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“Lodged precariously on the side of Gotham’s tallest mountain sits the fortress of Kaer Wayne. Despite her positioning and age, the keep has housed those belonging to the school of the bat for the last twelve centuries,” Bruce reads aloud, silently musing that he might have found a better bedtime book in the library if he’d looked a little harder. Unfortunately, The History of Kaer Wayne simply happened to be the first book he’d stumbled across that didn’t include five different ways to behead a Bruxae or gut a Foglet, grotesque diagrams included.
Beside him, the tired boy doesn’t seem to mind the dry, historical volume. Tucked up tight between the comforter and warmed by the fire growing low in the hearth, Richard— Dick —gives a wide yawn as he turns over in his dozing, burying his face against Bruce’s knee. It appears he has finally fallen asleep.
The Witcher’s heart shoots out a fond pang as his hand hesitantly finds the boy’s crown.
With another harsh winter approaching, they’ve already battened down the hatches and squirreled away supplies for the dark nights. Yet, despite the hibernation of life on the mountainside and the ominous chill in the air, there’s new life to Kaer Wayne.
It’s been an age since the Keep last heard the sounds of a child.
Clearing his throat, Bruce sits the book on his lap and thumbs the page with one hand, unable to resist running his fingers tentatively through Dick’s mess of midnight hair with the other.
“Much like the school of the viper—who are noted for their prowess in hunting necrophages such as the Ghoul and Alghoul,” he reads on, reclining more comfortably against the headboard. “Witchers from the school of the bat are distinguished among their counterparts for their skill in hunting all types of spectors, including wraiths.”
The unexpected knock doesn’t stir the boy, but the cold, sweeping rush that ushers Alfred in from the hall sends a visible shudder through him. Bruce secures the blankets around them for good measure, back bearing the brunt of the blast to protect the child from the chill until the door is closed once more.
Weathered fingers curl around the end of the bed frame as the senior Witcher comes to a sharp stop, stiffly clearing his throat.
“This year's valerian crop did not produce as much as I’d hoped,” Alfred laments quietly. “But I’ve replenished our stocks of white honey and golden oriole. There should be enough to last you through next year. I’ll beginning brewing a new stock of lax pulsatio in the morning.”
The mattress dips as Bruce charily shifts his weight, doing his best not to dislodge the boy as he softly sets the book atop the nightstand. Grateful, he grunts out an acknowledgement.
Alfred’s wizened old expression melts into one of unusual tenderness. “How does the boy fare?”
With cheeks pinked by the heat of the fire, Dick rolls over in his sleep. As Bruce eases off the bed, careful not to disturb his charge, he barely catches the young lad’s soft sigh.
“Dick misses his parents,” he admits plainly, standing to stretch sore joints. “And the elven circus troupe he once traveled with.”
Alfred’s keen eyes droop. “As would any child his age,” he acknowledges, a tender ache in his tone.
Shuffling closer to the hearth eases the soreness in Bruce’s knees, but it does nothing to warm his tone. The dying fire splutters back its displeasure as he tosses a new log on the burning coals.
“The elves deserve a bitter end for what they did to Dick and his parents,” he hisses through his teeth. The sentiment remains true, albeit a degree more resigned than the vengeful asseveration it had been when Dick first came to the Keep.
Silence, with the exception of Dick’s soft snoring, falls over the room.
The world is an awful place. It takes from innocent children like Dick without remorse. It rips apart families far too quickly. It robs young soldiers of their humanity through war and greed. Monsters prey on the downtrodden, in turn creating evils much worse. The world cares not for those it leaves behind.
Alfred’s palm finds his shoulder, drawing Bruce from the miserable memory.
“You weren’t to know the elves would stoop so low simply to pay off a debt,” the elderly Witcher murmurs, giving a grounding squeeze. “Nor were you to know vampires were brokering deals with the school of the owl behind our backs.”
“The school of the owl,” Bruce spits at the fire, closing his eyes against the growing flames wrapping themselves around the new log. It takes all his strength not to punch the mantle. “Traitors to the name Witcher.”
Alfred’s hand departs from his shoulder as he turns to face Dick again.
“Be that as it may,” the old man sighs. “Let us at least be thankful that young Master Richard did not end up in their keep or contemptuous court.”
Turning on his heel, the scorch of failure is soothed somewhat by the sight of the sleeping lad, safe and comfortably tucked up in bed. The ache in his heart eases just a fraction.
While he will never be a substitute for Dick’s parents, at least the child will have a home here. At least Bruce will make sure he is cared for and well fed.
“I am thankful for that,” he agrees. “And thankful we rescued the boy before the Owls were able to administer the Trial of the Grasses.”
Without the infamous potion—the Trial of the Grasses— a secret closely guarded by all Witcher schools, Dick would never suffer a painful metamorphosis.
