FELURIAN
many of the darker sort
would love to use you for their sport.
what keeps these from moonlit trespass?
iron, fire, mirror-glass.
elm and ash and copper knives,
solid-hearted farmer's wives
who know the rules of games we play
and give us bread to keep away.
but worst of all, my people dread
the portion of our power we shed
when we set foot on mortal earth.

KVOTHE
We are more trouble than we're worth.

-Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

/~*~/

Chapter 1

"Here we are, sir," Alfred said as he opened the car door.

Bruce placed his feet on the pavement and stood up, moving with the kind of slow, painstaking care he usually reserved for sneaking silently across rooftops. His hands only trembled slightly on the grip of the cane as he abandoned the relative safety of the car for the early spring sunshine of the Manor driveway. He hadn't taken a bad fall while trying to walk by himself in over a week—that had been one of the stipulations of his release from the hospital, actually—but there was no real need to push himself, either.

Once he was certain he was upright and staying that way, Bruce began the walk from drive to front door. There had been a time when he'd have thought nothing of crossing such a small space, barely fifteen feet and a handful of stonework stairs. He must have made the same journey ten thousand times, each one effortless, taken for granted. He had done it while running, skipping, walking backwards or with his hands full, on ice or in pouring rain, even when paying no attention as he carried on an important conversation over the phone. Now it was a daunting prospect.

One step. Two. Bruce leaned into the cane, letting it support some of his weight as he moved. Sweat beaded on his temples and the back of his neck despite the cool wind. The pain pooled, low and liquid and burning, at the base of his spine. Bruce wondered—not for the first time—how he would have managed at all, without the discipline he'd cultivated in his years of training. Even his doctors had admitted as much, albeit without understanding the reason why; they'd said more than once that Bruce was lucky he was such a dedicated athlete, because if he'd been in anything less than perfect physical condition prior to his "skiing accident," he'd probably have never walked again, with a cane or otherwise.

It took nearly a full minute, but Bruce safely reached the first stair leading up the porch. He paused for a moment, eyeing the obstacle. The cane was in his right hand, so he reached for the wrought-iron railing with his left. It was more a decorative feature than a structural one, but like everything else in the Wayne ancestral home, it had been built to last. It would hold his weight.

His right foot went first. The lifting motion was more difficult than simple walking, but not dramatically so. It wasn't until he shifted his weight, pushing himself up with the cane and left foot and pulling with his left hand, that the pain threatened to overwhelm him. Thunder roared in his ears as dizziness swept over him, and for a moment the world fell away.

Alfred's hand appeared at his elbow, anchoring him.

Bruce took one deep breath, focusing on the feel of his lungs as they first expanded, then contracted. He regained his balance, both physical and figurative, slowly collecting the frayed and ragged edges of his control.

"I'm fine, Alfred," Bruce said, voice firm.

Alfred hesitated, but only for half a heartbeat. He removed his hand and stepped back, saying only, "Of course, sir."

Bruce climbed the second stair, and then the third. He breathed in deep and released it, in and out, slow and careful. He'd spent years traveling the globe, learning from some of the most extraordinary people on the planet, and most of the techniques he'd been taught began with just this: controlled breathing, in and out, a steady rhythm.

On the fifth stair, one from the top, he was forced to stop again or risk another dizzy spell. He closed his eyes for just a few moments, turning his attention outward to find a distraction. The wind was calm and constant today, drawing waves of gentle rustling from the new spring leaves of the Manor's stately maples and oaks. There must have been a bird's nest in one of the nearby trees, because there was a never-ending chorus of chirps coming from the side garden as the new hatchlings demanded food. Far overhead, almost too far away to hear at all, there was the low hum of a passenger jet as it flew by, carrying business travelers and spring vacationers down the east coast.

"Master Bruce?"

"My bag, Alfred," Bruce said gently, without turning his head.

Alfred nodded once, although Bruce only saw it from the corner of one half-open eye. "At once, sir," he said. There was the faintest brush of fingers at Bruce's shoulder, simply a reminder that he was there, and then Alfred retreated.

Bruce took one more deep breath and climbed the final stair. From there, it was only a few steps to the front door. It took him several long, painful seconds to cross the remaining distance, one step at a time.

Alfred reappeared next to him, weighed down with the suitcase Bruce had been living out of during his stay at the hospital. He opened the front door with one hand, letting it swing wide and inviting in front of them.

