Archive of Our Own ^beta

Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.

~  Oscar Wilde

“I have decided to drop out of college.”

Bruce gasped, fork forgot in midair. It took all of his self-control and Alfred's politeness to pull himself together, swallow and ask softly, "What did you say?"

Helena sat across from him in a purple cat-faced T-shirt and messy hair, so much like her mother it hurt.

“I don't think I understand,” he said slowly, feeling the food stuck in his throat. 

He swallowed several times, but the sensation didn't go away.

Helena didn't bat an eye, “I think I made myself clear. I will drop out of college. I have already requested the forms.”

“But why? You've already taken some exams and…”

"College is not for me," the girl cut him short.

“So you're taking a gap year?”

“No, I have decided that I will abandon my studies. Definitely. “

Bruce felt his mouth dry and for a moment he wondered if Alfred had felt the same way when at seventeen he told the butler that he would travel the world to find himself and figure out what he wanted to do in life.

Luckily, he hadn't gone along with that madness, or else he might have risked joining some cult or worse.

He cleared his throat, “What do you want to do? Travel?"

“It's not in my plans at the moment. I would like to devote myself to writing.”

“To writing?”

She shrugged, “You know I like writing stories, Dad. I want it to become my job.”

No, Bruce didn't know that. He thought Helena wanted to be a doctor like him, and help people. His little girl had always made big plans, but since she was a child he had always found her playing with his stethoscope and his gown.

He had no idea she had such a passion for a hobby.

In the face of his silence, Helena gave a tight smile, “You haven't even read what I sent you. Of course, you didn't."

"Honey, I don't know..."

“Re-read your emails. Maybe you'll understand."

“Helena, you know I don't have much time…”

“So you don't even know that mom is going to remarry?”

Bruce's heart skipped a beat. He felt like the ground slipped from under his feet, and he hoped Helena would tell him it was a joke. He hoped it was a joke.

But Helena was serious, and she watched him for a reaction.

“Do she get married again? When?" he asked, complimenting himself for keeping his voice steady and not erupting in anger.

He didn't even ask who the lucky bridegroom was. He didn't need to know. It wasn't important.

“It's written on the invitation. You know, the one she sent you.”

“She could have told me herself.”

"When? You're not exactly the easiest person to contact, dad."

He pursed his lips, "I have a lot of work, you know."

“You just work, and the only parties you go to are those boring charity galas.”

"I'm too old to party."

“You are also too old for free time.”

He opened his mouth to answer her when his pager vibrated. Helena told him, “Well, what are you doing? You do not answer?"

“We need to talk about your future, I can't…”

“Cut it out, dad. I'm twenty years old. You can't tell me what to do with my future."

“You want to abandon a career in favor of a hobby. This is crazy, Helena.”

At that point Helena got angry. She stood up, slamming her hands on the table hard, “It's not just a hobby. I'm not thirteen. Writing is work."

“You could become a journalist.”

“You say that as if you don't despise journalists.”

“I hate vultures,” he pointed out.

“I know there are good journalists in the world. Like Lois Lane.”

“I know what I want to do. And I don't want to be a reporter."

“You want to waste your life!”

“You speak without even having read anything written by me.”

The pager vibrated again, more insistently. Bruce had to give in, "This conversation isn't over."

"It is."

“Helena…”

She countered just as harshly, "If you knew me, you'd know why I won't change my mind."

"I know you. You are my daughter."

“You want to control my life,” she snapped

“I don't want you to follow silly dreams!” he replied.

He wanted her to have a fulfilling life, follow her dreams, and help people. Because that was Helena's wish, not to write nonsense that almost nobody will read.

How could you help by writing? The writing was a dangerous profession. Now everyone thought they were great writers, but few were remembered.

He didn't want Helena to follow a dream only to be disappointed.

“You don't even know what you're talking about!”

“ I just want the best for you!”

"You don't know what's best for me! Just like you didn't know what was best for mom!"

It was a heavy hit, which he took badly, but he took. He knew he had made many mistakes in his life, to the point that his daughter held them against him.

Selina deserved better. She always had. She'd had him, and for ten years she'd been dull, the mischievous glint gone from her eyes.

This was the effect he had had on her: he had neglected her to the point where she had to run away from him, and never come back. 

The pager vibrated again, "I can't stay."

"Running away is what you do best."

“It didn't end there, Helena. You won't ruin your life."

It was a promise he intended to keep. Alfred had managed to reason with him. Maybe he too will be able to do it with Helena.

Helena had so much potential. The idea that she wasted it chasing useless dreams made him shiver. No, it was time to put a stop to such nonsense. One day, his daughter will thank him.

After doing his routine hospital checkup and sorting out the emergency he'd been called for, Bruce walked into his office, his mind racing.

He was too early to go home, and he couldn't leave the hospital without being called in some emergency. But, strangely, for once he had some spare time.

And my free time was bad. Because so he began to think.

You haven't even read what I sent you. Of course, you didn't.

Helena had been so hurt when she said that. She had hoped for his support, even if Bruce couldn't give it to her lightly.

She had sent him an email with her story. Maybe he should take a look. At least to let her know that he had read her story and what he thought about it.

He decided to do it.

He turned on the computer and accessed his email.

Among a dozen unimportant emails (including Selina's wedding invitation), he found Helena's.

It contained a link to a novel site, and Helena looked quite excited.

I finished the story! It's a success!

He adjusted his glasses.

The Uncrowned Emperor.

It was an interesting title. He clicked and started reading.

Half an hour later, Bruce wished he hadn't.

The novel was terrible.

It wasn't badly written: actually, Helena was talented, and even though her style was still a bit immature due to her lack of experience, he had no doubts that in time she would become a very good author.

No, the novel was terrible because he was the villain.

Well, not him directly, that would be impossible. But the villain was inspired by him.

Lord Bruce Wayne is the protector of the North a piece of shit hated by the whole kingdom.

She had given him his name. And, as if that weren't enough, Lord Wayne was violent, physically, emotionally, and psychologically, with his children.

He hadn't gone beyond the third chapter. He hadn't made it: a man with his name, out of ambition and a distorted vision of justice, was making the children he had adopted go through hell.

The worst part was that his daughter had written it. Helena saw him as a monster. 

“Dr. Wayne?"

Jace Fox was in the entrance to his office, frowning and holding a medical record.

“I was just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“The fact that I'm such a bad father to inspire the villain of my daughter's story.”

"Oh. You have read The Uncrowned Emperor.”

"Do you read it?"

“I may have read something…” he admitted softly.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. He had so many questions to ask him. Why do not you tell me? Do you know how much talk there will be? I could have done something before Helena finished writing it.

He said nothing. He knew the only person to blame was himself.

"What do you think?"

“Mhm?”

“What do you think of the story,” he asked again.

Jace remained impassive but saw his shoulders stiffen. He sighed, “You're not in trouble. I just want to know what you think."

"I've read worse when I have some free time and I need to disconnect... you understand, don't you?"

Bruce didn't understand, the pure workaholic that he was, but he nodded and encouraged Jace to continue. The young man said, “My sister recommended it to me. She said I would love it because…mhm…”

“Because it makes fun of your boss.”

“She didn't just say that… she knows what kind of stories I like, and The Uncrowned Emperor is one of them.”

“What kind of stories do you like?”

“When the protagonist faces numerous difficulties, fate is always against him, but in the end, he wins. And also…mhm…revenge stories.”

"Revenge stories?"

Jace shrugged, “That's when the villain gets proper compensation for what he's done. There's something… cathartic when someone who hurt you pays for everything they've done to you."

He licked his lips, “And that's what happens to the villain of this novel? Does he get what he deserves?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

Jace clarified, “I haven't read everything. I know what my sister anticipated for me. Lord Wayne will die and it'll be pretty messy."