Mystery and rumor shrouded the ritual of the transformation. Without the concoction, the boy would never trade death for superhuman abilities and a life of monsters and solitude. In truth, the Trial of the Grasses didn’t slaughter ninety percent of its victims—it killed all of them. It was simply that only a lucky few came back again.
For the school of the owl, Dick would have been nothing more than a warning to those who thought to cross them.
In a manner much too refined for a Witcher, Alfred nods solemnly.
“Master Richard will never develop our keen hearing or our sharp sight,” says the elderly man. “Yet, while his natural life will never be as long as ours, who is to say what skills he will learn to possess?”
“Raised as human in a home for Witchers,” Bruce mumbles dazedly, sinking into the bed once more and tucking the flyaways behind the shell of Dick’s ear. “What kind of a life is that?”
Outside, the wintry wind answers with a squall of snow that shakes the leadlight shutters.
“Well, while I never thought another young lad would call this Keep home,” Alfred begins plainly, lips curling with fondness. “I will selfishly admit that I plan to give the boy a good life.”
“Yes,” Bruce agrees easily, finding comfort in Dick’s steady, human heartbeat. “So do I.”
Basilisks and forktails, wyverns and cockatrices; Bruce has slain them all. Beasts most foul and terrible, who would not for a moment hesitate to gut a man or set an entire village ablaze. Creatures that, to many a mortal, could not be more fuel for nightmares; could not send more terrified shudders down spines at the mere mention.
Yet, the fear Bruce has confronted while hunting such horrible beasts pales in comparison to the nauseating swoop his stomach gives when Dick cart-wheels along the edge of the battlements with a gleeful laugh.
“Richard John Grayson,” he shouts, an avalanche of alarm shooting through him. “Get down off that parapet!”
Kaer Wayne’s sole ward has the audacity to giggle as he dismounts. On the other side, there is nothing but a sheer drop to the valley below. But, like the showman he is, Dick safely lands upon solid dirt and grins as he gracefully dips into a low bow.
It’s the longest heart-attack Bruce has ever endured.
“Forget monsters,” he manages to choke out as he quickly closes the distance between them with just a few weak-kneed strides. “You are going to the death of me.”
In return, Dick’s toothy grin only brightens.
Securing him by the shoulders, the strong heart-beat and cheekily flushed cheeks serve as balm for Bruce’s stricken nerves.
“You are never allowed to do that again,” he commands firmly, swiping at a speck of dirt on the boy’s cheek as relief cuts the tension in his frame. “You understand?”
There is a kind of life to Dick that Bruce is certain he never had. Not even before he became an orphan and was turned over to the Witchers’ at Kaer Wayne to inevitably become one.
“Come,” Bruce continues more gently, razor sharp fear no longer courting his every action. “Alfred sent me to fetch you for lunch, you menace.”
“I like the sound of that,” Dick says, skipping a few strides ahead before lifting his arms as though they were claws. “The Menace of Kaer Wayne!”
Finally, Bruce understands what horrible grief he put Alfred through in his younger years.
“Yes, well,” he returns dryly, arching an unimpressed eyebrow and reaching for the twig stuck to the side of Dick’s tunic. “Perhaps The Menace might go get washed up before he graces Alfred’s table with his presence?”
With a sour click of his tongue, Dick’s mouth opens to retort with a witty quip, but he is interrupted by the foreboding sound of hoofsteps and rickety wagon wheels.
The easy-going mood evaporates. Hand hooked over his shoulder and reaching for his sword, he protectively pushes his ward behind him, already on high alert.
Those that dare trek the perilous path to the Keep are few and far between. Given how close winter is, any visitors at Kaer Wayne are not likely to be welcome ones.
A white mare enters through the front gate, mounted by a man draped in royal reds and blues. Three more horses follow, two more mounted by knights and one hooked up to a cart, bringing up the rear.
Dick’s delight disappears as the riders approach, slinking beneath Bruce’s cape, nervous and unsure.
A warm and unfamiliar feeling flutters about his chest as Bruce braces the boy with a steadying arm around his shoulders. It’s been only a few short weeks since their cohabitation began, yet the action is instinctual.
A royal crest makes itself visible as the riders dismount, the insignia a familiar one to the Witcher.
With an inward sigh of relief, Bruce’s hand falls away from his sword.
“It’s not wise to travel to these parts at this time of year,” the Witcher remarks as the leader of the group approaches, enormous cloak writhing in the whipping mountain winds. “Especially with so few men to accompany you.”
Reaching out, they exchange cordial greetings in a clasp of hands.
“I know you know this,” Bruce continues with a reproachfully raised eyebrow. “King Kent.”
The King of Metropolis waves him off.
“Any more men and we’d be slowed,” he says, a little breathlessly, the heat of which makes little clouds of steam in the frosty air. “These mountains are all but impassable in the winter and it’s a matter of great urgency.”
Bruce grunts gruffly. Witchers do not answer to Kings. Nor has Bruce ever been known to mince his words.
