Desire Path

by Gottaread2

Summary:

Sequel to "Russian Roulette"

Months later, having returned to Gotham without Oswald, Edward struggles to understand what really happened to them and to learn of Oswald’s fate. Meanwhile, strange things begin to happen that remind him of the strangeness he experienced trapped in that cabin in the woods.

Notes:

This is more of an unofficial prologue than an actual first chapter, but I wanted anyone still interested to see that this story is still in the works. Although I finally have the basic plot worked out and rough drafts for the first two chapters, it will be some time before another update (I prefer to write ahead with this story than post as I go because it could get messy otherwise). Anywho, I hope anyone who reads this enjoys this little taste of what's to come.

Chapter 1: Oswald's Journal

Oswald's Journal

Jul August Day 1

Where to begin? In all honesty, I'm not sure what compels me to write this. I don't particularly care to document my experience here. It isn't something I expect to read back later, nor is it something I expect anyone to find (although if you do find yourself here reading this, you have my sympathies). I guess I fear I might lose my mind without someone to confide in, and this is the closest I can come to that (I'm not going to keep an inanimate companion called "Wilson" for fuck's sake).

It is quiet here. Quieter than I realized before waking here alone. I didn't realize how much of a comfort Edward’s presence was to me (even as enemies) before now. The solitude of this place weighs on my mind heavier than the dread of my entrapment or even another death.

Other than my solitary state, not much else has changed in Edward’s absence. The snow continues to fall. It is bitterly cold outside but tolerable indoors, so long as I keep the fire going. There is plenty of wood for that. And plenty of canned food and water. How very gracious.

The only thing that really has changed, besides Edward, is my awareness of It. I don't know what to call It. It is difficult to define. Intangible in a way, invisible (unless It wishes to be seen), but I know It's there. I know It's always watching. Sometimes It speaks to me. It likes to use Edward’s voice to taunt me in ways both familiar and unfamiliar to me. At times, the words sound just like him. At others, It seems to know and say things Edward could never say. Impossible things. I'm not sure which is worse.

Day 2

This morning was unpleasant, to say the least. I woke up alone once more, drenched in cold sweat and confused by my surroundings. In the absence of any other sound, my heart pounded loudly in my ears, loud enough to worry me. It sounded ready to beat right out of my chest and with everything that has happened, I didn't doubt that it could!

I remember clutching at my chest, as if I could hold it in place, and taking deep breaths to calm myself. I did my best to think of something pleasant or something soothing, anything to block out the memory of my recent death. It kept playing back in my mind only too vividly, along with all the terror and panic I felt moments before losing consciousness. I do not wish to go into detail about it (but if someday you find yourself here and reads this, be warned that drowning is possible in as little as an inch of water).

Eventually, I did manage to calm myself. It was a sort of fragile calm though, and to keep hold of it, I occupied myself with household chores. I recognized them as fruitless busywork (the cabin keeps itself as dirty or clean as It decides), but it helped pass the time. As I worked, inevitably my mind would wander to thoughts of Edward. Initially, this was a welcome change. I imagined him back in Gotham, my beloved home, among the packed and noisy streets. He must have made it back there. He isn't here anymore, so what else could it mean?

The idea of it brought me temporary relief, even though I knew what it meant for me. I thought I could be happy as long as I know he is out there somewhere, living without pain or fear. After all, that is what I wanted. That's why I did everything I could to help him escape this godforsaken place. Surely, he'll be able to move on without me and lead a happy life. He deserves to be happy.

I want his happiness.

I just wish I was part of it.

Although I try to ignore it, there is a sour taste in my mouth and a twisting in my gut. I feel as though a bitter seed is planted in my heart. It would be easier if I could see him. If I had some way of knowing for certain that he is alright, perhaps I could more readily accept my circumstances. The idea of Ed’s escape and my own imaginings, picturing him back in Gotham, safe and warm, no longer bring me peace. It is too easy to wonder if it's even true. And if it is Even if he is safe, I am not satisfied like this. I want I thought I could

Anyway, a new horror has revealed itself to me. He appeared like a vision, and for an instant, I was fool enough to think Ed was really there. This is the first It has manifested itself quite so persuasively. When he opened his mouth to say I looked happy to see him, it sounded more like an accusation than anything else. It lies.

Of course I want to see Ed again, but I would never see him back here. It would bring me more anguish than death. But even stating so did not dissuade the criticisms It used against me. With words familiar to me, from Ed’s own mouth, I was assaulted.

Selfish. Don't know what love is. Sacrifice anyone to save my own neck.

Over and over. Until I could bear no more, and I rushed at It with the intent to wring its neck. It disappeared.

I fell in my haste. My knees and arms are now covered with horrible purple bruises. My leg twisted painfully under me. It all hurts terribly, but I know this is only the beginning. I'm not dead yet (though it is only a matter of time). A part of me wishes that had been it. That in my fall I could have died already and ended this day prematurely. It is an awful feeling, knowing what is to come, and yet not knowing exactly how at the same time. I don't know how I will endure this without Edward here. I wish he I hope he is well.

Day 3

I knew what to expect, but last night was I don't much feel like writing today. Tomorrow, maybe.

Chapter 2: Searching

Notes:

And we're back! Here it is, the official first chapter!

Fall-kissed trees blush red and rosy across Gotham, bringing a bit of warmth to the otherwise stark cityscape. The skies above may remain grey with cloud as a chilly wind blows to herald the coming winter, but it isn't enough to dampen spirits. The city's inhabitants are hardy. They bundle into their winter coats and hustle and bustle through crowded streets. There is a sense of festivity about them. It hangs thick in the air, as heavily as the scent of pumpkin spice (or the occasional whiffs of sewage), all in preparation for the coming holidays. The shops are packed full. Cafés and boutique restaurants stay busy from open to close. Yet there is one who stands out from it all (for his doleful disposition as much as the jewel green tone of his suit).

Edward Nygma has little use for pumpkin spice or festivities. Newspaper in hand, he sits at a booth in a near empty diner. He nurses a lukewarm cup of coffee. No cream, no sugar. Bitterness suits his tastes these days. His hair is unkempt, laying in greasy strands against his scalp. His suit, although vibrantly colored, shows signs of wear, dirty and tattered. And, if one were to look closely, the paper he reads from is actually months old. It features a story questioning the disappearance of the city's former mayor.

Oswald's image stares back at Edward in faded black and white. The photo is a flattering one, taken from the height of his campaign. Oswald stands proud, all bright eyes and the confident smile of a politician. Although the happiness in that smile is genuine, as Edward knows, it hides his friend's true feelings. Behind the scenes, Oswald had always been so nervous, confiding worries to Edward after every speech. It was a novel experience being anyone's confidante let alone someone as influential and respected as Oswald. Even more, the trust between them was mutual. He could just as easily confide in Oswald as well. Edward had never had that before.

That seems so long ago now. Much has changed. Edward runs a finger over the grainy paper. He is probably the only one with any clue what really happened to the mayor.

I killed him.

He's a bit fuzzy on the details of how. Whether it happened at the pier under a drizzling sky, Oswald's wrists bound and eyes pleading. Or was it in the silent, snowy woods, Oswald's blood vivid against the chill, white ground. Ed held the smoking gun either way, so perhaps it shouldn't matter. It won't change that Oswald is gone...

But it does matter. It changes everything else.

Edward sighs.

He swallows down the last of his coffee and rolls up the paper. He tucks it under an arm as he gathers up his coat and tosses a few crumpled bills onto the table. As he departs, the waitress dips her head in a familiar nod and smiles in his direction. She's blonde and beautiful. Edward fails to notice, giving a distracted wave in return. These days his mind has room for little else other than the mystery that hangs around Oswald's death. Even though it can't be undone, he has to know. He owes it to himself to find out. And if that cabin and the snowy woods do exist, if all of that was real, he owes it to Oswald as well. The drive to know is the only thing keeping him going.

Edward heads away from the diner, down spiderweb cracked sidewalks and around the corner. His destination is only a block away. The crowd thins and the streets narrow. He is entering the old part of the city, brick and mortar mid rises with tiny appartment buildings squeezed between. They don't call it the Narrows for nothing. It is here his search for answers has lead. After months of prying, following seemingly deadend leads and tracking down documents that shouldn't exist, he is closing in on the end to this journey, whatever that may be. He can feel it.

Edward slows his steps and begins scanning street numbers until he sees the one he's looking for. The building is as rundown as any of the surrounding ones with boarded up windows and worn brown brick. The door sits behind a gate of burglar bars which are alarmingly bent, a testament to the necessity of them. At present, the gate stands slightly ajar, giving access to the door behind it and hinting that the place is open despite its boarded up appearance. There is little other indication. Not even a welcome sign. Edward pulls the gate further open. Metal groans on rusted hinges as it moves. Before he can reach for the door, it too opens a sliver and a wisened face behind wispy white hair peers through at him.

"Can I help you?" She grumbles in a way that says her help is only offered grudgingly.

"Is this 'Lost and Found Antiquities?'" Edward asks without notice.

The woman frowns.

"It is."

Edward stands awkwardly, shifting his feet for a moment. The woman makes no move to allow him entry.

"May I come in?" He finally asks.

The woman steps back, grumbling to herself low enough that Edward can't make out what she says. The sliver closes and Edward thinks he is being dismissed before it opens more fully a second later.

"Come in."

Edward does, eyes sweeping the room as he enters. It is unrecognizable as anything resembling a shop (more like a storage closet). The space is small and made smaller by a few rows of cluttered shelves and narrow aisles. At the end sits a sturdy wooden table serving as the checkout counter. Atop it is an old, brass cash register. It looks an antique but appears still in use.

The old woman makes her way back behind it, as Edward politely peruses dusty shelves. He waits until she seems settled to make his way over to her again. Then he digs into his breastpocket and pulls out a folded, yellowing paper. He unfolds it carefully and places it atop the table to reveal a map. One of its edges is torn, cutting off a good portion of it and obscurring much of the context.

"Have you seen this before?" Edward inquires, "Or anything like it? I'm looking for the other half."

The shopkeeper grabs a pair of spectacles and perches them on her nose. She glances down at what Edward brought, blinks, and inhales sharply through her nose.

"Where... where did you get this?" Her voice wavers. She looks up to Edward, staring him in the eye, "And what do you want with it?"

"You know what this is, don't you?"

She shakes her head, but it isn't a denial.

"You should forget this. Whatever it is you're looking for is better left unfound." She says in a gruff tone.

"Not an option." Edward states, "What I'm looking for is too important to me."

The woman sighs. She smoothes the paper absentmindedly and traces a finger over lines on the worn map. She stops near the upper corner, tapping thrice.

"You've been there, haven't you?"

Edward doesn't need to answer. It's in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw.

The old woman nods.

"I have what you're looking for." She says, "It seems you already have some understanding what is there. You need no more warning than that."

"So you'll sell it to me?"

"In good conscience, I couldn't." She murmurs thoughtfully, casting a faraway glance sideways. For a moment she looks somehow even older, even more haggard than she already is, like she bears the weight of a century's worth of extra years. Perhaps she does.

"Look... I won't accept payment, but I'll give it to you." She finally says, "And be glad to be rid of it. Wait here."

Edward watches the old woman shuffle away through a side door. It lies half hidden behind some shelves and opens only wide enough to allow her passage. Edward’s heart thumps as he awaits her return. At last, he will have evidence. He will hold it in his hands!

The door swings open again, and the woman returns to her place behind the counter. She lays the other half of the map beside the first. Their torn edges line up perfectly.

"Here." She says solemnly, "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Edward replies, reaching for the map's pieces eagerly, "I asked for this."

"All the same."

Edward departs the shop immediately after, map tucked securely away inside his breast pocket. His mind is reeling. For so long he carefully tread the line between hope and acceptance, balanced lest he pitch too far and fall into madness. Now he had, but he isn't falling to madness. His hopes are soaring! For the first time since it all began, Edward allows himself to consider what the reality of the cabin might mean.

He might still be alive.

Edward shivers.

He wouldn't wish such a fate on anyone, but some selfish part of him wishes it for Oswald. Guilt briefly twists his insides, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it. He needs to go. He needs to gather a few quick supplies to increase the odds of their survival, and then he needs to find his way back to Oswald. With the map in hand, nothing can stop him!

Except for a nondescript black vehicle, pulling up onto the sidewalk to block his path. Edward nearly runs into it, so lost in thought as he is. Next thing he knows, he is being grabbed by some ruffian and shoved into the backseat. The door slams closed behind him. Then he is staring up into the barrel of a gun.

"Long time no see." Edward says by way of greeting, "Care to inform me what this is all about?"

"Funny." Tabitha says, reguarding him coolly, "But we both know why you're here. You better get talking, unless you're ready to lose a tongue."

Edward lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. It isn't that he doubts her threat. Her thirst for blood (his blood particularly) isn't in question.

"Sounds rather contradictory to your goals, doesn't it? Tongues are usually removed to silence someone."

"Just shut up and spill it already!"

"My blood?"

"What?" Tabitha gives him a weird look, "No."

The aggravation clear in her tone matches Edward’s own growing irritation. He seethes quietly, not sure if he is meant to speak or not, and even if he did, unsure what to say. This blasted woman is making zero sense! And he doesn’t have time for this. He should be preparing to leave. He needs to get to Oswald.

"Well?" Tabitha says, waving the gun at him.

"I don't know. What. You. Want." Ed growls between clenched teeth.

She shrugs, "Guess we're doing this the hard way. Drive."

The order is directed at the ruffian from earlier, now occupying the driver's seat. He gives a swift nod and then the car is in motion.

"Where are we going?" Edward questions.

"What's the best place to get rid of bodies in Gotham?"

The docks.

Only now, a sinking feeling forms in the pit of Ed’s stomach. He can't die here. Not now.

"Look..." he tries for a cooperative tone, "I really don't know what this is about. Perhaps if you explained, I could be of more assistance."

Tabitha laughs, but there isn't a shred of amusement to be found in the sound. She fixes her gaze out the window and tightens her grip around the gun in her hand.

"Believe it or not, I know what you're capable of, Nygma." She says, voice softly threatening, "I was there when you played Butch and turned that little twerp against him. Then I watched you play him as well. You know... he really thought you two were friends. Right up until the end when you killed him. That's pretty ruthless."

She laughs again.

"At least, that's what I thought."

Edward is starting to catch on to what she is talking about, but he cannot yet fathom where she is going with it. Is it possible she knows about the map? The cabin? Oswald?

"You may have had Barbara fooled, but I'm not as stupid as you think I am." She says, turning to face Ed again, "I know you lied about what happened. I know you didn't really kill him. You're going to tell me where Oswald is. Now."

"Oswald..." Edward swallows hard. He doesn’t know where this is all coming from. He doesn’t understand what Tabitha wants from him. It doesn't make any sense. He is the only who might have reason to believe Oswald could still be alive. To everyone else, he's as good as dead.

"Now!" She spits, digging the end of the gun into his ribs.

"He’s dead."

Tabitha snorts, "Nice try, but I know the weasel is still alive. Where is he?"

Of course, Ed couldn't tell her the truth even if he wanted to (it's unlikely she would believe it), but he knows better than to admit that. His mind is still reeling from finding the map, finding hope. Oswald really might still be alive. But why is Tabitha so convinced of it? It's like she knows something, but he'll need to play along if he wants to find out.

Edward takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

"Fine." He rolls his eyes, "You got me. How did you find out?"

"Word travels fast. And I have eyes all over the city. People have seen your little friend lurking about. He's not as clever as he thinks he is."

"If that's true, why not use your people to track him down? If it's as you say, it shouldn't be hard."

"Don't you think I've tried that?" Tabitha grumbles, "I'll think I finally have him cornered, but he always, always manages to slip away. So that's what you're here for. He's not slipping away this time. Where do I find him?"

Edward snickers, playing it up despite the ever present threat of a bullet.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just... You keep asking the same question expecting a different result. Are you sure you're not as stupid as I think you are?"

Tabitha's nostrils flare angrily. Her hand flies across his cheek. The blow rattles his teeth and makes his head swim. Unconsciously, his hand covers protectively over the spot. He works his jaw a few times and lets out a disgruntled "Ow."

"Time's up, Nygma. Out of the car."

The driver appears at the side door again to haul him out. Then Edward is roughly shoved to his feet and forced towards the end of the dock. He can hear Tabitha's heeled boots behind them. A bounce in her step reveals how thoroughly she must be enjoying herself.

This has always been her favorite part of an interrogation. Unlike most of their kind, she didn't care to make it slow and savor it. She didn't have the required patience for that sort of thing. The thrill of a quick kill is much more her jam.

Edward can't expect to keep breathing much longer. He needs to think of something before they reach the end or this truly will be game over for him. He wracks his brain for something, anything, that might give him a chance. It's a gamble but...

"Can you swim?" Edward asks Tabitha's henchman.

"Don't need to." The guy chuckles, "And neither will you where you're going."

That answer is as good as a "no" in Edward’s book. Good.

With what puny strength he can muster, Edward throws his whole weight into the side of him. The man loses his balance and wobbles precariously close to the edge of the pier, eyes wide with panic. The gun goes off behind them, but Edward’s sudden noncompliance must have been surprising enough to catch Tabitha off guard too. She misses. He ducks behind her man anyway, hopeful of shielding himself. He grips the front of the guy's jacket and pulls, dragging him over the edge with him.

They topple into the water together.

The man makes a grab at Ed to try and keep himself afloat. Edward kicks off of him before he can latch on and swims for his life. The gun goes off behind him again. Multiple times. He ducks and swerves to the best of his ability, trying to make himself a less easy target, but the water makes that difficult. Then there is a sharp pain in his side and he knows he's been hit. He keeps moving until the sounds of gunfire begin to fade, with a bloody ribbon trailing in the water behind him.

Eventually, he makes it to shore. Edward lays on the bank, cheek pressed against the moist sand, spent entirely. His skin is cold and numb. He can barely feel the sting of his wound, and at present, he doesn't have the strength to check it. His vision fades in and out, fuzzy and black around the edges, like a hole ready to swallow him up. Inevitably, it does and he loses consciousness.

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 4

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Someone Anyone help me. Please.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Sorry to say that the story is not yet complete, but I didn't want to wait any longer. I'll release the next chapter in one week and then another the week after before going on hiatus again. So far, this story is looking to be about 12ish chapters before complete. I have bits and pieces of most written out and mostly need to fill blanks and edit now. Therefore, I'm hoping it will be a short hiatus. Either way, I am very grateful to any readers who have stuck around waiting for this. I hope it is worth wait ^_^

Chapter 3: The Bird

When Edward comes to again, it's to the sound of flapping. He doesn’t register what it is at first, only that it irritates him and disturbs the pleasant oblivion he could otherwise return to. Edward groans loudly, exaggeratedly, and blinks open his eyes with dramatic slow. The world spins around him. It's sickening and bright, but eventually it stops and a feathery black form takes shape at the center of his vision. It caws in his face.

Gingerly, Edward moves and pushes himself slowly into a sitting position. The movement briefly threatens to send him back to oblivion, but Edward tucks his head down and breathes through it until the feeling subsides. He is more careful when he lifts his head again. He makes eye contact with the creature before him, which peers back in what Edward can only describe as a beseeching way. It isn't an entirely ridiculous notion. Crows are known to be very intelligent creatures.

The crow shuffles forward, looking nearly as miserable as Ed feels. Dust and sand from the muddy bank dull the color of its once sleak feathers. A tangle of string encircles it's neck and wings. The poor thing is rendered flightless by it.

Despite his own poor state, Edward takes pity on the crow. He was never very good at turning away a bird in need. And anyway, it's such a small favor just to untangle it. Edward makes to reach for the string, but the crow hops back from his hand, ruffling its feathers in response.

"It's okay." Edward reassures, voice soft. He knows the crow won't understand his words but hopes the tone conveys his intentions.

The crow does settle. When Edward leans in closer again, it remains still, although it keeps watch of him warily. Edward waits. A second later, his patience is rewarded with the crow hopping onto his hand and making a perch of Edward's long fingers. Edward smiles.

Carefully, for his own sake as well as the bird's, Edward gets to his feet. He sways a little unsteadily as a wave of dizziness sweeps through him. He waits for the feeling to pass, afraid he may tumble back down. After gaining his bearings, Edward takes time to examine himself. Particularly his injury. He is still bleeding, which is evident by a bright stain spreading across his shirt, but he can tell the bullet only grazed him. Fortune appears on his side this time.

"Looks like we got lucky." Edward says to the crow.

Next, he feels around in his pocket, hoping for something to cut the crow's string with. He comes up empty.

"Or not." He sighs.

The bird makes a soft sound in its throat.

Edward would almost think it is trying to comfort him.

Dear heavens, he thinks, I must be losing my mind. Talking to a bird. Thinking it talks back.

The crow taps his finger with its beak.

"Mind reader too?" Edward jokes out loud. Maybe he's just lonely.

He encourages the crow to occupy his shoulder instead, freeing both his hands. It helps him to more delicately reach into his breast pocket. Trepidation builds when his fingers brush over a wet papery edge. He fishes out the pieces of map carefully and unfolds them. He sighs relief. Both parts of the map are still there, soggy but legible. Next he reaches into his back pocket, however, the newspaper with Oswald's photo practically disintegrates between his fingers. It's a shame. Edward tsks before discarding it. Although not pleased with the loss, it is better than losing the map.

The crow picks at Ed's hair, reminding him of its presence. He absentmindly strokes its chest and starts walking. It's a long way back to his apartment.

His building resides only a block from the GCPD, an intentional choice on Edward's part (strange as that sounds). He has been living in what might generously be called a studio apartment on the third floor. It would be more accurate to describe it as a glorified closet with just enough space to squeeze in a single twin bed, a small countertop, and a mini fridge. It is connected to another small closet that serves as the restroom with toilet, sink, and the most miniscule of showers (which seems to only run cold or lukewarm). This was the only accommodations he could afford after "cutting ties" with Barbara and her cohorts. That and the fact that Tabitha would be less likely to try anything within such close proximity to the police station. At least he hopes so.

