Only sort of New Fic: Faerie Tales and Flying Foxes
Huh. I was archiving at AO3 and realized that I'd somehow forgotten to post my story here on my own LJ.
Well, for those of you interested and who haven't seen it elsewhere, I give you a Batman/Superman story:
Title: Faerie Tales and Flying Foxes
Fandom: Batman/Superman
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Faerie tale, AU, slash
Warnings: Ok kiddos, pay attention. In this story, there's some self-lovin' going on with the presence of a very interested bat in the vicinity. If you have strong squicks with animals and sex, this may not be the story for you - though I doubt it's anything PETA would make a fuss over.
Once, in a far away kingdom on the edge of forever, there was a prince. He was a good prince, intelligent, handsome, and passionate about his people. The peasants said that the prince was perceptive of their troubles and unflinching in his desire for justice. The Royal Court said that he was stubborn and unfashionably involved with his work.
His name was Bruce.
Prince Bruce was the only child of King Thomas, last scion of the house of Wayne, which had made a home for itself in the royal city of Gotham for centuries. Bruce had an older cousin, Prince Lucius Fox, who thought that it should be he who should have the throne. Bruce was aware of his cousin's ambition, but arrogantly chose to ignore it, for though Bruce was intelligent and passionate, he was also a bit bull-headed. He was, he felt, too busy investigating the theft of a landowner's cattle herd, or detecting a new science of planting the fields to be worried about the succession.
Now, Prince Lucius, who was known by his friends and enemies alike as Prince Fox, was also an intelligent man. He was perhaps more crafty than his cousin, though less wise in the ways of science, and he knew that he could never hope to best his cousin in a traditional challenge for the throne, for Bruce was the finest athlete and warrior in all the Kingdom.
So Prince Fox visited magicians in secret, and paid many many golds to dozens of wizened old men and women in smelly, dark places of enchantment. For though all places of enchantment are not smelly, nor dark, indeed most places of magic are light and airy, bursting with the lifeforce of all things that fly or crawl or walk or swim or grow upon the world, still the Fox wanted a special type of magic, with a dark and crafty purpose, and for this the places he needed to visit were indeed foul.
Prince Fox knew that Bruce would have to marry to become king, and also knew that Bruce was so tied up in his work that even though noblewomen from every kingdom threw themselves at him, he had not yet chosen a bride.
It was also rumored, though very quietly, for Bruce's people did truly love him, that Bruce would rather have a groom than a bride for a spouse, and that because his duty to the kingdom to produce an heir meant he could not follow his heart, he was uninterested in declaring any marriage proposals at all.
It was in Prince Bruce's thirtieth year that the ball was held, to bring together all the princesses and daughters of dukes, barons, counts, and every beautiful (if poor and slightly out of fashion) young gentleman's daughter and every beautiful (if much more poor and with barely an un-patched gown to their name) though honest farmer's daughter, before Bruce, in a clear statement that while Bruce might be more interested in the cellular reproduction of grain, his people thought it was high time he thought about reproduction of a different sort.
And so Prince Fox, who was both patient as well as crafty, and who had spent most of his family's wealth over the years in dark, smelly places of enchantment and was getting a bit tight in the purse strings himself, finally saw his opportunity.
He lobbied and spoke with such conviction about the future of the kingdom and the need for a clear succession, that it was decided by the old King that unless Bruce should declare his bride-to-be by the end of the ball, Prince Fox would be take Bruce's place as successor and heir to the throne.
Frankly, Prince Bruce thought it a waste of time, and had to be pulled from his studies at the last hour and hurried into his princely robes, which he hated and smelled musty and tripped him up when he wished to move in a hurry, besides.
It was even worse at the ball itself, with hundreds of beautiful young women fawning over him, the attention so constant that he could not even escape into the eaves as was his want, to pass the time with the guardsmen or watch the stars turn in the heavens above the city that he loved.
There was one Commissioned Guard, in particular, Gordon, to whom Bruce looked up to almost as a father (for though he loved his own father very much, a king is often too busy for games of swordplay and lessons about catching criminals and how to pick a lock with only your lady's hair pin at hand - should you have such a lady nearby - or how to sneak through the dark of night, or even the semi-gloom of an overcrowded dancing hall, with no one the wiser) and the Commissioned Gordon, too, thought of Bruce as the son he never had.
Gordon was well aware of Prince Fox's designs on the throne, and further had spent long years watching the Fox fortune disappear into dark, smelly basements, and was alive with fear for Prince Bruce's well-being on this night.
But Bruce only scoffed and dismissed his friend's warnings, for he did not care about the throne except as a means to serve his people, and so did not truly understand his cousin's desire for power, nor the lengths he might go to achieve it.
And so, just minutes before the stroke of midnight, Prince Fox pulled Bruce aside into a private alcove to toast his upcoming engagement. Prince Bruce, far from being suspicious, was relieved to have a minute away from the masses to try and decide how the hell he would choose one of them. For though he was, as previously mentioned, a very intelligent man, even for a prince who must be intelligent just to have the job, he was distracted and irritated and quietly heartbroken aside from the rest, for he knew he would marry without love or attraction to leaven his duty.
So it was without hesitation that he drank deeply of the odd, musty smelling wine that Prince Fox served to him, and dropped his empty goblet in utter confusion as the room began to swim around him, and his body began to shake.
"Fox," he gasped, his voice oddly harsh in his throat, "what have you done?"
"Only a gift, a small token of my esteem, on your engagement night," Fox replied, smiling in triumph.
If he said more, Bruce did not hear it, for his body screamed in pain and confusion, and he found himself writhing and twisting until he came to stillness on the floor, a small heap of leather wings and soft fur and dark, piercing eyes.
Bruce trembled in shock as Prince Fox picked him up from the floor, held him easily in both hands, and brought him to an open window. "Fly away, little fox. For as I will take your father's name, so you will take mine. Little flying fox, should any of the royal huntsman spy even a wingtip, they will have orders to loose their arrows at it. Fly far, far away, and never return."
Then he tossed Bruce out the window into the dark, clear night and Bruce plummeted towards the pavement below.
Well, this is ridiculous, he thought, and spread his dark, leathery wings and tried to remember everything he knew about maximum velocity and aerodynamic flight before it was too late. Fortunately what he remembered was a great deal, and though he'd never before flown (though he had often dreamt of it, late at night, when even a prince can dream of such things) he remembered enough to slow his decent and glide in an uneven wobble to a nearby tree, where he promptly smacked his tender nose on a branch.
The swearing of a grey headed flying fox (or bats, as they are known in other lands) is quite distinctive, and in this case the mutterings and squallings continued on for some number of minutes before Bruce recollected that he was now both quite small and defenseless and a target for any idiot with a bow and arrow.
Now supremely irritated, Bruce considered flying back up to the window and into the ballroom in an attempt to show the Commissioned Gordon what had become of him, or at the very least send such a fright into the ladies there gathered regarding their hair and his wings that he would get at least some satisfaction from the night, which had thus far been a total wash.
Regretfully, Bruce concluded that he was neither an accomplished enough flyer, nor so good at communicating, even as a human, to make such a dangerous foray advisable.
So he set out into the night, swerving and swooping around branches and buildings, letting his strong little body teach him what it could, squalling in frustration and fear as he went.
*_*_*
It so happened that in this very kingdom lived a man of about Bruce's age, a farmer, who had no daughters of which to send to the prince's ball, so was quite unawares of the great gathering and subsequent disappearance of the old King's heir.
This man was a quiet man, though his neighbors all knew him to be full of life and the joy of the morning. His name was Clark, and he was friends with all of the things that walk and crawl and swim and fly and grow upon the world (for though the wizards and enchanters liked to fill their halls with the lifeforce of such things, Clark preferred to let the things themselves come into his home and share some warmth and companionship, and the animals all liked this arrangement much better, too).