“The issues plaguing your kingdom are not my concern,” he asserts firmly. “Winter is upon us and we Witchers will not travel The Path again until spring, when the ground has thawed. Your haste here was in vain, Clark. I cannot help you.”
Little fingernails dig into Bruce’s leg, and the cloak around his shoulders parts as Dick peels back the fur trim to peek out at the foreign man.
Upset by the swift, steely declaration, the few pleading splutters King Kent has managed halt abruptly. Two piercingly blue eyes squint up, indisputably measuring the man.
With a weary sigh, the Witcher gestures first to the boy. “Clark, please meet my ward, Dick Grayson.”
The little hand digging into Bruce’s leg snakes to the front, jutting out from between the folds of his cloak.
“Dick,” he continues, an open palm toward the man. “This is the King of the Duchy of Metropolis, Clark Kent.”
The boy is all teeth as their hands clasp, versed in pleasantries and showmanship in ways foreign to most children his age.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Majesty,” Dick grins, the uncertainties of earlier obviously shaken.
“Uh,” replies Clark eloquently. “Likewise?”
Behind Bruce’s right eye, a horrible headache is beginning to brew.
The knights accompanying Clark sit apart. Too tense to get comfortable, they twitch and squirm in their seats, whispers following furtive glances. Unfortunately for them, over supper, the Menace of Kaer Wayne harasses their little band.
It’s hard not to like Dick; the former circus child is bright, bubbly and impossible to ignore. The young boy peppers the bigoted knights with curious questions, demanding to know of their heroic deeds until they acquiesce, entirely unaware of their discomfort every time Bruce breezes past to collect another pitcher of wine.
The King’s men grow more drunk with every ale, delighting Dick with impossibly tall tales, but it keeps the child entertained at least. A blessing, really, considering Clark is hell-bent on dragging Bruce to the city of Metropolis to clear out a particularly nasty wraith haunting the lower town. The grotesque details of the ghost disemboweling her victims is not something Bruce wants Dick to hear.
The Witcher remains unyielding in his previously solid refutations—until the King offers to double the coin on the table.
“Fine,” Bruce finally agrees through gritted teeth, exchanging a dour look with Alfred across the table. “I’ll take the contract, but we make haste. To trek through Gotham’s mountains at this time of year is to invite misfortune.”
The King sags in his seat, visibly relieved.
“Thank you,” he sighs gratefully. “I wasn’t sure who else to turn to. The wraith may slaughter half the city by spring, given the warpath she’s on.”
Negotiations wrapping up, Alfred takes it as his cue and slides out of his chair.
“Wraiths can be rather begrudging foes,” the elderly Witcher comments sternly, a deep frown wrinkling his brow as he gathers up the empty bowls. “Never to be dealt with lightly.”
Beside Bruce, the king stiffens attentively.
“A life of suffering ensures an unforgiving and vengeful spectre,” Alfred continues with a sombre shake of his chin. “A misstep can speak the end for even the wisest and most shrewd of Witcher’s.”
Raising the last of the larger to his lips, Bruce grunts by way of agreement.
Without further fanfare, Alfred bids them both goodnight and departs the hall, arms laden with dishes. A visibly uneasy shudder runs the length of Clark’s frame, grave gaze tracking the old Witcher until he disappears down the adjacent corridor.
It is only when Alfred is finally out of sight that the tension in the king’s shoulders loosens. Eventually, Clark reaches for the pitcher and pours another round for them both.
Across the hall, Dick’s distinctive giggle catches the king’s attention.
“Sprightly little thing, isn’t he,” says Clark with a snort as they watch the young lad sure-footedly cartwheel around the hall, squealing with delight.
The knights clap appreciatively, suitably impressed when Dick proudly demonstrates a one-handed round-off. Briefly, Bruce wonders who is entertaining who.
The Witcher takes a sip of his ale, licking the foam from his lip. “Certainly one way of putting it.”
“Don’t act so nonchalant,” teases the king with a smirk. “That child has you wrapped around his middle finger. With the way you allowed him to cling to you in the courtyard, I’d wager the feeling is mutual.”
Clark sounds far too smug.
In lieu of incriminating himself any further, Bruce buries his nose in his ale, battling the telling twitch of his lips.
Apparently done with cartwheels, Dick has decided backflips along the length of the table are far more impressive.
Better than the battlements, the Witcher forcibly reminds himself as his pulse ratchets up, barely suppressing the urge to upbraid the boy as he watches the daredevil performance apprehensively.
“What is a child doing all the way out here anyhow?” Clark asks, puncturing their lapse into silence, a sober seriousness skirting the edge of his tone. “I thought the school of the bat was done creating new Witchers?”
Bruce just barely refrains from slamming his mug down upon the table at the insinuation.
“We are,” he growls, shooting the king a baleful glare. “The school of the owl convinced some rabid elves to do their bidding, but the scotia’tael didn’t finish the job.”
“I see,” Clark replies evenly, unfazed by Bruce’s outburst. “And the boy’s parents?”
“Dead,” the Witcher grunts bluntly.