Edward shuffles in the door and uses all his remaining willpower not to collapse on the bed before helping his new friend. He finds his pocket knife wedged under the pillow and flicks the blade open. The crow on his shoulder puffs up again, edging away from his hand until he sets the blade down.

"I'm trying to help." Edward huffs.

The bird squawks its protest.

"Fine." Edward relents, retrieving a pair of scissors from the bathroom instead.

The crow remains nervous but holds still as Edward carefully cuts the strings one by one. Once free, it stretches its wings.

"No taking off inside." Edward warns.

To his surprise, the bird obeys, retracting its wings again.

Edward doesn't dawdle after that. He swiftly makes for the window, undoing the latch and throwing it open. The crow scoots down his outstretched arm and through the opening. It pauses there and turns its head to gaze at Ed. The look in its eye seems to convey gratitude. Probably mere personification on Ed’s part. Probably wishful thinking. It is only a bird, but the crow is the friendliest encounter he's had in a very long time. It's silly to wish it would stay.

It caws and takes flight.

Edward watches wistfully, as it soars into the distance. Once it becomes nothing more than a speck, barely visible on the horizon, he closes the window. He sinks onto his bed. From underneath it, he retrieves a first aid kit. He cleans his wound. Then badages it. Afterwards, he puts everything neatly away. It would be easy slip into a deep sleep now. He certainly wishes to. But his thoughts still wander. They keep going back over and over all that has happened. They especially keep going back to what Tabitha told him. About Oswald. About himself.

Then I watched you play him as well. You know... he really thought you two were friends. Right up until the end when you killed him. That's pretty ruthless.

Is that really how it appears from an outside perspective? Like he played Oswald...

Edward sighs.

As he strips out of his damp clothes, he can't help but think what a very strange day he's had. What a strange week. A month. Year. One thing after another ever since he shot Oswald at the docks. He'd been so determined to kill him then. So sure it was the right thing. No matter what they were before. No matter that he was his friend. Maybe it was ruthless. Maybe it was justified. Now none of that mattered. Edward was doing everything in his power to get Oswald back.

It hasn't been easy either. Tracking down the map took more time than he ever anticipated. Edward pulls the halves of it from his coat and lays them flat to dry. He considers himself fortunate it survived the swim and shudders to think that it could have been otherwise. After all those months, gathering information and finally gaining access to the pertinent documents in the Court of Owls' own files. The Court may be no more, but things like this are too important to simply vanish, too valuable for someone not to snatch up. And he was one of the takers, able to get what he was looking for before the other vultures swooped in. In doing so, he acquired the first piece of the map.

He remembers the frustration he felt then. Finally getting his hands on what he was looking for only to find that it wasn't whole. If it hadn't been for the scrap note filed with it, he might have given up entirely. But the note was there, and on it a single name. A name that didn’t seem to exist on any database within the city of Gotham. Someone had wanted to make her disappear and done an excellent job of it. But Edward was excellent at following whatever breadcrumbs and scraps he could muster. One piece of information could always lead to another for anyone willing to take the time to look, for anyone clever enough to know where to start. Or anyone willing to break into city records and any other facility where secret or confidential information might be stored. In the end, it all lead him to that little shop in the Narrows and, finally, finally, the second half of the map.

Edward runs a finger lightly across its surface. Just to touch it. Just to assure himself of its reality.

The phone rings.

Edward jumps. His train of thought is broken. He scowls in the direction of the phone, its shrill noise cutting off any further contemplation. He’s not in the mood to speak with anyone. In all likelihood, it's a wrong number. No one ever calls him anymore. No one ever has any reason to. The answering machine picks up and sure enough, no message is left behind.

Edward collapses on the bed and rolls to his other side, determined to put an end to this day through sleep.

The phone rings again. Groaning, Edward gets up to retrieve it. He plucks it from the receiver and lifts it to his ear irratably.

"Hello?"

No one answers.

Edward doesn't understand why that suddenly puts him on edge. His palms grow clammy and his throat dry. He listens intently, breath held. Faintly, he hears a sound as of someone breathing on the other end. It's just barely audible. But it sounds familiar. Impossible though it might be, he believes he recognizes it. It can't be...

"Oswald?"

A disconnecting tone answers.

Edward places the phone back into the receiver shaken to his core. First Tabitha, now this. The mere rumor of Oswald's return is haunting him like some sort of appararition and he can't shake the feeling that something about this is wrong. Like it isn't a return of the living, but of the dead. Like somehow he knows he's already lost Oswald forever.

"Ghosts aren't real." He chastises himself.

Then again... I've encountered far stranger things.

Edward settles himself back into bed and, at last, falls into an uneasy slumber.

Habit sees Edward sitting alone at the diner again the next morning. The quiet chatter and clinking silverware at other tables always made for a soothing backdrop to his thoughts. He stares listlessly out the window, swirling a spoon through his coffee, and pondering where to go from here. The map sits in his pocket. It should be at the forefront of his thoughts, however it is the mysterious call that occupies Edward entirely. Questions around it burn in his mind. He feels like they're written all over his face along with their answers and everyone can see it but him. Like every person who passes by is in on it, like they all know something he does not and conspire against him. It's just a feeling. He knows that. Out the window, people pass by without so much as a glance in his direction. No one else cares about him, or Oswald, or the mystery. The world goes on without notice,.

A plate stacked with pancakes quietly appears on the table. Edward looks up startled and the waitress smiles down at him. For the moment, his other thoughts are put on hold as he puzzles out a response to the unexpected situation.

"Excuse me." He says politely, "There's been some sort of mistake. I didn't order these."

"I know." The waitress states before placing down another plate, this one with eggs and bacon, "But you really looked like you could use a hot meal. I suspect you haven't had many of those lately."

Edward shrugs. Her guess is correct.

"And don't worry. It's on the house."

"Um, thanks."

"Don't mention it." She says before turning her attention back to another table.

It's true. It has been awhile since he'd eaten a proper meal. Edward reluctantly picks up a fork and pokes at the pancakes. They smell incredible. His stomach turns. Nervous energy is attempting to override hunger, but Edward takes a bite anyway. And another. He smiles at the waitress in gratitude the next time she passes. He practically inhales half the pancake plate and then nibbles at the bacon. The eggs he leaves untouched. The texture of them is unappetizing even when he isn't nervous.

As he finishes off his meal with a few last sips of coffee, his gaze wanders out the window again. A car horn blares somewhere up the road. A black bird taps at the glass. A familiar silhouette shuffles passed and Edward finds himself scrambling to his feet.

He chucks some cash at the tabletop to cover the bill and tip and dashes out into the street. He cranes his neck to see over the crowd, looking for that disinctive sweep of black hair and the telltale gait. The man seems to have disappeared as surely as any ghost. It must just be the tired mind's trick. Edward is ready to dismiss it as nothing more than that, but becomes aware of someone behind him. Someone standing too close. He stiffens, suddenly alert, just before that someone grabs hold of the hem of his suit jacket. Whoever it is gives a sharp tug, and Edward turns to face them. It's just a kid. Somewhere between twelve and fourteen by the looks of it. Gender unidentifiable beneath their baggy, patch filled sweater and a scruffy haircut to rival Ed’s own.

Edward relaxes, letting out a held breath.

The kid snickers, likely at the startled expression Edward doesn't realize remains on his face. They release their hold on him and ask, "You Edward Nygma?"

"Others use it more frequently than I, but it belongs to me. What am I?"

The kid tilts their head, "That a yes or a no?"

"What do you want?" Edward scowls.

"Message for you."

"From whom?"

They shrug, "I dunno. Didn't bother giving me a name. You want it or not?"

In answer Edward nods, and the kid pulls an envelope out of their sleeve. They hand if off to him and hold out their palm.

"Don't forget the tip?" They say, wriggling their eyebrows.

Edward forks over a small sum just to get them out of his hair. Then he opens the envelope. Inside is a simple slip of paper. When he reads it, his hands begin to tremble. It contains only a single sentence, written in an achingly familiar scrawl.

I have returned.

Edward gasps. He looks up again to demand answers, but the kid has already gone. Slowly, Edward slides the message back into its envelope with a reverence most only reserve for something holy. He holds it close to his lips and whispers his equivalence of a prayer.

"Oswald..."

Then Edward gingerly pockets the envelope and makes haste for home. Not the place he has been dwelling for the past few months, but the one he left behind. The one he couldn’t return to without Oswald, for it wasn't truly home unless they resided in it together. Memories flood his mind and anticipation compels his every step. All but forgotten now are the map and it's mysteries.

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 8

It's been some time since I last picked up the pen to do more than count the days. I must admit I wasn't sure if I ever would. It was tempting to just give up. I thought to let madness take me. Surely it would be easier to lose myself than to continue on as I am. Let it take me. The notion is tempting even still.

Alas if I did that, I might never see Ed again. The thought of him keeps me going, but it is a double edged sword. If watching him die was like being stabbed through the heart, then enduring everything alone and missing him all the time is like a thousand smaller cuts. Each day, each one cuts a little deeper and I bleed and I bleed. His voice won't leave me in peace. I thought it would get easier without him here. He is gone yet here all the same.

In the morning when I rise, he is there in the silence. Even in our most hostile moments, I could still hear him breath. He is there in the kitchen where the scent of food doesn't perfume the air. Not until I make it myself, too much to eat alone, too much left over. When the sun sets, if I make it until then, he is there in the emptiness at my side with no one to hold onto, no warmth to share.

Memory and hope are all I have left. They sustain me, but they are cuts as well. I don't know how much longer I can endure them.

I am afraid of what tonight will bring.

I am afraid of being alone.

I am afraid.

Day 9

Fresh torments assault me this day. It began around noon. Edward’s voice called to me from outside. I ran to the door, but no one was there. I thought I was surely losing my mind this time. The hope in my heart must have filled my ears with wishful thinking. I thought nothing more of it as I shut the door.

Then I made a quick lunch. I ate. I washed up.

There was a frantic knocking at the door. I heard my name. It was clear as day! It was him!

I ran to the door once more and flung it open fast as I could. But there was no one. I heard him laughing. It was a cruel, mocking laughter. From that moment, I have not known peace. I have not had even the briefest moment of quiet.

Slowly, I'm learning to ignore it. It isn't really Edward, so the things it says should be of no consequence, yet I find it increasingly difficult to hear. The words, they are unlike anything Ed would ever have said to me. Still, they ring true. It is all things about me I know in my heart. Things I want to deny. Things no one would know of me, not even the real Edward.

Most painfully of all, it spoke of my mother. It accuses me, saying it's my fault she's dead. Saying that it was my ambitions that mattered more to me. I want to scream it isn't so. I want to hide, but how can one hide from what's inside oneself. I knew the danger when I started on that path. I told myself that what I did, I did for her too. That I wanted to provide for her. To give us both a better life. It was easy to believe that. The best lies always hold a grain of truth. The ones we tell ourselves, maybe they're always easy to believe. I've always been so good at lying.

I did want those things for her, but that isn't why I pursued power. There were other ways to achieve those things. Ways that wouldn't have painted a target on my back and, subsequently, hers. No, I didn't do it for her. Edward, the real one, was right about me. I do sacrifice others. Once, even him.

Not this last time. This last time, I proved myself capable of love. Capable of sacrifice. I saved him. I saved him. I saved him.

Would I do it again? Could I?

Day 10

No one is coming for me. Today is the first time I've really understood that. I was eating lunch and staring out the window and the thought came to me clear as a bell. There is no one out there who will even realize I'm gone. No one besides Ed. And maybe that strange woman (Isley was it?) with all the plants. To everyone else, I'm dead. To that woman, I'm an ungrateful patient. To Ed I don't know what I am to Ed.

He won't come for me either. Whatever there was between us, it only happened under the strain of our circumstances here. It was a comradery forged under mutual threat and need for survival. It wasn't true. And now that he is out there, now that he is free, he has no reason to return. Not for me.

I have accepted this I am trying to accept this. I hate the way I still hope to be wrong. I think that's why I still like to sit at the window and stare out at the falling snow. I'm still watching. Still waiting. But the longer I sit there, the more my skin itches and the more I grow cold.

I need to get out of here. And if no one is coming for me, I will have to figure a way on my own. I've started my preparations. I began after one final lunch. Well, after about an hour of sitting at that window, letting my lunch grow cold as I picked at it. I was tempted to mope, but it won't do me any good. Moping is not my way. I am a man of action (a trait I am certain I picked up from my mother).

I gathered my supplies, much the same way Ed and I did when he escaped. I pulled together the same warm garments to bundle myself into. I filled the bottles with water. I took up my knife and the revolver. I was ready to go immediately, but an odd urge came over me.

Ed would say I was being sentimental, but I wanted to say goodbye here in writing. I am leaving this journal behind, so that if any unfortunate soul should ever come across it, they will know, it isn't hopeless. There is a way out. I hope this to be my last journal entry. Farewell.

Chapter 4: Homecoming

A light rain falls as Edward steps out of the taxi. In the distance, thunder rolls. Van dahl manor looms just ahead, as foreboding as the calm before a storm, as haunting as a memory. The windows are dark, no sign of another living soul within. The lawn is overgrown, no sign of the care with which it was once kept. Edward traverses the gravel drive, soft crunching beneath his feet the only sound. It is too quiet in this place. It makes him feel he should be quiet too. He barely breathes until he makes it to the front door.

Here, he hesitates.

He couldn't say why. All he knows is that things will be different from now on. He and Oswald are different people than they once were, having betrayed one another, having killed one another, yet perservering together through it all against unbelievable odds. It must mean something. He’s sure of it. The gravity of that is incredible. It's so much. But not too much.

Edward takes a breath, pulls out his key, and unlocks the door.

It resists him a little when he pushes against it, heavy oak slowly opening on creaking hinges. Inside is pitch black, impossible to make out anything. Edward bravely steps inside anyway. The door falls closed behind him, sentencing him to the dark. Edward blindly feels around the wall, searching for a light switch. He flips it on when he finds it. On and off and on again, but nothing happens. No power. He supposes it doesn't really matter. The layout of this place is etched into his memory, as surely as an epitaph in stone.

Edward treads apprehensively to the formal sitting room where he and Oswald used to spend their evenings. Once there, it doesn't take him long to locate the fireplace and the neat little wood pile beside it. He stacks logs into the hearth, pulls a crumpled napkin from his pocket for kindling, lights a match and drops it on top. He blows gently, coaxing the little flame to fullness until it begins to eat away at the wood and the darkness. Then he sits back and warms his hands.

By firelight, Edward takes in his surroundings. It's just like they left it. Not a thing out of place, although the scent of dust hangs in the air (in a way it didn't used to before). It's sure to be remedied as soon as they hire a housekeeper. That may take some time however. When Edward set about destroying Oswald's life, his bank account wasn't left unscathed either. Ed is nothing if not thorough; He regrets that now.

He regrets a lot of things.

The fire crackles. Wind whispers against the windows from outside. Edward seats himself at the edge of the sofa, tapping his heel rapidly and glancing at a clock over the mantle periodically. He hates waiting. That isn't entirely accurate. Edward can be exceedingly patient under certain circumstances. What he really hates is the uncertainty. He hates waiting on what he isn't sure of. When he read Oswald's message, coming to find him here seemed the most obvious thing in the world. But sitting here now, in the dark and the quiet, what if he is wrong? What if Oswald isn't coming? What if Edward was mistaken in his assumptions that Oswald would come here, that he would want to... or that he would want to find Ed waiting for him...

The front door creaks again and Edward’s heart leaps into his throat. He hears the tell-tale rhythm of Oswald's unique step and turns in his seat to face the hall. Oswald's silhouette appears, the details of his face and clothes obscured by deep shadow, but there is no mistaking him.

Edward stands.

"Hello, Edward."

Oswald finally steps into the light, making his way around to the sofa and perching himself at the end of it. The expression he wears is weary. His clothes appear as worn as Edward’s. His fingernails are dirty. His hair unkempt.

Edward retakes his own seat, noting all these details in the space of a breath. There are a million questions racing through his mind. One alone stands out as most important to him as he slides closer to Oswald and reaches out a hand to lay on his shoulder. He squeezes lightly.

"You're really here..."

"I appreciate you verifying that without smacking me." Oswald smiles.

Edward laughs and shakes his head, "I'm glad you're here, but how is this possible?"

"I escaped." Oswald says, shrugging, "Simple as that."

"I'm sure there was nothing simple about it." Edward says, unable to keep his eyes from him.

Oswald swallows, looking briefly uncomfortable.

"Maybe not. But I'd rather not think about that."

The curiousity is driving Ed mad, but he merely nods. After whatever Oswald has been through, he has no right to pry. Instead, he asks another question. Hopefully a less distressing one.

"How long have you been back in Gotham?"

"Not long." Oswald answers, "Little more than a few days."

That tracked with what Edward learned from Tabitha. The way she spoke of her informants and losing Oswald multiple times made it sound like he had been in the city for at least that long. And all this time, Edward had spent desperately searching for a way to rescue him.

"You could have contacted me sooner." He says, trying not to sound accusing but not quite managing to keep it from his tone, "I was worried about you."

"I wasn't sure I should contact you at all." Oswald sighs.

What?

The word stays lodged in Edward’s throat, but the disbelief is clear on his face. Oswald stands, turning his back to Edward, arms hugging his chest. Ed watches him take a deep breath. He doesn’t like the way he can't see his face anymore. He doesn’t like the intangible wall he senses between them.

"Then why did you?" Edward finally manages, "Why did you call? Why did you send me that message?"

"Look, Edward... we don't owe each other anything." Oswald huffs and paces further away, "I knew it was only a matter of time before you found out I was back. I figured better to tell you myself and determine where we stand than a surprise ambush later on. But... clearly you hold no ill will. Neither do I. And now we both know it."

Edward stands as well, fingers flexing at his sides. This isn't making any sense. Oswald isn't making any sense.

"What are you saying?"

Oswald finally looks at him. His face is a neutral mask. His eyes seem strangely hollow.

"This is goodbye, old friend." Oswald answers, matter-of-fact.

"Goodbye? I don't..." Edward shakes his head like it might dislodge his confusion, "What about what happened? What about us? The woods... you saved me! I thought that meant something."

"What happened out there, between us, it didn't mean anything. It was just survival, wasn't it?" Oswald doesn't wait for a reply, "Let's just say we're even now and leave it at that. You can go your own way, and I'll go mine."

"What if I don't want that?"

Oswald's eyes narrow, searching his face.

"What do you want then?"

"I've missed you, Oswald." Edward answers earnestly, unsure what else to say.

"Is that so?"

Something about Oswald's countenance changes. It looks unfamiliar on him. His face looks unfamiliar. Almost. Edward is reminded of red light, a stage, music...

When Oswald speaks, he is drawn back to the present, but the uncanny feeling remains.

"You missed me, did you?" Oswald says, low and sultry, "I'm flattered, Edward."

He tilts his head coquettishly. Edward’s eyes follow the line of his pale, slender neck. But then Oswald speaks and his lips capture all of Ed’s attention.

"Tell me, do you want to stay with me, Edward? Will you help me? Whatever I ask?"

Edward forces himself back to earth. He spreads his hands and meets Oswald's gaze seriously.

"I thought that's why you wanted to meet. We help each other now, don't we?" He asks.

The spell is broken in an instant. Oswald shakes his head and smirks.

"I suppose so."

"Then let me help. What's the plan?"

"I'm going to take back everything that was mine." Oswald divulges, "And then I'll take even more."

Edward nods along. It isn't really a plan, but he's used to this sort of speech from Oswald. He's sure he'll get more details later.

"I'll take everything. I want it all. It's strange... I've never been so hungry before."

This last bit Oswald seems to say more to himself than Edward, which is just as well because Edward has no idea what he means by it. He startles when Oswald licks his lips and slides closer. Something about the motion is odd. Uncanny in it's fluidity. Oswald's conspiritorial expression and tone are back to familiar, but his eyes... they still seem so hollow.

"What is it, friend? You seem distracted." Oswald's hands slither onto Ed’s biceps, "You seem tense."

"Nothing. I just... Thinking about the next step. How I can help you."

"Are you?" Oswald smiles, and it looks too wide on his face, "Will you help me now? I'm so hungry."

His eyes are so hollow. Edward feels drawn in by them. He can't look away.

"Yes." He whispers.

Oswald's hands travel up Edward’s arms to meet at the back of his neck loosely. His head tilts back. His lips part just slightly.

Edward shivers. The touch is cold. Then he feels a slight pressure applied to the back of his neck, those cold hands weighing him down and pulling him forward. He doesn’t resist them. He allows Oswald to pull him in for a kiss. When he pulls back for air, Edward shudders.

"You're freezing." He says to Oswald, "We should warm you up. Um... I'll draw you a bath and fix some tea. That should help."

"Edward, I'm fine." Oswald replies lightly.

"It's no trouble. Be back in a jiffy."

With quick, long strides, Edward departs to do as he said he would. He starts in the kitchen, setting the kettle on the stove to heat while he goes upstairs to get the bath ready. He ensures Oswald's favorite soaps are nearby and tries not to think about the kiss. It was only his imagination. Everything is fine.

Oswald is fine. He said so himself. His lips...

No.

Edward breathes in.

Oswald is fine! He's alive. Not...

Edward shakes the thought away before it can fully form. If he doesn't acknowledge it, then it isn't anything to worry about. It couldn't become real.

He returns to the sitting room to inform Oswald his bath is ready then goes to the kitchen to wait for the tea. The kettle whistles. Edward pours the piping hot water into two china cups ready on the countertop. He swirls a spoonful of honey into one and two spoonfuls into the other. Then he takes them upstairs to meet Oswald.