Clark spent his life spying out small, shy little bundles of fur that might need a gentle hand to feed them or heal their broken bodies, until such time that they might be strong enough to be freed back into the wild wood. (Though they never went far back into the wood because Clark's house was known to be the place for a bit of soup and a good gossip amongst all the forest creatures) And so his eyesight became sharper than the keenest falcon's.
He spent all his days outside in the glorious sun, tending to his crops and rolling huge boulders out of his and his neighbor's fields, and he grew many times stronger than the strongest man, stronger than the greatest bear, and even the dragons and hippogryphs in the wild wood eyed the span of his impressive shoulders and arms with respect.
And he spent so much time caring for shy, wild creatures, paying no mind to the densest thicket of thorns or to the sharpest teeth or claws (for though they were always happy to be helped, a wild thing is still wild, and must show it's wildness even if at times it would rather not) that his skin became impenetrable, and rumor had it that not even a sword would pierce its fine grain, though it were wielded by the strongest swordsman in the village.
(This rumor came to pass after a particularly rowdy night of drinking, when one fellow's sweetheart married another, and in the throes of drink and despair, started a fight when he probably shouldn't have. The rumors went that Clark intervened, moving more quickly than a striking snake, grasping the sharpened blade with his bare hands and easily wrestling it away, and then proceeded to gently murmur in the unfortunate young fellow's ear about fish and seas, finally taking him off to let him get drunk in the relative peace of his own home.)
So it was that Clark, oblivious to his prince's plight, woke one fine morning, stretched his long, strong body in the welcoming sunlight, and emerged from his home to find a bundle of dark brown fur and tattered, leather wings at his doorstep.
"Well, look at you," he murmured, scooping the soft, limp body into the cradle of one great hand. "I don't see many flying foxes waiting at my stoop in the morning, though they will occasionally stop by of an evening if they're in the mood," he crooned softly, feeling the little bat's exhausted panting and rapid heartbeat. "Looks like you ran into some of those magpies, little bat. Where are your brothers and sisters to keep you safe?"
The flying fox weakly lifted it's head and stared balefully at Clark, surprising him into a deep, joyful laugh that made the birds and mice and deer and cats and rabbits and small, web spinning things start in surprise, then settle back comfortably in their homes.
"Yes, fine. We can discuss all this later, I suppose," Clark said, smiling down at his handful of fur and wings, and brought the visitor into his home.
Clark at first placed the flying fox into a small, dark box filled with good things to eat, but the bat was an escape artist of the first order. Clark came back to his house midday to find his little friend huddled in the corner of the yard, shaking and squalling in fury at the impertinent birds that pecked and harassed him.
"You know," Clark rolled his eyes with exasperation, "that box was to keep you safe - you're not strong enough yet to set out on your own."
The flying fox, in his anger and shame for his weakness, sunk his sharp, needlelike teeth into Clark's thumb as he was rescued for the second time in one day.
"Well, you're welcome," Clark groused, though not very seriously, for the flying fox's teeth could not hurt him, and he was used to wild, scared things being wild and scared. He was, besides, more interested in discovering how the flying fox had got out of the box than anything.
Clark now made sure to return home several times a day and found every time that the little bat had escaped from whatever safe place Clark had put him, though he had learned his lesson and stayed inside the house.
Eventually the little bat healed and became strong enough to make short flights in the house, clinging to Clark's thick, black hair and walking with wings and feet down his arms to the desk where he read by the light of a lamp. Soon after he was taking longer flights, from chair to rafter to cellar and back, and then, one calm evening, flew out into the gloaming light altogether.
"Well, goodbye," murmured Clark, staring after the dark shape of wings.
He went into the house and tried to concentrate on supper, but found that he often became lost in thought, and his meal stayed only half prepared.
For though the animals around his home often stayed nearby, they didn't always. And as difficult as his new visitor was, harassing the mother civet and her young ones who had lost their burrow, and positively chasing out all the other winged things in Clark's home, still Clark found that he missed his stubborn, irritable, opinionated little friend, and was deeply sad to see him go.
That night Clark awoke in his bed with the warmth of a soft, furry body pressed into his neck, and the gentle scrape of winged nails along one shoulder. Clark drew in a breath, tasting the clean, pleasant smell of his friend on the air, then ran a big, strong hand down his own stomach, finding himself already aroused.
"Look, little friend," he murmured into the still air. "I'm glad you're back, I truly am, but there are some things flying foxes don't understand about humans and their bodies, and if you're going to sleep there, you should try to, erm, shift about a bit less. Okay?"
Clark turned his head to peer directly into bright, piercing black eyes. "Right then, glad we had that talk," he whispered.
He turned his head back, prepared to sleep, then gasped in surprise as the little bat moved and moved again, rubbing soft, silky warm fur, lightly against his skin.
Clark found himself trailing his own nails lightly up and down his belly in time with the bat's movements, rustling the fine, dark hair growing there, feeling the heat pooling low between his legs. He clamped his hand down firmly against his stomach.
"Really, this has gone far enough," he husked, the solid weight of his own hand, hot and heavy on his abdomen. But the bat brushed the shell of his ear with its soft, warm fur and he felt a delicious thrill spiral in his gut, a liquid ribbon of pleasure.
His hips arched of their own accord, and he found himself gripping one large, muscular thigh with a hand, the other hot and huge and low down on his hip.
"Honestly," he managed, trying gain some control over his body, "this is the sort of thing they stone people for. You wouldn't imagine what some folks say about me alrea- ohhhh," he moaned quietly, another ripple of fur and silk at his ear, then sliding gently down his neck. Then a wing, warm and delicate, was stretched out and curved gently over his chest, the heart's blood beating through its membranes, teasingly close to his aching nipple.
"Oh, Rao," he swore quietly, his chest arching up towards that teasing touch, "this is wrong, I know it is. It's so, mmph, oh god, but I can't, I just-"
The little bat pressed needle sharp teeth into Clark's neck and the sudden sharp pleasure bloomed in his belly, making his dick ache and his balls feel thick and heavy and oh god, he needed, and no one would know, no one was watching and he wanted, but he shouldn't...
He feathered light, teasing touches over his thighs, his belly, and finally his hard, straining dick, whimpering in pleasure, his stomach and thighs tight and clenched, ready for pushing, thrusting, mmmm, fucking...
"Okay, you have to promise," he panted, "promise not to tell. Rao, I can't believe I'm even thinking about this. Just, just promise," he husked, his voice now low and deep and god he needed this so badly. Clark held his breath for a moment, then surrendered and pressed the heel of his hand firmly against his aching dick.
Oh! Sweet Rao that was, oh that was... his breath was almost a sob. It was good, but he wanted, he really shouldn't, but he...
Clark bit his lip between his teeth, still hesitating, then turned his face into the warm, soft body next to him, slowly rubbing and teasing himself with the silky fur against his cheek, whispering across his now open lips. This was so wrong, but he was stroking himself now, hand wrapped firmly around his erection, hips bucking and thrusting, stomach tight and straining and he wasn't stopping, he was actually going to do this, and the little bat muttered and shifted next to him and fluttered it's wing across his chest, sparking lust from his hard, aching nipples to his dick and he moaned and writhed and oh god, he was, he was going to come, oh Rao it was coming, it was, ah... ah... ahh!
*_*_*
After that night, Clark wouldn't let Bruce sleep with him anymore. It was just his luck, Bruce thought, to find the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen, and not be able to touch him even now that he was (he supposed) no longer the prince.
But Bruce, was, as he knew himself to be, both intelligent and stubborn, and knew that Clark was being an idiot. This was clearly an arrangement between consenting adults, and if Clark couldn't see his way clear to that conclusion, well then Bruce would simply cheat.
