Balance

     Bruce stood silently on a wide wooden plank suspended over a deep ravine. His eyes closed, he listened to the wisps of wind as it gently flowed between the snow-covered mountain walls.
     "You listen well," the master said behind him. "But you are not here to listen to the mountains. You are here to listen to yourself."
     Bruce frowned.
     "I saw that," the master said, still behind him. Bruce looked back over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. The master gestured for Bruce to return to what he was doing. Bruce turned around and went back to his silent meditating.
     "You focus too much on the world outside, young one," the master said. "You must realize that the real conflict is within you."
     "I'm not at conflict with myself," Bruce said indignantly.
     "Why are you here?" the master asked.
     "To gain the skill to avenge my parents' deaths."
     "To what end?"
     Bruce felt slightly furious at the mere question. To what end?! What kind of question was that?
     "Is vengeance not a goal in itself?"
     "What do you seek to gain by enacting vengeance upon another? Contentment? Happiness?"
     "Justice."
     "Justice is an admirable goal, but you speak of vengeance."
     "The two aren't mutually exclusive."
     "Justice brings balance; vengeance further deepens every wound."
     The wind increased slightly, making it a bit more difficult for Bruce to hear the master speak. As he strained his ears, Bruce heard a sharp whistling.
     Bruce's eyes shot open and he ducked low. An arrow sailed directly through where Bruce's face had been, its razor-sharp tip embedding itself in a rock near the master's feet. Bruce lost his balance; the plank below his feet was now a simple rope. Bruce toppled and fell, catching the rope with both hands.
     The master lightly smiled. Bruce eventually realized this was the master's equivalent of chuckling.
     "It seems you lack balance in more than one way, young one," said the master. "When your mind was at ease, the rope seemed as wide and firm as a bridge. When you allowed yourself to become unfocused, you fell."
     "I had an arrow shot at my head!" Bruce shot back exasperatedly.
     "Did you?"
     Bruce looked toward where the arrow had landed; it was missing. Even the hole it should have made in the rock face was gone.
     Bruce worked his way back to the ravine edge. Five weeks here and things were just as confusing as when he arrived.

     Bruce walked quickly but silently down the red carpet towards the altar in the temple. Ambrose was already kneeling there.
     As Bruce knelt, Ambrose turned and smiled. "The master summoned you, too?"
     "Yeah."
     "How is your training coming?"
     Bruce sighed and rolled his eyes.
     Ambrose smirked. "I know the feeling."
     The master suddenly stepped before them. Bruce quickly straightened up; Ambrose did so a bit more slowly.
     "You have attempted to steal from this sacred place," the master said grimly.
     Bruce and Ambrose looked at each other quizzically.
     Bruce began to speak. "Master, I—"
     "ENOUGH!" the master interrupted. "You are hereby both banished from Nanda Parbat. Leave now!"
     Bruce looked at Ambrose in shock. He turned back to the master. "No! I didn't try to steal anyth—"
     "The master has banished you," a monk at Bruce's side said gently. "Please, this humble one does not wish to harm you. Leave now."
     Ambrose stood. "Come, Bruce. Apparently our invitation has been revoked."

     Bruce and Ambrose stood in the snow outside the gate to Nanda Parbat.
     "...Why would they do that?" Bruce asked.
     Ambrose sighed. "I can truly say I do not know. Come with me; I have a camp nearby."
     Bruce followed, but didn't quite understand. A camp? In the snow- and wind-swept mountains? It didn't seem likely that any camp Ambrose set up five weeks ago would still be left standing.
     Twenty minutes of walking later, Bruce saw Ambrose's camp. "Camp" was probably an incorrect term. What Bruce was looking at was more of a makeshift military base. Huge tents and modular buildings were surrounded by a dozen treaded vehicles ranging from snowmobiles to large trucks. Around a hundred men dressed in black walked around the camp, tending to power generators and other equipment.
     Bruce quickly ran through every possibility. This wasn't a scientific expedition, at least not by the look of things. It wasn't military, either, at least not from any country Bruce was aware of.
     Bruce grabbed Ambrose by the arm with a steel grip.
     "Who are you?"
     Ambrose grinned. "I am a man simply trying to gain further knowledge. I am not, however, Damian Ambrose. My real name is Ra's Al Ghul."