Oswald is already undressed and soaking in the tub when he arrives. His head leans back and his eyes are closed, but when he hears Edward enter, he opens them and turns his face towards him. He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

Edward hands him his cup, somehow managing to keep his hand from trembling. A cold sweat forms on the back of his neck when Oswald's cold fingers graze his own. Edward withdraws his hand quickly. He would like to leave now, but there is something in the way Oswald is watching him that makes him think he is expected to stay. He pulls up a little foot stool beside the tub to sit and tries to make himself comfortable. He sips at his tea and it sounds too loud everytime he swallows.

"Tell me, Edward." Oswald says, breaking the silence abruptly.

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me about Gotham." Oswald answers lavishly, "What has happened in my absence?"

Edward sets his cup into its saucer with a light clink and gathers his thoughts. This at least is familiar territory.

"A lot has happened." Edward begins, noting how Oswald already hangs on his words, "The most notable thing was the virus outbreak."

"Do tell."

Edward explains to him all about the Tetch virus, going into great detail about all that he knows. When and how it started, what the symptoms were, the most prominent cases (former captain Nathaniel Barnes among them), as well as the eventual scuffle over the cure. The three main players were the GCPD, Barbara Kean and her cohorts, and Fish Mooney with her band of freaks.

"So Fish returned... where is she now?"

"Dead. Shot and killed by Jim. Or so I've heard."

Oswald stares into the bath contemplative. What he's thinking about, Ed can't imagine.

"Jim managed to retrieve the cure then?"

"No." Edward shakes his head, before smiling proudly, "Thanks to my plan, we stole it out from under their noses. Barbara came out ahead and the city was forced to pay a ransom for Tetch and the cure he represented."

"That's pretty impressive." Oswald says, "Barbara must be doing well. All that money. All my power."

Edward could almost miss the lack of sincerity in his tone, but he doesn't. Oswald doesn't seem particularly interested in Edward’s achievement. Maybe the next one will excite him more.

"Barbara is dead too."

"What? How?"

Finally, Ed has caught his interest.

"It was my doing. In a round about way."

Edward tells him all about it, relishing the surprised expression on Oswald’s face as he does. It was so simple to turn Barbara's team against her. Tabitha and Butch had plenty of reasons for resentment by then. All Ed had to do was light the fuse. Once it was all set in motion, he had little else to do to achieve his aims. Just cook up a bit evidence to Barbara's paranoia. Before long they were all pointing guns at each other and now Butch and Barbara were dead. It went almost perfectly. If only Tabitha hadn't caught on at the last. Ed barely escaped her clutches with his life.

Once Edward stopped talking, a great silence fell over the little bathroom. It felt full of something Edward could not ascertain. Something he missed while he was so caught up in his retelling. Oswald's expression had changed again. A blank slate that couldn't be read. Edward fidgeted in place.

"Sounds like you had a lot fun without me, Edward."

"I..." Edward swallowed thickly, "I wouldn't describe it that way."

"You don't have to hide it." Oswald says cheerfully. It must be false. "I know how you love a good plan coming together. And I know you love toying with people's emotions."

The accusation catches Ed off guard.

"I, um, that... that isn't..."

Ed was going to say true. It is true, but not in the way Oswald is making it sound. Not in the way that should make him so angry.

"You're acting strange." Ed says defensively.

"Strange?" Oswald echoes, voice emptier than ever. He is a void cloaked in human skin. "Is my behavior so strange? After everything that's happened..."

"You... seem upset. I should go."

Oswald catches hold of Edward’s wrist in an iron grip. Edward jerks away, but he cannot free himself. Instead, he's pulled closer.

"Say... do you know what drowning feels like?"

Edward feels it. His lungs are filling up with water before Oswald even has his head under. Edward thrashes. Firm hands hold him. He can't lift his head. Edward chokes and it burns. His chest feels tight with panic and then... and then everything fades peacefully away.

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 11

It pains me to write this, but I have returned. Not by my own free will, as is likely obvious. Yesterday, when I left the cabin, I had every hope and every intention of never coming back here. I thought that if Ed had made it, so could I. I was badly mistaken.

Initially, the way was easy. I began the journey much the same as I had during Edward’s escape. I set off in the same direction, tramping through trees and snow and slosh. It was cold but not windy. Lonely but no more so than the cabin. In short, it was tolerable if not comfortable, and I was in high spirits to finally be leaving.

I remained alert as I walked, listening to the surrounding woods for any signs of danger. The trees were still, quiet. Unnaturally so (as I have come to expect). Expected or not though, it is a little maddening. To keep my sanity, I hummed to myself (songs my mother used to sing) just to fill the silence and took comfort in the familiarity of them. I imagined her spirit might be somewhere watching over me and cheering me on. I was so certain I would make it.

Towards late afternoon, I stopped to catch my breath and drink. I found a fallen log to sit upon and planted myself there. My feet ached, from cold and from walking. It was a bruising, burning sort of pain, but even that could not dishearten me. The appearance of Ed’s phantom however...

He looked life-like, sitting beside me. I almost thought to reach out and try touching him. It laughed when It saw me pull back my hand. It spoke to me then. More useless words meant to break me down and bend me to Its will. They did not sting, not like they used to. I believe no taunt It could have hurled at me would have made even the slightest difference to me then. I still thought I was on my way out of that place. That before dawn of the next day, I would have returned to Gotham. If only.

I did not linger there for long. I remember noticing the sun already past the height of its arc and beginning to descend. Thinking of the long road ahead of me, so far to go before nightfall, I quickened my pace. It followed on my heels. Silently. Although it made not a sound, everytime I looked back It was there. Following. Watching. I decided to stop looking back, a decision that proved to be easier said than done.

Dread overtook me then. Despite the daylight, it was like walking in the dark. Alone. It was the not knowing that made it all the more terrible. Behind me, I could not see It. Could not hear It. It did not want me to. It wanted me to look. Stubbornly, I tried to resist the urge. I tried to convince myself there was nothing to see, that I could just forget It. Almost, I did. I kept my eyes on the way before me and pretended It was already gone. At times, I even believed it to be true. Therein lay the problem.

Inevitably, my guard would drop, and I would glance back over my shoulder. And there It would be! The dreadful thing wearing Ed’s face only a few steps behind. Always the same few steps behind and wearing that expression, one that reminded me so much of one of Ed’s. It was a look of knowing, privy to information you are not. The thought of that plagued me. It nagged at my every step.

Eventually, I could take no more. I stopped in my tracks. I turned to see It and screamed at the top of my lungs. I cursed Its existence. I cursed the universe for ever allowing the birth of such a horrid thing as It. I cursed everything.

It merely smiled.

And it was Edward’s smile. The one that first made my heart race. Made my heart melt. The one that made my knees weak. Made my knees bend. The one I saw when I first realized all I felt for him. It was the smile I so adored. On the wrong face.

My next actions were senseless. It couldn't be helped. I was pushed to my limits and must temporarily have lost all reason. I ran. I charged off into the trees and ran, like I never have in all my life. I was furious. How dare It twist something so inviolable against me. The fury fueled my footsteps. In that moment, I felt I must get away. I felt invincible. Nothing would stop me.

What a fool I was.

I fell and that was it. My foot snagged on a tree root and sent me flying. My head made impact with something hard on the ground. It must have hit just right because seconds later I awoke back here.

Welcome home.

No matter. I will try again. Wish me luck.

Notes:

Yup, that's right. I'm leaving y'all on a cliffhanger lol (scream at me in the comments if you want). I'll be going on another little break to write ahead a few more chapters. When I'm ready I'll post the next set of three (hopefully before too long).

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 5: Performance

Heart thumping, he sucks in breath. Breath after breath. Gasping for it. But his lungs fill with ease, and the water is no more. Cool sweat coats his brow and his clothes cling sticky to his skin. For one dreadful moment, Edward expects to see cabin walls, but when he opens his eyes, only his old bedroom greets them. The one he used before. The one in Oswald's father's house. It is dim and quiet and perfectly ordinary. Edward sighs and settles against his pillows. His heartbeat slowly returns to its usual rhythm. In the distance, a ticking clock counts the seconds. The methodical sound soothes away the memory of what happened. Already it's fading, like nothing more than a bad dream. It must have been.

Edward collects his glasses from the nightstand before padding to the door and peering into the hall. The clock sounds louder from here, but there is no other noise, and Edward begins to wonder if he is actually alone. He steps out into the hallway, attempting to push back any lingering nerves. He is too old to be frightened by nightmares.

He should go back to his room. He should take some time to get dressed, brush his teeth, and comb his hair. Typically, it's his routine to do so before anything else. Today, however, he decides to deviate. Before anything else, he must have coffee. Edward makes his way to the kitchen on autopilot, mind abuzz with nervous energy, nervous thoughts. He can't shake the image of Oswald leering over him, the strength of his hands holding him down, and the feel of water filling his lungs.

When he reaches the kitchen, he has the odd sense of deja vu. Not because of the kitchen or its contents. Not because of time. It's not strictly the sense that he has done this before. Rather, it is the familiar sense of something watching him. It is escaping the Court of Owls while being pursued through maze-like corridors. It is sensing another while wandering the woods in the dark and the snow. It is the thing that haunted the cabin. It is-

"Good morning." Oswald chirps from behind.

Edward barely stifles his startle reflex. He turns and watches as Oswald saunters into the room. He's already dressed for the day in a grey pinstriped suit with purple accents, his hair neatly slicked back in a fashion reminiscent of the style he wore during his mayoral campaign, and carrying the cane with his signature penguin head handle. It's unusual to see him roused this early.

"I didn't hear you come in."

Oswald heads for the pantry, rummaging for something that isn't already expired and asks, "Sleep well?"

"Fine." Edward answers in a clipped tone.

"Good. I have a job for you." Oswald says, turning to him.

He appears to have given up on finding anything edible for breakfast. Oswald walks closer to Ed and leans against the counter. Something about his expression, his manner, like what he is about to say is an expectation rather than a request, chafes at Edward. It must show on his face because Oswald's cheerful demeanor slips.

"You did say you wanted to help me, didn't you?"

"Of course." Edward agrees. Just one little job. He does owe Oswald at least this much.

"Splendid." Oswald smiles again, "I need you to ring up your old friends at 'Gotham Unfiltered' and tell them you have a story for them."

Edward’s throat bobs.

"What kind of story?"

"My story. Obviously. If I'm going to get back everything you ruined," Oswald says pointedly, "I'm going to have to start with my image."

"Why that show specifically?"

"What better way to restore my good name than to go back to the very same show that tarnished it? I've already figured out how to spin it. I just need your help getting there. Should be simple enough. Right, Ed?"

"Right."

Edward turns back to fixing his coffee. If only his hands would stop trembling. Ghosts flit before his eyes. The likeness of Oswald's father. Oswald’s pale face. TV static. A body. A grave. An audience.

"Oh, and Ed..."

Edward looks up to see Oswald paused in the doorway. He smiles viciously.

"Don't keep me waiting."

Oswald waltzes away. Edward pours out his coffee mug and deposits it in the sink. Later, he promises himself. Then he dashes off to dress himself and make the phone call. Within the hour, the interview is scheduled and he and Oswald depart their home to head into the city.

They sit together in the backseat of Oswald's town car. He’s already found himself a driver apparently. This one looks twitchy. He won't last long.

Edward fidgets in his seat as well.

Oswald hums softly, gaze cast out the window and a dreamy look in his eye.

"You seem nervous." He says, without looking at Edward.

Edward shakes his head, but Oswald can't see it. His tongue sticks uselessly to the roof of his mouth.

Oswald sighs.

"If something is bothering you, you should just tell me."

Edward swallows thickly, working his jaw and willing himself to say something. Anything.

"I... I could use a coffee."

Oswald turns away from the window. He scans over Ed’s face, piercing as a drill through his skull. His eyes are the void. They are the water in the bath. The splashes and thrashing. Drowning. Suffocation. Filling Ed’s lungs. Only for an instant, and in an instant it's gone. Oswald smiles warmly.

"Anything for you, Ed. We'll stop along the way."

They stop at a little cafe near the studio. Oswald also takes the opportunity to buy them each breakfast. Two breakfast sandwiches. Blueberry muffins. Apple slices. They sit in the cafe amidst the rest of the chattering patrons and it's easy to forget the oddity of earlier morning and nightmares of last night.

Edward sips his coffee, savoring the warmth.

Oswald devours his muffin, like he fears it might sprout legs and run away.

Edward chuckles, finally relaxing.

Oswald quirks an eyebrow in question.

"Crumbs." Edward answers him, motioning towards his face in a circular fashion, "All over."

Oswald's eyes widen, embarrassment etched across his face. The expression is so familiar. So human. It isn't until that moment, Edward realizes he'd stopped thinking of Oswald as such. More like a ghost, a nightmare, a... It was silly, wasn't it? Oswald is Oswald. He is Edward’s friend. He is a force to be reckoned with for sure, to be feared, but not by him. Edward has nothing to fear from him.

Oswald rapidly swipes at his face with a napkin, completely missing the bits on his left.

Edward holds up a hand to stop him.

"Allow me." He says, picking up a napkin and dabbing at Oswald's cheek and chin on that side, and the corner of his mouth.

"There. Gone."

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 12

Dear whomever may someday read this,

Fuck everything! Fuck it all. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

Apologies for my crudeness, but it is beyond frustrating to be here again. To wake here again. To write here. Again. I guess I knew it wouldn't be so easy. Of course I couldn't just decide to leave and waltz out the door. If only anything were ever as simple as that.

I impress upon myself that this is merely a temporary setback. I can and will escape. I shall just have to be more diligent. Ever more crafty. I will find a way to outwit the thing that keeps me here. And I will detail every failure, that it should become a guide to whomever may come after me. So, towards that end, here we are. What follows is record of the previous day's attempt.

I woke up yesterday morning, a little disappointed but mostly optimistic. Despite failing to make it out, I had made it pretty far the previous day, both in terms of time and distance. I was confident I could improve upon my earlier performance.

I gathered up my gear, as I had the previous day. I wrote my journal entry. I said farewell to the cabin and thanked it for nothing (in hindsight, the sarcasm may not have helped me). Then I walked out the door.

I remember the determination I felt that morning. Whatever it took, I was going to get out of there. I was going to go home. I felt it in my very bones.

The world around me seemed desolate. Treacherous and cold. Always cold. But I was am Oswald Cobblepot. King of Gotham. The Penguin (more cockroach than that according to Ed). I had survived unbeatable odds before through shear force of will, determination, and cunning. Why should this be any different?

As I journeyed further from the cabin, I remember the way the wind kicked up. Strong enough to throw snow and dead leaves. It seemed to tear at my clothes and hair. It stung my eyes. However, I would not be deterred. I would not cower before the force of it. It howled and sounded like rage. I remember laughing in the face of it gleefully. I believed then all I needed was to believe I would make it. I thought I could push through and find the way back.

I tried to retrace my steps from the previous day, but I quickly began to realize my path was unfamiliar. It twisted through the trees in surprising directions, sharp angles I didn't remember from before. Eventually, it lead to a steep decline, the way rocky and difficult to make on cold-numb feet. Still my spirits endured and I continued down. I remember rejoicing when I made it to the bottom of the hill without injury. It seemed to me then that I'd won a victory over the thing that toyed with me.

I'd forgotten how It likes to toy.

It's funny, looking back on it. During Edward’s escape I'd worried it might happen. This time, it didn't cross my mind at all. There was a loud creak and a groan from above. Then a snap. I looked up and met my fate. A hefty tree branch. Not very imaginative in my opinion. Still, it did the job and here I am.

All this to say: Beware of falling trees.

It is time for me to bid farewell again. With diligence and vigilance, perhaps for the last time. Chance favors the trained mind. I'm ready.

...

Edward adjusts a mic pinned to Oswald's chest and smooths out a crease in his coat, "There. Perfect."

"Well..." Oswald tilts his head, "Wish me luck."

"Break a leg." Edward replies.

He watches as Oswald briskly makes his way on set. He would have expected to see more nervous jitters from him, but Oswald looks completely comfortable as he takes his seat and greets the talkshow host. In contrast, Margaret Hearst is wringing her hands and continually wiping them off on her slacks. She's smiling, if you could call it that. Her expression resembles the sort worn by plastic dolls. Or Oswald's employees when mistakes are made. It should probably come as no surprise. Oswald's reputation is known even among the ordinary population, and the last time this woman encountered him, she made certain to get on his list. Her part in his downfall must still be fresh in his mind, even if she was merely the Riddler's pawn.

Oswald leans in close to the journalist and whispers something to her. From his position backstage, Edward can't hear what it is, but he notices the way she stiffens in her chair. Her chin trembles for only an instant and then one of the production staff is calling her to attention. Her professional act kicks in then, as she plasters the fake doll smile back onto her face.

"And we're live in three, two..." the staff member signs a number one and silence falls over the set.

"Welcome back. Joining us live is former mayor Oswald Cobblepot, here to share with us some sort of mysterious big news."

"Thank you for having me." Oswald smiles.

"So tell us, what is this all about?"

"It's about Gotham and the people." Oswald answers, "It always has been."

"You must be aware that some of the public do not see it that way. Your previous appearance here left many of them questioning. How could Gotham's beloved mayor transform so suddenly into someone almost unrecognizable? You revealed a face many of us found difficult to believe. Care to explain?"

"My conduct last time did not reflect very well on my character." Oswald admits, seemingly penetant, "However, last time was a very unusual set of circumstances. I'm here now because everyone deserves to know the truth about that."

"What is the truth?"

Edward holds his breath. What is Oswald playing at? He wouldn't reveal everything, would he?

"I was sick." Oswald answers simply, "Like so many of the city's unfortunate citizens, I too contracted the Tetch virus and it amplified some of my more abrasive qualities. My temper is no secret to most. In fact, I'd say my temper was one of many reasons I found so much support. The citizens were tired of being pushed around and lied too. My righteous anger and ability to enact change is appealing.

"You make a temper sound like a good thing." Hearst chuckles lightheartedly.

"Any trait can be positive or negative. It all depends on how it's applied. My previous interview with you is an example of how my temper can turn negative, but everything I did as mayor before that shows how it can be put to use in a positve way."

"Maybe so. Still, many believe you showed your true colors that day and the virus itself is thought to bring out a person's darkest desires."

"I cannot speak for others, but what the virus brought out in me goes against my very nature. I would never turn against the very people who supported me, the people who placed their faith in me. Not in my right state of mind. I care most deeply for this city and all who live here."

"Bold statement."

"But true." Oswald says, "Do you even know how I contracted the Tetch virus to begin with?"

"I assume that's what you're here to talk with us about today."

"In part." Oswald nods, "I was attending a formal dinner with Gotham's elite as part of my mayoral duties. It was my hope that night to secure funds for the homeless shelter and programs I intended to build. As you know, it is a major problem. Too many walk our city streets without a place to call home. My goal is to change that."

"You seem to be shying away from the meat of this story. What happened at that dinner, Mr. Cobblepot? Is it too difficult to talk about?"

As if on cue, Oswald takes a shakey breath.

"You're right." He says, "It is difficult to talk about. But I know I must. The truth is important, no matter how painful."

"Whenever you're ready." The host urges gently.

"That night, the Mad Hatter, Tetch, showed up. He poisoned our drinks and threatened to kill everyone in that room unless we drank." Oswald pauses to take another deep breath, "I... I was the first. I drank every drop and only after that did our brave police force arrive on scene to stop that madman. Everyone else was spared the illness, but not I."

Edward stands entranced by Oswald's account. If he hadn't his own personal experience as proof to the contrary, he would believe it.

Oswald goes on to detail his decline into illness. The reporter plays her part, asking just the right questions to give Oswald every opportunity to shape his story into a narrative that portrays him in a favorable light.

All the while, Edward takes in cues from her that the camera and audience are unlikely to pick up. The sheen of sweat on her brow. The slight tremor in her leg. One clenched fist hidden from view of the camera. She plays her part well, but it is undoubtedly a play.

There are no cues from Oswald. No hints of his lies. No underlying emotions hidden beneath the ones he plays for his audience. Something about that chills Edward to his core.

Oswald ends the interview by announcing his return to the office of mayor. He claims he will resume his duties in the coming week. Hearst thanks him for his time and he thanks her in turn for allowing him to share his story. They're all smiles until the camera goes off. The show ends. The poor woman's facade crumbles then as she practically flees the set running.

Oswald watches her go with a predatory grin. It shouldn't look so unnatural on his face. Oswald often takes pleasure in the power he holds over others and the feelings of triumph that come from watching an adversary flee in fear. Something about it seems off though. Edward struggles to pin down what exactly until he realizes the key element that seems missing. Oswald's grin doesn't match that of a man who is gloating. It more closely resembles the excited stare of a cat who has just released a mouse so it can give chase again. Something about the eyes. Edward shivers.

He clears his throat as he approaches Oswald to gain the man's attention. That set of terrifying eyes falls on him. Edward feels fragile as a canary, but shakes it off. He has no reason to fear Oswald.

"So?" Edward begins, "What's next on the agenda?"

Oswald stands, adjusting his coat as he does. He picks up his cane, and tucks it under an arm to begin walking. Perhaps he doesn't want to appear weak.

"City hall." Oswald announces, as though it were obvious, "I have business with the acting mayor, but you needn't accompany me. I'll see you for dinner tonight."

Even Edward can tell he's being brushed off. What he can't ascertain is why. Did he do something wrong?

He doesn’t get the chance to ask. Oswald's back is already turned to him, as he walks briskly away. Edward walks after him reluctantly, not because he is trying to catch up, but because he needs to go the same way in order to leave the studio. He sees Oswald disappear into a waiting car, the same one they arrived in. Edward watches for a moment as the vehicle joins traffic before proceeding up the street to hail a cab. It's while he's making his way there that he spies a familiar face waving at him across the road.

"Ugly Sweater Kid?" Edward mutters. What are they doing here?