“Awful,” sighs the king with a shake of his head. “Just awful.”
Bruce couldn’t agree more.
“So, the boy will not undergo a Witcher’s transformation,” Clark continues thoughtfully, liquid sloshing as he swirls the drink in hand. “You will train him to wield a sword nonetheless? Kaer Wayne’s first trainee in… what? Thirty years?”
Reaching for the last of the sour-dough, Bruce refutes it with a shake of his head.
“The boy will not be trained as a Witcher,” he corrects sternly. “There will be no more Witchers trained at Kaer Wayne.”
Clark wears a worried expression. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest. “Given the type of creatures you tend to attract?”
Bruce bares his teeth at the bread. “Right now,” he replies pensively. “The only thing I’m sure of is that I wish for Dick to have a good life. A safe life, away from the dangers of The Path.”
The king’s expression softens as he snorts. “Never took a Witcher for a father before,” he quips. “Certainly not you.”
For once, Bruce finds himself in full agreement.
Setting his half-finished drink on the table, Clark scoots forward until he’s perched on the edge of his seat.
“Your intentions are noble, Bruce,” the king murmurs after a beat of silence, glancing the Witcher’s way as he sets his elbows to his knees. “I pray only that those intentions do not turn against you.”
With a deep breath, Bruce knocks. “Dick?” he tries, swallowing awkwardly around a lump in his throat. “Are you in there?”
The Witcher hears the soft pitter-patter of bare toes on stone before the oak and iron door opens from the inside. The bedroom is warm; the smoldering fire bravely battling the early morning chill.
Still robed in his pajamas and with pillow-mussed hair, Dick smiles up at him sleepily.
Witchers, with their other-worldly appearances and supernatural abilities, are rumored to lose their capacity to emote after completing the Trial of the Grasses transformation. It is, of course, complete hogwash—Bruce doesn’t believe he’s ever felt quite so overwhelmed with emotion as when the corners of his mouth fondly rise to match.
“G’morning, B,” the boy yawns, rubbing at his eyes and stepping aside to let the bulky Witcher through the door. “You’re up early.”
“Indeed,” he agrees, feeling foolish as he shuffles from foot to foot.
Like a barn door in the wind, Bruce’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly as he searches for the right words.
“Dick,” he begins, lips twitching nervously. The over-rehearsed speech makes a clean cut and run, regretful recitations disembarking from memory. “I have decided to take King Kent’s contract.”
Truthfully, it is difficult to see how ever-moving the boy is until he is still.
“But…” the boy murmurs, furrowing his brow. “It’s winter. You’re supposed to be here . It’s not safe to journey The Path during winter, you taught me that.”
“I know,” Bruce agrees easily, easing himself onto the edge of the boy’s bed. “And I am sorry I won’t be here. However, the King is paying highly and Clark has… always been a good friend to me.”
“It isn’t safe, B, ” Dick pushes, his cheeks beginning to redden. “ You can’t go!”
The Witcher’s fingers dig into the soft bedding. “I—know,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, chum.”
Along with his balled fists, the boy’s shoulders have hiked up to his ears.
“You’re a liar,” he shouts. “You—you just want to get away from me! The King coming here—such a convenient excuse!”
The accusation is such a surprise, Bruce’s eyebrows shoot up as his heart gives a painful pang.
“That isn’t true at all,” he returns. Is that what the boy believes? “I just—”
Reaching for Dick’s hands, the hurt hits like a slap as the boy steps back.
“Get out,” Dick interrupts with a trembling chin.
“Dick—”
“Just. Just go, Bruce.”
Wordlessly, with a roil of guilt and a jerky nod, the Witcher does as bid, yet unable to help a backwards glance.
Bruce sees the tear lop off the boy’s chin before the door closes with a soft click. Silence rings through the corridor as his heart splits in two.
Invisible hurt bleeds him dry as the morning drags on. Dick’s stony silence leaves a painful, hollow ache throughout Kaer Wayne.
Noon creeps up on them. By the time the Witcher, the King, and the hungover company of knights are tacked and packed, Dick is still nowhere to be seen.
“You cannot fault the lad,” Alfred remarks with pity. “It is anger borne of fear. Master Richard has already lost two parents. He cannot bear to lose a third.”
Ace, Bruce’s black stallion, stomps against the frost-bitten ground impatiently, scratching away at the top layer of hard dirt.
Once the knights are finished restocking the wagons with rations for their journey, they’ll be on their way—though the aftereffects of their adventures in ale inhibits their pace.
With a frown tilting toward confusion, Alfred inspects the contents of the potions satchel, checking the concoctions within. “I—could have sworn I restocked the lax pulsatio,” he confesses haltingly, plucking free an empty vial from the rest.
Tightening the girth of Ace’s saddle, Bruce grunts at the concern. “I shall not need it to fight the wraith,” he replies distractedly. “And the fresh batch will have finished brewing upon my return.”