He spent the days sleeping (and did that ever irritate him to spend useful daylight hours asleep. When Clark once suggested to him that he'd be more even-tempered if he slept like a normal bat would, Bruce squalled at him and flapped his wings, until Clark threw up his hands and shouted "Fine, be that way, I'm going out to get some work done!" and Bruce wrapped his wings about himself and brooded until dusk when he could fly out and find his friend - who was nearly as stubborn as Bruce, himself - and clung to his hair and generally made a nuisance of himself until Clark broke down and smiled and took him in those great, huge hands of his and hummed him a song he'd thought of that day).
The evenings he spent with Clark, perched on his shoulder or in the crook of his arm, trying to retrain his bat-mind to read and write.
He would sometimes become so frustrated at his lack of progress that he would launch from the desk, shrieking and muttering and fly out into the night towards the orchard (because he was, apparently, a *fruit* bat, of all things). But after eating he would always return to try again, snuggling into the crook of Clark's bent elbow and beginning anew to force the senseless shapes on the page into words.
He grudgingly admitted that he'd never have made any progress if Clark hadn't been in the habit of reading aloud to his friends. The mother civet and her cubs had moved on, but there were always visitors in Clark's house besides himself, and Clark had a rolling, deep, pleasantly rumbling voice that made whatever story he chose a pleasure to listen to.
At times Bruce would close his eyes and simply allow the pleasure of Clark's voice to rumble though his body, his sensitive ears quivering, his body humming as he tucked into Clark's side and experienced his friend with all his might.
Then he would heave a deep sigh, open his eyes, and force himself to stare at the page, and he would stare so hard that he missed his friend's curious, considering looks as he continued to read aloud.
Sometimes there were human visitors at Clark's door, of an evening, with questions or news or a pint of homebrew to share. Bruce did his best to discourage this (reasoning that he wanted no interruptions in his goal to re-educate himself) but after the first few times when Clark had banished him outside, Bruce decided that it was better to put up with the intruders. For clearly Clark would let simply anyone in his front door, and it was up to Bruce to keep an eye on them.
But the nights, the nights made his blood sing and his body burn in ways that were both familiar and entirely new and strange.
He would sneak into Clark's bed, walking with wings and clawed feet, so gently that not even Clark's enhanced senses would wake him, and by slow degrees gently touch and soothe and inflame Clark's body. He would watch as the flush spread down Clark's face to his chest, then lower, watch as Clark's lips would part, his eyelids flutter, his face turned instinctively towards the source of his pleasure. Bruce would spend an hour, two, gently working Clark's body until he was shivering and responding to each silky brush, each gentle trail of wing and claw. His legs would fall open, his big, lovely erection full and dark against his stomach.
Then Bruce would flit away into the shadows and watch as Clark would writhe and squirm himself awake, always unable to stop himself, running shaking, greedy hands down his body until he could cup himself, those same hands pulling and teasing until he would gasp and shake in joy as his release found him, his body bowed in a single, beautiful arc of pleasure.
And Bruce would watch from the shadows, burning in strange and new and wonderful ways, his fur vibrating in the still air, his small, sharp ears twitching at the least sound.
Wanting.
*_*_*
Spring had passed into Summer, and Summer was winding its way down when, one fine evening, a knock came at Clark's door.
He automatically glanced a warning at the flying fox. Though it had been months and months since the little bat had made a fuss over visitors of the two-legged sort, one could never underestimate his little friend's temperament.
A herald, his once darkly majestic clothing now ragged and dirty, stood there, the man hardly in better shape than his uniform.
"Come in, come in," Clark urged, seating the poor man at his table and serving his own supper to him, accompanied by a hissed sound of dismay from the rafters above.
"What?" startled the poor man. "Is there something in here besides us?"
"Just a friend," soothed Clark, recognizing the signs of shock the city folk seemed to get any time one of them tried to ride through the wild wood. He shot a look of reproach at the rafters, which chittered angrily back at him.
"Your business must have been quite urgent, to take you through the wood," Clark said curiously, seating himself across from the herald. Though Clark's eyesight was extraordinary, even he could not see things that were not there, and the herald's identifying insignia had been torn off his clothing somewhere before Clark's front step.
"Indeed, very urgent," the herald said, straightening importantly. "Life and death, one might say."
"Well, I was about to offer my hospitality for the night, but if your errand is so urgent, you'll surely want to be about your way as soon as can be..."
"Um, no," coughed the herald, eying the dark woods about the yard, thoughtfully. "I could likely spare the time, and, erm, perhaps gain useful intelligence about this place. I'm looking for a man who can speak to animals. I've heard that he lives in these parts, perhaps you know him?" he asked, digging heartily into Clark's stew and fresh bread.
"Well," replied Clark, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment, "it's been my experience that anyone can speak to animals. I myself do it quite often. Whether they choose to respond is another matter entirely-"
"Then you must be the Super Man that I've heard of!" the herald gasped, leaping to his feet. "The tales say that you are stronger than the strongest of the gods, can fly like an eagle and shoot bursts of lightning from your eyes! And, of course, speak with animals," he continued in a more normal tone, sitting down again to reapply himself to the stew. "This is really quite good, I wonder if you'd mind sharing the recipe? My wife could certainly use a few pointers..."
"Um, yes of course, say, what did you say your name was?"
"Oh, yes. I'm Jimmy Olson, sent by the Chief Herald, Perry White, to search the lands for you. And here you are!"
"Um, yes. So the Chief sent you-"
"Oh, not just me!" Olson interrupted. "He's sent dozens of us out looking for you, and won't he be surprised when I come back, having scooped all those older boys? Whoo!"
Clark felt a profound urge to run outside for a while, possibly in the direction of the wild wood where he felt sure the young herald wouldn't follow.
"And you were sent to find me because?" he continued doggedly.
Herald Olson looked at him blankly. "Didn't you know? Prince Bruce has been turned into a bat by the intelligent, yet crafty, Prince Fox! The Commissioned Gordon found out all about his nasty little schemes. Seems the Fox has left a money trail a mile wide over the years and it wasn't too hard for the Commissioned to put two and two together once Prince Bruce went missing. But now, see, he's still missing, and the Commissioned figured that seeing as how you speak to animals and all, you might have heard of him or something..."
It was not Clark's words or actions that had stopped the young herald's tale, but rather the sudden appearance of a flying fox, swooping down from the rafters above and landing decisively in front of the two men.
Herald Olson stared and swallowed and stared again. "Huh."
Clark, who was quite intelligent enough to be a prince, moreso than most men who already held the position, and rather keenly perceptive besides, pulled open one of his books and placed it gently in front of his little friend.
The flying fox immediately pointed his wing, the first digit claw on a word .
"Breakfast!" chimed the Herald Olson.
"B", Clark corrected, pushing the young man back down in his chair, again.
"Oh, I knew that."
Quickly the claw pointed to "reduce", "uncover", "celery", and "engorged".
Clark stared numbly at his small friend.
"See here, just what kind of a cooking book is this, anyway?"
Clark snapped the cover closed, then stood up, and walked wearily away from the table.
"Well, there you are. Prince Bruce. Take him home to his friends and... just take him."
"Um, I would but you know, those woods are kinda easy to get lost in and-"
A squalling of epic proportions erupted behind them, and Clark suddenly had a hairful of angry flying fox, twining itself in his locks and holding on for all the world as though a whole flock of magpies were after him.
"I, uh, think he wants you to come with us," Herald Olson ventured, looking wide-eyed at Clark's now disheveled appearance.
"I suppose you're right. We'll start first thing in the morning."
*_*_*
That night Clark did not sleep at all, and Bruce kept vigil over him, both of them listening to the softly snoring herald in the next room.
*_*_*
The ride to the city was quiet, Clark knowing the wild wood as well as any of the creatures who lived there, Bruce nestling in the crook of his arm, drowsing through the long, sunlit day, the herald on his horse keeping up as best he could.