Having caught his attention, the kid sprints towards him. They skid to a stop just in front of him, and Edward backs up uncomfortably to avoid being ran into.

"What do you want?" Edward demands.

"Give a sec." The kid says holding up a finger, as they catch their breath.

Edward waits impatiently.

The kids heaves a big breath and nods, "Okay. Um... this is going to sound crazy, alright?"

"Not a good start." Edward deadpans.

"Hear me out anyway. Because I'm only here to warn you about that guy. The... uh, ex-mayor."

"You mean Oswald?" Edward questions.

The kid nods.

"Why?"

The kid stares down at their hand-scribbled sneakers. They fidget.

"I guess I felt a teeny tiny bit guilty. After, y'know, giving you that note. Um, without telling you to watch out. I knew I should tell you, but... I dunno, I just wanted to get it over with, y'know? I'm just some kid. It's not like I have anything to do with-"

"The point?" Edward demands impatiently.

This kid isn't making any sense, babbling on like that. Edward doesn't care about whatever guilty feelings possessed them to come here and speak to him like this. He needs to know about the warning. He needs to know about Oswald.

"Be more specific. What are you warning me of? Why should I 'watch out' for Oswald?"

The kid's eyes get shifty.

"I'd rather not say."

Edward sighs, "That's hardly helpful."

"Look, I'm... I'm scared, okay? I'm scared of him." The kid winces, "And you should be too. Okay? Bye."

The kid tries to take off, but Edward snags them by the back of their hoodie and drags them back.

"Not so fast!" He says, "Why are you really telling me this? If you're so afraid, wouldn't it make more sense to keep it to yourself?"

The kid squirms and wriggles, like a fish on a hook. Edward feels little sympathy. It isn't his fault they got involved in this. And they're plenty old enough to be aware of who they're dealing with. When they realize he isn't about to release them, the kid slumps their shoulders.

"Fine! I just..." they huff, "Something big is happening. That guy is the center of it. I'm just a kid. What can I do? But maybe..."

"Maybe an adult can handle this?" Edward finishes for them.

"Yeah."

"Alright. You're free to go." Edward says, relinquishing his hold, "Thanks for the tip."

The kid smiles relief and jogs away.

Edward shakes his head. Strange kid. He doesn’t blame them though. Oswald can be, and often is, a very intimidating figure. Edward feels slighly annoyed that he doesn't come across the same way, that the kid thought someone like himself needed warning. However, there is one curious thing about what the kid told him. They seemed to imply there was some bigger picture here, beyond just Oswald. He could simply be referring to Oswald's plans to take back power, but Edward gets the nagging suspicion that isn't it. The look of fear in the kid's eyes reminded him a lot of the fear he saw in the tv host before Oswald's interview.

Edward senses Oswald is hiding something, but he isn't yet willing to confront him about it. He only just got Oswald back. Surely, given time, Oswald will open back up to him. It isn't weird for him to be a little on edge. Not after everything he probably went through. Ed will just need to be patient. He convinces himself of that and waves down a taxi.

Chapter 6: Monster

Oswald's Journal

Day 13

Me again. I suppose that comes as little surprise by this point. In writing here, it must be apparent that I have failed once more. It's true. I thought I was ready this time, but nothing could have prepared me for what I encountered yesterday. It was certainly imaginative this time around, I'll give that. (Sidenote: beware criticizing the thing that haunts this place. You may get more than you bargain for).

I began my morning much the same way I'd taken to lately. I ate a small breakfast, packed whatever might be useful on my trek through the woods, and bid fairwell after writing my journal entry for the day. I expected all the usual when I stepped outside but was utterly dumbstruck from the moment I opened the door. I'd grown accustomed to the woods and snow and the ice. Imagine my surprise when I found none of these things. In it's place, I was greeted by an expanse of sand, stretching in all directions as far as the eye could see. Dunes rose in the distance, like waves in the ocean and a scorching sun beat down on my face.

The first thought that registered in my mind upon such a sight was that I was severely over-dressed. I recovered quickly from my surprise (nothing really ever seems impossible anymore) and cast off my layers until I was down to the jumpsuit I'd arrived in. The long sleeves and pant legs would be warm, but at least they would offer some protection from the sun. I remember wishing I had a wide brimmed hat of some kind. Instead I picked up one of the discarded sweaters and held it above my head to shield my face. It was less than ideal, but so too would be enduring the rays of the sun directly.

After making the modifications to my wardrobe, I set off, oddly still determined to put as much distance between myself and the cabin before nightfall. I still foolishly believed it possible to escape this way. Just pick a direction and keep walking until I make it home. The idea fills my chest with bitter laughter now.

As cold as my journey was the day before, that is how burning hot it was as I made my way across the sand. I glanced back just the once, wondering if the cabin would still be there. To my surprise, it was, looking as out of place as human teeth on a dog. I didn't look back again. I didn't care to. The sight unnerved me for reasons I can't quite articulate.

Imaginative but dull. That's what I thought of my new surroundings at first. Sand, sand, sand and more sand. Pale blue sky above it all, sun too bright, and a persistant wind which whipped up the sand and chafed my skin. I couldn't imagine what sort of danger might await me in such a place, other than dehydration. It promised to be a much slower demise than any I'd thus far experienced and I didn't relish the thought of it. I drank from my prepared bottles sparingly in apparent hope of prolonging my suffering (it didn't seem likely to improve my chances even then).

It turned out unnecessary, however.

There were other plans for me.

The sands were not so empty as they at first appeared. After walking for miles and miles, I became aware of something else following along parallel to my path. I could not see it. Not directly. But when I looked sideways, it appeared as foot-shaped indentations in the sand not dissimilar to the ones I made. When I paused my own steps, the other's continued. I waited until the soft crunch sound of them had faded in the distance, only to be met by that same sort of sound coming from a new direction. I looked to my left and saw them coming towards me. Something new. Something fast.

I no longer felt panic the way I might once have. I think I've grown numb to horror. Even so my heart rate kicked up, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I pulled the revolver from my pack, steadied my hand, and aimed. As it closed in on me, I pulled the trigger.

It fell. And still I couldn't see it. Only the depression it made.

I remember how I turned away then, thinking the trouble behind me, but a shrill cry nearby. A single voice at first before others joined in. I stopped and watched as the depression left by the creature I dispatched shifted and changed. I got the distinct impression of something picking itself back up. The cry sounded again. The others echoed.

I was not so numb then to not feel an impulse to flee. However, I fought against that impulse, planting my feet stubbornly, even as it raced towards me again. I felt the impact of something colliding with me and tearing at me with limbs that felt human. Invisible hands held me down and scratched at my skin. More joined the first pair, a whole drove of hands all tearing at me, tearing my hair and my clothes.

I screamed, but I did not fight back. I remembered the ways I'd been tricked before into acting and injuring myself or Ed. I determined myself to wait until it was over. Either they would kill me and I would wake back in the cabin, same as always, having learned to be wary of this new danger. Or I would confirm a suspicion of mine. So I waited.

My suspicions were wrong. This was not mere illusion. Those invisible hands tore me to pieces. I woke in the cabin once more, skin crawling. My skin is still crawling. I find myself reluctant to venture out again.

Day 14

I got torn apart again yesterday. By shrieking harpies all wearing my mother's face. Literal harpies. I take it back. The entity here is endlessly creative.

I need a vacation. That is perhaps laughable given my current circumstance (many would consider days on end spent idly in a secluded cabin exactly that). So scratch that. I need a break.

Mentally, I'm exhausted. Eternal torture and death will do that I suppose. Unfortunately, I don't seem to have much say in the matter. Whether I go out or stay in, it all ends the same. Maybe what I really need is a break from thinking it could be otherwise. Just a break from hoping that things will work out somehow if I just keep trying. I'm tired of trying.

I know I can't give up. Accepting my fate won't make it any easier. Won't make it any more tolerable. But just for a few days at least, I don't want to venture out again. I don't want to fight. I don't want to be torn apart by monsters. I want to die quietly.

The revolver on my nightstand looks more enticing than ever today.

...

The house is still, save for a grandfather clock which sits at the end of the hall. In the deafening silence between each tick, Edward thinks he can almost hear the sound of dust settling. He lounges across the sitting room sofa, feet propped up and rubbing his temples. It is imposssible to think like this. His mind is racing a mile a minute, each one counted by that infernal clock. There is something missing he's sure of it. The answer to a question he isn't able to pose. What even is the question to begin with? There are pieces of it, fragments, like those glimpses of an unrecognizable something in Oswald's expression. His odd behavior which makes Edward's hair stand on end. Then there's what that street kid said still ringing in his ears, like the wailing of an emergency siren. It all must add up to something.

Edward has told himself not to dwell on it. That even if there is something up with it all, Oswald will tell him in time, but that was hours ago. And Oswald still isn't home. The man may have his own plans, which he keeps to himself, and there should be nothing inherently wrong with that. Edward rationalizes over and over, twisting and bending to make it all fine. It is fine, but his gut says otherwise. There are too many unknowns, and he never liked being left in the dark. He finds no reason to blindly accept things as they are no matter how he tries to.

Edward sits up abruptly, touching his feet to the floor. They itch to move, to go racing off after Oswald, but he doesn't know where. His search can't begin that way. Not without help. He paces determinedly to Oswald's office, picks up the phone and dials a number. It rings twice before being answered.

"Tabitha?" Edward asks.

"How the hell did you get this number?"

"Unimportant. Listen, you were right. Oswald is back."

"No shit, wiseguy." Tabitha replies, "Everyone in Gotham knows that."

"They do?"

"Yeah," Tabitha spits back sarcastically, "The live interview was kind of a dead giveaway."

"Oh... right." Edward mutters to himself before getting to the main reason for his call, "Anyway, there's something going on with him and I know you have eyes on him."

"Yeah. So?"

Not quite the response he hoped for.

"So I need to know where he goes and what he does. He's defintely planning something, and I think it would be in your best interest to help me."

Tabitha scoffs, "Oh yeah? Only one problem with that: I trust you about as far as I could throw you. Whatever little scheme you've cooked up this time, I want no part in it."

She hangs up.

"Drat."

Edward sets the phone back in the receiver and chews his lower lip. He glances down at the desk, littered with papers, reaches down, and switches on a radio to drive away the silence.

"So John, what's this I hear about a fugitive on the loose?" it crackles.

Edward recognizes the radio host as one for the local news.

"That's right, Natalie. There's been an escape! No, not from Arkham, folks, but from Gotham City Zoo! Can you believe it? Apparently, one of the zoo's specially trained show birds escaped its enclosure last Thursday and hasn't been seen since..."

Edward chuckles to himself. A part of him was expecting something catastrophic. World-ending news to permit the dread coiling in his guts. Perhaps that's the problem. Maybe there is no terrible secret or wild mystery to solve. Maybe he just needs there to be. It's difficult to settle now. He was so amped up to rescue Oswald, but before he could even set off on his journey, the man is back.

And here you go, trying to rationalize it again, An inner voice chastises.

He turns slowly away from the radio and glances towards the front of the house. He listens for a moment, the radio becoming background noise. Nothing stirrs. The front door doesn't open. Oswald doesn't walk in. He isn't here, confiding in Edward and seeking his counsel, like they did in the days before Edward's betrayal or the ones they spent trapped in the cabin, learning to trust one another again and surviving together. It's never said, but Edward senses it isn't like that between them anymore. And surely there must be something wrong with that.

There has to be.

His fingers twitch at his sides. He has no way of knowing when Oswald will return, but he cannot just sit here ignoring it or waiting for it or trying to believe that everything is okay when every fiber of his being is screaming that it is not.

With little else to go on, Edward decides to snoop through the house for answers. He begins by sifting through documents on the desk. He isn't really sure what he's looking for but knows he'll know it when he sees it. It all appears to be nothing more than old paperwork from back during Oswald's time as mayor. Nothing out of the ordinary in that. Edward stacks them neatly and returns them to the desktop. Next he searches through the desk drawers. Through the bookcase. The wastebin. Maybe he can't have someone spy on Oswald for him, but there must be some trace left behind. If only he could find some clue to bring all the pieces together and make it make sense.

The office turns up nothing, even after Edward turns it inside out. He tries Oswald's bedroom next, treading the stairs to it two at a time in his haste. He halts at the top to listen once more for the front door. Nothing. He proceeds with his search. He opens Oswald's wardrobe, rifles through garments, checks pockets. He finds crumpled receipts of no consequence, pocket lint, and loose change. He peers into the back, inspects the bottom, knocks on the wood, but finds nothing hidden. No secret panels, no locks, no clues. He scratches the back of his neck. Maybe there's nothing to find after all.

Edward perches himself at the edge of the bed and holds his head in his hands. The determination to continue his search is waning. Oswald could be back any minute and he feels silly searching like this when it's unlikely to turn up anything anyway. He half-heartedly pulls open the drawer of the nightstand next to him, if only to prove to himself he should give up. However, something catches his eye, something so achingly familiar. He delicately picks it out by one crisp edge and brings it to eye level. It's the origami penguin he made for Oswald what now feels like a lifetime ago. Finding it here reminds him of the first time he questioned Oswald's motives, which, as it turned out, were simply friendship. He never expected Oswald to hold onto it, let alone after all this time.

"What am I doing?" He mumbles to himself, placing the penguin back in its place.

Edward leaves the bedroom then and goes downstairs to await Oswald's return. He wanders back into the office with the intention of organizing the documents he went through previously. At least it would give him something to do.

"WATCH OUT-"

Edward ducks instinctively.

"FOR THE ANNUAL WINTER SALE AT GILDMORE'S!THAT'S RIGHT! EVERYTHING FROM LUXURY COATS TO STYLISH DESIGNER SHOES AT LOW, LOW PRICES! THESE INCREDIBLE DEALS AND MORE AT A LOCATION NEAR YOU!"

Trumpets play a lively tune through the radio static. Edward forgot it was still on. He closes his eyes and huffs, heart still dancing a frantic beat, and makes his way to switch it off. However, he pauses partway through as the regular programming returns and he finally hears something like what he's been expecting all along.

"This just in, breaking news from City Hall! It seems acting mayor, Marvin Day, has called for a special press conference to make some big announcement. I'm here, reporting from the front steps and... and it appears former mayor, Oswald Cobblepot, previously presumed deceased, is here as well."

It is like all the air has been sucked from the room as this new piece of information enters Ed's mind and joins the jumble of others. He knew this was bound to happen eventually, but never could have imagined it to be happening right now. Not without him present. Edward races from the room to plant himself before a television set. He scrambles with the remote, nearly dropping it twice, before he gets the darn thing on and holds his breath as the picture finally flicks into focus. Immediately, his eyes catch Oswald's figure, front and center, cameras all aimed in his direction. Beside him is the acting mayor practically cowering at his elbow as he attempts to quiet the people gathered before the steps of City Hall, reporters, cameramen, and the odd passersby drawn in by all the commotion.

Mayor Day taps his microphone and clears his throat, "Citizens of Gotham, I... um, I am very grateful to have served you during this brief time. As you know, I took up this responsibility under, er... very tragic circumstances with the disappearance of Mr... erm Mayor Cobblepot. Well, now he has returned and it is with great joy that I announce my resignation. I'm stepping down from the office, so that your true mayor can return to his duties. M-Mr. Mayor, a few words?"

Oswald snatches the mic from him before practically shoving the man aside. He dramatically takes a step forward, smiling, and casts his gaze over his audience. He waits until a hush falls over them to speak.

"Good day, people of Gotham! Yes, I have returned and will resume running this city with the same determination and strength as ever before. I would like to thank those of you who believed in me. Those of you that never stopped believing. True Gothamites! Together I know we will do great things! I have big plans for our fair city. In the coming days, I intend to begin-"

"WE DON'T WANT YOU! YOU FREAK!"

Edward watches Oswald's eyes snap up, presumably to the source of the interruption. Several of the gathered audience also turn towards the heckler but Ed cares only for Oswald's reaction. There is no shift in his expression, no slip of the mask that might reveal boiling fury beneath. Only perfect calm. The same shiver that ran down Edward's spine during Oswald's television interview returns again.

"HE'S A FRAUD! AND A HYPOCRITE! WHAT HAPPENED TO PEOPLE'S CHOICE?!"

"Now, now good sir!" Oswald speaks up, "This outburst is uncalled for. As everyone here surely remembers, I ran my campaign on the ideal that every official be fairly elected. And I assure you, I ran a clean race. My term is not yet up, but if you are disatisfied, there is always the next..."

"YOU RIGGED THE LAST ONE, I KNOW YOU DID! HOW ELSE COULD AN INSANE UNQUALIFIED MONSTER LIKE YOU EVER POSSIBLY GET ELEC-"

It suddenly ends. The voice cuts off followed by the screams of everyone who was watching him. Chaos erupts, people panicking and fleeing in all directions, but then like the blink of an eye, the camera feed cuts out. What feels like the longest silence of Edward's life follows, although it could only have been a few seconds. When the picture returns, the people of the audience are once more turned towards Oswald, postures rigid, and bursting into frenzied applause. Oswald stands above them all, their magnanimous ruler, and smiles serenely.

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 15

This morning I woke with the desire to watch the sun rise. My father once told me never to lose hope because it will always come up again tomorrow. His words engraved themselves on my heart as something to live by. He also told me I am loved. It is hard to believe in this place. He was right about the sun though. Even here, it comes up in the morning. I don't consider myself to be a gifted poet, but if I was, I'd probably have something to say about the way the soft, subtle pink visible just above the trees increased in intensity until it became a vibrant, fiery red. There is something in there about weakness becoming strength if only I had the words to put it together.

Can I be honest? Silly question. I can do anything I like in this journal. It's unlikely anyone will ever see it. There was a time, in the not so distant past, that I would never have admitted to any of this. I never would have shared with anyone my father's words, my need to find hope, or any kind of lack in skill, even for poetry. This all has been (among other things) a very humbling experience, and in the quiet of morning watching the sun finally show it's face above the trees, I feel reflective.

I am not a good man. I always knew this, but I never took time to dwell on it before. Sometimes worry over it would creep in at the edges of my conscience, but I was always so busy and I never truly felt bad about it. I still don't. Perhaps I'm a monster (no better than the ones I've encountered here). Monsters can't be loved, can they? Not as they are, not without wearing the face of a man and playing like one. My mother and father loved me, but they never knew my real face. The only person to ever truly see me as I am has abandoned me here.

I really must be a monster. It's why I'm here. It's why I belong here.

It's getting harder to think otherwise. Even so, I want to believe it isn't true. The sun still rises in this place. It will come again tomorrow. My father and mother loved me. And I love them. And I loved Edward. The fact that he isn't trapped here with me proves my feelings were real. That I'm capable of being more than a monster. I am the Penguin. And after all, "hope is the thing with feathers."

Notes:

Well... that took longer than expected. This chapter has been a bit challenging for me (fingers crossed it gets easier from here). There was a lot I was trying to do with it, but not as much that could be considered action or conversation. Like how do we make searching a house interesting? It's one of those things I would normally skip over as just a brief few sentences or at most a paragraph, but this time there were things that needed to be set up, things that I really didn't want to move to a different part of the story. Hopefully, this comes through as I envisioned it. After editing (so many times), I think I've finally come through with a draft I actually like.

Note: The last line is taken from the poem, "Hope" by Emily Dickenson.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42889/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-314

Chapter 7: Something Strange

"I missed you last night." Oswald says too casually, sweeping into the dining room and perching himself in the chair across from Edward's.

Edward discreetly folds the paper in his hands, face a neutral mask as he places it aside. The front page was the article about Gotham's new mayor, featuring a large black and white of Oswald smuggly shaking hands with his former replacement. But that isn't the story Ed had been looking for. In all the paper, there is not a single printed word about what happened to that heckler nor what occurred after the live newsfeed cut out the previous day.

"I wasn't feeling well." Edward answers shortly, "Better now."

Oswald's brow furrows in concern.

"You're sure? You haven't caught a cold have you?"

Oswald stands from his seat and leans across the table to press a palm against Edward's forehead.

"Hmm... no fever."

"I'm fine. Thank you, Oswald."

"Well good then." Oswald straightens and smiles, "Can't have my returning chief-of-staff call out sick on our first day. What do you say to breakfast before heading into the office?"

Ed raises his mug of coffee in answer, "A little too late."

Oswald scrunches his nose.

"That..." he says pointedly, "Hardly counts as breakfast. C'mon, I know of an excellent bakery we can pick up on the way."

Edward shrugs and that's the end of it. Oswald leaves to fetch his things and summon their driver. Edward takes his mug to the kitchen sink and pours out the second unfinished coffee he's made in two days. At this rate, he should give it up and toss the mug out too. With a weary sigh, he instead deposits it in the sink.

"Ready, Ed?" Oswald's chipper voice carries from the other room.

"Be right there." Ed calls back.

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 16

I have decided to extend my so-called break. Originally, I was only going to take a day or two to rest and regain my resolve, but the thought of venturing out again so soon is overwhelming to me. Although I cannot escape my inevitable death, no matter what I do, there is a comfort to be found in the mundane experience of the cabin before it occurs.

I wake. I wash my face and relieve myself. I fix breakfast and sit at the (now very familiar) table by the window.

I was never much of a morning person before and rarely had time for breakfast in my previous life. Now I have all the time in the world it seems. And certainly nothing better to do. So I eat breakfast, and when I do, I think of Ed. He was always encouraging me to make time for breakfast. I miss the way he worried over my health. He was the only one who ever did, besides my mother.

I wonder how it is where he is. I wonder if he is living well. Does he eat breakfast everyday as I do?

It hasn't been that long, not really, since he left, but it feels like ages. Sometimes it all feels like it was just a dream. Ed. Gotham. My entire life outside this cabin and the snow and the woods. It was just a sweet dream. This is reality.

It's a little crazy to think such things, isn't it?

Of course it was real. I'm not that creative. But that life and all that belonged to it feel so far from me now. It hardly feels like mine.