“Just so,” the old man agrees, strapping closed the well-loved potions satchel and passing it over, his anxieties assuaged.
The Witcher secures the apothecary valise in a saddlebag; it’s an effort to refrain from glancing at the door, waiting for the dark-haired, blue-eyed menace to make an appearance.
Alfred’s rueful eyebrow rises.
“Forgive the boy,” the old man says, steadying Ace by the reins as Bruce mounts. “And allay his fears by returning whole.”
Swinging one leg over and settling in the saddle, a dour smile touches Bruce’s lips, though it never quite reaches his eyes. Leather squeaks in protest as his gloves tighten around the reins.
“You very well know I cannot promise that,” he counters grimly. “Our lives are dangerous and unpredictable.”
Alfred concedes with an acknowledging nod, wrapping a palm around Bruce’s gauntlet and giving a gentle squeeze. “I know,” he says. “But do try and stay safe anyway, my boy.”
Farewell’s rarely pass through their lips, but Bruce returns the sentiment with a quick nod and a reassuring smile.
“Keep him distracted,” he says, although it comes out somewhat more pleading than he would like. The boy has brought out a change in him; never before was Bruce one to wear his worry on his sleeve. Now, he cannot help it.
There is compassion in Alfred’s amusement. “I shall find suitable activities to keep him out of trouble,” he replies with a nod. “While I’ve been overseeing the lad’s learning, I’ve discovered he has an aptitude for concoctions and salves. Perhaps we will advance to brewing.”
Though he has no doubt Dick will be too engrossed in his studies to miss Bruce too much, he wishes he could say the same in return.
King Kent briefly claps him on the shoulder as he trots past on his steed, unabashedly eavesdropping.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he comments sympathetically. “By the time you return, the boy will have missed you so much you’ll never get him out of your hair.”
While the words don’t ease the curl of unhappy disappointment, Bruce appreciates the thought.
Eventually, with their supplies stowed and the wagon loaded, the party heads out through the main gate. The Witcher spares one last look at the retreating Keep, already yearning for home and the family within as he sears its silhouette into his mind.
“There will be many a Drowner come spring,” Clark comments lightly, not shy in his attempts to pull Bruce from his spiralling thoughts. “Plenty of Witcher work to be done in Metropolis after the ice thaws the lake.”
Bruce grunts by way of reply and Clark lets the matter drop, falling in line behind him as the Witcher leads the way down the narrow mountain pass. Though the King means well, his words are the opposite of helpful; Bruce is already sacrificing early winter for Witchering, time that should have been spent with Alfred and Dick at Kaer Wayne.
The golden age of the Witcher is long passed. Less schools transform fewer Witchers each year and with each season the tale of an old Witcher’s demise reaches Bruce’s ears. Without the abundance there once was, monsters have secured homes close to townships and settlements, ensuring work for those who remain. The necessity of the Witcher, however, does not arrest the disdain or distrust from townsfolk and scoia'tael.
An eagle flies overhead, passing over the tops of the pines as they reach the stony path to the valley below. The wagon in the rear rolls over a rock and Bruce briefly wonders if he’s left both his soul and sanity back at Kaer Wayne—because, for a moment, he swears he hears a familiar heart give an almighty thump.
The knight behind him belches loudly, earning a snicker from the more juvenile of the other two. The screams of several harpies ring throughout the mountain pass as the flock heads back to its alpine nest.
Refocusing on the path ahead, the Witcher pushes Dick to the back of his mind. There is work to be done.
Bruce hates swamps.
Swamps are smelly and full of monsters like Drowners, Foglets, Boghags, and Hagravens. To call them unpleasant is to speak of them kindly.
At sundown, they decide to set up camp—unfortunately, forced to do so inside a swamp. The journey to Metropolis ordinarily takes two days, but the heavy wagon slows their pace somewhat. If on The Path alone, Bruce would have found an elven ruin to camp for the night, perhaps even a town, if lucky.
Graciously, Alfred had easily supplied enough food for the trek, but to the Witcher’s annoyance, the gluttonous knights consume more than their fair share.
At dusk, the knights set out bedrolls as Bruce goes about lighting the dry swamp wood, magic swelling freely through his fingertips. The leaves catch quickly and he goes about building the small fire into something respectable.
A bright blaze soon illuminates their safe hollow, an abandoned quarry away from the road where the wind whistles over the chipped cliff faces.
Shale crunches beneath King Kent’s boots as he approaches.
“It’s incredible the way you do that,” the man asserts softly, crouching by the fire and offering Bruce a strip of dried jerky. “The ability to call a flame on command.”
Throwing two more dry logs on the fire, the Witcher simply grunts. “I am no sorceress,” he defers, shrugging off the compliment.
“Nonetheless,” Clark contends around a mouthful of dried meat. “We all feel a lot safer with a Master Witcher by our sides.”
While the knights on the other side of the fire nod as they settle onto bedrolls, their uneasy expressions insist otherwise.