Why should it be a surprise? Knowing Helena, the villain's death will be the most painful and humiliating possible. Something like being boiled alive or being quartered by four speeding horses.

Who knows how many times she had hoped that he was the one to die like this?

Seeing him engrossed, Jace asked, "Are you worried about the bad publicity? Vicky Vale was just waiting for something like this to throw more mud at you.”

“That wasn't the first thing I thought about,” he admitted.

He hadn't thought about Vicky Vale and the swarms of jackal journalists who would pounce on him once Helena's novel gets a bigger circulation.

Everyone will be curious to know how much truth there was in the depiction of Lord Wayne. They will want to dig into the past, do research and learn things they shouldn't have meddled with. His entire private life will be pilloried.

Selina won't say anything. Why should she? Bruce had ruined their marriage, and he certainly wasn't going to defend her ex-husband.

All hell will break loose.

Even though he knew it, that wasn't his main concern.

“Jace, am I a bad father?”

“Not the worst out there, sir.”

“But not the best either.”

“You did your best, I guess,” he said with a hesitant note in his voice.

It was silly to ask such a young person such questions. Maybe he should ask Lucius or Commissioner Gordon at the next gala.

He was reluctant to do it. He was afraid of the answer.

"Sir…"

“Ah, sorry… why did you come to me?” he asked, changing the subject.

Jace told him about a case of a patient who appeared to have a rare blood disorder but needed further tests to be sure. Bruce listened intently, any thoughts of Lord Wayne tossed aside. But a worm had planted itself in his brain, and he wouldn't leave until he spoke to Helena.

Helena Wayne's answering machine picks up. Leave a message…

Bruce sighed, staring at the phone as if it was to blame for all of his troubles.

It was an exaggeration, but after seven times that Helena didn't answer, he was inclined to pick on inanimate objects too.

Look at him, locked in his office trying to talk to a daughter who hated him. And what did he want to tell her? Helena, I've read your novel. It's interesting but the villain reminds me of someone. Would you care to explain?

It was the beginning of another fight, perhaps more explosive than the one they had in the morning.

Why couldn't he talk to people without hurting them?

He looked at the phone thoughtfully. He could try calling again, but what would he tell her? Words were difficult, and the risk of an argument was high.

Helena could misunderstand, and she would have every reason to assume the worst of him. Nervously, he began drumming his fingers on the desk.

What was he supposed to do? Pretend nothing happened? 

Does Helena think he wouldn't have done it? Or did she hope she read so that Bruce would understand?

He bit his lip, uncertain.

He opened WhatsApp, ignoring how few contacts he had, and lingered on Helena's chat. There were no messages in the chat for a long time.

“Maybe, if I write a message…”

He could try to sort out the confused ideas he had, and in the worst case, he would not send it, avoiding complications.

Helena, I need to talk to you…

He wrinkled his nose and decided to cancel. He stared at the screen for a while, brushing away what seemed too conversational or too harsh.

Eventually, he came up with a solution that seemed acceptable.

Hi Helena. I liked your story. I managed to carve out some time to devote to reading your novel. I was blown away by the richness of detail in world-building, and by the passion you put into the story. I'm proud of you, and I wish I was a better man and father.

I know I'm not Lord Wayne, but I see the worst parts of me in him.

I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me, and that I was, at best, emotionally distant.

I can't fix my mistakes, and I can't promise to fix them all soon.

But I want to tell you that I love you, and for you…

Someone knocked on the door, and absentmindedly the doctor said, "Come in."

He didn't look up until he heard a man's voice, "Mr. Wayne, it's time to pay your debt to the city."

When he raised his head, he was hit by a heavy object. He fell to the floor, his vision blurred, and above him stood a man dressed in green with his face covered by absurd glasses.

It was unlikely that security had let him into that state without stopping him. Unless he bribed them.

Wouldn't that be strange, it was Gotham after all.

With icy awareness, he knew he was about to die.

And there was only one thing he could think of before the killer struck him again.

I didn't send Helena the message.

It was his last coherent thought. The regret of not having the opportunity to be at least a decent father to her.

The man hit him again, harder. The pain was excruciating.

He closed his eyes and felt nothing more.

Bruce was an atheist. He didn't expect there to be anything after death, neither heaven nor hell. He expected darkness, a great sea of nothingness for eternity. Peace, finally.

But much to his disappointment, he opened his eyes again. And he wasn't alone. There was an elderly man next to him, who reminded him of someone who hadn't been around for years now.

Strange. He looks like Alfred, he thought wearily. He didn’t recall anyone resembling his former guardian working at the hospital. It would have been hard to miss.

When the elder saw that Bruce had opened his eyes, he immediately looked relieved.

"It's a miracle," the old man said.

"Lord Wayne is awake! Call the doctor, boy."

Wait a second… what had he called Bruce!?

He immediately tried to sit up, but was held by gentle but firm hands, “Master Wayne, don't strain yourself. Your wounds are very deep."

"What…"

“The doctor will be here soon…he won't believe his eyes…it's truly a miracle…”

"Where am I?" he croaked, looking around the room. On the sides, two rounded rococo-style bedside tables on which there was a silver candlestick, and a three-armed gilded bronze candelabrum.

The toilet next to the window to the right was lined with lace and silk. Near the window on the left two Louis XV-style tub chairs upholstered in brocaded silk and an oval table with two shelves.

The old man looked at him with shining eyes, "You're in your room, sir. “

"This isn't my room," he retorted firmly.

"Sir..."

"What place is this?" he growled.

He shouldn't have stirred. If he did, the pressure would build, and he would pass out and be unconscious in the man's hands.

Life in Gotham had taught him to distrust everyone—even people who seemed nice and resembled a long-dead father figure.

“Lord Wayne, this is your home.”

“What happened in the hospital?”

"Hospital?"

“Why did you bring me here?”

Two people entered, and the old man turned to them and said, “He is delirious. Do you think he has a fever? Or an infection?”

While he was distracted, Bruce got out of bed. He didn't have a precise plan, except to get as far away from there as possible.

Thanks to the tiredness, pain, and shock, he wasn't thinking straight. Because of the pain, he didn't notice that his body felt more thoughtful as if he had gained a few pounds in muscle mass. Nor did he notice that he didn't feel those nagging aches from the aches and pains of age or that he had grown taller.

He passed by the toilet and almost didn't see the mirror above it. It stopped. Reflected in the mirror was a young man of about twenty-five, his chest wrapped in bandages.

He touched his face, and his heart started pounding.

"It cannot be possible. I'm young again. But this isn't my face..."

It was too much to handle in a few minutes: his blood pressure skyrocketed and he passed out.

"Master Wayne!"

"He is awake!"

Bruce slowly opened his eyes, his head pounding with pain. He was lying in bed, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and what looked like a dead man.

He groaned inwardly.

He wasn't dreaming. The pain was too real to be a dream.

"If I'm not dreaming, that means this isn't my world...and it's not even my body."

A weaker man would have lost his mind, or he would have passed out again.

In his weakened state, Bruce admitted to himself that he was almost tempted to do it, to escape his troubles for a few more hours.

Ignoring the problems wasn't going to help. He had to act.

And to do that, he had to figure out where in the story he was and how much of Lord Wayne's fate he could avoid.

"Lord Wayne, take this," the supposed doctor handed him a bowl containing a dark liquid, and helped him drink it.

He drank it all in one gulp, ignoring nausea.

The doctor then asked, “I have a few questions to ask you, Lord Wayne. Can I?"

“Proceed.”

"Do you know me?"

He was already starting with the difficult questions. He shook his head, and the man continued, "Do you recognise anyone in this room?"

He looked to his left, "You're…Alfred, right?"