But if the journey was quiet, the city was an explosion of sound and people and smells. Clark had never felt the need to go anyplace the least of his friends were not welcome, so he had never before traveled to the Royal City of Gotham. The assault on all of his finely tuned senses was so great that he was hardly less stunned than the shivering, flying fox in his arms.
Here, they were only too happy to let Olson lead the way through the throngs of people, all clamoring and yelling and hoping that their prince had, at last, returned to them.
Finally they stood in the quiet of the Great Hall, though not alone. Much to Olson's dismay, six other wisemen and wisewomen stood with six other heralds, each with a grey headed flying fox in their possession, each claiming to have found Prince Bruce.
Bruce snorted in contempt and squalled his anger at the would-be usurpers, who flapped their wings helplessly and would have flown away, but that they were in cages of the finest gold, silver, and jewels. Only he rode freely on his friend's arm.
Finally, the old King arrived, accompanied by the Commissioned Gordon and Prince Fox, who was in chains.
"My son," the King started, glancing uncertainly at each of the bats in turn. "At last, with our greatest hopes realized, you have been returned to us." He then eyed Prince Fox, who received a swift kick from Gordon.
"Which one is he?"
"How should I know?" spat the Fox, for he was angry at his schemes being spoiled, and further convinced that Prince Bruce had likely been pierced by one of the many arrows his huntsmen had let loose over the past months into the hearts of a great many flying foxes.
At this all six of the other heralds and their wisemen and wisewomen began clamoring and yelling for attention, and waving their gold and silver and jeweled cages with their poor flying foxes within them, each more loud and more certain than the one before that they had found the missing prince.
Now, Clark could have left, and it is doubtful whether anyone would have stopped him. Nor would they have believed the word of a very minor herald who had, after all, gotten lost in the wild wood, where heralds are not supposed to get lost, even supposing they are young and not accustomed to the small, quiet magics of things that grow and crawl and fly.
And given the circumstances, Bruce was again remembering what it was to be Prince of Gotham, and while he loved his city and his people, he certainly did not love being prince. He began to wish that Clark would, indeed, turn them around and take them back to their home, where Clark would read to his friends in the evening while Bruce curled sweetly against his side, and later would sleep with the restless knowledge that Bruce would wake him during the night, hot and burning feverishly with want.
But Clark was a good man, and honest, and he stepped forward, his broad shoulders and tall frame shouldering aside the discord around him until all that was left was silence.
"This is my friend," he said simply, holding Bruce out from his body, cradled gently in his hand.
"This is also your prince."
"Are you sure of this?" the old King asked. "For we have only enough of the magic left for one more attempt." And at this they all looked upwards, where many, many flying foxes roosted above their heads, (for the young Herald Olson had been lost a very long time in the wild wood) and Clark was saddened to know that his friend had nearly lost his last chance of becoming human, due to unprincipled fortune seekers. He was further saddened by all the poor bats that had been taken from their homes and nests to be brought to a strange place, with no fruit or suitable trees for sleep.
"I am," he simply replied, and such was the force of his personality, the light of his honesty and goodness shining from his very soul, that all present believed him, and many felt ashamed of themselves and swore thereafter to attempt to be better people by his example.
"Plus, you know, the bat can spell," chimed Herald Olson.
*_*_*
Bruce was still getting used to being a little over six feet in height, with large, muscular shoulders and long, strongly muscled legs, instead of small and compact with wings of lightness and grace, and a furry, warm little body that would fit comfortably in the crook of his friend's arm.
He was also having a difficult time learning to stay awake during the day. He still spent his most productive hours in the early evening, through the dead of night, and on into the rising dawn.
This did have the unexpected advantage of allowing him to avoid the worst of the social niceties thrust on him by his newly reclaimed prince-hood, though he often still had to attend overcrowded dinner parties in too-bright halls packed with the curious and the ambitious.
In the first days of his return, Bruce had casually inquired after the Super Man who had brought him home, and was told by one disgusted young maid that he had been handsomely paid and sent back to whatever backwater he'd come from. She had never met the man, but she heard that the only good thing about him (aside from his taking such good care of your Highness, of course) was that he'd taken all the displaced flying foxes with him when he'd left.
Bruce felt such a terrible surge of jealous rage in his breast that he could hardly breathe, and spent the rest of the week refusing to think of it at all.
But he was lonely, wandering the dark corridors of his castle at night, as he had never been lonely before.
Before he had simply been a human prince, too bound up in his work to notice things like friends and wounded animals and farmers who were too beautiful and honest for their own good, and now he knew better how cold and solitary his life had been.
He was as much Bat as Man, now, he admitted to himself, as he sat at the interminable dinner feasts. He could eat only fruit and pollen, as any flying fox would, and could stomach only water, for even the mildest of wines assaulted his senses like a blow.
And so, one evening as Bruce was readying for his day, he called in his faithful steward, Alfred, and instructed him to dress him in his finest robes of grey silk, and to place his finest circlet of hammered gold upon his forehead.
And Alfred, who had lovingly served the Wayne family his entire life, sighed in relief and rushed to get the robes ironed and aired for the prince, for he recognized the signs for what they were, and had seen, further, how unhappy his young charge had been since his transformation from Bat to Man.
The next morning, Bruce was gone.
All the kingdom was stunned to learn that by the old King's consent and decree, the Commissioned Gordon's young daughter, Barbara, would be heir to the throne. Barbara (who was also more intelligent than most princes and certainly more than almost every princess, who were usually encouraged to think only of their hair and their trousseaux and not so much about arithmetic and civil defense) spoke clearly and compassionately to her people, and very soon the people of Gotham, and of the whole kingdom, came to love her. For she too cared for them as passionately as Bruce had, but was more visible and open to their affection.
And one day, not long after Bruce disappeared, a strong, handsome man appeared at Clark's door, and he was in much finer shape than the herald who had last arrived there, for this man had not forgotten the small magics and ways of those that crawl and fly and live easily upon the earth. He was also in finer shape than a certain flying fox had once been, for he was now too big for the magpies to trouble.
Clark just stared, for he guessed who this handsome stranger must be, but could not be certain. He finally raised one strong hand to Bruce's hair.
"You don't look at all the way you used to. Not even the color of your hair. (which was as dark and thick as Clark's own, though less wavy) Not even the color of your eyes." (which were as blue as Clark's own, though less inclined to laughter and light)
"Of course I don't," Bruce replied archly. "The nature of enchantments doesn't pay attention to genotypic pigmentation. Now are you going to stand here all day or can I come in from this blasted daylight? I'm still not doing so well with the whole diurnal concept."
Clark burst into his loud, joyous laugh, for this surly, opinionated man was indeed the friend that he loved, and startled a laugh from Bruce as well when he hastily pulled him inside.
Now Bruce's days were spent slumbering peacefully in their bed while Clark worked the fields and laughed with his neighbors, and rescued poor, broken, hungry little bodies from the woods. (Though all the displaced flying foxes had been firmly ousted by Bruce, saying in no uncertain terms that it was *fine* if they lived in the orchard, and Clark, who had only allowed them inside because of his great loneliness and grief over his lost friend, was amused, and the bats were really very happy to relocate anyway) And his evenings were spent cooking for Clark as Clark tended to the animals, then reading aloud from their books after supper, first one of them, then the other, sharing their love of learning and their love of each others voices.
And their nights were spent together, full of yearning and heat and pleasure, satisfying hearts and bodies and minds alike.
And if sometimes a shadow would flit through the small town in the dead of night, righting small wrongs and leaving insightful clues for the constable of the village to find, well, no one complained, except possibly the criminals who were brought to justice. And if the shadow began to be called the Batman by the small town's inhabitants, well, it was just a name, and the Commissioned Gordon and Princess Barbara and the old King and all the rest chose grandly to ignore the rumors, for they truly did love him, and wished him all the happiness he had found.