Bruce snorts. Neither the king nor his knights can hear the many sinister sounds of the swamp; their human hearing lulls them into a false sense of security. Somewhere south-west, there’s a Hagraven setting his teeth on edge and an abandoned settlement to the north, the town’s wooden talismans rattling ominously in the wind.
Willing his nerves to settle, the Witcher pulls his thick cloak tighter around his shoulders with one hand and leans over the saddlebags to dig out his apothecary satchel with the other. The new moon ensures an inky darkness blankets the swamp; Bruce would rather have his cat-eye concoction on hand in the event something decides to prey upon them during the night.
The boldest of Clark’s company takes an interest in his elixirs.
“Got a question for you, Master Witcher,” the titian-haired man begins curiously, shuffling half an inch closer to inspect the kitbag. “‘Bout them potions o’ yers—is it true what them elves say? That they’re toxic to mortal man?”
If the thick accent is to be believed, the freckled, angular young man hails from the province of Fawcett.
“Most,” affirms the Witcher, holding the silvery cat-eye concoction up to the firelight. “Though there are few, diluted, that mortals can endure—lax pulsatio, for instance. It works much the same on humans as it does on Witchers, silencing the imbibers heartbeat. White gull, however, is rendered an hallucinogenic alcohol.”
The knight passes Bruce a flagon of cheap rum to wash down the jerky.
“Good to know, Master Witcher,” he says, looking upon the valise of concoctions and potions with a respectably wary eye.
The Hagraven to the south makes an unholy sound as she catches her dinner, most likely a rabbit or small swamp rodent, and the noise sends a shudder down the Witcher’s spine.
The knights turn in early after Bruce confirms he will take the first watch.
In the far distance, a Cockatrice crows into the wind.
Bruce hates swamps.
When the company reaches Metropolis, it is with a sigh of relief. While their food reserves should have been enough to last four days, the edacious knights chow down on the last of it for breakfast.
The Witcher is quite happy to collect on the King’s coin and part ways with the group.
“Be safe, Bruce,” Clark bids him seriously. “If you are harmed on this quest, that boy may never forgive me.”
“Your concern for my well being is… touching, Clark,” he snorts wryly, clasping the man’s hand in farewell. “But unnecessary. The wraith will be at peace by dawn.”
Saddlebags heavy with gold, Bruce leaves the palace gates behind to find an inn with good ale and a competent stable hand.
The publican of the Daily Planet is a gruff old man with a receding hairline and proclivity for tobacco, but the Witcher still finds him far more agreeable than any proprietor in Gotham.
“The unfortunate ghost of a young maid, Harleen Quinzel,” the barkeep says with a shake of his head, regaling Bruce with the sorrowful tale of the city’s spectre. “Poor girl was murdered by her betrothed, a jester from the kingdom of Keystone. At night, I’ve heard her scream his name.”
It’s not an unfamiliar tale; spurned wives longing after their lovers, haunting the crypts and graveyards where their bodies lay buried. It is hard not to feel a great deal of sympathy for the young maid, her life cut short by a man on the edge of madness.
Steadily, the citizens of the city return to their homes as the sun starts to set. The hustle and bustle of the town disappears as the daylight dips lower behind the horizon. A sliver of silver moon rises to greet the night.
Bruce makes his way to the portside cemetery with potions satchel slung over shoulder and swords strapped to his back.
An afternoon shower has left dewdrops on the grass and made muddy puddles on the path. Quiet and hauntingly beautiful, the single, winding road works toward the well at the centre of the cemetery. The slight breeze that blows in off the bay makes the willows dance in the wind.
The Witcher settles in for the wait, cleaning his swords and triple checking the concoctions in his bag.
Each potion vial has decades worth of grooves in the glass, the oil from Bruce’s fingers leaving marks. Only one bubbling, unnaturally gold concoction lacks wear. The Trial of the Grasses remains untouched and buried beneath the rest.
Moonlight glints off the sea water, contending only with the lighthouse to the west, guiding in the late night seafarers. It’s a beautiful city, to be sure, but it lacks Gotham’s grit.
Upon the stroke of midnight, the wraith emerges from the crypt.
Harleen Quinzel drifts through the gravestones, a floor length gown of pink and blue trailing behind her ethereally. The wind blows right through her, but her blonde pigtails still somehow sway in the breeze.
Though her sallow, spectral form casts an eerie white glow, it is easy to imagine the rosy blush her cheeks would have held in life.
Noiselessly, the Witcher unsheathes his silver sword as he casts a Yrden enchantment below his breath, preventing the wraith from fleeing the graveyard and magically sealing them both in.
The young maid sighs as he approaches.
“I knew this day would come,” Harleen confesses dolorously to the night, eyes drawn up to the sliver of moon in the star-speckled sky. “When I would meet my final end and be free of my misery.”
Carefully, Bruce steps around the headstones. “In death, one should find peace,” he agrees vigilantly. “Not misery.”