"Yes, sir," the old man nodded, his eyes shining.

“You are my butler.”

“Something like that,” he answered, smiling sadly at him.

“Do you remember your parents' names?”

He didn't know them, but if Alfred was there, maybe Helena had inserted them into her story as well. It was worth a try.

“Thomas and Martha Wayne.”

Alfred's expression broke, and Bruce feared he might have said the wrong thing. The doctor wasted no time, "Your magic attribute?"

Magic attribute? He hadn't read enough to know what it was. The main characters could use magic – and wasn't it strange to think that now it could be the same for him? But he didn't know what powers Lord Wayne had.

He didn't have to answer. Alfred said irritably, "Dr. Strange, I think that's enough."

“I have to evaluate the patient's neurological damage.”

“There are other things you could ask him,” he replied, fiercely protective.

The doctor just turned up his nose, but he didn't oppose the butler's opinion and continued to ask questions that Bruce couldn't answer.

After an hour, the doctor's response was, "There was moderate neurological damage, probably due to the head trauma sustained during the attack."

“Neurological damage? His memory..."

"Post-traumatic amnesia," the doctor interrupted.

“It is characterized by two types of symptoms: disorientation and confabulation. Lord Wayne is to be assisted in his daily duties for a time to be determined."

“I don't need to be treated like a frail patient,” Bruce thought scornfully, but it was a diagnosis that worked to his advantage. He could avoid suspicions about his real identity for a few weeks, while he tried to settle into his situation and figure out what to do.

If at least one thing was clear to him, it was that he needed a plan of action if he was to live in the world of an Uncrowned Empereor.

It would be easier for him if he had read the whole novel and he hadn't stopped practically at the beginning.

Better not think about it.

There were many things he didn't know, and maybe only one person to ask that he could trust in advance.

After Doctor Strange finished talking to Alfred about the therapy he was going to prescribe for Bruce, he was escorted from the room.

“Alfred…gets everyone out.”

"It will be done, sir."

Alfred was extremely efficient. As he watched, he wondered if Helena had remembered Alfred while she was writing her novel. Alfred was already very old when she was born, and he died when the girl was six years old.

He had been as much a grandfather to her as he had been a father to him.

“It's not Alfred. It's just someone who has his name and looks like him,” he tried to remember. It hurt, though.

Why had Helena used Alfred? Was it another dig at him?

It had been a low blow, but at the moment, he was grateful. Even though he knew he wasn't the same person, being around someone with a familiar face helped him maintain a modicum of sanity.

When it was just them in the bedroom, Alfred got ready to leave too, but Bruce stopped him, “Wait. I have some things to ask you."

“Ask, Master Wayne. “

"How old am I?"

He needed to establish a chronology of events. The novel began when his character was fifty years old.

From what he had seen, that body was much younger. How many events could he avoid?

“You are twenty-five years old, sir.”

He was twenty-three years younger. He possessed a young and mostly healthy body. From what he had seen, Lord Wayne's build was heavier than his, and he had a lot more muscle.

He had plenty of time before the novel began. 

The novel started with the Grand Council and the nobles presenting their candidates. The faction close to the emperor had Kal El's younger son Jon as a candidate. The southern nobles' candidate was Lady Diana's daughter, Donna.

And his faction had as its candidate one of his adopted sons, Timothy. There it became a family drama that gave him a headache to think about and made him hate Lord Wayne with every fiber of his being.

Helena had outlined a family political drama of some intensity, and she was quite proud of it. 

“What is a magic attribute?” he decided to ask.

If that world had magic, what was to be expected? Helena had been a fan of Zatanna when she was a child, before deciding that Batwoman and Batgirl were better. Did she take inspiration from her?

He saw Alfred hesitate, “Perhaps it would be better to concentrate on other things, sir…”

“I think it's important. With my amnesia, I don't want to risk accidents."

Alfred looked down. He kept hesitating. When Alfred did, it was because he didn't know how to tell him something he knew would sadden Bruce. 

“There will be no accidents, sir. “

“Why?”

“Because you have no magic attributes. “

It took a few seconds to assimilate the information. So, the villain of the story had no magical powers. He didn't understand the choice. If you were going to write an antagonist, you had to make him dangerous. You had to make him powerful.

However, it was an advantage at the time.

“That saves us trouble,” he said and noticed that the butler raised an eyebrow slightly.

“What else should I know?”

Alfred was happy to answer all of his questions. It took a while, and he had to be careful not to ask questions that sounded too suspicious.

It was afternoon when Alfred took his leave, having to take care of the lunch management for him. Before he left, he asked, "Are there any children in this house?"

"There is Master Richard, sir."

He remembered the name. He was Lord Wayne's first adopted son. It had been a surprise to everyone that he was not the candidate to become emperor.

The reason given was that Richard was unreliable. He was a playboy with no morals who squandered his adoptive father's money and refused to marry. This was how Lord Wayne had described him. But Richard wasn't like that. The man had been trying to live up to impossible standards all his life, and he had failed. Lord Wayne had no time for failure.

"How old is he?"

"Eleven."

He closed his eyes. Perhaps the damage had already been done. But it was worth trying to give it a try.

“You could have him come to my rooms later. I'd like to talk to him."

He noticed a glint of concern in Alfred's eyes, and the butler ventured to say, “Sir, young master Richard is not responsible for what happened. Don't punish him."

“I don't want to punish him,” he said, making a mental note to ask later what he meant.

“I just want to talk to him.”

Alfred was hesitant and wondered what the hell the original owner of the body had done to make the other man so reluctant to let him near a child.

He'll have a lot to work with, won't he?

In another wing of Lord Wayne's mansion, maids were gossiping among themselves.

"Did you hear? Lord Wayne woke up."

"How is that possible? Didn't the doctor say the wound was mortal?"

"Eh, he must be wrong."

"Doctor Strange? Impossible. Alfred must have called a necromancer or something."

“It would have been known, though.”

"Unless the half-blood…"

A slight cough brought the two women back to silence. Alfred looked at them disapprovingly, making them feel like little girls caught with their hands in a jam by their mothers.

"I advise young ladies not to talk about things you don't know. It's not good to spread rumors that could harm the reputation of the master they serve."

The two women looked at the ground, embarrassed. Alfred didn't have time for them, "Go to the dry cleaners. And if I hear you making idle talk again, I won't give good references in your letters of introduction to your next employer."

The threat worked, and the maids left immediately, without saying a word.

Alfred shook his head, wondering how many recalls he'll have to make in the next few weeks.

One problem at a time.

He walked over to the door, and knocked lightly, so as not to startle its occupant.

When he entered, he found a kid jumping on the bed.

"Hi, Alfie. Is it time for lunch yet?"

"Lord Wayne would like to see you."

The kid stopped jumping, looking at him as if he had told him an army was at their door.

Alfred felt deeply sorry for him.

"Lord Wayne isn't mad at you," he wanted to reassure him, but he returned a skeptical look. Alfred didn't feel like saying anymore. Young Master Richard did not know Lord Wayne, and what he had seen of him was enough for him.

Alfred himself would like to keep the child away, but he could not disobey orders.

He had to trust his lord to be true to his word.

"Master Wayne, what are you planning to do now?"

Richard didn't say a word as Alfred ushered him through the corridors of Lord Wayne's immense residence. He held his head up, his lips pressed into a thin line, the expression of one who was steeling himself.

But to a careful eye, the clenched fists and tense shoulders didn't escape. Alfred knew that there was a storm in his young master's mind at that moment, a tangle of confused emotions that gave him no respite.

He wanted to think that a bond of mutual understanding had been created between him and Master Wayne, but he wasn't naïve.

Lord Wayne had kept zero contact with the boy since he had welcomed him into his house, giving him cold looks every time they passed by chance.