"Welcome home, Master Bruce," Alfred said softly, and gestured him inside.

Bruce clenched his jaw. Then he moved the cane from the porch's sculpted stone to the foyer's polished hardwood, and stepped across the threshold.

/~*~/

Bruce had always known that Wayne Manor was vast, with its long echoing corridors and multiple unused bedrooms. He knew it the way he knew the circumference of the earth, or the boiling point of water—an academic fact, devoid of emotional resonance. He had grown up here, and while he understood on an intellectual level that his house was absurdly huge and largely vacant, he had never before felt it on a visceral level. The Manor was home, and he had always been comfortable here.

Even in the wake of his parents' murders, when the place had been painfully silent and empty, Bruce had found comfort in wandering the familiar hallways or hiding in out-of-the-way rooms where well-wishers and sympathizers couldn't find him. Solitude suited him, even as a child, and he had never outgrown that habit of retreating to seldom-used spaces when he needed to think. More than one concerned adult, be they social worker, family friend, or W.E. board member, had tried to remove him from the Manor and place him somewhere more cheerful, more child-friendly. They hadn't understood. To Bruce, the Manor had never been scary or lonely. It was his place, and he belonged there.

The week that he returned from the hospital, Bruce finally sympathized with the unease so many of his guests had tried and failed to conceal over the years. For the first time, Bruce looked around at the familiar walls and felt the massive house looming over him, cold and hollow and sinister. Where once he could have traversed the entire main section without opening his eyes, now Bruce felt like a stranger in his own home. The well-worn paths from room to room were now treacherous things, painful and dangerous to attempt alone. The outer wings and upper floors might as well have been in another world altogether, as distant and unreachable as the moon.

He did his best not to hold it against the house. It wasn't the Manor that had changed.

His days fell into a routine, not much different than the one he'd been subject to at the hospital. Alfred had taken over most of the required nursing duties, of course—it would have been embarrassing, had Bruce not been oft reminded that Alfred had changed his diapers, once upon a time—but a physical therapist still had to come for a session with him twice a day. Bruce wasn't sure if it was the Wayne name on the side of the hospital or simply the size of his bank account that had prompted his doctors to arrange for house calls, but he wasn't above taking advantage of it. It was easier, somehow, to struggle with a body that refused to work properly in the privacy of his home instead of a crowded hospital gym. If he had to show weakness, better it be in front of Alfred and a single, discreet professional than a room full of gossiping strangers.

The biggest change was the quality of the food, at least when the pain medication wasn't making him too nauseous to eat. Bruce had never been more grateful for Alfred's deft hand in the kitchen than in the immediate wake of being subjected to bland, mass-produced hospital meals. The coffee alone—when he was allowed to have it—made him feel almost human again, at least until the caffeine wore off and the drugs pulled him back under. Then he would sleep, most often upright in a carefully-arranged chair, as his body tried to knit his spine back together around the pins and rods the doctors had inserted to stabilize it.

Sometimes, Bruce thought he could feel those metal pieces scraping against his bones, foreign and cold and wrong. There were times when he had the urge to claw at the small of his back, to get rid of their invasive presence. He knew it was psychosomatic, that he'd be even less mobile than he was without the support the pins provided. That didn't stop the deep chill that sometimes swept up his spine, as if the pins were leeching all the heat from his body. Illogical or not, he wanted the metal gone. It wasn't a part of him; it didn't belong.

When the feeling became overwhelming, Bruce would stand in a scalding-hot shower for as long as his legs would support his weight. The water tugged at his still-healing surgery scars, but it was a fair trade. The heat from the water seeped into his muscles and bones, chasing away the unnatural chill. Being freshly clean didn't take away that feeling of wrongness entirely, but it did make it easier to ignore. Eventually, the doctors had promised, he'd get used to the presence of strange objects embedded in his back. At some point he'd even forget that they were there.

Bruce had his doubts. Every time he took a step, every time he sat down or stood up, every time he turned or rotated at the waist, it brought another reminder of what he'd lost. Some of it would come back, with time and therapy, but he would never be what he was before. He'd walk with a cane for the rest of his life, and even then it would always be a struggle. When the pain became too much, as he aged, it would become a wheelchair.