-the end
Well, for those of you interested and who haven't seen it elsewhere, I give you a Batman/Superman story:
Title: Faerie Tales and Flying Foxes
Fandom: Batman/Superman
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Faerie tale, AU, slash
Warnings: Ok kiddos, pay attention. In this story, there's some self-lovin' going on with the presence of a very interested bat in the vicinity. If you have strong squicks with animals and sex, this may not be the story for you - though I doubt it's anything PETA would make a fuss over.
Once, in a far away kingdom on the edge of forever, there was a prince. He was a good prince, intelligent, handsome, and passionate about his people. The peasants said that the prince was perceptive of their troubles and unflinching in his desire for justice. The Royal Court said that he was stubborn and unfashionably involved with his work.
His name was Bruce.
Prince Bruce was the only child of King Thomas, last scion of the house of Wayne, which had made a home for itself in the royal city of Gotham for centuries. Bruce had an older cousin, Prince Lucius Fox, who thought that it should be he who should have the throne. Bruce was aware of his cousin's ambition, but arrogantly chose to ignore it, for though Bruce was intelligent and passionate, he was also a bit bull-headed. He was, he felt, too busy investigating the theft of a landowner's cattle herd, or detecting a new science of planting the fields to be worried about the succession.
Now, Prince Lucius, who was known by his friends and enemies alike as Prince Fox, was also an intelligent man. He was perhaps more crafty than his cousin, though less wise in the ways of science, and he knew that he could never hope to best his cousin in a traditional challenge for the throne, for Bruce was the finest athlete and warrior in all the Kingdom.
So Prince Fox visited magicians in secret, and paid many many golds to dozens of wizened old men and women in smelly, dark places of enchantment. For though all places of enchantment are not smelly, nor dark, indeed most places of magic are light and airy, bursting with the lifeforce of all things that fly or crawl or walk or swim or grow upon the world, still the Fox wanted a special type of magic, with a dark and crafty purpose, and for this the places he needed to visit were indeed foul.
Prince Fox knew that Bruce would have to marry to become king, and also knew that Bruce was so tied up in his work that even though noblewomen from every kingdom threw themselves at him, he had not yet chosen a bride.
It was also rumored, though very quietly, for Bruce's people did truly love him, that Bruce would rather have a groom than a bride for a spouse, and that because his duty to the kingdom to produce an heir meant he could not follow his heart, he was uninterested in declaring any marriage proposals at all.
It was in Prince Bruce's thirtieth year that the ball was held, to bring together all the princesses and daughters of dukes, barons, counts, and every beautiful (if poor and slightly out of fashion) young gentleman's daughter and every beautiful (if much more poor and with barely an un-patched gown to their name) though honest farmer's daughter, before Bruce, in a clear statement that while Bruce might be more interested in the cellular reproduction of grain, his people thought it was high time he thought about reproduction of a different sort.
And so Prince Fox, who was both patient as well as crafty, and who had spent most of his family's wealth over the years in dark, smelly places of enchantment and was getting a bit tight in the purse strings himself, finally saw his opportunity.
He lobbied and spoke with such conviction about the future of the kingdom and the need for a clear succession, that it was decided by the old King that unless Bruce should declare his bride-to-be by the end of the ball, Prince Fox would be take Bruce's place as successor and heir to the throne.
Frankly, Prince Bruce thought it a waste of time, and had to be pulled from his studies at the last hour and hurried into his princely robes, which he hated and smelled musty and tripped him up when he wished to move in a hurry, besides.
It was even worse at the ball itself, with hundreds of beautiful young women fawning over him, the attention so constant that he could not even escape into the eaves as was his want, to pass the time with the guardsmen or watch the stars turn in the heavens above the city that he loved.
There was one Commissioned Guard, in particular, Gordon, to whom Bruce looked up to almost as a father (for though he loved his own father very much, a king is often too busy for games of swordplay and lessons about catching criminals and how to pick a lock with only your lady's hair pin at hand - should you have such a lady nearby - or how to sneak through the dark of night, or even the semi-gloom of an overcrowded dancing hall, with no one the wiser) and the Commissioned Gordon, too, thought of Bruce as the son he never had.
Gordon was well aware of Prince Fox's designs on the throne, and further had spent long years watching the Fox fortune disappear into dark, smelly basements, and was alive with fear for Prince Bruce's well-being on this night.
But Bruce only scoffed and dismissed his friend's warnings, for he did not care about the throne except as a means to serve his people, and so did not truly understand his cousin's desire for power, nor the lengths he might go to achieve it.
And so, just minutes before the stroke of midnight, Prince Fox pulled Bruce aside into a private alcove to toast his upcoming engagement. Prince Bruce, far from being suspicious, was relieved to have a minute away from the masses to try and decide how the hell he would choose one of them. For though he was, as previously mentioned, a very intelligent man, even for a prince who must be intelligent just to have the job, he was distracted and irritated and quietly heartbroken aside from the rest, for he knew he would marry without love or attraction to leaven his duty.
So it was without hesitation that he drank deeply of the odd, musty smelling wine that Prince Fox served to him, and dropped his empty goblet in utter confusion as the room began to swim around him, and his body began to shake.
"Fox," he gasped, his voice oddly harsh in his throat, "what have you done?"
"Only a gift, a small token of my esteem, on your engagement night," Fox replied, smiling in triumph.
If he said more, Bruce did not hear it, for his body screamed in pain and confusion, and he found himself writhing and twisting until he came to stillness on the floor, a small heap of leather wings and soft fur and dark, piercing eyes.
Bruce trembled in shock as Prince Fox picked him up from the floor, held him easily in both hands, and brought him to an open window. "Fly away, little fox. For as I will take your father's name, so you will take mine. Little flying fox, should any of the royal huntsman spy even a wingtip, they will have orders to loose their arrows at it. Fly far, far away, and never return."
Then he tossed Bruce out the window into the dark, clear night and Bruce plummeted towards the pavement below.
Well, this is ridiculous, he thought, and spread his dark, leathery wings and tried to remember everything he knew about maximum velocity and aerodynamic flight before it was too late. Fortunately what he remembered was a great deal, and though he'd never before flown (though he had often dreamt of it, late at night, when even a prince can dream of such things) he remembered enough to slow his decent and glide in an uneven wobble to a nearby tree, where he promptly smacked his tender nose on a branch.
The swearing of a grey headed flying fox (or bats, as they are known in other lands) is quite distinctive, and in this case the mutterings and squallings continued on for some number of minutes before Bruce recollected that he was now both quite small and defenseless and a target for any idiot with a bow and arrow.
Now supremely irritated, Bruce considered flying back up to the window and into the ballroom in an attempt to show the Commissioned Gordon what had become of him, or at the very least send such a fright into the ladies there gathered regarding their hair and his wings that he would get at least some satisfaction from the night, which had thus far been a total wash.
Regretfully, Bruce concluded that he was neither an accomplished enough flyer, nor so good at communicating, even as a human, to make such a dangerous foray advisable.
So he set out into the night, swerving and swooping around branches and buildings, letting his strong little body teach him what it could, squalling in frustration and fear as he went.
*_*_*
It so happened that in this very kingdom lived a man of about Bruce's age, a farmer, who had no daughters of which to send to the prince's ball, so was quite unawares of the great gathering and subsequent disappearance of the old King's heir.
This man was a quiet man, though his neighbors all knew him to be full of life and the joy of the morning. His name was Clark, and he was friends with all of the things that walk and crawl and swim and fly and grow upon the world (for though the wizards and enchanters liked to fill their halls with the lifeforce of such things, Clark preferred to let the things themselves come into his home and share some warmth and companionship, and the animals all liked this arrangement much better, too).