It was no surprise that what had happened had happened.

Master Richard felt like an unwanted guest, and he longed to return to those he deemed to be his true family. Even if they had abandoned him.

He was hardly in a position to comment on loyalty. He'd remained loyal to a man he barely recognized from the sweet boy he'd helped raise.

Sometimes he stared at Lord Wayne, searching for something, for a reason to remain in his service. It was getting harder as time went on.

He had toyed with the idea of resigning, once or twice. He felt bad for thinking that because despite everything, Lord Wayne was still like a son to him.

Gods forgive him though, he found it hard to find reasons for his loyalty, especially when a child like Master Richard didn't feel safe in a place that was supposed to be his home.

What if Lord Wayne got worse? Master Richard had manifested his magical attribute.

He may have just been waiting for that moment to decide that the boy was worth his time.

He could do as his father had done…

The thought was too horrible, so he quickly dismissed it. Jacob Wayne was a madman, obsessed with making his son emperor even though he knew of his condition. What he had done was so horrible...

“Is Lord Wayne angry?”

The question roused him from his thoughts.

Master Richard's expression hadn't changed, but he could see the tension on his shoulders increasing.

He sighed. "No, he's not angry."

"Are you sure?"

Honestly, it was hard to tell. The doctor said Lord Wayne's memory was impaired. This made him unpredictable.

Alfred had avoided telling him the details of what had happened, to protect the young master Richard. He wasn't sure the boy could lie as well.

They arrived at Lord Wayne's room. Alfred stayed too long with his hand on the knob.

"Alfie?"

“Um? Oh sorry. I got distracted…"

He opened the door, hoping for the best. Lord Wayne sat facing the bed, where he had left it earlier. He had a frown, his mind focused on who knows what thoughts.

He barely looked at him. But then he noticed Master Richard beside him, and he frowned. Alfred didn't even have time to say a word before Lord Wayne said, "You're not as hurt as I expected."

At that point, the boy couldn't keep up his brave face anymore. He started to cry.

Bruce had already messed everything up. He didn't know how, but he had made the kid cry as soon as he entered the room.

It was worse than he expected. The original Lord Wayne had already started being an abusive bastard.

Richard hated him Actually, it was worse. He was terrified of him to the point of crying just in his presence. He should have been more careful.

Abused children were to be approached carefully, in a protected environment, by someone they trusted.

There were none of the suitable conditions for a first meeting.

"I'm still dazed," he thought to himself, trying to ignore the panic that was creeping up on him. Panic wouldn't do him any good. He needed a plan. And a good psychotherapist, but Dr. Quinzel wasn't there, and she wasn't exactly the best with kids.

He wanted to meet Richard to ascertain the boy's condition. He had had the vague knowledge that he had been involved in the attack that had killed the body's original owner.

The kid was here. He was scared, crying and it was Bruce's fault.

He looked at Alfred, hoping the man would help him. But the butler must have misinterpreted his expression since he stood like a sentry beside the boy and said not a word.

It was clear that he would come between them in case Bruce decided to get violent with the child.

He was struck by how quickly the butler had taken sides, but he also felt a knot in his stomach at the thought that the other Bruce might have done it.

Had he ever hurt Helena? He didn't remember, but again, it was Selina who was always with her when she was little, doing most of her education.

Did Helena imagine that it would be like this if he were more present?

He felt sick, and it was only with great effort that he returned his focus to the present situation.

Before he had a chance to speak up to clear up the misunderstanding, Richard blurted out, “I didn't mean to hit you!"

He was genuinely confused. He looked at Alfred again for clarification, but the man was still a mask of tension, his jaw so tight it was a surprise it hadn't already broken.

He had no help there and had to rely on his ability to connect emotionally to another human being.

Simply put, he was in the shit.

"Richard… what didn't you want to do?" he asked, trying to keep his tone calm.

He was eyed warily, “The wind. I created it. It is my magical attribute. I knew it, but I hid it from you."

From what he had learned from Alfred, magical attributes were significant in that world, and the original Lord Wayne was probably considered a pariah for his lack of paranormal abilities. 

 At what age did children manifest their magical attributes? Was Richard afraid to reveal it because he didn't want to be exploited or for another reason?

He hated not knowing things. He needed a basis to move on, not move blindly like he was doing now.

He felt stupid.

What was worse, he had to keep improvising.
The only clear thing was that he had to improve his relationship with Richard and, if that was not possible, find a member of his family who was still alive.

It was the best solution for all parties involved.

Richard continued, “I wanted to fly again…I listened to that man and…and I hurt you. I am sorry!"

"Richard…it's not your fault."

The boy looked at him as if he was crazy, “Of course he is! You had a servant cut off his hand because he brought you poisoned food without knowing it!"

Really? It was a bit extreme, even for a semi-historical setting world like that. Helena must have had too much fun collecting Gotham crime stories while she was writing her novel.

He coughed into his hand, “Those were different circumstances. That servant was an adult, you are a child. Also, he had a power that was supposed to let him know in advance that the food he was bringing me was poisoned."

It was the first thing that came to his mind, quite consistent with the setting he was in. Alfred still didn't speak, but he looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He hadn't bought the story, of course. In theory, Lord Wayne should have memory problems and he shouldn't remember such an episode.

Alfred didn't correct him, perhaps deciding to give him a chance and play along. He was grateful to the butler.

Richard rubbed his eyes hard, sniffling snot, “He wasn't an adult. He was a little older than me."

Fuck. Where was the button to get out of that situation? He hadn't had such an uncomfortable conversation even when Alfred found strange stains on his sheets and thought it was time to explain to him the wonders of puberty.

He had barely survived that speech. He didn't know if he would survive this.

“I didn't remember well. My memory isn't in the best state. That's why I called you. I was hoping you could fill in the holes.”

"Me?"

“You are a witness. You can help me piece together what happened so I can catch whoever is responsible."

“I am not reliable. I helped that man."

“You said you didn't want to do this. There was no premeditation in your act."

"Premeditation?" the boy repeated.

“It's when you think about and commit a criminal act,” he explained, hoping it was understandable enough for someone so young.

“Oh…but I lied to you. Isn't that a crime?”

“If we were all to be considered criminals for the lies we tell, we'd all be dead already,” he replied, well aware that he belonged to the category since he pretended to be a dead man.

“I don't blame you for hiding your magical attribute from me. It's...it's private, and I'm not...I haven't made myself worthy of your trust."

The tension lifted from Alfred's shoulders, a sign that he saw the sincerity with which he said it. Bruce breathed a sigh of relief.

“You mean it,” the surprise on Richard's face was evident.

“Don't you care that I didn't tell you? Even if you adopted me just for that?”

He bit the inside of his cheek. What could he answer to that? I didn't do it but the owner of the body. Management has changed, and I don't care about all the magical nonsense.

It was not a viable option.

"Who told you?"

“Everyone says it. “

Alfred inhaled through his nose, “I don't have to do my job well if such rumours are running wild here. I'll have to work to eradicate them."

"No."

“But master Wayne…”

He raised his hand to cut him off, “People will keep gossiping. It's like people. If you oppose it too vehemently, they will see that it is proof that they were right, and they will continue.”

“We can't let certain insinuations keep spreading!”

“Are they just rumours?” the boy asked, looking at him with deep blue eyes. Bruce gulped.

" I don't remember much, but I couldn't bear to take in a child just for that reason."

“Oh…then you've lost your memory. Those maids were right.”

Before Alfred decided to punish the poor wretches who had spread the news of the lord's altered mental state, Bruce asked again, “ Can you describe the man you spoke to?”