I wonder if it feels like that to Ed. When he thinks of this place, or even when he thinks of me, does it all feel so far away? To Ed, was I just a bad dream? Has it been ages since he thought of me?

...

Oswald's suggested bakery is, in fact, excellent. In addition to the sausage rolls and pastries they order, Ed also picks up a more than adequate replacement coffee. They eat their breakfast on the way to the office and it all feels so ordinary. It's oddly tempting to dismiss the bizarre events from the last forty-eight hours in a way that Edward doesn't like. It would be only too easy to let himself fall back into the comfort of Oswald's presence and let go of everything else. And that is precisely why it bothers. It must be suspicious how not suspicious he feels. He wonders if that could possibly be the intent. Will this become a pattern between them? Oswald does something strange and terrifying that Edward can't quite nail down, then bribes him with a good breakfast the next day.

"You look deep in thought so early in the morning." Oswald comments, prodding his shoulder with a light tap.

Edward pushes the thoughts aside for now and smiles soflty at Oswald.

"Just thinking how strange it is to be going back."

"In a way, it feels like another life." Oswald agrees, retracting his hand, "But... somehow it's also like no time has passed at all, don't you think?"

There is a strange edge to his tone when he asks the question. It sounds like Edward's nightmare or the interview or the odd televised speech. Like a switch has flipped when Edward wasn't looking and the Oswald he is familiar with has been replaced by someone else. But as soon as the thought comes to him, the moment passes. Oswald is looking back to himself and nodding excitedly.

"We're here. Ready, Ed?"

There is a small flock of reporters awaiting them when they exit the vehicle. Oswald breezes past them with a dismissive wave and Edward follows on his heels like a shadow. Oswald marches to his old office, greeting staff as they pass. Edward can't help noticing the odd expressions they wear as they stare after the two of them. It is as strange for them as it is for him and only Oswald is unaffected.

When he reaches his office, Oswald settles primly behind the desk and cocks his head.

"Edward, be a dear and fetch today's itinerary, would you?"

"Itinerary?" Edward isn't sure what it is Oswald expects him to fetch. It's their first day on the job and literally no one was prepared for them. What is there to fetch?

Oswald smiles sweetly at him and Edward feels a bit patronized by it.

"Well, the former mayor... whatever his name was, must have had something scheduled for today. Let's start with that and make changes accordingly."

"Of course. Right away."

Oswald nods and he's dismissed.

...

For Edward, the morning passes by in a blur of fetch quests from Oswald. All throughout, Oswald keeps his annoyingly false cheeriness, and Edward keeps his increasing irritation to himself. It should be nothing out of the ordinary. Oswald has a tendency to treat others with such casual disregard while acting condescending, yet Edward isn't very used to being on the receiving end of it. Around noon, he makes up a reason to excuse himself and buy a few hours of peace.

It isn't purely out of irritation at Oswald (at least not solely that). He intends to use the time wisely. His mind hasn't left off the same train of thought he'd been having ever since Oswald's return.

Something strange is going on. And I will figure out what it is, even if it means going around Oswald to do it.

It is towards this end that Edward journeys back to his former place of employment. He sneers at the front entry to the GCPD, a bitterness he can't quite quell rising within him. Last time he was here, he was riding high and the return felt triumphant and impressive. This time is more like a dog with its tail tucked hoping for a scrap of food from a hand it's bit.

Despite feeling like a dog, Edward straightens his posture and strides through the door, bold as ever. It doesn't take long for him to draw notice.

"Ugh," groans Harvey Bullock, "What are you doing here, Nygma? And please tell me it's leaving."

"Please." Edward says in a haughty tone, "We've been through this already. As you know, Mr. Cobblepot is mayor once again. And I'm his righthand man, chief-of-staff, once again. Even a gorilla like you should be able to figure out why I'm here."

"To give me heartburn?"

"No. You're clearly capable of that on your own." Edward ennunciates seethingly, "I'm here under Oswald's authority. Therefore, consider me laison to any and all cases pertaining to the mayor. Right now, I require access to anything you have on the attack from yesterday's press event."

"Attack?" Harvey narrows his eyes, "What attack?"

Edward hardly deems him worthy of an answer, but explaining what he's after is likely the only way he'll get any answers himself. He draws a deep breath and supresses his desire to wring Harvey's neck.

"The attack." Edward begins slowly, "During Oswald's announcement in front of city hall. That man in the crowd was clearly trying to stir up trouble."

"The guy who called Cobblepot a 'monster?'"

"Exactly." Ed says, pointing at Harvey, "That. It was clearly an attack on Oswald's character and a call to violence. Oswald's original campaign ran on the eradication of monsters from this city."

"So? The mayor want to press charges?" Harvey questions sarcastically.

"And what if he does?" Edward snaps back.

Harvey shrugs lazily.

"Well, good luck with that. Don't think you're gonna get very far with charges against a corpse."

Corpse? The man is dead?

"When did it happen?"

Harvey looks at Edward with pity, like he is somehow the idiot in this conversation.

"Didn't Cobblepot tell you about it? Thought you two were close." Harvey shakes his head, "Anyway, Ed, look... there's nothing here. The guy's dead. Some sort of freak accident during the announcement. We done here?"

Harvey turns away and starts walking before Ed can draw him into another pointless conversation.

"What will he want investigated next? Too many pigeons at the park? Sewer rats? I don't get paid enough for this..."

Edward overhears Harvey grumbling about it all as he stares after his retreating back. He stands stunned. Although Edward hadn't been serious about the supposed "attack" on Oswald, and was only using it as a ploy to get information, he never expected to find out the guy was actually dead. Or maybe he did. Maybe a part of him suspected it. But he expected a murder. He expected an investigation. A freak accident?

"You alright?" An uneasy voice asks him.

Edward looks up and catches Jim Gordon eyeing him like one might a stray with rabies.

"Fine." Edward says, "Peachy keen."

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 17

Something strange is going on. Stranger than usual I mean. I think I'm losing my mind.

How long have I been here? How much time has passed?

It's all blurring together and I can't be sure. I keep reading over this journal again and again to reassure myself, but it is far from reassuring. It's wrong. All wrong. The number of days are wrong. At least, I think they are. The entries themselves Some of the entries are missing and I don't even remember writing the last one.

What is happening?

I don't remember

I must be losing my mind. I'm really losing my mind!

Day 18

Hello, I Today, I Why am I doing this?

What does it even matter?

Will anyone ever know I was here?

When I began writing this journal, I always imagined someone finding it. I always imagined my words reaching somebody and giving some sort of comfort or hope or at least explanation. I can't picture it anymore. Now as I write, there is only me, stretching into eternity, picking up my pen, and scribbling nonsense on paper. Dying, waking, and doing it all again like a modern day Sisyphus.

Have I written this before?

I forget.

I grow weary.

It's strange when I stop to think about it. Every death I've experienced is beginning to blend together. Each new one feels like deja vu. I know, rationally, not one of them has been the same, but I feel they are. There's always a moment of knowing, understanding what is about to happen and being powerless to change it. And then there is pain. Excruciating pain that leaves no room for thought or anything else other than the experience of it. Just when I think it can't be possible to continue existing through it, it stops. I die. I wake again.

I used to feel fear and dread. Today, I woke up numb. I know what is going to happen. I feel oddly indifferent about it. I've definitely lost my mind.

It feels better like this. Not good, but better. And it's quiet now. No strange monsters. Nothing speaking to me with a loved one's voice. It must still be there, but It doesn't make itself known. It wants me to feel alone. Nothing No one else here. Just the cabin, the snow, and I.

I didn't venture out yesterday. I won't today either. I'm not sure I ever will again. Death will find me again anyway. In here or out there, it's all the same anyway. This is my existence now. The sooner I accept that, the easier it will be. Won't it?

I guess there is still a part of me that hopes, but each day it dwindles. I think of everything everyone that I've lost. My mother. My father. Ed. Why should I have anything to be hopeful for? Maybe it's not hope after all. Maybe it's stubbornness. Or pride. I've always been stubborn and prideful, but I think those things are dwindling too. I wonder how much more can be whittled away from me before there is nothing left. Perhaps that is the only way out.

...

When he returns, Edward expects to find Oswald in much the same state he left him in. Plastic grin in place, ordering people around, and seated upon his new throne behind his new desk. Instead, Oswald stands framed by the large, picture window at the end of his office, staring contemplatively into the street outside. Gotham's traffic crawls by and people jostle back and forth as they make their ways up or down the cracking sidewalks. The streetlights will be coming on in another hour or so and the clouds above are just beginning to stain the colors of sunset.

Edward stands in the doorway, caught by surprise by the moment of quiet he's stumbled into.

"Not much of a view, is it?" Oswald says without turning away from it.

"It's not bad." Edward answers.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The audible clunk it makes latching is somewhat jarring.

"I suppose you're right." Oswald says moving back from the window and settling once more behind his desk. He shifts a few papers. They sound too loud as well. Then his eyes meet Edward's, and he grins plastic once more.

"So... did you find what you were looking for, Ed?"

Edward's posture stiffens involuntarily. His throat bobs.

"Um..."

Oswald tilts his head, waiting like a circling vulture.

A cold bead of sweat rolls down Edward's neck.

"You said you needed frames."

"Pardon?"

"Your glasses."

"Oh. Right. No." Edward fixes his glasses, chuckling nervously, "No, I found nothing."

"Shame." Oswald drawls, unaffected, "Maybe next time."

Chapter 8: Hope is a Lie

To Edward, it's almost scary (albeit in a much more natural way than any scare as of late) how quickly Oswald regains his footing as mayor. In no time at all, he controls things much as he ever did, with, if anything, more strength to his hold than before. The narratives he spins spread like seeds on the wind, taking root in public consciousness and turning opinions back in his favor. Old allies renew their ties of loyalty. Old enemies scurry back to the shadows. It shouldn't be so surprising. Edward has come to expect a high level of aptitude from the Penguin, but somehow this manages to break even his expectations.

As impressive as it is, there remains one obstacle standing between Oswald and complete control over the city, a little thorn in his side in the form of Tabitha Galavan. She continues lording over the underworld, going against his authority, and at times, acting in direct opposition of his goals. To make matters worse, it is unclear to anyone who truly stands at the top or where the power truly lies (and therefore who to follow when orders are given).

"I intend to fix that soon." Oswald comments, adjusting his cufflinks as they depart the city hall for the evening, strolling side by side.

"No doubt in time." Edward agrees.

"In time?" Oswald halts, "I'm thinking tomorrow."

Edward halts as well, brow furrowing.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes. Tomorrow should do nicely." Oswald beams widely and resumes his step.

Edward, still stuck on the thought of it, jolts when he realizes Oswald is leaving him behind and rushes to catch up.

"But... Tomorrow is a bit soon, isn't it? Not much time to come up with a plan or round up the necessary muscle." Edward rambles, "I'm assuming this is a hostile takeover and not something you intend to accomplish through legal channels. That would require even more time, but, even so, tomorrow? We don't even know where to find her."

"Not to worry, my dear Ed." Oswald pats his shoulder, "We won't be going to her. She'll be coming to us. I want you to arrange it. I assume you still have her number? Ring her up and tell her I'd like to meet."

"What if she declines?"

"She might..." Oswald chuckles, "at least at first. Just be sure to tell her the time and place. I'll take care of the rest."

When they arrive home, and with more than a fair bit of skepticism, Edward does as requested. He dials the last number he thought he'd ever use again and brings the phone to his ear. He twines the phone cord around his finger and paces. As it rings, as he waits, his eyes drift aimlessly around the dimmly lit office, noting crooked frames hung behind Oswald's desk. He doesn’t expect Tabitha to pick up. If hers is the last number he ever expected to use again, then he is certainly the last person she'd want to talk to again, followed closely of course by Oswald. The whole notion of arranging a cordial meeting between the two is a fool's errand. He knows it.

"Hello?"

Edward nearly drops the phone.

"Hi."

There is a sigh on the other end.

"Why the hell are you calling here? You know, if I ever see that smart-ass, freak face of yours again, I'm going to bash your skull in and paint the bottom of my heels with your liquified brains."

"Yuck." Ed comments, "But it takes more than 'bashing' someone's skull to liquify a human brain. Maybe if you brought some kind of electric mixer you cou-"

"Ew." Tabitha interrupts, "Can you just get to the point? What do you want, Nygma?"

"A meeting. This afternoon, here at Van Dahl manor. Oswald wishes to-"

Her derisive laughter cuts him off. She stops only to begin hurling insults directed at both him and Oswald. Edward hangs up before hearing the end of her tirade against them.

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 19

Today feels different. I suppose I've said that before, but this time it really is. Sure the snow still falls just beyond the sanctuary of these cabin walls and death still waits to claim me, but I've decided to embrace these circumstances of mine and accept my limitations.

I will not leave here. It is beyond me to do so, and why should I care to leave anyway? What is it that awaits me in the world beyond but unpredictable chaos, the same old difficulties, and ever more loss? Here in the cabin, all is familiar, all is peaceful, and I have nothing to lose. I know I will not survive another day but for the gracious power that sees fit to revive me each new dawn. I find solice in knowing whatever awaits me, no matter what happens, I will wake again tomorrow. And really, how is it so different from the life I lead before?

Hope, I suppose. Hope is the difference. But here's the thing, hope is lie. It lifts me up before throwing me back down. It's always like that. Over and over again, hoping I might find escape. Each new death brings pain, but it is nothing compared to the pain of my hopes dashed like a ship against a rocky shore by a cruel and unrelenting ocean.

Well, what of love? Love is a lie too. It's the thing one pretends to feel less alone, but we're all alone aren't we? I'm alone. Even if I found my way out of this place, it wouldn't change anything. I was lonely out there too. Besides, when push comes to shove what has the illusion of love ever got me than more heartbreak and pain?

How about happiness? Really? I'm beginning to think it's overrated. It never lasts long. What I needed to find is acceptance. Acceptance was the key to ending my sufferings all along. Acceptance is true power.

The moment I realized this, I felt a shift in the air around me. It was impossible for me to tell whether or not it was physical or all in my head. It didn't matter. I didn't care. I felt lighter. The air tasted sweeter. For the first time since finding myself here, I know peace!

As I sit now writing this, my eyes keep wandering to the kitchen table. There upon it sits the revolver, gleaming merrily in the morning sun. I've never seen such a friendly sight. I think I'm ready now. It's time to end this day on my own terms.

Adieu.

...

Edward sweeps through the office one last time, ensuring everything is in place. The desk is tidy. The pictures hang straight. There are at least a dozen weapons hidden surreptitiously about the room, although Oswald insisted they were not necessary. He turns at the sound of Oswald's arrival, cane tapping leisurely against the hardwood floors.

Oswald looks around, nodding delightedly to Edward before making his way around his desk and seating himself, "Thank you, Ed. Everything looks marvelous."

Edward stretches a tight, closed-mouth smile in return. He still isn't convinced Tabitha is coming. She would be crazy to waltz right into such an obvious trap. He taps an impatient toe, as a clock on the wall counts each slow second. But then there it is, the distant closing of a hefty door (the one at the front entry) and the tale-tell sound of heels click-clacking up the hall to pause right outside their door.

It opens.

A servants steps inside, dipping his head.

"Ms. Tabitha Galavan to see you, sir."

"Show her in." Oswald answers with relish.

The man nods and ushers her inside before quickly and quietly departing.

Oswald's smile turns shark-like as he sets eyes on her.

"Welcome." He says, "Please, take a seat."

He gestures to the chair in front of his desk.

"Make yourself comfortable."

"Within ten feet of you? Not likely." Tabitha scoffs, taking her offered seat anyway.

Edward observes her curiously, noting the rigid posture she holds with arms crossed defensively over her chest. Her eyes appear uncommonly alert, shifting between Oswald and her surroundings, as she sits at the edge of her seat. Her whole countenance is wound tight, like a spring, ready to leap. Clearly she knows the danger. He cannot fathom what possessed her to come here in spite of it.

As they begin talking, Edward remains standing at the perimeter of the room. He is a spectator to the sport taking place, as the real players compete back and forth. Right from the start, he can see how unevenly matched they are. It's clear Oswald holds all the cards and Tabitha can't even parse what game they're playing.

"So... what is all this?" Tabitha leans back in her chair. She probably means it to look casual, like she is making herself comfortable. It comes across more like she is trying to lean away, get every inch farther from Oswald that she can without leaving her seat.

In contrast, Oswald casually leans forward, resting loosely clasped hands on the desk before him, and lays out what he wants from her.

"An alliance." He answers with utmost friendliness and sincerity. Almost as if he were telling the truth.

He explains what all that entails with the same serene expression. Tabitha is to remain as she is, "ruling" over the criminals of Gotham, and Oswald won't challenge her position.

"In return, you will refrain from interfering in my business. You are free to make whatever decisions you want, to control whomever or whatever you desire, so long as it doesn't stand in the way of my objectives. If I need something done, it's done. And if I want something, it's mine."

"And if I refuse?"

"I don't think you will." Oswald says simply.

Tabitha laughs at the ceiling, before directing her pointed stare back at Oswald.

"Then you really are crazier than I thought. Why would I ever listen to a little scumbag like you? What could I possibly have to gain from this arrangement?"

Oswald stands slowly from his chair, hands splayed across his desk. His smile remains congenial as he regards her.

"Oh, I think you have much to gain. You and I will never be friends, but I believe we can work together. And..." Oswald straightens, tapping the desk with his knuckles, "as a show of goodwill, I've brought you a gift."

Tabitha's brows furrow, confused and suspicious.

Oswald snaps his fingers.

Edward holds his breath, as oblivious to what Oswald has in store as their guest is.

The office door creaks open and all heads turn to look.

Edward stares disbelieving. He no longer notices Tabitha's reactions, so absorbed as he is in puzzling out what his own eyes behold. It seems impossible.

"Butch? Barbara?" Tabitha's voice breaks, "How?"

"It can't be..." Edward mutters.

"Oh, but it can. And it is."

Edward looks back at Oswald then to Tabitha. His smile has transformed into a self-satisfied smirk. Her eyes narrow at him.

"They're dead." She hisses, "Who are these people?"

"You wound me." Oswald mock pouts and gestures with a wave of his hand, "If you don't believe me, ask them yourself."

"Tabby?"

"Tabs..."

Edward watches the conflict warring in her expression. He can only imagine it. Were he in her shoes, he wouldn't know what to believe either. Even from his perspective, watching from the sidelines, he doesn't know.

They died. He's certain of it. He instigated it himself. By all accounts, they should still be dead. Although impossible things sometimes happen in Gotham.

The impossibility of it alone isn't what makes Edward's skin crawl. If he'd run across one or the both of them on the street, he'd be startled for certain. He'd have questions. He might even experience disbelief. What really bothers him is how easy it is to believe because this time... this time Oswald is involved. It could be coincidence, but the coincidences keep piling up like rancid cheese until the stench is impossible to ignore. At what point does coincidence become something more?

Eventually, hope wins out for Tabitha, and she takes a tentative step towards them. Butch raises a hand in shy greeting and swallows thickly with wet eyes. Barbara gives a hesitant smile before biting her lip and averting hers. Each of them looks uncertain. Tabitha's hands twitch at her sides until she lifts them, one hand to delicately touch Butch's face, the other to firmly take Barbara's hand. They take a moment exchanging soft whispers between themselves, words so soft that even from his short distance away, Ed cannot hear.

"So..." Oswald interrupts the little reunion, "Which one would you like to keep?"

"What?!" Tabitha whirls to face him.

Oswald draws a gun from under the desk and points it first at Butch then at Barbara.

"You get one gift." Oswald chortles, "Don't be greedy."

"I..." Tabitha's eyes glance from one to the other, "I can't."

"Of course." Oswald frowns sympathetically before adding triumphantly "Eeny-meeny-miny-moe it is!"

He points the gun at Barbara.

"Eeny"

Then switches to Butch and back and forth and back and forth.

"Meeny Miny Moe. Catch a Tigress by the toe. If she hollers make her pay. Ready then?"

His aim lands on Butch. His finger flexes on the trigger.

"Wait!" Tabitha shouts.

Oswald lowers the weapon a little.

"Have you made a choice?"

"Yes." Tabitha whispers, staring at the floor, "I pick Butch."

"What was that?" Oswald asks meanly, lifting a hand to his ear, "Didn't quite catch that."

"I want to keep Butch."

Oswald nods, lifting the gun to point at Barbara. The look of betrayal on her face makes Oswald grin.

He shoots Butch.

The body thunks to the floor.

"That was for my mother." Oswald coldly explains to the horrifed expression on Tabitha's face.

Then she launches herself, claws out, at Oswald's throat. Only quick thinking and reflexes from Barbara spare her from meeting the same fate as Butch. Barbara has Tabitha caught about the waist and barely restrained. Oswald's aim remains centered on her skull, but he refrains from shooting. For now.

Tabitha howls.

Oswald tilts his head, assessing with stony indifference.

"Listen carefully now. You will accept my generosity. Or you will leave with no gift at all. Are we clear?"

"We're clear." Barbara answers for her.

"I'm not talking to you." Oswald says with an iciness that makes even Ed shiver.

Oswald steps around his desk and brings his gun to rest against Barbara's temple.

"Are we clear?" He repeats.

Tabitha's teeth are bared. Her chin trembles. Barbara squeezes Tabitha's arm.

"Crystal." She just barely manages to grit out.

"Good." Oswald smiles again, "Glad we could come to an understanding. Now, trot along."

Barbara dips her head in acknowledgement and quickly leads Tabitha out of the office.

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 20 Day 19

I did not write that. I did not write any of that.

...

"How did you do it?"

Oswald peels apart a dinner roll and stuffs a bite into his cheek. He chews for a moment, savoring, before he swallows to answer Ed.

"Do what?" He asks.

"You know what I'm asking."

Oswald sighs and sets his roll aside.