The wraith nods, thoughtful.
“Yes,” she acknowledges, turning to reveal her whole face. “One should.”
It’s a sight that makes the Witcher wince. The ghost’s left side is mangled and grotesque, oozing blood and pus, though it never sullies the grass below her feet. It appears as though burned off, perhaps by fire or some type of acid.
“Tell me, Witcher,” she asks, pushing away from the well-side. “Do you have a love? Someone for whom you would give up your life?”
Briefly glancing out at the bay, Bruce chooses his words carefully.
“Yes,” he answers, mindful not to provoke the ghost. “I have someone I would give my life for. Someone very dear to me.”
The wraith sighs again. “In more ways than one, I gave up my life for the man I loved,” she says. “I thought he was true. That he loved me as wholly and completely as I loved him. But I was wrong.”
Treading softly across the wet grass, Bruce lowers his sword and closes the gap between them.
“We all make mistakes,” he sympathizes softly. “But they should not bind us to our grief.”
Harleen’s eyes sharpen.
“Then you have not loved as I have loved,” she accuses, her voice rising to a shrill, sinister screech. “And you never will.”
It is a sight the Witcher has seen many times in the past, but it is not one he will ever get used to. As Harleen’s delicate frame withers, her skull begins to protrude forward. Long nails sharpen into malformed claws and the false façade of feminine gentility evanesces away.
The monster unearths itself from a buried memory. Morphing and twisting, the woman changes before his eyes, transforming into the terrifying creature torturing and murdering the townspeople.
Whatever humanity Harleen once had is long gone.
Settling into a strong stance, Bruce readies his sword with a snarl.
A blood curdling scream goes up into the night, but it does not come from the grotesque ghost before him.
With barely the time to glance over his shoulder, the wraith takes off toward the edge of the enchantment that circles them.
The malformed spectre flies past him. Wrong-footed, the Witcher spins.
There, by the wrought-iron entryway, stands a blue-eyed boy, a dying scream hanging from his open mouth.
Dick.
Bruce feels the life drain out of him as he sends up a scream of his own.
Inside the magical barrier at the bottom of the hill, stands Dick; a league away for all the space that separates him from Bruce.
Bruce’s blood runs cold.
Rooted in place with wide eyes full of fear, the boy’s mouth hangs agape with a scream dying on his lips.
The waxing moon provides little light, but the wraith’s menacing, otherworldly glow lights up the graveyard. Harleen’s sinister silhouette trails above the earth, her back retreating from the Witcher as she flies through the gravestones, starkly illuminating the unarmed boy’s sheer terror.
“Dick—!” Bruce shouts, a broken cry of distress echoing out into the silent night. The terrified yell goes right over the boy, unheard; Dick only has eyes for the nightwraith, transfixed by her grotesque, ghoulish appearance.
The Witcher lurches forward, boots slipping on the muddy path.
White-knuckled and pale, Dick’s grasp on the fence appears to be the only reason he’s upright.
There’s no time to question why Dick is here, no time to wonder why he isn’t tucked up, safe in bed back at Kaer Wayne.
When the boy’s knees buckle beneath him, Bruce is sure his heart drops just the same.
“No,” he cries desperately, dodging the graves as he stumbles through soil and sludge. “It’s me you want!”
Neither wraith nor boy hear him. There is nothing but silence as Harleen reaches out. A claw wraps around Dick’s neck with bruising, phantom strength.
A cloud passes over the moon and the first few drops of wintry rain land upon the Witcher’s skin, though he does not feel them.
Around Dick’s throat, spectral thin bones tighten, spurring him into reaction. Scratching at ghostly hands, he finds no purchase, small fingers passing straight through the phantom.
Stumbling over and between graves, the Witcher never dares look away as his heart is choked before his eyes.
Dick’s breathing sharpens shallowly. He stops struggling against her hold. Through the veil of Harleen’s apparition, his pallor resembles a corpse.
“Dick—!” Bruce shouts once more, screams so raw they tear his throat.
With one last burst of desperation he dives forward, blade raised high. A mangled cry leaves the Witcher’s mouth as the sword slides through the back of the wraith, silver searing her phantasmic form inside-out.
Head thrown back in shock, Harleen gasps around a silent scream, releasing the boy as piece by piece her spectral manifestation begins to break apart.
Ghostly dust fades into dark as the rain comes down harder.
Unseeing and utterly unmoving, Dick collapses to the ground.
The wraith of Harleen Quinzel releases an unnatural sound, but the breeze carries the wicked noise away into the night.
Blood rushes through Bruce’s ears, blocking out the sounds of the night as he drops into the mud. Abandoning his sword, the Witcher falls upon his knees and crawls to the boy’s side.
Dick isn’t breathing and Bruce cannot make out a heart-beat.
“Dick,” he tries, hoisting the boy onto his lap and brushing at still-warm cheeks with mud-slicked fingers. “Dick, please!”