Richard thought about it, twisting his face into a concentrated expression. Then he exclaimed, “He had his face covered by the hood! He spoke the Southern dialect, the one my mother used. Because of this…"

That's why he trusted him. The hitman reminded him of the mother he had lost.

Bruce understood this. He at Richard's age had looked for anything that reminded him of his parents.

The killer had done his research well and had leveraged a child's soft spot to get to him.
This made him angry.

Richard continued, “He had taken me into the outer court, where the walls are weakest. At least, so he had told me. He said… he said I could fly again, but I had to make my wind stronger. I had to train. I did and…and he used weapons that he threw at me and…he sent me so many…”

He was short of breath, shaking, and perspiring profusely. He was facing the first symptoms of a panic attack. He had to intervene if he didn't want him to lose control of his powers too.

“Hey, Richard. Breathe with me. Just take a deep breath."

"But…"

“Do as I do… inhale… and exhale…”

Richard with some reticence did as he told him. After a few moments, he was calm again. He opened and closed his fists, refusing to look into Bruce's eyes.

Was he ashamed of that moment of weakness? Everyone had panic attacks. And Richard had recently had a very traumatic experience.

Bruce had pushed him past his breaking point.

He said, “That's okay. We can continue another time."

“You said you needed my help to catch the killer!” the kid snapped, accusingly.

Bruce sighed, “That's true, but we can go step by step. You've been a huge help to me already, Richard. We will ramp up security until that man is caught.”

“You must have had a very hard blow to the head.”

“Why?”

"You are different. “

“And…is that a bad thing?” he asked hesitantly.

"I don't know. Will you cut off my hand?” he asked in turn.

"No!" he exclaimed, filled with horror. Will he have to deal with people who will keep asking him? He was a doctor, he treated people, he didn't permanently maim them for life.

“Then it's not too bad. I hope you stay weird.”
It was a better compliment than he expected. He coughed again, embarrassed, "Would you…would you like to eat with me?"

"Here?"

“I'm afraid so since it's doctor's orders,” Alfred interjected, emphasizing the last part. That was a trait he shared with the Alfred of his world. Bruce was a good doctor, but a lousy patient.

“I'll have something prepared for young master Richard to eat here too. “

Richard cocked his head, “Why are you doing this?”

"Why shouldn't I?"

“You didn't care before. Is it because you found out about my magical attribute? “

He licked his lips, “No. I think it's time to change things."

"Why?"

“I had the opportunity to see things from a different perspective…”

"I don't understand."

"Neither I."

Richard then did something unexpected: he chuckled. It was a precious sound, and Bruce would burn the world to keep it. His determination to save the increased. 

If there was a safe home for him, Bruce would find it. 

Richard was a brilliant child. Too bright for an old (albeit rejuvenated) barn owl like him.

After realizing that Bruce wasn't going to punish him if he talked too much or if he didn't behave nobly, he just started talking and couldn't stop.

He was a born entertainer.

The Richard he had read about was a charming man who charmed women (and some men) with his uninhibited gab, so much so that he was always on everyone's lips for his outrageous behavior.

He didn't want to think about the original.

Richard was now a child, and he was not old enough to think about having affairs with anyone.

He'll have time for that in many, many years.

Alfred had set up a small table at his bedside where Richard had eaten.

Bruce had to stay in bed, eating a vegetable broth, to not strain his stomach.

He touched almost nothing. He wasn't hungry.

He listened to Richard attentively, occasionally giving monosyllabic answers and grunts. Richard was not discouraged and kept talking.

Thus, he learned that he had inherited the wind attribute from his mother, while his father had that of balance. He wasn't mighty, but he was a great artist, and before coming to Bruce's territories, they had travelled extensively, making a living as street performers.

They were fond memories, and Bruce didn't have the heart to ask what happened to his biological parents, even though he had guessed it.

It was a pleasant conversation, and he felt sorry when Alfred cleared the table and said, 'Now Master Richard has to go. His instructor awaits him.”

"Instructor?"

“He teaches me to read and write… I'm a bit late, when I lived with my parents I didn't have time to learn these things…” Richard explained, wringing his hands.

He was too nervous. Was he ashamed of being illiterate? It certainly wasn't his fault.

“How are your studies progressing?”

“Ah…I learned enough…”

It was an evasive answer. Too evasive. 

Alfred accompanied Richard, and the boy greeted him, his smile tight. Bruce felt an itch under his skin. His instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong.

Richard's attitude had changed too quickly.

Maybe he was paranoid, but he wanted to make sure everything was okay. He stood up and had to lean with one hand on the bed to keep from falling. He felt weak and awkward in his new body.

He took a dressing gown and went out. He passed a maid, who looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Do you know where Richard has his lessons?”

"The half-blood?"

She put her hands over the mouth, realizing he'd talked too much. Bruce didn't have time for that, “Do you know or not?”

"I…"

"He should be in the west wing, third room on the right."

Another man answered, dressed in armor and with a sword at his side. It was a shock for him to recognize Jim Gordon of all people.

“Helena, how many people you know did you use for your novel?”

Ignoring the shock, Bruce, asked him, "How do you know?"

"I have been assigned to protect him, and usually accompany Master Richard. "

“I see…and what do you think of his instructor?”

Bruce saw him hesitate, so he had to hurry, "I won't be angry. I want an honest opinion."

And if you're anything like the original Jim Gordon, you'll surely say so, he thought.

Finally, the man replied, "The instructor is a cruel woman. Master Richard doesn't say it openly, but I think he is afraid of her."

"She is...she is violent with him?"

"Not physically, otherwise, I would have noticed."

Bruce was right to feel uncomfortable. Something was going on with the instructor, and Richard was too afraid of him to tell.

He cursed the previous owner of that body with all the insults he could think of, but as much as he wanted to curse him, he had to give up. There was no time to lose.

Bruce had to go to Richard right away.

Amanda Waller was terrible. 

Alfred didn't like her: he didn't like her when the previous Lord had hired her to educate Lord Bruce, and he didn't like her now.

Miss Waller was harsh and cruel in her remarks. When lord Bruce was a child, she frightened the child, and now she treated Master Richard with condescension, a subtle derision in demeanor for pretended superiority.

The boy didn't want to attend the lessons.

Sometimes Alfred had managed to get him to avoid them. However, there was little he could do when his master was the one who had ordered Waller to follow the boy's education.

Everything, to speed up the awakening of his magical attribute. An obsession that was the curse of the Wayne family.

“Mr. Pennyworth, you're a distraction,” the instructor said at one point, not looking up from the book.

Alfred didn't move, "I'm afraid more security is needed after the accident, Miss Waller."

The instructor looked up from the book, unhappy, “Accident? So now we call the assassination attempts?”

“Yes, we call them that now.”

“Age has not done you good.”

“Some people age gracefully. Not everyone has this gift,” he retorted, and they both knew he wasn't referring to himself.

It was obvious to anyone with any brains why she didn't want him there. She didn't want another adult to witness anything she did to terrify Master Richard.

Now it should be useless to make her stay, the boy had manifested his power, and a rather powerful one, too.

But given Lord Bruce's current condition, no action had yet been taken, and Waller remained.

“Captain Gordon stands outside, silent. As any good servant should do, ”she emphasized the last part with extreme condescension, as if she were not a servant of the same master.

Alfred was unimpressed, “There are so many ways to serve, Miss Waller. You should know that."

Master Richard watched the exchange silently, knuckles white from how tightly he gripped the edge of the book.

He had his difficulties, Alfred knew it. It wasn't his fault that he had grown up in an environment where reading or writing weren't required skills. The traveling performers had more pressing matters to think about, like finding the next hot meal or where to spend the night.

It didn't escape him that despite those difficulties, Master Richard had been much happier than now.

“I will have to communicate your interference to the lord.”