"I do." He says, "But I believe that's not really the answer you're looking for. I could tell you anyway, but I think there's something else you'd rather ask. Go ahead. Ask it."

Edward picks at the food on his plate, sorting peas from corn as he organizes his thoughts. He takes a deep breath.

"How did you escape? What happened to you after I left?"

Oswald's face sours.

"Come now, is that really what you want to know?"

A different question sits on his tongue, as Edward looks more closely at his peas. There among them is a kernel of green corn he'd sorted by mistake. He picks it out and discards it into his napkin. The green ones are not safe to eat.

"You startled me today. I don't like being taken by surprise, Oswald." Edward explains, " I want to know what's next? When will you let me in on what you're really planning?"

What he really wanted to ask remains unsaid on his tongue, but Oswald seems appeased. He brightens, looking all too pleased with himself.

"What's next? With Tabitha under control and all of Gotham at our feet, anything we damn well want, Ed. And next time, I swear not to keep you in the dark about it."

Edward nods and smiles, tight and close-mouthed. He fervently wishes he believed him.

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 21

Acceptance isn't won in a single night, but I am still disappointed to find lingering reluctance within myself. Whatever progress I made, I slipped back from yesterday. I'm tired of my own stubbornness. I'm tired of the ways in which I always seem to sabotage myself. I always want more and enough is never enough, and it is that which always leads me to my misery. If only I could maintain rationality and see there are easier ways if I would just allow myself to let go.

Today, I choose to let go. I choose not to make the same mistakes I always make. There is no point in struggling pointlessly on. I write this in hopes that I make the right choices again tomorrow and in the days to come. I need not suffer anymore.

The gun beside me patiently awaits my eager grasp. I used to fear It, but now I see It for what It is. Medicine. A cure to my weakness and that of the world. Today, I choose to be cured.

Day 20

I know what day it is. I know who I am and what I think and what I write.

Even as I write this, I scoff. What purpose do I seek to maintain with ink in these pages? It feels a foolish endeavor, yet I will persist if only for myself. Herein lies the evidence of my struggle here. It's there now, immortalized on paper, the sort of things I've been dealing with, not only through my own word alone, but through the twisted mimicry of my word as well.

The games It plays reveal themselves. It's intention is made clear. It thinks to weaken me with this and drive me to insanity, but all It accomplishes is to strengthen my resolve. My will cannot bend to It's. I won't allow it.

Even if it's pointless.

Even if I suffer.

I bend to no one. My will is my own.

-O.C.

Chapter 9: Wake Up

Calm follows the meeting with Tabitha Galavan. Days first, then weeks, pass without any sort of retaliation from either her nor Barbara. It is as though the two simply dropped off the map, no sight nor sign, not even a whisper of their doings or whereabouts in all of Gotham. Naturally, in their absence, Oswald secures his power over the city and finally puts an end to any question of his authority. Everything and everyone is back in their proper place according to his view.

Edward figures it is much the same for himself. He has settled into his role at Oswald's side, as easily as one might slip into a well worn pair of shoes. Everything about it is instinctive and familiar to him. Morning breakfasts, office hours, meetings, lunches, afternoon appointments, under-the-table deals, blackmail, death threats, cozy dinners at the manor. He handles it all with the same level of attention and poise that he always has and at times, disconcertingly, he almost forgets there was ever a time it paused. He almost allows himself to, but a sense of vague unease still lingers.

"It's probably just because everything is going so smoothly." Edward says to himself, "It's a good thing."

He shuffles some papers on his desk, stacks them neatly and sets them aside. Among them are several proposals for projects to improve city infrastructure. Things like maintenance work for the bridges (the city's only connections to the mainland) and updating the city's sewer system, vitally important yet unglamourous things that should do little to draw any interest from someone like Oswald. Yet, beyond expectations, Oswald is actually the biggest advocate behind these projects, promoting them to city council and doing all in his power to get them approved with an accelerated schedule.

"It's a good thing." Edward mumbles again, "It should be."

He glances out the window. A sunny day greets his eye. It's been sunny a lot lately. Odd, but not unwelcome as the days grow shorter and colder. Even if it's always been cloudy before.

"Even if Oswald never cared about such matters before..." Edward sighs, flipping with a finger through the shortest stack offhandedly, "A city's mayor should take an interest. Even in these humdrum things. It's good for voters..."

It is hard to picture even with the explanation. Edward has never pegged Oswald for one to develop a sudden fascination with engineering or city infrastructure. It doesn't seem in his nature to study these things himself rather than to pawn it off on some lackey to understand for him, yet lately he's been up late nights, pouring over documents and blueprints.

And Edward has been furtively observing his friend's odd new habits. Snooping on occasions that allow it, looking for anything that can help him see the bigger picture. But each time, he turns up empty. Oswald has yet to clue him in on any sort of larger plan. Perhaps it is only as it appears to be. A good mayor hard at work for the good of his city.

But couldn't there be something else at play here? Something I'm missing?

He shakes his head. The sunlight streams across his desk serenely.

Nothing has happened since the meeting with Tabitha Galavan. Isn't it strange that nothing has happened?

A knock at the door pulls Edward from his thoughts.

"Come in."

Oswald pokes his head through.

"Did you lose track of time, Ed?"

"Did I..." Edward's eyes dart to the clock. It's late afternoon.

"Shoot! Sorry, Oswald."

Oswald waves him off and enters the room fully, "Don't worry about it. I rescheduled."

Edward slumps in his chair.

"Still... I can't help but wonder what has you so preoccupied. Care to enlighten me?"

Oswald steps closer and peers down at Edward's desk. His posture is casual, his eyes merely inquisitive. It would be easy to believe it nothing more than innocent curiosity. The kind Oswald may have had in the past. It's rather convincing, but perhaps his eyes look a tad too bright or maybe he leans just a bit too forward. Edward can't quite figure it out, but with nothing to hide, he lowers his guard anyway. He turns one of the documents in front of him to face Oswald, the better for him to see.

"Nothing much. Just catching up on paperwork."

Oswald nods and settles back.

"Are you about done with it then?" Oswald asks, "I was hoping you might accompany me this afternoon?"

Besides the appointment Edward missed, Oswald's schedule is merely blocked out as "busy" for the rest of the day. Edward had assumed that meant they'd be remaining at the office. It piques a wary curiosity in him to learn otherwise. It can only be one of two things. More of the usual, crooked dealings outside the boundaries of the law. Or Oswald is finally letting him in on his grander plans as promised.

"Where are we headed?"

...

Oswald's Journal

Day 27

I write for myself, that much is true, but I've long considered the possibility someone else could ever one day find themselves trapped in the same predicament as I. Shoud it come to pass, and I am no more, understand that these words are my own. This entry is written by The Penguin. I have no way to prove it to you, but I will know it for myself. As you read on, perhaps you will find yourself convinced as well. If so, heed my words. It has changed tactics once more.

Maybe when you turned the page and saw the date above, you noticed something different about it. The page before is designated "day 20." It would appear I have not written in some time. As you read on, it will soon become clear why it is so.

From what is my perspective a week ago, I awoke to an entirely unexpected and bewildering sight: that of my own bedroom. I found myself home. Everything was as I remembered it. The baroque furniture, my high end sheets, even the slight musty scent that seems to dwell in every old house and has become so common to me that I did not remember it until that very moment, having been away from it for so long.

At first I believed myself to be dreaming, but then I didn't really dream in the cabin. Then, wildly, I thought perhaps the cabin had been the dream. I lay there stunned for many long minutes, afraid to move, afraid to disturb anything lest it dissolve before my very eyes. Eventually though, I summoned the courage.

I traipsed carefully from my bed to the wardrobe, opened the doors, and ran my wondering hands over the garments within. I myself stood in my nightclothes, no sign of what I'd worn all those days trapped, some itchy coveralls provided by a group calling themselves the Court of Owls (a story for another time), nor the winter garb found from the cabin. It was in that moment I felt certain. I was home. I was really, truly back.

...

Robinson park. Every Gothamite knows it. Located in midtown, it's the largest public park in the city and a very popular spot for anything from school fieldtrips to family outings or romantic picnics. With it's various gardens and vast lawns, it makes a lovely destination. Even on a chilly, albeit sunny, afternoon such as the one Edward observes as he steps out of the car. He can't help wondering what brings them here though. He turns curious eyes on Oswald, who is already strolling ahead of him down one of the park's many winding paths. Edward hastens to catch up. It doesn't take much effort. Oswald sets a meandering pace, his cane tapping leisurely against the pavement.

"I haven't heard about any ground breakings nor grand openings recently. Is there some new park feature?" Edward inquires, guessing at a reason for their presence here.

Oswald shakes his head with a good-natured smile, "No. No, nothing like that."

The path leads them into a copse of trees, the overhanging boughs of which provide only meager shade along their way. Sparse dead leaves still cling to the branches as the last vestiges of fall before the coming winter. But then they come out of the trees, and like spring, into the unexpected sight of bright red blooms. Poinstettias. The flower beds follow the curve of the path, lining their way and looking perfectly pitcuresque.

"I just wanted to share this with you." Oswald says.

There is a warmth to his voice. As they walk, standing so close, shoulders brushing, Oswald turns his head to gaze up at Edward. A soft flush brightens his cheeks, perhaps from the cold, and his lips form a soft smile.

Edward's heart skips a beat. He smiles in return. It's been so long since Oswald looked at him like that.

"You know," Oswald whispers, looking away again, "This place is going to be essential to our plans. You've seen a few of the pieces already. All those project proposals. All the groundwork we've laid establishing our hold and reputation. It's all a part of the grand design. I've been waiting for the right moment, and now, well... you said you wanted in, right? You still want to help me achieve my goals, hm?"

Edward nods and answers a firm, "Yes."

"Splendid! You're role is crucial, Ed."

For something so "crucial," it is maddening to Edward the way Oswald has yet to explain precisely what his role is.

"Almost there." Oswald chuckles.

He links a jolly arm through Edward's and leads on. The flowers end and the path before them widens before joining another at a fork. From here, Edward can see a wide lawn stretching away to their left, populated with a few picnickers and what appears to be a jazzercize class. Ahead of them, and presumably their destination, the path proceeds along the dam to the reservoir. He can make out the water. It appears smooth like glass, sparkling in the sunshine.

Oswald follows the path onto the dam, drops Ed's arm, and goes to lean against the railing. He looks out over the water. Whatever he's plotting lies behind his eyes, intense and determined.

"What you see here represents roughly thirty percent of Gotham's drinking supply." Oswald says, "I'm sure you already know that. It doesn't sound like much, a mere thirty percent, but if something were to happen to it, it'd be catastrophic."

Edward steps onto the dam and makes his way to Oswald's side to view it as well.

"Thirty percent of a city's water, a city like Gotham, it's hard to come by. Cut off from the mainland as we are, large as we are, so many people..." Oswald steps away from the rail and continues walking, following the gentle curve of the dam.

"Yet look." Oswald gestures.

Edward's eyes follow, noting the condition of the dam. It looks a little worn, small cracks in the massive concrete walls, growth up its sides along the far end, and other subtle signs of weathering. He can't argue that it looks aged and in need of some basic maintenance, but it hardly looks like the impending disaster Oswald is making it out to be.

"It's all so fragile." Oswald says solemnly.

"The dam?"

"Order. Peace." Oswald clarifies, "All held up by nothing more than some crumbling stone."

Edward adjusts his glasses, setting them straight on his nose. "Stone" isn't exactly accurate, but he refrains from correcting Oswald. The meaning of his words is clear enough.

"And you intend to... exploit that weakness to further your control. You're going to fix the dam?"

"I'm going to try. Or at least that's what the press will report. Peace and order, they have their place, but when the people are afraid and desperate, they'll hand over anything in exchange for the promise of safety. That, Ed, is what I intend." Oswald taps his cane for emphasis, "But in order to do that, I need access. I need these city projects approved. The council won't budge. Greedy parasites that they are, they refuse to fund anything that doesn't immediately benefit themselves. I could, of course, threaten their compliance, but that would tarnish the image we've worked so hard to cultivate.

"What will you do?" Edward asks, already seeing the probable path forward. Public outcry. An incident. Some casualties in exchange for progress.

"Come here, Ed." Oswald beckons, leaning against the rail and pointing out across the water, "Look there. What do you see?"

Edward steps over and squints. He can't make out anything to clue him in on the specifics of Oswald's plan.

"Try a little closer."

Edward joins Oswald at the rail, gripping the top.

"Closer."

Edward leans forward. Before he can see anything though, a flurry of motion overhead catches his attention. He jumps back as he is divebombed by an irrate crow. The thing caws loudly at him and beats it's wings in his face. Edward loses his balance and topples to the ground.

Oswald tsks and swats at it with his cane. The bird dodges, cawing loudly at him as well before flying up and away. It calls back as it goes, loud and resonant as the tolling of a bell.

"You alright, Ed?" Oswald asks gently, offering him a hand up.

"Yeah." Ed answers a little breathless, accepting the help up and then running hands over his person to check, "Yeah... I think so."

"Shame." Oswald says.

Edward registers the word immediately, but it takes a moment for the meaning to sink in. It doesn't make sense initially. By the time it does, it's too late. Edward looks up just in time to witness the treachery of Oswald's hands shoving him back. His back hits the railing first, then his arms flail out to catch himself. Pain comes next. Red hot flairing up his spine from the impact. Surprise, indignation, anger. All flit through his mind in a matter of seconds. That's all he expects it to be.

"What is wrong with you?!" Edward shouts.

Oswald steps back, expression oddly somber.

Edward grips the railing, readying to push himself off it. The wind whips up. The metal supporting him groans. Low and long. There's a pop and a screech, the railing shifting beneath Edward's weight. His stomach drops. Fear floods in. Then it gives. The ground under his feet crumbles and the railing falls away. Edward becomes terribly aware of the feeling of his body careening backwards through the air.

He planned this. Edward thinks, air whooshing past his ears.

He gets a split second to see Oswald at the edge he'd fallen from, peering down at him before his body hits the water. It feels like it crashes through him more than around him. The water is bone-achingly cold as it fills his nose, his ears, his mouth.

Edward thrashes. He tries to swim up, but he's disoriented and confused. Rubble and debris rain down from above. A hefty chunk of concrete collides with his shoulder, another his hip, his back, his head. He can't lift his head. Edward chokes and it burns. His chest feels tight with panic and then... and then everything fades away. It's happened before. It's happened again.

...

Oswald's Journal continued...

There was one thing I wanted to do immediately after accepting my return. One comfort I yearned for in that frozen wasteland above anything else. A piping hot bath. I could have sit and soaked for hours. Let the faucet run over my skin. Breathe in the sweet aroma of soap. I wanted it more than anything. But I decided it would have to wait. For the time being, there were other things I needed to do.

I needed to determine the date. I had to find out what was going on in Gotham during my absence. Most of all, I needed to find out what happened to Ed.

I dressed quickly, took care of the most basic hygiene necessary, and took to the stairs to make my departure. At the bottom step, I froze. Soft singing seeped in from the other room. It was Ed's voice.

Perhaps it is strange that I spend all this time, writing it out this way. I could cut to the point much quicker if I desired. I could have simply said that I woke back in my home and found Ed. It's true. That's what happened. But it is not near enough to explain it. One cannot truly understand the insidious nature of what happened with only that. I am still trying to understand it myself. That this morning I woke here and not there. That this is it. If I fully understood it, I don't know that I could write at all as I do now. When I think of the creak of the stairs under me and taking that last step, rounding the corner and laying eyes on him at last. I didn't know I still had it in me to feel that way.

It was Ed. He looked up at my approach. He smiled.

In his hands, he held a bowl and a whisk. The sweet scent of batter filled my nose. It was there. I was there.

He told me he hoped I was hungry. I was.

When everything was ready, we sat down to breakfast in the formal dining room, I at the head of the table, and he at my side. I didn't know what to say and so I filled my mouth with pancakes instead. I could have stayed like that, lived on no other sound than the gentle clink of cutlery and china plates. Eventually though, Ed cleared his throat and said we should probably talk about it.

I couldn't be sure what he meant. I didn't know what was happening. After all those weeks in the cabin, I still didn't understand how I came to find myself home. So I just nodded and let him speak first.

Ed started with a question. How much did I remember? I told him everything. All that happened in his absence, I recalled to him in exact detail. Each day, each death. My every worry and hope during that time. My every attempt at escape. He listened to it all without interruption, but as my tale went on his expression changed from confusion to shock to something in the family of disgust or horror. When I finished speaking, he looked appalled. He informed me then that he was going to phone the doctor. I remember sitting there, breakfast cooling on my plate, entirely baffled by the reaction.

The doctor made a house call, saw me in my own bedroom. He checked my vitals and asked me a few questions. When he was done, he declared me physically healthy and suggested that it might be a psychological ailment. He recommended a more thorough examination of my psyche and handed Ed a slip of paper with a prescription for the same stuff they used to pill the patients at Indian Hill. To Ed's credit, he crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash the very second the man left. But he still thought I'd lost my mind.

After that, we didn't speak of it further. The Court of Owls, the woods, the cabin, or It. In a bid to help me regain my apparently lacking sanity, Ed told me what he thought I was supposed to remember. After my fiasco of an interview, Ed said he had returned to his position as my chief-of-staff. We never had a falling out. He never killed me. He didn't know, until that moment, that I was responsible for killing Isabelle, but under the circumstances it all made sense. He said it wasn't my fault. I wasn't mentally well. But he was going to help me.

I don't need to describe in any depth the days that followed. I spent them quietly at home with Ed tending to me. He was kind and patient with me, and even, after a time, admitted to having feelings for me. Our relationship developed further from there. It was wonderful. Slowly, I began to regain the feelings of comfort, security, and even joy that I never thought I'd have again. I began to believe in the version of events that Ed had told me as well. All the rest was just a bad dream. A week passed like this. Then, without any warning, like a rug pulled out from under my feet, I slipped down the stairs on my way to breakfast, hit my head against a stout wooden railing and woke here. Back in the cabin once more.

...

Edward gasps.

Cold sweat and twisted sheets cling around him. Edward sits up gingerly. His eyes dart around his darkened bedroom, the bedroom at van Dahl manor, the last place he expected to see just now. A muddy bank, a hospital room, or even the cabin once more seemed so much more likely than home. He peels the sheets back, looks down at himself, and sees only the plaid pattern of his pajamas staring back at him. He examines his body, tenderly touches his shoulder bracing for pain, but there is none. Not on his hip, his back, nor his head either. He does find bandages, some proof of what happened beyond mere memory.

Edward stands on unsteady legs, tremors running through him as he walks to the adjoining bathroom. Hands braced against the sink, he leans in and peers at his reflection. He looks fine. Aside from bandages wrapping his head, there is no indication he fell from anywhere or got hit by anything. Not a bruise, not a scratch, nothing.

It doesn't make sense.

He unbuttons his shirt, pulls back flannel and finds more bandages around his shoulder and torso. Again they are the only signs he finds. Muttering to himself, he pulls at a loose edge and peels the wrapping away layer by layer. When Edward finally reveals bare skin, he gasps lightly. There is not a single mark on him. He undoes the bandage around his head next, knowing full well what he will find but needing to confirm it. Again, nothing. He is completely uninjured.

Edward turns on the water and splashes his face. The cold of it helps sharpen his senses. He is awake and aware, and he knows.

Edward turns off the sink, pivots from the mirror, and walks to the door of his bedroom. He doesn’t bother about the bandages, discarded on the floor, nor the state of his attire, pajama shirt hanging loose from his shoulders. He exits the bedroom and marches to the place he knows he'll find Oswald. Down the stairs, down the hall, he throws open a pair of heavy wooden doors.

"Oswald." Edward growls.

Oswald looks up from his place at his desk, morning paper in hand, cup of tea at his elbow. He looks as unruffled as a Japanese zen garden. He arcs an eyebrow at Edward's sudden appearance but otherwise has little reaction.

"I know." Edward accuses, "What happened yesterday... it wasn't a dream! And that night you returned, you killed me then too. That was real! And you did it again!"

"What of it?" Oswald says, setting the paper aside and examining his fingernails.

Edward’s palms slam on the desk.

Oswald should look him in the eye when he talks. He should have the nerve to show Edward how little he matters to him. He doesn't even glance up.

"You really don't care, do you?" Edward says quietly, retracting his hand and shaking furiously, "You would let it happen again and it would mean... absolutely nothing."

Finally, Oswald does look up. He appears bored more than anything else. He takes a deep breath and exhales through his nose.

"What do you want me to say, Ed? You're not dead now. However many times you die, it won't matter. However many times it happens, you will always wake again the next morning." He gestures nonchalantly, "Because I make it so. Because I care for you. What more do you want?"

"If this is your care... I don't want it."

"Fine." Oswald smiles sickeningly sweet, "Would you prefer not to wake next time? Or perhaps you want me to rectify it now. That can be arranged."

Edward grits his teeth and says nothing.

"Didn't think so." Oswald slaps his desk snidely, "Now go. I'm finding your choice of conversation tiresome."

"You..." Edward's eyes bore into him, tone turning gravelly, "You're not Oswald."

Oswald stands from his desk and glides around the side of it to face Edward. He looks into his eyes with his hollow own.

Oswald's face smiles.

"Oh, Ed. Don't be silly. Who else would I be, hm?"

Oswald's hands reach up. Edward flinches, but they merely take light hold of the loose shirt and begin buttoning it back up.

"There." Oswald's voice says, hands smoothing down the fabric, "That's better. Now, be a dear and redress those bandages. Wouldn't want it to appear like we staged the whole incident, hm?"

Edward takes a step forward, looming over Oswald, so that the man has to tilt his head back to look into his face.

"I know what I know." Edward ennunciates every syllable, "You are not Oswald. And I'm gonna find him."

Oswald's false grin finally falters. His hollow eyes glare up at Ed, but then it returns. That terrible grin. Oswald's nazally laugh fills the air, head nodding.