Clark spent his life spying out small, shy little bundles of fur that might need a gentle hand to feed them or heal their broken bodies, until such time that they might be strong enough to be freed back into the wild wood. (Though they never went far back into the wood because Clark's house was known to be the place for a bit of soup and a good gossip amongst all the forest creatures) And so his eyesight became sharper than the keenest falcon's.
He spent all his days outside in the glorious sun, tending to his crops and rolling huge boulders out of his and his neighbor's fields, and he grew many times stronger than the strongest man, stronger than the greatest bear, and even the dragons and hippogryphs in the wild wood eyed the span of his impressive shoulders and arms with respect.
And he spent so much time caring for shy, wild creatures, paying no mind to the densest thicket of thorns or to the sharpest teeth or claws (for though they were always happy to be helped, a wild thing is still wild, and must show it's wildness even if at times it would rather not) that his skin became impenetrable, and rumor had it that not even a sword would pierce its fine grain, though it were wielded by the strongest swordsman in the village.
(This rumor came to pass after a particularly rowdy night of drinking, when one fellow's sweetheart married another, and in the throes of drink and despair, started a fight when he probably shouldn't have. The rumors went that Clark intervened, moving more quickly than a striking snake, grasping the sharpened blade with his bare hands and easily wrestling it away, and then proceeded to gently murmur in the unfortunate young fellow's ear about fish and seas, finally taking him off to let him get drunk in the relative peace of his own home.)
So it was that Clark, oblivious to his prince's plight, woke one fine morning, stretched his long, strong body in the welcoming sunlight, and emerged from his home to find a bundle of dark brown fur and tattered, leather wings at his doorstep.
"Well, look at you," he murmured, scooping the soft, limp body into the cradle of one great hand. "I don't see many flying foxes waiting at my stoop in the morning, though they will occasionally stop by of an evening if they're in the mood," he crooned softly, feeling the little bat's exhausted panting and rapid heartbeat. "Looks like you ran into some of those magpies, little bat. Where are your brothers and sisters to keep you safe?"
The flying fox weakly lifted it's head and stared balefully at Clark, surprising him into a deep, joyful laugh that made the birds and mice and deer and cats and rabbits and small, web spinning things start in surprise, then settle back comfortably in their homes.
"Yes, fine. We can discuss all this later, I suppose," Clark said, smiling down at his handful of fur and wings, and brought the visitor into his home.
Clark at first placed the flying fox into a small, dark box filled with good things to eat, but the bat was an escape artist of the first order. Clark came back to his house midday to find his little friend huddled in the corner of the yard, shaking and squalling in fury at the impertinent birds that pecked and harassed him.
"You know," Clark rolled his eyes with exasperation, "that box was to keep you safe - you're not strong enough yet to set out on your own."
The flying fox, in his anger and shame for his weakness, sunk his sharp, needlelike teeth into Clark's thumb as he was rescued for the second time in one day.
"Well, you're welcome," Clark groused, though not very seriously, for the flying fox's teeth could not hurt him, and he was used to wild, scared things being wild and scared. He was, besides, more interested in discovering how the flying fox had got out of the box than anything.
Clark now made sure to return home several times a day and found every time that the little bat had escaped from whatever safe place Clark had put him, though he had learned his lesson and stayed inside the house.
Eventually the little bat healed and became strong enough to make short flights in the house, clinging to Clark's thick, black hair and walking with wings and feet down his arms to the desk where he read by the light of a lamp. Soon after he was taking longer flights, from chair to rafter to cellar and back, and then, one calm evening, flew out into the gloaming light altogether.
"Well, goodbye," murmured Clark, staring after the dark shape of wings.
He went into the house and tried to concentrate on supper, but found that he often became lost in thought, and his meal stayed only half prepared.
For though the animals around his home often stayed nearby, they didn't always. And as difficult as his new visitor was, harassing the mother civet and her young ones who had lost their burrow, and positively chasing out all the other winged things in Clark's home, still Clark found that he missed his stubborn, irritable, opinionated little friend, and was deeply sad to see him go.
That night Clark awoke in his bed with the warmth of a soft, furry body pressed into his neck, and the gentle scrape of winged nails along one shoulder. Clark drew in a breath, tasting the clean, pleasant smell of his friend on the air, then ran a big, strong hand down his own stomach, finding himself already aroused.
"Look, little friend," he murmured into the still air. "I'm glad you're back, I truly am, but there are some things flying foxes don't understand about humans and their bodies, and if you're going to sleep there, you should try to, erm, shift about a bit less. Okay?"
Clark turned his head to peer directly into bright, piercing black eyes. "Right then, glad we had that talk," he whispered.
He turned his head back, prepared to sleep, then gasped in surprise as the little bat moved and moved again, rubbing soft, silky warm fur, lightly against his skin.
Clark found himself trailing his own nails lightly up and down his belly in time with the bat's movements, rustling the fine, dark hair growing there, feeling the heat pooling low between his legs. He clamped his hand down firmly against his stomach.
"Really, this has gone far enough," he husked, the solid weight of his own hand, hot and heavy on his abdomen. But the bat brushed the shell of his ear with its soft, warm fur and he felt a delicious thrill spiral in his gut, a liquid ribbon of pleasure.
His hips arched of their own accord, and he found himself gripping one large, muscular thigh with a hand, the other hot and huge and low down on his hip.
"Honestly," he managed, trying gain some control over his body, "this is the sort of thing they stone people for. You wouldn't imagine what some folks say about me alrea- ohhhh," he moaned quietly, another ripple of fur and silk at his ear, then sliding gently down his neck. Then a wing, warm and delicate, was stretched out and curved gently over his chest, the heart's blood beating through its membranes, teasingly close to his aching nipple.
"Oh, Rao," he swore quietly, his chest arching up towards that teasing touch, "this is wrong, I know it is. It's so, mmph, oh god, but I can't, I just-"
The little bat pressed needle sharp teeth into Clark's neck and the sudden sharp pleasure bloomed in his belly, making his dick ache and his balls feel thick and heavy and oh god, he needed, and no one would know, no one was watching and he wanted, but he shouldn't...
He feathered light, teasing touches over his thighs, his belly, and finally his hard, straining dick, whimpering in pleasure, his stomach and thighs tight and clenched, ready for pushing, thrusting, mmmm, fucking...
"Okay, you have to promise," he panted, "promise not to tell. Rao, I can't believe I'm even thinking about this. Just, just promise," he husked, his voice now low and deep and god he needed this so badly. Clark held his breath for a moment, then surrendered and pressed the heel of his hand firmly against his aching dick.
Oh! Sweet Rao that was, oh that was... his breath was almost a sob. It was good, but he wanted, he really shouldn't, but he...
Clark bit his lip between his teeth, still hesitating, then turned his face into the warm, soft body next to him, slowly rubbing and teasing himself with the silky fur against his cheek, whispering across his now open lips. This was so wrong, but he was stroking himself now, hand wrapped firmly around his erection, hips bucking and thrusting, stomach tight and straining and he wasn't stopping, he was actually going to do this, and the little bat muttered and shifted next to him and fluttered it's wing across his chest, sparking lust from his hard, aching nipples to his dick and he moaned and writhed and oh god, he was, he was going to come, oh Rao it was coming, it was, ah... ah... ahh!
*_*_*
After that night, Clark wouldn't let Bruce sleep with him anymore. It was just his luck, Bruce thought, to find the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen, and not be able to touch him even now that he was (he supposed) no longer the prince.
But Bruce, was, as he knew himself to be, both intelligent and stubborn, and knew that Clark was being an idiot. This was clearly an arrangement between consenting adults, and if Clark couldn't see his way clear to that conclusion, well then Bruce would simply cheat.