“I'm not intruding. I'm doing my job."

“The boy needs some kind of education…"

“What kind of education does he need that I can't even beupfrontt?”

“You are preventing me from doing my job.”

“Again, I'm not stopping you from doing anything. Should I suspect any wrongdoing?"

"Who do you think you're talking to?" she raised her voice, making Master Richard jump. Alfred noticed this. It had been an imperceptible movement, but he had noticed it.

He must have been used to hearing her scream.

She continued, “I'll report to Lord Wayne. Maybe it will be the right time to kick you out..."

"No!"

Master Richard chimed in, sounding desperate. He was about to get up when a look from Waller made him freeze. In that look was what was pure and simple hatred.

“It doesn't concern you, half-blood. Someone like you is blessed to be in the presence of civilized people."

"Miss Waller, watch your words," Alfred admonished her furiously. He couldn't control every single gossip going around the castle, but he wouldn't tolerate anyone saying such things to the young master while he was in front.

Amanda Waller scoffed at him, “Isn't that the truth? He was just a street brat before Lord Wayne decided to take him in. “

"My parents were artists," Master Richard weakly defended himself, his gaze downcast, full of shame.

No child should feel ashamed of their parents.

“Artists? They were beggars, that's what they were. They were useless people, their deaths freed the world from..."

"Stop."

Lord Bruce stormed into the room, more furious than Alfred had seen him since the poisoning incident. He didn't scream, he didn't need to. His mere presence was terrifying like a nightmare.

Instinctively, he faced Master Richard, fearing imminent danger. The instructor smiled, “Ah, Lord Wayne. We were just talking about you."

“I had low expectations, but I didn't expect this.”

Alfred felt pricked in his pride, and something inside him snapped at the master's evident contempt.

He tried to speak, but Waller preceded him, “You're right. This man doesn't know how to be in his place."

"From what I see, the one who doesn't know her place is you."

Alfred blinked, confused. Waller was equally confused, and she mumbled, "I don't think I understand…"

Lord Bruce continued, his words sharp as knives, “You have no respect for Alfred, he's been working here much longer than you. You insulted an orphan's parents, not caring about his feelings..."

“Lord Wayne, but they were…”

“They were respectable people who provided for their son to the best of their ability. By what right do you insult them? Have you ever lived on the street? Have you ever fought for your survival? Have you ever feared you might not see the next day's sunrise?”

Amanda was speechless. Alfred was in the same situation. Because, memory loss or not, he knew Lord Bruce, and those weren't his words.

He felt uncomfortable as if something was out of place. He didn't get a chance to think too much about it, not when the lord turned to Master Richard, "Have you said things like that before?"

"You can't listen to that brat..."
A look from Lord Bruce silenced her, "I didn't ask you."

He addressed the boy again, this time in a calmer tone of voice, to let him know that he wasn't angry with him, “Richard, you can tell me the truth. Has she already talked about your parents like this before?”

There were several moments of silence. Then the eleven-year-old looked up from the ground, crossing it with that of the adult.

What he saw had to convince him to trust, as in a whisper he admitted, “She often does. She says…it's their blood that makes me slow. That I should be thankful they died because you took me in. And that you're lucky too, since you can't have children without the risk of them being cursed, and you need an heir, even a fake one like me."

“He's lying, of course. He must have heard some of the maids say it and…”

"It seems to me far too accurate to be an overheard conversation," Alfred interjected, coldly. Everyone knew why Lord Wayne was reluctant to marry. His condition was unprecedented, and no one was sure if it was hereditary.

His master didn't want to risk it, the Northern Territory couldn't afford weaknesses.

“You never know what these little half-bloods are capable of doing with their dirty…"

"Enough."

Everyone fell silent immediately. Lord Bruce took a few steps to be face-to-face with Amanda Waller. He towered over her, his face dark and his eyes frozen, shadows dancing across her face.

None of it was fake. That fury, honest and pure.

It was not a trick to endear Master Richard, nor a way to deceive him or Captain Gordon.
He was so nakedly honest that Alfred wondered how long he'd been able to be. No, he corrected himself.

How long had he been honest again?

The Lord spoke, "Your services are no longer required."

“Lord Wayne…”

“Do you know what the penalty is for those who insult me?"

Alfred knew this well. He saw the captain put his hand around the hilt of his sword, waiting for an order from the lord. He wondered if he would have time to take Richard away before the execution.

Waller's hands lit up. She knew it too, but she didn't want to go down without a fight. Stupid woman.

It all happened in seconds: the woman lunged forward with her hand outstretched, the explosion ready to blow Master Bruce's stomach apart.

A gust of wind blew her across the room, resulting in part of the wall and the nearby wardrobe blowing up.

Waller was buried under debris, hopefully dead. If she were still alive, she wouldn't have gotten away with a simple decapitation. Her death would have been much longer and more painful.

Lord Bruce turned to Master Richard, "Are you all right?"

Richard looked at him with wide eyes, “Are you asking me? She was going to make your face explode!”

"I am fine. You saved me, didn't you?"

The eleven-year-old pursed his lips, “It was an accident. I didn't know if… I don't control it so well. I didn't want her to hurt you. But that I messed everything up."

Master Bruce didn't scold him for the tongue, but looked at where Amanda had landed, “The wind wasn't strong enough to cause any real damage. It was her fault in the first place, not yours."

"She is…"

"The captain will check," was the reply.

“In case he finds her still alive, he will take her to a doctor. ”

Ah, pretty cruel. Make sure she has no injuries to cause her more pain. Master Richard thought like Alfred, "Wouldn't it be better...you know...kill her now?"

For the tiniest moment, he saw his master's eyes widen as if he hadn't even considered that possibility. It was too short, and he wasn't sure he was right.

Lord Wayne said, “I'm afraid I haven't been clear. I don't want to kill her. I…I want to get her out of here. And from all my territories.”

Alfred arched an eyebrow. Exile? It was a rather mild punishment. At least, comparing it with other much more severe crimes that are all in all minor.

“Will that be enough?” Master Richard asked.

“She will no longer be our problem."

“What if… what if she has friends? Wouldn't they like to take revenge?"

“Wouldn't these so-called friends want revenge if you had her executed? There would always be death, always pain. Isn't it better… isn't it better that we try to stop it?”

Alfred opened his mouth. He closed it immediately afterward. He felt a tingling inside. He felt an indefinite feeling of unease at those words, even if he shared them.

Master Bruce would never say that, was all he could think.

Where that thought came from, he didn't know. Master Bruce was there, but somehow he felt a chasm between them.

He felt it was unreachable, more so than he ever was before. It was if hekneww he had no chance of getting to the boy he raised.

“Get over it, fool. You are needed."

He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. When he opened them again, he said to the lord, “We must take you back to your room. You've been under enough stress."

"But…"

“Captain Gordon will take care of it. Now you must go back to your rooms and rest."

Master Richard grabbed the sleeve of the cloth of the lord's robe, "May I come too? I…"

The poor boy had already witnessed two attacks on his guardian in the space of a few days. He was understandably shaken and in need of reassurance. Unfortunately for him, Master Bruce wasn't the kind of man to give it to him.

He expected the man to say something harsh, too harsh for comfort. Instead, he looked at Alfred, as if asking permission.

He was at a loss for words, but he stammered, "I think it's time to keep Master Richard in check as well."

Lord Wayne looked at him gratefully, and the weight of his heart grew heavier.

Although he had specifically ordered that Richard's instructor be given first aid, Alfred insisted on having him checked first.

It wasn't even the one that was buried by a wall, but apparently, he had the right of way.
He supposed it was the privileges of the nobility.

Doctor Strange had used a crystal during his visit, eventually reassuring him that there appears to be no damage.