"Do as you want, friend. No one is stopping you. And I don't need you. Now really, I think it best you move along and let me enjoy my morning tea."

Chapter 10: Departure

A light rain taps at the window panes. Outside, a flock of umbrellas make their way down the city street and traffic is reduced to a crawl. Edward watches it all from his favorite booth inside that same drab, little diner he hasn't been to in some time, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee. No cream, no sugar. The bitterness settles on his tongue better than anything else. In his hands, he holds the day's newspaper. If anyone were to notice, the cover story features the apparent accident at the dam, including quotes from the mayor about his "dear friend's hopeful recovery."

Oswald's image stares back at Edward in crisp black and white. The photo is a flattering one, taken from a recent interview. Oswald stands proud, dabbing at a single tear running down his cheek. Yet Edward knows there is nothing genuine about it. This isn't really Oswald. And the thing wearing Oswald's guise can't be capable of the same emotions his friend had. Edward had hoped to be wrong, but now he knows. The man in the photo is a monster.

"Haven't seen you here in awhile." A friendly voice chirps.

Edward looks up to see the pretty waitress who served him last time. She refills his cup with fresh, hot coffee, steam still wafting up from it, and smiles. The smile falters when she gets a good look at him.

"Thanks." Edward murmurs, letting the cup warm his hands.

"You look like you're doin better now, but... still so glum. Somethin on your mind?"

Edward nods politely. There's no point in denying it and there's something kind of nice about it being acknowledged, if only by a stranger.

"A lot on my mind, actually." He croaks, "I thought I knew someone. Turns out I was wrong... and now I'm just... I feel so lost suddenly."

The waitress takes a seat across from him, setting aside her coffee kettle and folding her hands.

"Oh, I know just what that's like." She commiserates, "It's too bad life doesn't come with a roadmap, innit?"

Edward chuckles, "It is."

She pats his hands, "Well, whatever it is, I'm sure you'll find your way eventually."

With that, she picks up her kettle again and leaves to serve other customers.

Edward blows on his coffee, as the words of their conversation turn in his head. There's something about it staring him right in the face. The pieces turn. Something slots into place. Finally, he sees it. Like realizing one has been looking at a photo upside down the entire time and only understanding the picture once it's righted. He can't believe he didn't think of it before. He hadn't thought about it in a very long time.

"The map..." Edward whispers to himself, "I still have the map."

It's still there in his apartment, the one he is still paying rent for because his lease isn't up yet. Even though he'd moved into van Dahl manor with Oswald, most of his belongings are still there, in that apartment. He can pick up right where he left off. Edward takes another moment to sip at his coffee, then tosses down a generous tip, and sets off.

After retrieving the map, Edward visits the Narrows. If he is to succeed in the coming venture, he'll need to be as prepared as he can be. How does one prepare against something so enigmatic as the unfathomable thing that has taken Oswald's image as It's mask and tormented them both? If anyone can do it, Edward knows he can. And he will do it the same way he solves his other problems. First, he will gather information.

There it is. The delipadated little shop with the rusty burglar bar gate and no welcome sign. He steps up to the gate, pulling it wide, and opens the door behind it. A little bell he hadn't noticed the first time chimes at his entrance and the old woman behind the register glances up at him. He didn't catch her name before. She hadn't really asked for his either.

"You again." She says by way of greeting, "Didn't expect I'd ever see you back."

"Neither did I." Edward answers honestly.

Last time, he'd thought to set off into the unknown immediately. He'd planned to gather supplies and hope they and the map were enough to get him there and back again. Last time, everything had felt so urgent and sensless. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to what happened to him and Oswald in the cabin. Now he knows better. He still didn't understand what lay behind the plot (or what precisely the plot even was), but he knew now there was one. He needed to gain as much understanding as he could, and the woman standing before him seemed to have known something about it. She knew what the map was.

Edward retrieves it from his pocket and splays it out across the wooden table. The woman frowns.

"I have questions about this." Edward explains, tapping the paper, "About where this leads and what dwells there. And I think you know something of it. Something more than I know. I need to know what it is and how to stop it."

"You can't stop it." The woman mutters.

"Please."

She shuts her eyes and tuts, "Listen to me. As I told you last time, you are better off forgetting this."

"It had you too, didn't it? You know what it's like, what it's capable of. How did you escape?"

The shopkeeper sighs, pushing her spectacles up to knead at her eyes.

"You're a stubborn one, ain't cha'? And foolish to boot."

Edward doesn't answer, only holds his ground, refusing to budge until he gets what he came for. He can wait. As long as it takes.

"I didn't escape." The old woman admits, "Not on my own. I was there with someone. My husband. It had us both."

Her eyes take on a misty quality, wet and faded and faraway.

"We were young when we married. Didn't always appreciate each other. Used to bicker all the time. About everything. About every little goddamn thing." She exhales heavily, "Seems stupid now. But our lives were in a bad place when we wandered our way out there. It was just supposed to be a little camping trip, get away from the city for a few days and recharge.

"Tom, my husband, he thought it'd do us some good. He told me, 'Janet, it might just be what we need.' I wasn't so sure, but I agreed to go along anyway. We had no idea It was out there. The first night, nothing happened, but the next morning it began to rain. The area we were camped out in began to flood, and the only road out was completely submerged. We were trapped."

"For us, it was snow." Edward murmurs.

Janet offers a tight lipped look of sympathy before continuing on.

"The flooding and continued rain drove us to seek out higher ground. We abandoned the campsite, packed our tent and our rations, and hiked our way up further into the woods. It was miserable. Our clothes were soaked through and our words to each other were nastier than ever. Eventually, we found a cabin. No one was home, so we decided to wait out the storm there. I suspect you know the sorts of things that happened next."

Edward nods.

"I don't know how long we spent, how many days, taking turns dying. But... eventually... Eventually, Tom had had enough. He was always so stubborn. And proud. Hmph, I always thought that's what I hated about him. He refused to give up or accept what was happening to us. He came up with a plan for us to escape."

Edward sucks in a breath.

Her eyes flit up to meet his, and they both know that he knows what happened next. Even if the details are a little different, their stories are the same.

"I made it out thanks to him. If he hadn't..." the woman grits her teeth and squeezes her eyes, "I went back for him. I had to. It took years. There was no map when I started. I made that one. So much time I poured into chasing down rumors and legend, anything that might point to what we experienced out there. All those weekends I spent out in the woods, painstakingly mapping out trails, crossing off dead-ends, but eventually, I found an entrance to the path. There's more than one, y'know."

Janet's worn finger hovers over the splayed map. She runs it across the weathered lines tracing a path back from the cabin.

"Here is where I entered." She says, tapping, "The others are here and here.

"When I found the way, it wasn't what I expected it to be. That place, it's not a location like other locations. It's not about... I don't know how to describe it. It's not physical, but it is. It's like finding a secret room in a house that shouldn't exist. It doesn't conform to the laws of physics or time as we know them... but you know that already."

"What is It?" Edward asks.

She shrugs, "I don't know, and to be frank, I don't care to. Whatever It was, it's behind me now."

Edward dips his heads and pushes up his glasses.

"Of course. Well... thank you for your time."

He starts folding the map up to tuck away again.

"You're really set on going back, aren't you?"

Edward looks up and smiles weakly, "Like you said, I have to."

"That map will take you where you want to go if you follow it, but it doesn't guarantee you'll get what you're looking for." Janet warns, staring hard into Edward's questioning gaze, "A piece of advice, It may try to trick you. Things may not always be what they appear, but you have to hold on. Don't let go."

"I won't."

Edward pockets the map and taps the tabletop resolutely.

"Truly... thank you. For everything."

The old woman nods and tries to offer a parting smile, but her brow crinkles above worried, old eyes and she doesn't quite manage it.

...

Oswald's journal

Day 28

I am homesick. I can't forget what it was like to be back there again even if it was only for a short while. There is a thirst in my heart akin to that of a man lost in the desert whose plagued by the mirage of an oasis. I am plagued. I am lost. My thirst is intolerable. It might be enough to finally break me.

Day 29

How do I go on having had a taste of freedom and home now that it has been ripped away from me again? Each day I wake, there is snow, there is the cabin, I fill my miserable little existence meaninglessly, whether I try to escape or remain here, and then I die. Over and over. Day after day. There is a sort of horror in how monotonous it has become. I feel myself growing numb to it, like a body left in the snow. It is like the slowest kind of death. Can I really be alive if I feel nothing at all? Sometimes I'm afraid of the answer. Sometimes I'm not.

I didn't even realize it was happening until I went home. For that brief time, my existence felt meaningful and the monotony was broken. I felt more alive in that one week than I can ever remember feeling. Nothing particularly good nor particularly bad happened. If not for my current circumstances, there would be nothing so noteworthy about that one piece of my life at all. I stayed home. Ed was there. It was nothing so special. That's the most terrible part. It wasn't special, but it was all so real.

Everyday I wake here in the cabin, my mind fights to accept it. I think what if this is all a dream? What if it isn't really happening? What if I lost my mind? What if tomorrow I wake back home? What if I don't and I never do again?

Do you understand?

Day 30

No one would understand.

Who am I even talking to?

There is no one there.

Except It.

Accept It.

Day 30

Stop it! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!!!!!

Day 31

Accept It. Accept it. Accept it.

Day 31

This same trick didn't work the first time and it won't work again! I know myself! I know my mind! No matter how many times It seeks to steal and mimic my writing, it will never work!

Even so, I find it repulsive. It churns my stomach to look upon this journal day after day and see my own writing of words not my own. And when I catch my reflection in the panes of the cabin window or my water glass, I think I begin to understand Ed in a way I never did before.

It doesn't speak. My reflection. It doesn't move independently of me. I sometimes wonder if it is merely a trick of the eye or perhaps the mimicry I see in the journal is getting to me after all. But when I see my reflection and I gaze into those reflected eyes, I do not recognize them. It is worse than a stranger staring back at me. It is It. Staring. And in that stare I see a knowing. What It knows is beyond me. But It knows.

It makes me feel like screaming. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I am too afraid to.

What if I can't?

What if I open my mouth and fill my lungs and then hear nothing?

What if It sees?

Day 32

You're reading this! I know you are! You have to tell Ed! Tell him I'm sorry!

Day 33

I'm sorry! Ed, I'm sorry! Please let me come home!

I'll do anything! Just don't show him to me again! Please! Don't haunt me with my father's ghost. I don't want to die like that again. I don't want

I don't know if any of this is real.

If you're reading this, please, I'm sorry I killed Isabelle.

I want to come home!

Let me come home!

Day 32

Who am I talking to? Have I gone mad?

There is no one else here. I am all alone. I will always be alone. My only choice is to accept It. I know what I must do. It will be so much easier. I only have to let go.

Day 33

Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me! Listen to me!

Stop ignoring me! Let me leave! Please let me leave!

Day 33

No one can hear me.

Day 33

I've figured it out. I'm supposed to die. That's why I keep dying. It's because I'm supposed to die. I was supposed to die before, but I didn't. That's why I'm here. I'm here so that I can understand that. I was supposed to die and so I need to die. I'll just keep dying until I do. Do you understand?

Day 34

Accept It.

Day 34

I don't understand. I did what I was supposed to, didn't I? I was supposed to die, so I did. I wasn't supposed to wake up again. Was it not enough? Was a gun too quick?

...

Against his better judgement, Edward returns to the manor. Before he can begin his journey, there are a few items he needs to collect, vulnerable keepsakes he wouldn't want the false Oswald getting his grubby hands on. That thing knows enough of his weaknesses already. Why feed it more?

Edward makes no move to seek it out again. He goes straight to his former bedroom and begins packing his things. From the wardrobe he pulls one worn suit jacket, the very same he had on when the false Oswald returned, the same pants and shirt as well. He leaves behind all the new suits he'd worn as of late, gifted him by that false Oswald, and pulls out a gift from the real thing. He folds the green sweater with utmost care and has it join his suit in the suitcase. Lastly, he pulls out a familiar hat, one he took from the real Oswald's wardrobe what feels a lifetime ago. It meant something different to him then than it does now. He doesn’t add it to the suitcase, instead setting it on his head. He'll be prepared for whatever comes his way now.

Edward finishes packing, adding a few more odds and ends to the suitcase. He'll drop it off at his apartment and pack more adequately before heading out on his journey. Edward's eyes sweep the room for anything he might have forgotten. He never does, but it's habit anyway. He turns to leave and the false Oswald is leaning against the doorframe watching him.

"Which do you suppose haunted you more?" It tilts his head, "That you left me to die again... or the possibility that I might have survived and escaped without you?"

"What do you want?"

"The poor have, the rich need..." It folds his arms, "So, you really intend to leave?"

Edward glances down at his suitcase then back up to meet It's gaze. The floorboards creak as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

The false Oswald uncrosses his arms and crosses over the threshold into the room. The echo of his steps linger even once he stops. The room seems darker.

"Scared of my plans, Ed?" It asks, standing only an arm's length away, "Or maybe... what you're really afraid of is what you may become if you just let go? Become like me, truly 'unencumbered.' Didn't you tell me once how powerful it can be? Well, look at me now. Nothing holds me back. No fear, no loyalty, no sentiment. What I have... is true power. Perfect freedom."

"You're wrong." Edward states, staring into the cold abyss in this Oswald's eyes, unflinching.

"Oohoo!" Oswald's laughter is like a north wind, "But, Ed, you're trembling."

"I am not afraid." Edward insists, grabbing the handle of his suitcase and sweeping past the false Oswald, "Not of your plans. And not of you. What you have is nothing. What you are is nothing."

"That's what you think of me, isn't it?" It catches his sleeve before he makes it out the door, "You despise me, Ed. But I adore you."

"Don't touch me!" Edward yanks himself free.

"I thought we were friends." It's face pinches, the perfect semblance of Oswald's expression when something displeases him, a perfect trick.

"Oswald is my friend and you..." Edward grits his teeth and turns away, "you're not Oswald. You're a monster."

Edward walks out the door. The floorboards creak.

"Fine then! Leave. Go out and look for him, your precious real Oswald, but don't say I didn't warn you. You may not like what you find." The thing calls after him.

Edward pays It no mind, and walks on, one creaking stairstep at a time.

Chapter 11: Underground Haunting

Outlined in bold ink and making up most of the city of Gotham, a collection of islands occupies the worn vellum's right-hand side. Fine black lines fill in the little complexities of the city. Its buildings, its parks, and its alleys, roads, and highways. Even its bridges, traced out in intricate detail, stretch across the Gotham River and the tear that unevenly bisects the two halves of the map. Light blue lines mark out streams and other waterways. In dark green, the sewer system overlaps the city.

On the map's left-hand side lays the City Industrial Park, Gotham Cemetery, and the strip of forest known as Gotham Woods in a hatch indicating foliage. Those woods and the foliage hatch dominate the leftmost edge, extending from top corner to bottom and encroaching on the cemetery and industrial park, wrapping their edges like the coils of a hungry snake. Trails weave through the hatch, twisting and curving in a stark contrast to the tidy criss-cross city grid opposite it. In the upper corner, a house-like symbol resides deep in the woods. The tidy scrawl next to it labels it simply as "the cabin."

There are three paths dashed in red leading to the cabin. Tracing back to the origins of each one indicates three possible starting points for the journey, each one marked by an "X" and labeled in the same manner as the cabin. One ex hovers above one of Gotham's designated campsites, most likely the one the shopkeeper and her husband unwittingly found. To Edward's surprise, the other two exes are both found within city limits, one following a path through the sewer and the other starting at an otherwise seemingly unremarkable building on the outskirts labeled inconspicuously as "Owls."

Each path bears little symbols along it's way. On the back of the map contains a legend with a note for each symbol, describing the challenges or dangers experienced along each route. Along the route starting from the campsite is a question mark symbol about halfway through. The legend explains, that from that point on, the creator of the map was unable to find the rest of the way to the cabin and couldn't even be sure it still existed.

Below the legend is an asterisk with an additional note applying to all three paths. It reads simply but ominously as, "The path remains the same, but everything else changes. Do not stray from the path."

It is unclear what it means.

No additional notes are left behind to explain.

Even so, the message is etched deeply into Edward's mind. He turns it over and over again in an attempt to decipher the meaning. It sounds almost like a poor attempt at a riddle, but the shopkeeper didn't come across as the sort to indulge in such things. Even interpreted literally, the words remain cryptic. Edward sighs, folding the map once more and stowing it in a pocket.

Whether he understands it or not, it won't alter his next steps. He's chosen the path he wishes to take, the one that will take him through the sewers (seeing as he has no desire to revisit anything connected to the Court of Owls again), and he is already on his way to the designated entrance.

As he disappears down a narrow alley, no one around really takes notice of Edward nor the hefty bushcraft backpack settled across his shoulders and headlamp adorning his brow. The people of Gotham are accustomed to a variety of odd attire, and Edward’s get up appears tame by comparison. He marches down the narrow passage and turns into a little niche, nothing more than a slight recess in the brick wall just big enough for him to stand in. On the ground is the start to his journey, a manhole leading into the vast Gotham sewer system. Edward wonders what awaits him there. Only one way to find out.

He uncovers the manhole and perches himself at the edge of it, legs dangling in. A terrible (though unsurprising) darkness lies beneath him, stretching into the unknown like a deep ocean trench. Edward switches on his head lamp. It isn't so deep as an ocean trench after all. A startled rat scurries away from the beam of light. Edward gulps one last breath of fresh air, and then he descends.

The lightbeam from his head swivels, as Edward glances between his feet and hands at each step down, always keeping a careful grip on the metallic rungs of the ladder supporting him. Nervous perspiration makes his palms slick. His heart pounds. It's only natural. Edward mutters reassurance to himself. It would be foolish to not be at least a tad nervous. He is venturing into the unknown, no knowing what he might find along the way, nor what lies at the end, and no way of preparing himself for it one way or another.

As his feet reach the ground, Edward takes a moment to steel himself. He adjusts the pack on his back and tries not to breathe too deeply through his nose. The stench of his surroundings infiltrate anyway. At least it's better than drowning. Wrinkling his nose, Edward takes his first step down the tunnel, into the darkness, into the unknown. His journey begins.

The tap of his shoes echoes off the curved walls, running ahead of him, eerie and a little disorienting. It is the only sound save the occasional squeak and scurry of a rat, little shadows always at the periphery of Edward's vision and out of sight the moment he looks. Edward hums to himself, a cheery little diddy to lift one's mood and stave off the dark or despair. Edward is accustomed to navigating dark, narrow spaces. It will take more than this to get to him.

In the near distance, the path ahead curves right and then a little further down left again. The way is easy, smoothly paved flat, as Edward makes his way through the twists and turns. It could almost be pleasant if not for the liquid filth flowing along beside him. Edward always did enjoy a good labyrinth.

Eventually, he rounds another bend and the reaking smell dissipates a little as the sewage cascades over a steep ledge. Edward steps carefully up to that ledge and peers over. The water pools into an expansive basin at the bottom with more tunnels branching off from it. Near his feet is another ladder he can follow down to a metal grate platform. Edward proceeds down it, taking the same care as he did with the first, but unlike the first, this one is a bit wobbly and the heavy weight of his pack seems intent on tipping him backwards. Edward struggles against it and somehow manages to maintain balance until his feet are planted solidly upon the platform. Here he forgets himself and takes a deep (smelly) breath and sighs relief. He makes a face and continues on his way.

According to the map, there should be five tunnels and it's the one in the center that he is to proceed down. However, when he looks across to each one he notes only four. He walks to the point between tunnels two and three and can distinctly see where the tunnel has been infilled, brick and mortar newer than it's surroundings but not by any means new. It must have been closed off for quite some time now.

There is, though, a metal grate set in the barrier which had caught Edward's eye and convinced him that coming here may not have been in vain. Edward squats down to get a closer look at it. Peering through the slats, the tunnel that should be here stretches on unobstructed. The grate itself doesn't appear particularly sturdy. More of a deterrent than an actual guard against entry. Edward digs into his pack and pulls out a crowbar he knew would come in handy at some point (although he thought of it more as a weapon than a tool at the time). He makes quick work of the grate with it, the thing groaning as it's pried out of place.

It'll be a tight squeeze for his pack. Edward quickly removes a blanket roll from the top of it and pushes it through with a bit of extra force. He tosses the rolled blanket in after it and then shimmies his way through the opening himself. He has passed through the first of any potential obstacles and is feeling clever for having the foresight to come prepared for it. Smugly, he pulls out his map and makes a quick mark at the grate's location along the route. If someone else should make this same journey someday, they will benefit off his deligent documentation.

Then Edward replaces the roll atop his backpack, stows the crowbar back inside, and settles it once more across his shoulders. The tunnel takes him down another series of zigs and zags and turns until he comes to a door. This marks an end to the man-made underground and the passage into a natural cave system that is said to have once been used by smugglers and pirates. Such stories would have thrilled Edward in his youth. Admittedly, they still excite him quite a bit now. With the thought of lost treasure flitting through his imagination, he reaches for the knob in quiet anticipation, holding his breath to see if it will open or require he dig out his lockpick set. It does open. The door creaks slowly on its rusty hinges, like it had lost all hope of anyone's arrival. The paved path continues through it for a few paces before reaching an abrupt end and the true natural floor to the cave begins.

Edward steps cautiously through it. He isn't fool enough to continue this path without a healthy dose of respect. He knows how easy it is to become lost and trapped underground even with a proper map. The notes scribbled out on the back of the one he carries described the route through the cave system as an appropriate level for even a novice, so long as he closely follows the trail of painted stones left behind (by the supposed smugglers) and doesn't stray. Edward's gaze, restricted by darkness to the diameter of his beam of light, sweeps his new surroundings. Already he sees the way from here will present more challenge than the sewer system he passed through. The ground is rocky and uneven, but he spies the first painted stone in the near distance. Yellow to mark safe passage. He makes his way toward it.