He spent the days sleeping (and did that ever irritate him to spend useful daylight hours asleep. When Clark once suggested to him that he'd be more even-tempered if he slept like a normal bat would, Bruce squalled at him and flapped his wings, until Clark threw up his hands and shouted "Fine, be that way, I'm going out to get some work done!" and Bruce wrapped his wings about himself and brooded until dusk when he could fly out and find his friend - who was nearly as stubborn as Bruce, himself - and clung to his hair and generally made a nuisance of himself until Clark broke down and smiled and took him in those great, huge hands of his and hummed him a song he'd thought of that day).
The evenings he spent with Clark, perched on his shoulder or in the crook of his arm, trying to retrain his bat-mind to read and write.
He would sometimes become so frustrated at his lack of progress that he would launch from the desk, shrieking and muttering and fly out into the night towards the orchard (because he was, apparently, a *fruit* bat, of all things). But after eating he would always return to try again, snuggling into the crook of Clark's bent elbow and beginning anew to force the senseless shapes on the page into words.
He grudgingly admitted that he'd never have made any progress if Clark hadn't been in the habit of reading aloud to his friends. The mother civet and her cubs had moved on, but there were always visitors in Clark's house besides himself, and Clark had a rolling, deep, pleasantly rumbling voice that made whatever story he chose a pleasure to listen to.
At times Bruce would close his eyes and simply allow the pleasure of Clark's voice to rumble though his body, his sensitive ears quivering, his body humming as he tucked into Clark's side and experienced his friend with all his might.
Then he would heave a deep sigh, open his eyes, and force himself to stare at the page, and he would stare so hard that he missed his friend's curious, considering looks as he continued to read aloud.
Sometimes there were human visitors at Clark's door, of an evening, with questions or news or a pint of homebrew to share. Bruce did his best to discourage this (reasoning that he wanted no interruptions in his goal to re-educate himself) but after the first few times when Clark had banished him outside, Bruce decided that it was better to put up with the intruders. For clearly Clark would let simply anyone in his front door, and it was up to Bruce to keep an eye on them.
But the nights, the nights made his blood sing and his body burn in ways that were both familiar and entirely new and strange.
He would sneak into Clark's bed, walking with wings and clawed feet, so gently that not even Clark's enhanced senses would wake him, and by slow degrees gently touch and soothe and inflame Clark's body. He would watch as the flush spread down Clark's face to his chest, then lower, watch as Clark's lips would part, his eyelids flutter, his face turned instinctively towards the source of his pleasure. Bruce would spend an hour, two, gently working Clark's body until he was shivering and responding to each silky brush, each gentle trail of wing and claw. His legs would fall open, his big, lovely erection full and dark against his stomach.
Then Bruce would flit away into the shadows and watch as Clark would writhe and squirm himself awake, always unable to stop himself, running shaking, greedy hands down his body until he could cup himself, those same hands pulling and teasing until he would gasp and shake in joy as his release found him, his body bowed in a single, beautiful arc of pleasure.
And Bruce would watch from the shadows, burning in strange and new and wonderful ways, his fur vibrating in the still air, his small, sharp ears twitching at the least sound.
Wanting.
*_*_*
Spring had passed into Summer, and Summer was winding its way down when, one fine evening, a knock came at Clark's door.
He automatically glanced a warning at the flying fox. Though it had been months and months since the little bat had made a fuss over visitors of the two-legged sort, one could never underestimate his little friend's temperament.
A herald, his once darkly majestic clothing now ragged and dirty, stood there, the man hardly in better shape than his uniform.
"Come in, come in," Clark urged, seating the poor man at his table and serving his own supper to him, accompanied by a hissed sound of dismay from the rafters above.
"What?" startled the poor man. "Is there something in here besides us?"
"Just a friend," soothed Clark, recognizing the signs of shock the city folk seemed to get any time one of them tried to ride through the wild wood. He shot a look of reproach at the rafters, which chittered angrily back at him.
"Your business must have been quite urgent, to take you through the wood," Clark said curiously, seating himself across from the herald. Though Clark's eyesight was extraordinary, even he could not see things that were not there, and the herald's identifying insignia had been torn off his clothing somewhere before Clark's front step.
"Indeed, very urgent," the herald said, straightening importantly. "Life and death, one might say."
"Well, I was about to offer my hospitality for the night, but if your errand is so urgent, you'll surely want to be about your way as soon as can be..."
"Um, no," coughed the herald, eying the dark woods about the yard, thoughtfully. "I could likely spare the time, and, erm, perhaps gain useful intelligence about this place. I'm looking for a man who can speak to animals. I've heard that he lives in these parts, perhaps you know him?" he asked, digging heartily into Clark's stew and fresh bread.
"Well," replied Clark, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment, "it's been my experience that anyone can speak to animals. I myself do it quite often. Whether they choose to respond is another matter entirely-"
"Then you must be the Super Man that I've heard of!" the herald gasped, leaping to his feet. "The tales say that you are stronger than the strongest of the gods, can fly like an eagle and shoot bursts of lightning from your eyes! And, of course, speak with animals," he continued in a more normal tone, sitting down again to reapply himself to the stew. "This is really quite good, I wonder if you'd mind sharing the recipe? My wife could certainly use a few pointers..."
"Um, yes of course, say, what did you say your name was?"
"Oh, yes. I'm Jimmy Olson, sent by the Chief Herald, Perry White, to search the lands for you. And here you are!"
"Um, yes. So the Chief sent you-"
"Oh, not just me!" Olson interrupted. "He's sent dozens of us out looking for you, and won't he be surprised when I come back, having scooped all those older boys? Whoo!"
Clark felt a profound urge to run outside for a while, possibly in the direction of the wild wood where he felt sure the young herald wouldn't follow.
"And you were sent to find me because?" he continued doggedly.
Herald Olson looked at him blankly. "Didn't you know? Prince Bruce has been turned into a bat by the intelligent, yet crafty, Prince Fox! The Commissioned Gordon found out all about his nasty little schemes. Seems the Fox has left a money trail a mile wide over the years and it wasn't too hard for the Commissioned to put two and two together once Prince Bruce went missing. But now, see, he's still missing, and the Commissioned figured that seeing as how you speak to animals and all, you might have heard of him or something..."
It was not Clark's words or actions that had stopped the young herald's tale, but rather the sudden appearance of a flying fox, swooping down from the rafters above and landing decisively in front of the two men.
Herald Olson stared and swallowed and stared again. "Huh."
Clark, who was quite intelligent enough to be a prince, moreso than most men who already held the position, and rather keenly perceptive besides, pulled open one of his books and placed it gently in front of his little friend.
The flying fox immediately pointed his wing, the first digit claw on a word .
"Breakfast!" chimed the Herald Olson.
"B", Clark corrected, pushing the young man back down in his chair, again.
"Oh, I knew that."
Quickly the claw pointed to "reduce", "uncover", "celery", and "engorged".
Clark stared numbly at his small friend.
"See here, just what kind of a cooking book is this, anyway?"
Clark snapped the cover closed, then stood up, and walked wearily away from the table.
"Well, there you are. Prince Bruce. Take him home to his friends and... just take him."
"Um, I would but you know, those woods are kinda easy to get lost in and-"
A squalling of epic proportions erupted behind them, and Clark suddenly had a hairful of angry flying fox, twining itself in his locks and holding on for all the world as though a whole flock of magpies were after him.
"I, uh, think he wants you to come with us," Herald Olson ventured, looking wide-eyed at Clark's now disheveled appearance.
"I suppose you're right. We'll start first thing in the morning."
*_*_*
That night Clark did not sleep at all, and Bruce kept vigil over him, both of them listening to the softly snoring herald in the next room.
*_*_*
The ride to the city was quiet, Clark knowing the wild wood as well as any of the creatures who lived there, Bruce nestling in the crook of his arm, drowsing through the long, sunlit day, the herald on his horse keeping up as best he could.