He knew it first, but apparently, Alfred must have heard it too.

The butler had only quirked an eyebrow, but he didn't say a word.

When Alfred and the doctor left to check on the instructor, Richard crept up to his bed.

He looked at him with a frown, thoughtful.
Bruce didn't have the emotional skills to understand his mood, nor did he have any idea what to say to him.

Richard had saved his life. Unwittingly, it was his magic that had protected Bruce from anything that woman wanted to do to him.

Maybe he still didn't hate him enough to want him dead. Small victories, he supposed.

The silence between them was continuing and sooner or later someone will have to speak. God forbid it's him.

“Dick.”

He blinked. He expected anything but to be suddenly insulted, “Uhm…”

The boy clarified, “I don't like being called Richard. My parents called me Dick."

Oh, a nickname. A nickname with a sexual background and closer to an insult, but he didn't understand…

“Do you want me to call you Dick?” he realized.

Hesitantly, the boy nodded. Bruce asked him, "Why?"

"I don't know. I wanted to try. If that doesn't work for you..."

“No, it's not that,” he said quickly, perhaps too abruptly.

"I'll call you what you want."

“Oh…before I don't think I would have had the courage. You were pretty scary."

Richard – Dick, he remembered, and it broke his heart that in the novel he had never felt safe to use the name his parents used – he wrinkled his nose, then added, “Actually, you're still pretty scary. I thought you were going to cut off her hand."

“Should I have done that?”

“Mhm… Miss Waller is bad, but then she would have blown someone up and it would have been worse. “

“She…she was very mean to you?”

“Mhm mhm.”

"I'm sorry, I should have..."

What was he supposed to do? He wasn't the one who chose a sociopath to teach his adopted son. 

“Well, the other one left because I'm stupid. So it's not your fault."

"You aren't stupid."

"I cannot read. The letters confuse me.”

This set off alarm bells in Bruce's mind. He sat up, "Do the letters confuse you?"

“Yeah, I can't even write that well. Mom had tried to teach me, but there was never time, and…it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.

“I care,” he said confidently.

“I need to know more. Describe the symptoms…uhm…what you can't do.”

"There's not much to say. I don't understand what is written. I reverse the numbers sometimes and…mhm…substitute the letters, and I don't quite understand the new words.”

Helena didn't want to be a doctor. And yet, here are the precise signs of dyslexia. She had studied hard and the results had been there.

So why abandon everything?
He dismissed that train of thought. That wasn't the point. Gently, he said, "Dick… you're not stupid."

“Oh, that's fine. You don't need to lie to me to make me feel better."

“No, it's not that. I mean, I want to make you feel better, but I'm not lying to you. I think what you have is dyslexia.”

Dick cocked his head, "What is dyslexia?"

"Um...it's a learning disability. It causes all the things that you suffer."

“How do you know it's dyslexia and not because I'm stupid?”

“You are a smart boy. “

"How do you know it? You don't know me."

“Anyone who talks to you for more than five minutes realizes that,” he said confidently.

“But Miss Waller…”

“Her opinions don't matter. She was guided by her prejudices. “

“Mhm…"

Dick fussed at the fabric of the sheet, then asked, "If I have dyslexia…does that mean I'll never learn to read and write?"

Bruce wasn't a pediatrician. It wasn't an area in which he felt comfortable, and dealing with relatives was a thousand times worse than normal patients.

But Leslie had been a pediatrician before opening a pro bono clinic in Crime Alley. When Alfred had feared that the trauma had damaged Bruce beyond repair, Leslie had come to the rescue.

Dick will need mind maps. He will have to understand what his greatest difficulties were, and to develop his memory. It was a useful trick for dyslexics. Children often helped themselves by memorizing images, therefore, memory games were certainly a valid aid.

For reading perhaps he should start reading something suitable. There he will have to ask Alfred.

“Of course, you can learn to read and write, Dick. I'll help you."

The boy looked at him as if he was crazy, “But you're so busy! I can't steal your time! You are the lord!”

“I'm also your guardian, and it's my duty… to look after your well-being,” he finally corrected himself. He thought it was too presumptuous to say I must take care of you, especially now that their relationship was so new.

“I don't know…maybe Miss Waller was right…”

"Wouldn't that be a nice revenge to prove her wrong?"

“Well, if you put it like this…”

It will be a mess to organize, but Bruce had always been good at multitasking. He won't entrust the child to another instructor unprepared to address his educational needs.

It was little, a small step, but it was the beginning of a relationship of sorts.

Hey Helena. Would you like to have a little brother?

He supposed that he should have put it on the long list of questions that will never be answered.

"It's impossible."

Alfred's voice was unsteady as he said it, but it was understandable.

What Dr. Hugo Strange was saying didn't make any sense.

The doctor wiped the blood from his hands.
He'd had to amputate Amanda Waller's hand to save her life (although Alfred suspected he'd done it for more disturbing reasons, he didn't care, he'd cut more off that woman if it were up to him ) after it was crushed.
What an irony of fate.

Anyone who sees it will think it's another proof of Lord Wayne's cruelty. No one will guess that she was alive only by the lord's will.

Not that the reputation mattered. Not when he felt something was wrong. There had been too many unexplained changes, not attributable to the doctor-diagnosed memory loss.

Strange didn't share his fears, “Mr. Pennyworth, I already told you. Nothing out of the ordinary results from the resonance of the crystal. Lord Wayne is just confused. I could tell you more if you could study his brain about him..."

“It's not an option,” he said coldly. He had no doubts about Doctor Strange's ability. It was his propensity for experimentation that unnerved him, but in this case, it came in handy.

If anyone could confirm his suspicions of him, it was Doctor Strange. Too bad he couldn't see his point of view of him.

“I already told you that in his case it is normal for changes to occur.”

“Changes such that you look like a completely different person?” he asked.

“I've known Lord Wayne since he was a child. There's something wrong."

"And I repeat, from my analysis, it doesn't appear."

He felt frustrated. He couldn't even provide evidence, not when nothing had emerged from the crystal.

But Alfred knew there was something different. The sensation that had disturbed him before was that of being in front of a stranger.

It was impossible, according to Strange's logic and his skill. In his old age, he had become paranoid.

Some might say that he was nervous about seeing positive changes that might not last.

Nonsense: Alfred trusted his sixth sense of him.

Something was wrong with Lord Wayne. And if the crystal didn't confirm it, that meant more investigation was needed.

“I will investigate on my own.”

“You won't find anything, Pennyworth. Don't waste your time, you have more important things to take care of."

“This is important,” he replied coldly.

He didn't expect him to understand. To the doctor, Master Bruce was just a nobleman he was supposed to care for.

For Alfred, it was different. Even though for years he'd buried that truth deep inside, still he refused to face it.

He took his leave, having no business there. Miss Waller was in good hands. And if Doctor Strange wants to do some experiments, it's none of his business.
 

Alfred couldn't let it go. He had a duty to the North and, above all, to his lord. He had raised this boy, and he could not be easily fooled. Therefore, he decided to face the situation head-on.

"Who are you?"

Bruce blinked, “What…”

The butler turned around, the face of someone who didn't have time to deal with other people's bullshit. It was amazing how well Helena had captured the essence of someone she had never known when she had created her Alfred.

Bruce fell silent, aware that whatever he says now will set the course of his destiny.

“You are not Master Bruce,” Alfred's voice was strained, but there was no hint of indecision. He spoke with the assurance of someone who had proof of what he was saying.

“I already had my doubts, but tonight you confirmed them.”

“Did you have doubts?”

“Memory loss can't explain such a radical personality change,” Alfred spoke slowly, his eyes shining.