For Bruce Wayne, successful businessman by day and unapologetic playboy by night, it would be little more than an inconvenience. Not being able to stand up for long periods, or walk quickly from one room to another, wouldn't affect his ability to run his company, and the women who were only after him for his money in the first place would hardly be deterred by a wheelchair. Expense wasn't an obstacle when it came to obtaining medical treatment or supplies, or hiring extra help to compensate for his limited mobility. He should have considered himself lucky, in that regard. He already had a butler to fetch and carry for him, and a driver to cart him around. What would be a life-shattering disability to most people would barely make any real changes in the privileged existence of the so-called Prince of Gotham.

Bruce was thoroughly tired of people explaining this to him. He'd heard it from his doctors, who had been so excited to tell him that he wasn't completely paralyzed, as if that made the stark reality of his physical condition any less devastating. He'd heard it from the board at Wayne Enterprises, who had been thrilled that the "accident" hadn't left him incapable of being CEO, as if reassuring the stock-holders was his priority at the moment. He'd heard it from his physical therapist, who was just professional enough to disguise her distaste with his attitude behind gentle advice to make the best of things, as if he wasn't already pushing himself as hard as he could, in the hopes that the doctors were wrong about his expected level of recovery.

Luckily, a certain amount of self-centeredness was part of the patented Bruce Wayne image, so none of them were terribly surprised that he was taking it poorly. He was, after all, nothing but a spoiled billionaire who happened to have some decent business acumen to go along with his shockingly shallow personality. No one expected anything better from him, and some days that hurt even more than the debilitating pain in his back. He'd played the part too well for too long, and now he was living with the consequences. It had always seemed worth it, before, when it hadn't been all he was. He'd convinced himself that the mission was all that mattered; when Bane took that away from him, what was left?

Only Alfred understood. With Alfred, Bruce was allowed to be angry or frustrated or bitter, without anyone explaining why those feelings weren't valid or appropriate. Then again, Alfred was the only one who knew the truth of what Bruce had lost.

It had been Alfred who had found him that night, lying broken on the ground, helpless and defeated. It had been Alfred who had gotten him to safety, who had stripped him out of the armor and taken him to the hospital. It had been Alfred who crafted the cover story about a ski trip and an unfortunate fall, complete with reservations and plane tickets and all the paperwork any thorough journalist could ask for. It had been Alfred who made all the necessary calls and ensured the best possible treatment.

It had been Alfred who had sat outside his hospital room, stalling visitors and hospital staff alike, allowing Bruce the space to fall apart in private after the prognosis had been handed down. It had been Alfred who had helped him fill out all the necessary paperwork to arrange an interim CEO until he had recovered enough to go back to work. It had been Alfred who had pushed for the opportunity to take him home, as soon as his condition was stable enough to allow it. Once there, it was Alfred who steadfastly cleaned sweat-soaked bed sheets or vomit-covered blankets, who dispensed endless medication with tireless precision, who helped Bruce with such simple things as getting dressed and using the bathroom with calm, endless patience.

Alfred had picked Bruce up out of that gutter, where Bane had left him to die, and he'd been carrying him ever since.

/~*~/

On the third night since leaving the hospital, Bruce ate nearly half of his dinner and kept all of it down. To celebrate, and to prove to himself that he could stay awake for more than a few hours at a time, Bruce settled into his reading chair in the parlor rather than going straight to bed. He turned on the television and split his attention between the evening stock report and an old favorite novel, trying to distract himself from the pain and exhaustion.

At the top of the hour, just as Bruce was considering admitting defeat and going to bed, the program changed to the nightly news. He looked up as the anchor began to speak.

"—ongoing stories tonight, among them the disturbing trend in violent crimes throughout the city, which are continuing to rise fast in the wake of the Batman's disappearance. As the weeks continue with no confirmed sightings of Gotham's resident vigilante, some criminals are growing bolder. The Gotham City Police Department, long known to be undermanned and underfunded, is struggling to keep up. They have so far claimed no comment concerning the rumors that the Batman has been killed, as many among Gotham's criminal element are claiming. All they would say is that a body has not been found at this time. This leaves us asking the one question no one anticipated: Where has the Batman gone?"

Bruce didn't realize he was clenching his hands until he heard the spine of his book creaking in protest.

On the screen, the news anchor turned to face a different camera, one with a wider view that showed both her and her partner seated side-by-side. "It's now been more than a month since the Batman was last seen, Kevin," she said.

