Goodbye to you. Goodbye to everything that I knew.
At midnight, Chicago returns from Silent Hill.
At midnight, none of the firstborns, no matter where they are or how they're protected, come with it.
There are no bodies, no sign of them leaving. They're just gone, leaving those who remain to figure out what exactly happened.
Every firstborn in Chicago will be trapped in a dreamworld. Locals will ( Read more... )
At midnight, none of the firstborns, no matter where they are or how they're protected, come with it.
There are no bodies, no sign of them leaving. They're just gone, leaving those who remain to figure out what exactly happened.
Every firstborn in Chicago will be trapped in a dreamworld. Locals will ( Read more... )
Alfred Pennyworth stepped out onto the street. The cement was darkened in spots, and he knew it was death that marked the city.
He walked to the park, and he did not pass a soul. It felt quiet around him. His mind was screaming.
He remembered his older sister holding his hand on his first day of school. Such an old memory, but a dear one.
He would trade it for one minute...just one.
The memory of his mother was a precious one. She was long gone, and she had loved him well. Alfred Pennyworth was a man blessed with a mother who cherished him.
He would give every picture, every faint whisp of a song in his mind...for even less than a minute.
The memory of Thomas and Martha holding a beautiful baby boy played in his mind like a moving picture. He could see every wisp of hair on Master Bruce's head. The child's eyes locked onto his as the mistress of Wayne Manor placed him in Alfred's arms for the first time. The trust, the faith of the mother and the child, was nearly overwhelming.
As young Bruce Wayne had clasped Alfred's thumb with a tiny hand, he had known he would love the child as long as he lived. He would love him beyond this life, and he had known that the child would carry a piece of his love inside his heart.
He could not wish to trade these memories, but he would. He would give that moment back to the fates, to destiny, herself, so that Bruce and Rachel might live.
"I would give my mind," he offered the air, the gods. "My life, my soul. I would give anything so that they might live...even for just a moment more."
He did not realize he had fallen, nor did he realize his knees were wearing dents in the filthy grass as he rocked.
No tears fell. He shook, a low hoarse gasp working it's way from his throat. They were gone.
Hope fought to work it's way to the surface. Fear and angush pounded at it. Alfred felt the darkness of the city smiling around him, it's dazzling teeth bared.
He rocked back and forth until his knees bled, and then he continued to rock.
It hardly mattered.
But, hope is a great and terrible thing. It tempted and cajoled. It whispered to him.
He seized it, his eyes glinting in the darkness. Midnight.
Alfred would wait until midnight, through the bitter certainty that the children were gone forever.
The hope shared the color of madness within him, as surity that death had robbed him of joy overwhelmed him. He clung to the madness.
Midnight. If the children were gone past then, he would find them. Regardless of what he might find, he would never stop searching. The heart in his chest, so recently tested, ached and pounded unevenly.
Being with one's children no matter what the cost...is that not what fathers do?
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She's talking, too, though it's unclear whether it's to him or no one in particular. "Ding dong, which witch locked herself in the watchtower, she won't strike the bell."
Cy smacks at her prize, tugs, and flings it. It lands a few feet from the man on his knees.
It's Rachel Dawes' bracelet, slipped from Julian Sark's wrist unnoticed in the dark. Cy runs after it, up to Alfred, and then back.
"It's here," she says. "Here," she says. "It's singing for you."
She stops, stumbles over to Alfred, and hooks her claws into his pants. "Get up now. Get up now?"
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Master Bruce's friend. The one that had led Alfred to him. The gratitude for those precious moments he was given is overwhelming.
"The north star has lost it's way." The words are barely recognizable as his own, and he is uncertain as to what he means although he remembers those words...he does. Little makes sense. A glint in the dark catches his eye and he nods slowly, carefully making his way onto trembling legs. He bends to pick up the bracelet, and it is cold against his fingers. Little Rachel Dawes. He very nearly falls again.
Reaching out to Cy with a gentle hand, he takes a very long, very deep breath. "He was yours, as well, my friend."
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She wants to tell him they'll come back, that she can see past tonight and things will be okay, but she's never been good at comfort and she's even worse at words, and by the time the desire occurs to her it's buried under the struggle to get her own paws to work the way she wants them to. "You're still shiny." She looks up at Alfred. "They polished you."
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"Begging your pardon," said owner intones softly. "There's a bit of a chill out tonight, yeah? And I did promise. Said I'd look after you. I'm a man of me word. I won't interrupt, but I won't let you catch your death of cold, either."