Was he about to cry? No, when Alfred spoke again, there was no inflection in his voice, “I raised Bruce, I know him better than he believes… believed… He was never kind, I'm afraid. And the hatred for his brother was so ingrained that, with or without memory, he would have ordered Hugo Strange's death in the blink of an eye."

"You seem sure of that."

“Like I said, I raised Bruce. I know how deep the hatred for his brother is. It's an open wound in his heart, an emotion that goes beyond everything, even memory. You should have felt anger. Even if you didn't remember the name, the mention of a brother should have triggered a reaction. It didn't happen."

Bruce listened intently, shaking hands.

Was a plausible deniability possible? Alfred had no real proof, other than circumstantial. Nobody would believe him if he said that the current Lord Wayne wasn't the real one.

But he couldn't do that to Alfred, it didn't matter which version of his father in anything but blood was.

Bruce was weak because he knew what he should have done, but he didn't have the strength to do it.

Bruce was doomed from the moment he discovered that Alfred was also in this world.

He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. When he opened them again, he said, "I'm Bruce Wayne."

“No, you aren't.”

"I am. But not of this world."

"Oh?"

Alfred's reaction was an invitation to continue. From here, he will have to be careful what he says, in order not to lose a potential ally (and not risk his life).

He could not say that this world was a novel.

Because to Alfred, Dick, and Gordon, it was real. It was their world.

And even for Bruce that was a new reality. The fact that it had somehow originated from the fantasy of being his daughter was a revealing but unnecessary detail to share now.

It would have been like saying that he was the father of the God of that world.

“I'm Bruce Wayne, but from another universe… where there is no magic, or at least not as you know it. I was killed, and when I woke up, I was in this body."

He recognized that it was a reductive explanation of what had happened. But he will say the rest depending on how Alfred reacts.

But Alfred wasn't the first to react.

“Are you from another world?”

They turned simultaneously towards the half-open door, where Dick was half-hidden. The boy had put a hand to his mouth, embarrassed for having let himself be discovered.

Oh.

This wasn't expected.

Alfred, as surprised as he was, rubbed his eyes, "Young master, you should be asleep."

"I know. But I had a nightmare, - the kid said, and approaching Bruce asked - So, where are you from?"

"Do you believe me? Without question?" 

The kid nodded, and said, 

"So that's why you were so weird. You aren't you."

"What do you mean?" 

"You were kind."

The answer was heartbreaking. He stammered, searching for something to say, when Alfred, probably still thinking he might be dangerous, gently pushed Dick away from him.

The butler said, "You understand that you have a lot to explain to us, sir."

Yeah, there was a lot to talk about. Where to start? He assumed there was only one way to talk about it.

“I woke up here after being killed…”

He told everything, about who was in his world, about the circumstances of his death, about how he had woken up confused in a world he did not understand. He did not say that it was his daughter who had created that world. It would have been too much to accept that their lives were just stories. It was Alfred's world. It was Dick's world. For them, it was real.

At the end, Dick said,  "That's all?"
Of all the reactions Bruce expected, this one wasn't one. He knew he wasn't a good storyteller, he was too clinical in his exposition of him, disinclined to go into detail.

It will be the world he will live in from now on unless Alfred decides to kill him because he possesses the body of his real master.

"What do you mean?"

Dick made a concentrated expression, "It's just...isn't there anything else? No meeting with any god? Nothing?"

Bruce shook his head, "If a god was responsible for the exchange, he didn't show."

“Why? Why did you switch? Are you the same person? Is he dead?”

At the last question, the boy's lip trembled. Bruce felt his heart tighten. He knew what he was thinking, "Dick, it's not your fault."

"You didn't answer me," Dick pointed out.

"Why? Does that mean I killed him?”

Alfred, God bless his soul, interjected, “Young master, what happened was not your responsibility. Even our Lord Wayne knew it.”

The butler looked at Bruce as if to dare him to say otherwise. Bruce didn't even think about it. From what he had learned of the dynamics of the attack, Dick had been used by the killer. It wasn't his fault.

“Then what happened? Who changed their souls?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? Who had it been? Bruce wasn't a believer, even though enough shit had happened in his world to make a local man change his mind in the universe.

It was hard to conceive of a deity, any deity, intervening for him. No, not for him: if it had been a help to him, he would have awakened in his world, in his body, in his life.

He wouldn't steal the life of an imaginary character.

Bruce didn't have all the answers. He only had guesses. And he hated it.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, than we can understand,” Alfred said, arms folded across his chest.

It was hard to read his expression, or figure out what he would do. He continued, “Lord Wayne wasn't a believer. I suspect you aren't either."

“No, I'm not. “

“Ironic how, whoever had no god to pray to, had such a miracle. Don't you think?"

He didn't know what to answer. Meanwhile Dick, eyes narrowed as if he were sleepy, muttered, "If you're from another world… do you think that… well… my parents are alive there?"

“Dick…”

“I think that would be nice,” the boy continued.

“I don't want to replace the other me or anything like that. It would be enough for me to know that they are well, and that they are happy.”

If he could, Bruce would have punched the universe to reunite him with his parents, consequences be damned. Unfortunately he couldn't, and he couldn't even give him the closure he needed.

“But I’m happy you are here,” Dick said. “You seems pretty cool. Right, Alfred?”

Alfred didn’t replay. He placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, a complicated expression on his face. Bruce felt compelled to say, "I didn't want to replace him. I'm sorry to be here and not him."

Dick tilted his head, "Why should you mind? You are so much better!"

A flash of grief ran through Alfred's face, and Bruce knew that at least one person would cry over the loss of the original Lord Wayne.

"It's not your fault that you're here," the butler said at last. "I blame the gods, and their will inscrutable."

"Maybe the gods wanted to send a good person," Dick insisted. "They wanted to give me a real dad."

"Dick, I..."

"What, you don't want me either?"

It couldn't be looked at that way without melting. He swallowed, "I would be honoured to be your father..."

"Then it's okay!" the kid exclaimed, the quickest to recover from all that emotional roller coaster. "You'll be the new lord of the north, you'll teach me to read and you'll be kinder to everybody, so people will stop sending you hitmen to kill you and things like that. Everything will be fine!"

He didn't dare to correct him, and watched him as he hopped out of the room and gave him a quick goodnight.

"Young master, wait for me, I'll accompany you," Alfred called him back. Before leaving, he turned to Bruce, "You're not a bad person. But you'll have to learn a lot of things. I can't let the North, and the Wayne legacy, be lost because of you."

"I understand," Bruce replied sincerely, understanding Alfred's upset and already thankful he wasn't killed again.

"From tomorrow, you will have to learn how to manage your territory, and how to be a true lord. We will use the excuse of amnesia, in this way no one will ask too many questions. You are fortunate that our territories are very seldom visited by other lords and ladies, and that there are still fewer opportunities to go to the capital.'

This reminded him of one thing, "One day, will I have to present someone as the Emperor's successor?"

Alfred looked at him, surprised, "You know it... of course, I had to imagine that you were hiding something... to answer your question, it would be preferable to do so, if only to show the power of the North to everyone else. If a candidate does not show up, there will be some unpleasant rumors about you. Not that it would be new, but presenting a candidate is too important to silence everything without too much fuss."

Bruce clenched his fists. So, that wasn't off the plate. He had to introduce Dick when the time comes.

Unlike the original Lord Wayne, though, he won't force the boy into anything he doesn't want, never make him doubt his worth, and he'll love him.

At least, he will try not to mess everything up, as he had already done with Helena. He hoped that, if there were gods behind all this, they would help him in his second chance at life. If not love for him, at least to save an innocent kid.

"Sleep now, sir. Your new life has just begun."

And just like when he was a child, Bruce obeyed. For the first time in a long time, he prayed.

Please, if anyone is listening to me... make me a good parent... don't let me ruin this life too...