With his body, Bruce shields the boy from the worsening rain, carefully wiping away the few drops that manage to land on his cheeks.
“No,” he coughs dryly, a hollow sob bursting free. “Chum.”
The corpse lies utterly still.
A howl rips through him, tearing out his insides as he crushes Dick to his chest, so light and fragile.
Bruce never thought he would be a father, never dreamed it was possible. As a Witcher, the choice to create a family of his own was stripped away before he even knew what that meant, made infertile by the transformation. Bruce never could have imagined the exhilarating joy parenthood brought him, not its crushing heartbreak.
Where the tears start and the rain ends, Bruce cannot tell. There is a hole where his heart ought to be.
As the pitter-patter of rain eases, the moon peers through the clouds. The freshly dampened ground glistens, but a particularly bright twinkle catches the Witcher’s eye as he gently lowers the boy onto his lap.
There, only a few feet up the hill, sits the potions satchel right where Bruce left it. In his race to reach Dick, he knocked the valise, causing the vials inside to scatter. Thrown haphazardly from the bag, the concoctions are strewn across the muddy path.
The closest concoction glows an unnaturally bright gold; a vial that has gathered dust for decades, never used or replaced.
The Trial of the Grasses.
Fingers numb, the Witcher reaches out. His fist closes around the potion, the weight of it sitting unfamiliar in his palm.
The decision to uncork it isn’t made consciously or with carefully considered logic. It is done without much input at all, beyond that of grief.
If Dick never forgives him for this, he thinks hysterically, it will be okay. At least he will be alive.
The golden concoction fizzes and spits as he carefully tips back the boy’s head and pours the potion down his throat, its sweet scent mingling with the earthy tones of the graveyard.
The school of the bat has not made a new Witcher in decades. With this, Bruce breaks his last oath.
Uttering a prayer under his breath, he settles the boy on his lap once more and smoothes the mud-streaked mop of hair away from the child’s forehead, bending to press a chaste kiss to the soft, still warm skin there.
Slowly, Bruce rises to his feet, staggering just a little in the slippery mud, but ever so careful with the fragile bundle in his arms as he stumbles toward the graveyard exit.
In the deathly quiet, the sound of a new Witcher’s heart-beat sparking to life is louder than a dragon's roar.
“Let’s go home, Dick,” Bruce whispers, clutching the boy more tightly to his chest. “Let’s go home.”
“Keep on your toes and watch your sword,” Alfred instructs patiently, strolling around the edge of the training ground. “Don’t let your footwork get sloppy.”
Perched on the rickety old wooden bench and reclined against the dilapidated fortress wall, Bruce finishes off the last of his apple.
In the centre of the grounds, with a face scrunched up in determined concentration, Dick dances around the wooden dummy as he practices his parry.
Though he is loath to admit it, the boy is far more graceful than Bruce ever was when he first began training against the strawman.
“Don’t let your eyes drift down,” Alfred calls across the yard, a novice’s chastisement that brings an odd smile to Bruce’s lips. “Keep your head up.”
As instructed, Dick immediately corrects his position. It will be a few years yet before the lad is ready to go off on his own, but the Witcher already dreads the day. If given his way, he would never let Dick from his sight again, except Bruce knows a Witcher’s duty is to The Path. Keeping Dick from it would be an impossible task, should he try.
Someday, they will have to go their separate ways, only to meet at the hold during winter.
Though the boy lives and breathes, Bruce will never get back the sleepless nights. Nightmares still plague him, even months later; Dick’s cold and lifeless body a dead weight in his arms.
Alfred never says anything as he escorts Bruce back to his room, ritualistically unable to go a night without creeping into a sleeping Dick’s room to check he is still breathing.
The price of the days he has now with Dick was costly, but worth it.
For now, though, he has a few years until the boy turns eighteen. Until then, he has time to make sure Dick is ready for The Path.
“Alright,” says Alfred, raising a palm as Dick’s wooden sword smacks the blade from the hand of the training dummy. “I believe that’s enough for today.”
Chest heaving and tunic drenched in sweat, the boy turns to Bruce with a grin as the Witcher eases himself out of his seat.
“How’d I do?”
The once clear blue in Dick’s eyes has gained a golden sheen, but the expression is no less earnest.
“Well enough,” Bruce smirks, tossing him a towel as he gets closer. The boy doesn’t look particularly put out by the criticism as he wipes off the dirt and sweat, but he nods seriously anyway. “You’re still concentrating too much on your footwork and not enough on your opponent, but that will come with time.”
The returning grin is more blinding than the sun. Bruce is unable to resist ruffling Dick’s sweaty hair, allowing himself the moment to breathe in. Joy spills out, words following without filter.
“I love you,” he says around a soft smile, “And you’re going to make a fine Witcher one day, Richard Grayson-Wayne.”
“Aw, B,” Dick smirks. “I love you too.”
Playfully looping an arm around his son’s shoulders, the Witcher snorts.
“Even if you’ll always be the menace of Kaer Wayne.”