The kindness offered, Liam takes two respectful steps back, to give Alfred a bit of privacy if he needs it. And yet he stands close enough to be at hand if Alfred chooses as well.
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Alfred looks up slowly, his face showing every year of his life. There were children in his garden, once, trampling the flowers. He had hidden a smile and pretended to accept the story of a rogue animal running about.
The man's words do not make sense, though he nods politely. It is a thing borne of years of habit, that nod, and the whispered gratitude. "I thank you, Sir."
There is silence for several minutes as Alfred thinks and breathes, the very effort quite unpleasant. "May I ask who sent you?" Perhaps, it does not matter. Not now. However, Alfred would want to know which of the children had worried so.
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"Miss Rachel did, sir," he replies. "I was asked to look after you, and after Mr. Rice. Just while she's gone, that's all."
He pauses--for it pains him to say this, knowing how powerless he is tonight. But say it he does.
"I'm Liam Booth, and I'm Rachel's guardian angel. I told her I'd grant any wish it was in my power to give, yeah? This is what she asked me for."
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At the man's introduction, the sadness within him broadens. It shifts to include this mad he does not know. He does not know him at all, and he knows very little about guardian angels and what being one would encompass. He knows Rachel, however, and anyone who knew her would love her.
"I thank you for your kindness, and for honoring her request." The heart within him, already shattered, winces for the young man, Robin. Alfred had years to know Rachel. As grateful as he is for that, he feels a terrible ache that Robin did not.
Looking down for a moment, he simply breaths. In and out, so simple. Life can be so simple...and too easily taken. He forces himself to his feet. "She would want you to be cared for, as well." He can find the strength within himself to not lose himself, so the young man can keep his word. He can do that, if nothing else.
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But he can sense how important this is to Alfred. How much the other man feels a sense of duty, the desire to serve. And, further, in this case, to honor the memory of the one who's gone from him.
"She would," he agrees. "She's a wonderful woman like that."
Present tense. Liam's not convinced she's really gone for good. He has faith.
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Alfred is, in general, a man of hope. He has always had the utmost faith in Bruce and Rachel, and he would continue to do so.
He is not thinking logically, however. He is feeling, and everything feels...painful. It is the frantic, torn pain of having your children ripped from you. It is helplessness and a very dark, empty place. It happened once before, with Rachel...he simply is unable to find his way through to the light. The world is raw.
And...this man has that hope in his voice. Alfred looks to him, and he cannot help but feel very relieved there is that hope.
He helps. It is who he is. Though, he has never done so before, he finds himself asking, "Can you help me, please?" He is uncertain what he is asking for, only that he needs that help.
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He pauses a moment while trying to figure out the next step. "Would you care to take a walk around the park? Help soothe the mind and soul a bit, yeah? Before we go back indoors."
He can feel the despair and hurt rising off Alfred. He knows enough to know Alfred's a man who generally prides himself on his composure; returning inside in such a state will not do.
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"Alfred?"
She rests her hand on his shoulder, hoping to stop his rocking. Rachel was a very close friend, and she brought Alfred back to life so she feels a sense of responsibility toward him, a need to take care of him that's greater than the urge she has to help the average stranger on the street. Plus he lives in her basement, and they're all family there.
"I'm so sorry," Martha says despite the fact that she knows the words are empty and useless in the face of such loss.
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"I-"
He breaks off and nods, his face turning down. This very kind woman has saved him once. He feels a wave of guilt that this woman who gave him his life is witness to his guilt at being alive while those he loves are not.
"I am sorry, as well." For so many things.
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"There's nothing to be sorry about," she insists as she looks at him.
Martha takes in a deep breath. It's been a long time since she's put herself in the position of delivering hope. For over two years, she's seen herself as a realist, and she knows what Chicago has taught her. It's taught her that happy endings are a rarity here and that following these happy endings are simply more disasters waiting to happen.
"It's too soon to give up hope," Martha says quietly, pressing her hands into the grass. "We don't know what tomorrow will bring. It might bring... absolutely nothing, but they're not... They've disappeared, but they have to be somewhere. And we'll find them."
Yes, she said we.
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Yes. He is unable to think of anything besides finding them. It is everything to him, and his face eases in it's agony. It is not gone, but it is dulled. They are gone, but they will be found. They will.
"We will." Thankful, he nods. He believes in this woman, as he knows Rachel believes in her. She said we, and in that moment, he is not alone.
His head tilts down slightly and his eyes cannot contain his pain or his need to hope. "Thank you."
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