wisdom – as soon as I laid eyes on the beautiful, pale-skinned wanderer, I fell in love with him. At least, I swore to myself that it was love.

He was a traveler from a distant land, without a home, without a past, but my father could guess that his pale loveliness was a mark of European blood. It was all I had of him – the color of his skin, like the petals of a lily. Smooth and soft and ageless. Never, in all my short life, had I seen someone like him. I didn't dare tell my father, who saw love as the one thing that could devastate the promise of even the greatest warrior. He detested even the idea of love. I was born of one of his concubines who had died mysteriously, and shortly, after my birth. No, this was a secret I knew I must bear silently.

And so I carried it with me, hidden in the depths of a heart that ached so strongly for the pale-skinned warrior. My father liked him so much that eventually he took him under his wing, trained him as he trained me. When no one was around to search for me, I would steal through the towering marble columns which lined the training square, silent as a ghost. He moved like silk in the wind, so quick and agile on his feet. It was apparent, even to my father, that he'd had training before. The way he dodged every deadly blow could have been the result of fair reflexes, sure – but the deftness with which he held his blade. It was not merely the deadness of a great weight in his hands, but an extension of his arm. Such effortless grace with steel was not self-learned.

It was with a terrible yearning in my heart that I watched him train with my father. And before too long, the hunger became too much, my secret love too intensely felt to bear alone. I came to him in the night, while he wandered the gardens, jasmine perfume tangled in my hair and rose water on my skin. I scaled the outer walls, watching his shadow move like fluid grace from behind a pomegranate tree. The way his skin glowed beneath the moonlight made my heart thrill. I had to know his name.

Do you always walk alone, nomad?

Even now, I remember the way he turned, and the way his voice stole through the gloom like a rush of quicksilver.

It is the only way I know, princess.

You know of me?

How could I not? You are so often spoken of by your good father.

Strange, he never speaks of you.

Perhaps I am a secret, one that should not be shared.

He had paused, his shadow still. Come into the light so I may see you.

A warm, pooling heat had crawled through me then, burning like fire. I recognized the feeling, the same sensation I felt when I would unsheathe my father's prized scimitar in the training ring. Anticipation. The thrill of knowing what is about to come.

I step into the light. It is the first time he has ever seen me. We have been separated, kept apart, as I have always been when father invites strange men into his house. But I am a child no more – he cannot hide me as he once did.

They did your loveliness no justice.

Almost breathless with exhilaration, I'd stood before him with my father's pride and our eyes locked. His were the color of sea stones, pale and blue and glinting softly in the moonlight.

Give me your name, nomad.

I can only give you one. Henri.

And so it began. In the afterglow of the desert heat, when the moon would rise and the darkness shielded us, we'd meet in secret in the garden. The days were torture. Long and endless until at last, the sun would slip behind the horizon, and the madness of the thrill would set itself upon me. Jasmine flowers weaved through my hair. It was in the maze of the garden that I knew him first, and he took me beneath the jasmine vines with his head bowed beneath my chin, whispering softly to me in my native tongue. Only the stars knew our secret, and the kept it for us. No one else seemed to detect the nomad's escape from his chambers, when the sun had set and all the house retired. And no one, not even the most vigilant wet nurse, noticed the disappearance of the warlord's daughter

Even my own father did not know. In the blissful haze of his ignorance, he continued to train Henri in the ancient ways of the Moroccan warlords. And I – I held a secret of my own.

With the months passing so quickly, I watched in dread as my stomach swelled. My clothes soon began to fit too closely, and I searched desperately for ways to hide the child growing inside of me. It would be too late, come one evening in the dead of winter. My most vigilant nurse maid took my secret – and she delivered it into the hands of my father.

It all happened in the course of one night. A long spell of darkness that made me yearn for dawn. Even now, it is all a blur. I cannot remember how everything came to pass, with the sharpness of my memory beginning to fade altogether. Everything I can recall can be whittled down to one moment – my father dead, killed at the hands of my beloved. And as we absconded from the palace, my hand over my stomach as we rode hard through the desert sands, the General of my father's vast army followed close behind.

He was a ruthless soldier, carrying out the strategies of my father's invention with such meticulous violence and skill. Henri was not spared the mercilessness of the General's retribution, who had hunted us for days with a bloodthirst roiling in his veins. He desired vengeance for the man who had taught him everything, raised him up from the obscurity of his old life like a father. When they caught us, they dragged him away from me and tied him to the back of the General's horse. I knew where he would go. There was only one place that enemies of the state were sent. They would take him to the Pit.

I threw myself to my knees before my father's prized soldier, begging him with tears stinging my cheeks. Please, my lord, it was not him! He did not kill my father. He is innocent of this crime.

Henri thrashed in his manacles as he heard my plea. No, Melisande!

The General had ignored him. You are the conspirator?

Yes. I am the one who killed the warlord.

With only a curt nod, the switch was made. They tied my wrists and ankles with their thickest twines. Henri cried out to me. So desperately, so bravely, he fought to escape the binds around his wrists. It was not enough. The General dealt a harsh blow to the back of his head and left Henri to die, alone, in the sand.

It was silent as they tied me to the back of one soldier's horse. Not even the echoes of my beloved's voice remained.

I wept into my shawl as I walked behind, stumbling through the ankle-deep sand.

Once, I glanced over my shoulder at his silent figure. I could only bear one last look. And as we slipped further and further away, disappearing into the horizon, I knew I would never see Henri again.

author's note: for all those who don't know, melisande was the name of talia al ghul's mother who first appeared in batman: son of the demon. since she didn't have a name in the movie, i decided to use the only name i have.

disclaimer - i own none of these characters. they belong to DC.