Every few paces, Edward finds another stone with a sloppily brushed dab of paint and follows the trail deeper into the cave system. Or more accurately towards the natural exit for it. Along his path are other landmarks, pillars of stone, dripping stalagtites clinging to the ceiling above, and tooth-like stalamites rising from the floor. There are underground pools with trickling little streams that catch the light of his headlamp as he passes by. Some of them flow over short drops all in a row and the sound whispers softly inviting like the lull of some forgotten melody, a song ancient as the earth sung to him by the very spirit of water. Edward feels an anticing pull toward it. He longs to reach in and feel the cool rush against his fingertips.

It is beautiful here. Dark but peaceful. Undisturbed. The cavern yawns wide and high, as impressive as any Gothic cathedral.

It isn't what Edward pictured when he thought to begin this journey. He'd anticipated an arduous path fraught with peril and tribulation. Not this meandering way accompanied by babbling brook like the tinkling of piano keys.

Eventually, he comes to a narrower passage, the walls closing in like the throat of some great beast, but even this has its charm. As he steps into it, his light casts against the walls, slick with moisture and glistening. Streaks of pearly white almost seem to glow like moonbeams. Entranced, Edward lets his hands skim over them as he passes, soft, smooth against his palms.

He wonders what other marvels may lie deeper within the cave system. His fingers itch to retrieve his map and see if he can find a path to take him further in. It is so very tempting, but...

That isn't what I came here for, is it?

It feels like more of a struggle than it should be to recall his purpose, but that is nothing new to Edward. His attention has always been drawn to the mysterious, to secrets, the unknown things of this world, to the desire for answers, and the delights of discovery. He’s always had a curious mind with a tendency to fix on something to solve and lose track of time. The trait is usually something he takes pride in. This time, he thinks he should be ashamed because ever since entering the cave...

I haven't once thought of Oswald.

Edward hangs his head because that would be the appropriate response, but if he's honest with himself, he doesn't really feel it. He knows he should, but even now the siren song of the water, the aching beauty of the cave, and serene stillness within all beckon him.

Come hither.

Edward chuckles and wipes his hands on his pants. He resettles the pack on his shoulders and presses forward on the path of the painted stones and the way leading to the mouth of this beguiling dragon. He'll be back once he rescues Oswald. He can explore to his heart's content then.

When he makes it through the narrow passage and past its moonbeam veins, he enters into another chamber. This one is smaller than the first and he can see from where he stands the different branching paths he could take when he turns his head and light toward them. Again the call to explore tugs at him, but Edward doesn't deviate. He takes the indicated path, noting as he does that it is another narrow passage. This one, unlike the first does not shine or glow and the end of it cannot be seen from where he stands, so far off in the distance his light cannot reach.

It isn't very appealing.

Edward digs out his map just to be sure this path is the one.

There it is. Marked out clearly. And there is the painted stone.

Reluctantly, Edward stows his map away again and takes his first wary step forward. The ground here is uneven, sharper, and he finds himself clutching at the cave walls for balance. This way isn't supposed to be difficult. Easy enough for beginners, but Edward finds increasing difficulty as he journeys through, the path carving steeply upward so that in some places he must practically crawl than walk, with stones like pointed teeth digging into his knees and palms. Hunched forward as the ceiling comes in low and scraping his head against it, Edward comes to loathe the cave. His back and neck ache. His hands and knees hurt! It's dark and damp and entirely unpleasant! Everything in him aches to turn back, so Edward stubbornly grits his teeth and goes on anyway.

By the time he makes it through to a place where the path evens out again, and the walls and ceiling widen, Edward is entirely spent. He lets himself collapse to the cave floor (fortunately smoother now), discards his pack, and flops on his back. He stares up into the darkness and breathes. Perhaps he doesn't want to explore after all.

Edward lays there for a long while, letting the cool, stony ground beneath him seep into his skin and soothe his aching muscles. He flexes his fingers, hissing at the sting of scraped skin stretching over his palms. It's a bit late for it now, but before he sets off again he'll pull his gloves from the pack. He should check the map again to be sure of his way. Perhaps eat something before departing. He'd packed some basic survival staples for the journey (a recommendation from the notes on the map). Edward goes through his mental checklist as he waits to regain his strength, staying focused on his tasks, his goal, and not allowing his mind to wander to other things again.

If the earlier part of the cave filled him with a sense of wonder, adventure, and intrigue, this part of the cave fills him with a deep desire to just remain here awhile longer. Awhile longer. Just a little longer. On and on. He is oddly tired. His eyes could slip closed and he wonders if they would ever open again.

And that is a very bad sign.

Edward staggers back to his feet. Sluggishly he peers around the chamber looking for his next painted rock. He spies it a few yards away and makes for it in stumbling steps as quick as he can manage.

His pack!

Edward forsakes it for now. Good air is priority and he knows not how far he will have to go to reach it. He no longer has eyes for his surroundings. Only the stones. His markers. His lifeline. He stumbles through the dark over ragged rock, round twists and bends. Eventually, the sluggish feeling begins to wain and his head clears. He presses on a but further just be sure and then stops to rest once more. In the distance, he can hear the dripping of water drops. Plink. And another sound. Soft squeaking he can't identify.

Edward debates the risk in backtracking to retrieve his backpack or leaving it behind. It is no doubt dangerous to return to that area. Many a cave explorer has lost their life from poor air quality within the depths of the earth. It isn't to be taken lightly, but nor is the rest of his journey. Would it even be possible to make the rest of his journey without his supplies?

In the end, Edward decides he has to go back.

He doesn't start off immediately, giving himself more time to recover. On the way back, he tries to remain alert, taking note of the surroundings he hadn't bothered with last time. Towering pillars of rock, of stallamites and stallagtites and other rock formations grand and awe-inspiring as any of the worlds wonders.

Breathtaking. Literally too.

Edward chuckles at his own joke. Despite the dangers he faces.

He finds his pack as he left it just as he begins to notice the fuzziness return to his head. He wastes no time lugging the pack onto his back and setting off again.

"Edward?"

Edward turns his fuzzy head at the sound. All he sees is the stretching darkness. He turns away again, back to the path.

"Ed?"

It echoes. It's Oswald.

"It isn't." Edward tells himself aloud. Lack of oxygen. Noxious, unknown gasses. That is the cause and he needs to go before he succumbs to it.

"Ed."

He turns.

His beam of light illuminates something. Something that emerges from behind a rock pillar. His hair falls long over his face. His skin glows pearly white like moonbeams. His mouth smiles and quivers as tears gather in his eyes.

"Oswald?"

He swims in Ed's vision, taking a shakey step back.

"It can't be..." Oswald shakes his head, eyes searching Edward's, "You left me."

"No! No, I was coming back." Edward is adamant about that even as his head spins.

"Then... will you stay this time?"

Stay?

Edward's brows furrow. He sways on his feet. The pack on his back weighs on his shoulders. His feet are sore. His hands are sore. His heart aches.

Edward clears his throat and says, "I'm here to take you home."

"Just stay." Oswald pleads stepping again closer, hand reaching, "Just for awhile. I'm so tired, Ed. Please."

"This isn't right." Edward mumbles.

He looks to Oswald's desperate face, his reaching hands, and his heart aches furiously.

He turns away and starts walking.

"Ed!" Oswald shrieks.

Edward can hear him crying.

"Don't go! Don't leave me!"

There are no footsteps to follow him. Just the fading sound of Oswald's voice carrying down the path to cry out to him.

"Edward! Ed!"

Heavy footsteps carry Edward farther and farther away until he can hear him no more. And as he goes, his head begins to clear. He knows it wasn't real, likely an hallucination, he's no stranger to those, but there is still that lingering voice in his head questioning whether he might be wrong. There remains just enough doubt to urge him to go back. Yet lingering doubt about his reality is curbed by the one piece of rationale he can trust in. Oswald would never ask him to die here. Therefore, that cannot be Oswald, no matter how badly he wishes it.

"It may try to trick you." Edward reminds himself. The shopkeeper warned him about that. Well, if this is the best it's got, then he has nothing to fear.

Chapter 12: Something Very, Very Strange

The cave comes to feel as though it will go on for eternity. All sense of time is lost to the dark and all sense of wonder long along with it. Edward finds little splendor in the towering rock formations and tranquil pools now. It's so stifling, after all, to have one's view shrunk down, like a tunnel, to the circumference of a single beam of light for hours on end.

Edward sighs.

He kicks at a pebble in his path, just to hear the sound of it skittering away from him. He makes a game of it, kicking pebbles, skittering, until another sound catches his ears. He stops. He's heard this sound once before, but previously, at greater distance, he had not been able to quite make it out. This soft, muffled squeaking. Now closer, and no longer muffled, the sound is unmistakable to the knowing ear. Bats!

"The exit!" Edward breathes excitedly.

He hefts his backpack to one shoulder and trots on. The path before him narrows, taking him through a true tunnel, before opening up again into a spacious chamber. High above his head, the ceiling is so densly packed with bats as to appear like a single living, squirming mass. Edward catches his breath as he gawks at them. Who'd have ever thought he'd be glad to see these rabies-infested winged vermin?

A quick scan of the rest of the space and Edward finally sets sight on what his weary eyes have thirsted for. Like blood through a gash, a bright, white light spills from a narrow slit in the cave wall. Edward rushes to it. He spares no notice for anything else until he squeezes through to the world outside.

Then Edward's steps faulter, as he gazes up at a sky as blinding as the sun after so much darkness. But it isn't the sun that greets him. Above is starry night. A round, white moon illuminates forest below, trickling through bare branches and pine needles to create stark spots between shadows upon the ground. It's dazzling. For a moment, all Edward can do is stand frozen, gasping in sightless astonishment at the brilliance of it all.

Gradually, his eyes adjust, and he finds himself perched upon a sharp jut of rock. Just a short drop down takes him to the bottom of the hill and the edge of a small clearing between the trees. Here, a light breeze rustles wild grasses and other meadow-dwelling plants at his feet.

A tremor shakes Edward's footing. Pebbles and loose earth rain down behind him and bats erupt from the cave, streaking wildly through the air, a shrieking cacophony. Instinctively, Edward ducks, tucking his head beneath an arm until they pass. It's over in an instant, and Edward watches them disappear into the distance.

"Odd." Edward mumbles beneath his breath.

Earthquakes are not common to the area. Not to his knowledge (and he would know). Still, he's thankful to be above ground before it happened.

Shaking his head, Edward sets off once more, winding his way through trees until he comes to something resembling an old overgrown path. It starts as nothing more than dirt and weeds and wild grass, but eventually yields to an actual paved way of alternating aged cobblestone and gravel. It is here that Edward begins to notice how uneven the ground along the path is with odd round lumps covered in undergrowth, leaves and vines. Edward pauses and steps lightly to one such lump, brushing away the vegetation to reveal weathered stone beneath. And engraved in the stone is a name and two dates. It's all too worn away to make out clearly. He tries a few others, but each headstone seems as illegible as the last in this forgotten, overgrown cemetery.

The earth rumbles again.

Edward leaps back just as the headstone he was just examining shivers in its bed and topples forward.

And that...

"That is too much to be a coincidence." Edward accuses the headstone, waggling a finger at it.

It has nothing to say to him, but he imagines if it could speak, it would be wondering who exactly he's talking to.

Edward shrugs in response, "I don't know. But... there is clearly something very, very strange going on here."

He backsteps to the path again, pulling the map from his backpack. He studies it, trying to find where this place is (where he is), only to realize the path marked on his map, the one he's been following all this time, could not possibly leave the cave the way he came. If he had followed the correct path, he should have been deposited near an old dirt road. There was no clearing, no cobblestone path or graves. But that's impossible, isn't? Unless...

"Oh dear..."

He'd been warned not to stray from the path.

A skuttling sound and a whisper of leaves draws his attention back to the world around him. Something is moving beneath the leaves, inching closer towards him. Then a splindly, jointed black appendage emerges from the cover, followed quickly by seven more and a bulbous body shaped eerily like a human skull. Upon closer inspection, Edward decides that it actually is a human skull, apparently being worn by an above average sized spider. Kind of cute in an odd way, like a hermit crab. Edward screams.

He stumbles back, losing his backpack and map in the process, and takes off at a dead run back down the path he came from. He makes it all of about five feet before tripping over a knotty tree root and crashing to the ground. The skuttling behind him picks up speed, as if sensing his vulnerability in this position. Edward hastens to regain his footing, but shear dread makes for dreadful resistance against clumsiness. His hands slip on slick leaves and topple him again.

"No no no no no." Edward rambles, scurrying away on all fours.

He claws his way back up, using the sturdy trunk of an oak for balance. When he glances back, the spider is a mere arm's length away. Edward freezes upon seeing it, back pressed against the tree and eyes wide. Above him, a dark shadow swoops down. It dives at the skull in a flash, and in the next instant, the spider is flipped, legs squirming in the air. Edward remains fixed in place, staring, until the shadow swoops down again and lands flapping at his feet.

It is a crow. Of course it is a crow. And it is looking at Edward as though he ought to have been expecting it, and as though it is expecting something from him as well. It glances back at the spider, as one might glance over a shoulder, before looking to Edward and cocking its head to the side.

Edward stares at it, then back at the spider, and then it again.

"Thanks." He says.

The bird all but sighs, feathers ruffling, and makes a distinct pointing back motion with its beak.

The spider's legs are still wriggling.

"Oh."

Edward peels himself off the tree and steps round the thing to get to his fallen backpack. He retrieves his crow bar and warily trods back to the spider. He lifts the crow bar high above his head.

"Apologies." He mutters to the creature and swings down hard.

There is a crack and a splat.

Edward grimaces.

The crow nods approval and takes flight, circling above Edward's backpack. Edward closes it up, keeping his crow bar out and in hand, and puts it back on. The crow lands on top and begins preening through Edward's curls. It's oddly soothing.

"You know... if we're going to keep meeting like this, I think I should have something to call you." Edward states. The crow stops its preening, looking into his face inquisitively. Taking a moment to ponder it, Edward gives the first thing that comes to mind, "How about... Riddle?"

The crow pecks his head.

"Ow... fine, I'll think of something else. But no pecking!"

The crow caws. Edward isn't sure whether to take it as an agreement or not.

"Then, what do you think of... Query?"

The bird puffs up, looking ready to peck again.

"Enigma?"

It squawks and gives him a look that can only be described as exasperation.

Edward chuckles.

"Fine, fine. No riddle-themed names, I take it? Noted. Reluctantly." Edward scratches behind his ear, "Hm... will Watson work? I adored Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as a youngster. And now... this adventure we're on, it's something of a mystery too, isn't it? You've already proven yourself a worthy sidekick to my Holmes."

The crow tilts its head at the calling of a "sidekick," but nods acceptance anyway.

Edward grins, "Good. Watson then. Um... where to now?"

The crow takes off once more, flying a short distance down the path and landing in the place where the spider emerged.

Edward follows and finds the fallen map beside the bird's talons.

Watson shimmies in place, and, once it is sure it has his attention, leans over the map to tap at a spot three times. Watson steps aside then, allowing Edward to retrieve the map.

It seems all is not lost. Although Edward had not emerged where he meant to from the cave, their current path would converge with that other a little further down the way. He makes a mental note of it before stowing the map away again.

Watson resumes its perch on Edward's shoulder and the two set off down the trail again. The forest around them seems to be getting thinner, more mounds of leaf strewn headstones rise from the ground, with some of them managing to pierce through their leafy blankets and show their weathered stone faces. There is an order to the spacing of them, now that Edward knows what they are. And an order to their ornamentation. The first several he passed had been plain, simple and small. But as they traverse further in, the headstones become larger and more decorated. There is the sense of moving towards something. Something either grand or important. And that sense tugs at Edward, like a thread follows a needle. It pushes at his heels, and he increases his pace. He's getting closer and he can feel it.

Soon they come to a crossroads. They could go left or right, or continue forward. The path to the right goes only a short ways and leads to the entrance of a crumbling mausoleum covered in vines. The path to the left continues through trees cloaked in massive, silky webs which float in the breeze like burial shrouds. The center path widens and it is here the tugging sense beckons.

Edward makes to start down it, but Watson crows sharply in his ear.

"Ow." Edward complains, "What was that for?"

The bird lifts a wing and indicates the path to the right. Edward peers down that cobwebbed way and shakes head.

"Yah, look... I'm not going in there. One mutated monster spider was enough for me, thanks."

Watson tugs at his collar in reprimand.

"I know, okay? So maybe the map shows that to be the right path, but listen, I found a different way before. We can find another way again. One with less things creeping around on eight legs. Besides, I'm curious to see what lays ahead."

The bird just tugs even more insistently.

Edward flaps his hands to shoo it off his shoulder.

Watson squawks indignation and glides to the ground.

"You don't have to come with me if you don't like it." Edward says, marching on, "But I am going this way."

As he goes, he hears a flap behind him, and then Watson sits upon his shoulder again, more or less complacently. If it picks at its feathers a little more vigorously than before, Edward pretends not to notice.

The central path eventually leads to what appears to be the center of the cemetery. There is a square here, surrounded by a rusted iron fence, with a path, like the one Edward walks, meeting each side. Each path ends before a double swing gate that opens onto the wide square, and within is a flat overgrown lawn and a classical, domed pavilion whose worn columns look as though one stout gust is all it would take to collapse them entirely.

Despite the decaying state of the pavilion, Edward's curiosity urges him towards it. Just to get a closer look. Just to see if there is any reason he felt so drawn to this place. He pushes the iron gate and is pleasantly surprised when it creaks open with ease.

Watson makes a displeased series of caws before flapping away to stand outside the fence. The crow bobs it's head then and shuffles in places.

Edward pauses to cast a glance back at the disturbed bird. It calls harshly to him.

"You really don't like this place, do you?"

"Caw!"

Edward gives it a moment of thought. The curiosity still burns in his chest, but...

"Well... you've been right so far." Edward sighs, "Okey dokey, let's get out of here."

Then the ground shakes. This time is longer and rougher than the times before, and Edward is thrown off his feet. The crow takes to the air, circling over head. When it stops, Edward sees that the pavilion really has collapsed entirely. Into a cloud of dust. He chokes on it as it passes over him. Slowly it begins to disperse. Edward comes to realize the pavilion is not dust after all. He had expected rubble and ruin. Or at least to see the thing toppled. It was intact. And in a manner of speaking, it was toppled, but not in the way one would expect.

It... moved.

Or rather... it rotated?

Perhaps not the right word.

The columns of the pavilion now ran parallel to the ground as if the entire thing had been picked up and laid on its side. Or it would appear that way, if the structure were not suspended above the ground, held aloft by long, black, spindly legs. Eight of them, if one were to count.

Like the creature Edward had seen earlier...

Only much, much larger...

And trading the organic skull shell for an architectural one of course.

"Oh dear..."

Transfixed as he is, Edward doesn't immediately notice the mob of smaller skull spiders scurrying towards him. A flap at his shoulder finally breaks his daze. The bird nips at him to get a move on, and Edward scrambles back to his feet.

Successful in the attempt to get its human back to his feet, Watson takes flight and begins dive-bombing any eight legged thing that gets too close to Edward. There are too many of them though. Watson flies ahead and calls back to Edward, obliged when the human follows after him. It leads Edward back down the path they previously traveled.

When they get to the crossroads however, the way the map showed is blocked, masses of spiders stretched across the path. Watson flies instead towards the mausoleum, but Edward hesitates. If they go that way, they'll be trapped for certain. He itches to keep going down the center trail, back to the cave if he has too, but... Watson has been right so far.

He rushes to the mausoleum, doing his best not to trip while maintaining speed. His feet feel like bulbous sacks of potatoes attached to his ankles and his legs, like jello, are not helping! Somehow, he makes it to the door of the building. It's unlocked. He hurries inside. Watson follows after him. Edward slams the door. He inhales breathe after breathe, huffing rapidly as adrenaline still courses through him with every beat of his pounding heart. Slowly, he slinks to the floor.

Watson flutters to the right, up and out of Edward's sight. There is flapping and a thunk, and then a heavy bolt lock slides securely across the door. The crow lands on the ground nearby, cleaning its feathers and looking none the worse for their little misadventure. When it catches Edward's eye, it puffs up a little and cocks its head smugly.

Edward has never heard "I told you so" so clearly, even without the words. He chuckles. It would almost be insufferable.

"Hmph, at least you don't speak."

"Sadly not." Watson says, in a pitchy voice, "Otherwise, it might mean you'd gone mad."

"Holy mackerel," Edward startles, "you talk!"

"As observant as Sherlock Holmes." Watson titters.

Edward crosses his arms, "Well, you- you never said you could talk."

"And you, my friend, never asked."

The crow looks impossibly smug. It is insufferable

Edward pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, pointedly not looking in its direction as he mutters, "Touché."

Watson hops demurely back into his field of vision and tilts its head coquettishly.

"Are you pouting?"

Edward chews his lip. Then he shakes his head and looks down at his feathered companion.

"No. I was just surprised is all."

"Then... you don't mind?" The bird blinks up.

It's odd seeing such a gesture in an animal. Uncanny. But Edward keeps that to himself. He senses that to share these initial impressions on talking, emotive animals might somehow wound the crow's pride. Surprised as he was (and insufferable as the creature could be), Edward didn't want to offend his new friend. That's what they were now, wasn't it? Friends?

"No. I don't mind it. But if you have any other tricks up your... wings, like uh... glowing in the dark or breathing fire, a heads up next time."

Watson eyes Edward, sizing him up, "Perhaps I will. But perhaps next time you'll take my advice?"

Edward huffs a laugh and agrees emphatically, "Yeah. Definitely."

Notes:

I don't know that this was ready but I'm tired of sitting on it. I'm ready to move on (hopefully ugh).

On a sidenote, this fic's wordcount has now surpassed, Russian Roulette, and is my second longest fic! Yippee (it's so much longer than I thought (and planned) it would be ^_^')

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Mazelike