But if the journey was quiet, the city was an explosion of sound and people and smells. Clark had never felt the need to go anyplace the least of his friends were not welcome, so he had never before traveled to the Royal City of Gotham. The assault on all of his finely tuned senses was so great that he was hardly less stunned than the shivering, flying fox in his arms.
Here, they were only too happy to let Olson lead the way through the throngs of people, all clamoring and yelling and hoping that their prince had, at last, returned to them.
Finally they stood in the quiet of the Great Hall, though not alone. Much to Olson's dismay, six other wisemen and wisewomen stood with six other heralds, each with a grey headed flying fox in their possession, each claiming to have found Prince Bruce.
Bruce snorted in contempt and squalled his anger at the would-be usurpers, who flapped their wings helplessly and would have flown away, but that they were in cages of the finest gold, silver, and jewels. Only he rode freely on his friend's arm.
Finally, the old King arrived, accompanied by the Commissioned Gordon and Prince Fox, who was in chains.
"My son," the King started, glancing uncertainly at each of the bats in turn. "At last, with our greatest hopes realized, you have been returned to us." He then eyed Prince Fox, who received a swift kick from Gordon.
"Which one is he?"
"How should I know?" spat the Fox, for he was angry at his schemes being spoiled, and further convinced that Prince Bruce had likely been pierced by one of the many arrows his huntsmen had let loose over the past months into the hearts of a great many flying foxes.
At this all six of the other heralds and their wisemen and wisewomen began clamoring and yelling for attention, and waving their gold and silver and jeweled cages with their poor flying foxes within them, each more loud and more certain than the one before that they had found the missing prince.
Now, Clark could have left, and it is doubtful whether anyone would have stopped him. Nor would they have believed the word of a very minor herald who had, after all, gotten lost in the wild wood, where heralds are not supposed to get lost, even supposing they are young and not accustomed to the small, quiet magics of things that grow and crawl and fly.
And given the circumstances, Bruce was again remembering what it was to be Prince of Gotham, and while he loved his city and his people, he certainly did not love being prince. He began to wish that Clark would, indeed, turn them around and take them back to their home, where Clark would read to his friends in the evening while Bruce curled sweetly against his side, and later would sleep with the restless knowledge that Bruce would wake him during the night, hot and burning feverishly with want.
But Clark was a good man, and honest, and he stepped forward, his broad shoulders and tall frame shouldering aside the discord around him until all that was left was silence.
"This is my friend," he said simply, holding Bruce out from his body, cradled gently in his hand.
"This is also your prince."
"Are you sure of this?" the old King asked. "For we have only enough of the magic left for one more attempt." And at this they all looked upwards, where many, many flying foxes roosted above their heads, (for the young Herald Olson had been lost a very long time in the wild wood) and Clark was saddened to know that his friend had nearly lost his last chance of becoming human, due to unprincipled fortune seekers. He was further saddened by all the poor bats that had been taken from their homes and nests to be brought to a strange place, with no fruit or suitable trees for sleep.
"I am," he simply replied, and such was the force of his personality, the light of his honesty and goodness shining from his very soul, that all present believed him, and many felt ashamed of themselves and swore thereafter to attempt to be better people by his example.
"Plus, you know, the bat can spell," chimed Herald Olson.
*_*_*
Bruce was still getting used to being a little over six feet in height, with large, muscular shoulders and long, strongly muscled legs, instead of small and compact with wings of lightness and grace, and a furry, warm little body that would fit comfortably in the crook of his friend's arm.
He was also having a difficult time learning to stay awake during the day. He still spent his most productive hours in the early evening, through the dead of night, and on into the rising dawn.
This did have the unexpected advantage of allowing him to avoid the worst of the social niceties thrust on him by his newly reclaimed prince-hood, though he often still had to attend overcrowded dinner parties in too-bright halls packed with the curious and the ambitious.
In the first days of his return, Bruce had casually inquired after the Super Man who had brought him home, and was told by one disgusted young maid that he had been handsomely paid and sent back to whatever backwater he'd come from. She had never met the man, but she heard that the only good thing about him (aside from his taking such good care of your Highness, of course) was that he'd taken all the displaced flying foxes with him when he'd left.
Bruce felt such a terrible surge of jealous rage in his breast that he could hardly breathe, and spent the rest of the week refusing to think of it at all.
But he was lonely, wandering the dark corridors of his castle at night, as he had never been lonely before.
Before he had simply been a human prince, too bound up in his work to notice things like friends and wounded animals and farmers who were too beautiful and honest for their own good, and now he knew better how cold and solitary his life had been.
He was as much Bat as Man, now, he admitted to himself, as he sat at the interminable dinner feasts. He could eat only fruit and pollen, as any flying fox would, and could stomach only water, for even the mildest of wines assaulted his senses like a blow.
And so, one evening as Bruce was readying for his day, he called in his faithful steward, Alfred, and instructed him to dress him in his finest robes of grey silk, and to place his finest circlet of hammered gold upon his forehead.
And Alfred, who had lovingly served the Wayne family his entire life, sighed in relief and rushed to get the robes ironed and aired for the prince, for he recognized the signs for what they were, and had seen, further, how unhappy his young charge had been since his transformation from Bat to Man.
The next morning, Bruce was gone.
All the kingdom was stunned to learn that by the old King's consent and decree, the Commissioned Gordon's young daughter, Barbara, would be heir to the throne. Barbara (who was also more intelligent than most princes and certainly more than almost every princess, who were usually encouraged to think only of their hair and their trousseaux and not so much about arithmetic and civil defense) spoke clearly and compassionately to her people, and very soon the people of Gotham, and of the whole kingdom, came to love her. For she too cared for them as passionately as Bruce had, but was more visible and open to their affection.
And one day, not long after Bruce disappeared, a strong, handsome man appeared at Clark's door, and he was in much finer shape than the herald who had last arrived there, for this man had not forgotten the small magics and ways of those that crawl and fly and live easily upon the earth. He was also in finer shape than a certain flying fox had once been, for he was now too big for the magpies to trouble.
Clark just stared, for he guessed who this handsome stranger must be, but could not be certain. He finally raised one strong hand to Bruce's hair.
"You don't look at all the way you used to. Not even the color of your hair. (which was as dark and thick as Clark's own, though less wavy) Not even the color of your eyes." (which were as blue as Clark's own, though less inclined to laughter and light)
"Of course I don't," Bruce replied archly. "The nature of enchantments doesn't pay attention to genotypic pigmentation. Now are you going to stand here all day or can I come in from this blasted daylight? I'm still not doing so well with the whole diurnal concept."
Clark burst into his loud, joyous laugh, for this surly, opinionated man was indeed the friend that he loved, and startled a laugh from Bruce as well when he hastily pulled him inside.
Now Bruce's days were spent slumbering peacefully in their bed while Clark worked the fields and laughed with his neighbors, and rescued poor, broken, hungry little bodies from the woods. (Though all the displaced flying foxes had been firmly ousted by Bruce, saying in no uncertain terms that it was *fine* if they lived in the orchard, and Clark, who had only allowed them inside because of his great loneliness and grief over his lost friend, was amused, and the bats were really very happy to relocate anyway) And his evenings were spent cooking for Clark as Clark tended to the animals, then reading aloud from their books after supper, first one of them, then the other, sharing their love of learning and their love of each others voices.
And their nights were spent together, full of yearning and heat and pleasure, satisfying hearts and bodies and minds alike.
And if sometimes a shadow would flit through the small town in the dead of night, righting small wrongs and leaving insightful clues for the constable of the village to find, well, no one complained, except possibly the criminals who were brought to justice. And if the shadow began to be called the Batman by the small town's inhabitants, well, it was just a name, and the Commissioned Gordon and Princess Barbara and the old King and all the rest chose grandly to ignore the rumors, for they truly did love him, and wished him all the happiness he had found.
-the end