"It has," her partner said, turning to face his own solo camera. "And with tensions in the city rising, we go now to Marta at City Hall, where earlier today the Mayor convened an emergency council to address the growing—"

The television abruptly changed, cutting off the news anchor mid-sentence. Bruce glanced over to find Alfred standing nearby, holding the remote. When the feed came back, the speakers began to play soft, anonymous jazz.

Alfred's hand fell, solid and reassuring, on Bruce's shoulder. "Perhaps some music instead, Master Bruce?" he said, his voice casual and polite, as if the idea was nothing but a passing fancy.

"That will be fine," Bruce replied, forcing his clenched hands to relax. He met Alfred's steady gaze, and gave him a slow nod. "Thank you, Alfred."

"Of course, sir," Alfred said.

/~*~/

It may not have felt like it to Bruce, but the days did slowly get better. The physical therapy sessions became once a day, and then three days a week as his progress plateaued. His appetite returned as the pain medication tapered off, and his reflection in the mirror began to lose its pallid, sickly look. He no longer sweated intermittently through low-grade fevers. He reached the point where he was able to get in and out of the shower and use the bathroom by himself, most of the time. He began taking sporadic phone calls from the office, if he was feeling up to it, just to alleviate the increasing boredom.

The nights, on the other hand, got worse.

One of the benefits of being on constant pain medication was pervasive drowsiness and vivid, nonsensical dreams that were difficult to recall afterward. Once he began weaning off the drugs in earnest, Bruce found he couldn't sleep. The pain was almost impossible to ignore, lying motionless in the dark with nothing else to draw his focus. Then, when he did fall asleep, he had nightmares.

Bruce was no stranger to disturbing dreams. He'd been reliving the night his parents were murdered off and on for the last twenty years, remembering how it felt to be young and afraid, unable to protect the ones he loved. Becoming Batman had only changed the nightmares, not banished them; in later years, he sometimes fell asleep listening to the screams of those he'd been too late to save. Other nights it was the accusing eyes of the ones he'd never had a chance to save, the ones who had been dead bodies before he'd ever learned their names.

Now, his dreams were filled with Bane's mocking voice and the sound of his own spine snapping, caught in that terrifying moment when he'd hit the ground and known, immediately, that he was irrevocably broken. Sometimes the nightmares merged with the one from his childhood, and he was forced to lie helpless on the ground as his parents were gunned down in front of him. He knew that if he could only get up and fight he could save them, but the pain was too much, paralyzing him. He could only watch, over and over again.

It was from one such dream that Bruce woke, in the third week since coming home from the hospital, not much past two in the morning. As always, the first thing to hit him was the sharp, throbbing pain in his back. Eventually, he'd learn not to try to move right away, but so far his first instinct—especially in the wake of bad dreams—was to lash out, defensive. In his old life, that automatic reaction might have saved him from an enemy. Now all it did was hurt.

He forced himself to remain motionless as he regained control of the pain. Once it had retreated to the constant low-level hum he was learning to live with, Bruce pushed himself upright and carefully swung his legs off the side of the mattress. His plan was to waste a few minutes making slow, easy laps around the bedroom until his back wouldn't support his weight anymore. Hopefully the effort would tire him out and allow him to fall back asleep.

Bruce reached for the cane where it was propped next to the headboard, but he didn't use it to help him stand right away. Instead, he placed it across his pajama-clad knees, running his hands back and forth across the cold aluminum. It shone gently in the dark, reflecting the ambient moonlight that seeped through the gaps in the curtains. It was such a small, lightweight thing. He forgot that, sometimes. It always felt so heavy.

Suddenly Bruce's desire to get up and pace evaporated. He just sat there instead, eyes scanning through the shadowed contours of the familiar-but-strange room. Even after three weeks, it still felt wrong to sleep here, in the room he'd been so adamant to never occupy. Unfortunately, it was the only bedroom that didn't require going up a flight of stairs to reach, and not even Bruce was stubborn enough to put himself through an hour-long ordeal every morning and evening just to avoid this room.

Alfred called it the master suite, especially in his periodic attempts to convince Bruce to move into it, but to Bruce it would always be his parents' room. In the direct aftermath of their deaths, Bruce hadn't so much as set foot inside it for a long time. It was six months before he felt brave enough to walk past the doorway and glance inside, and another year after that before he buckled down and forced himself to begin sorting through their belongings. All of it went to charity, including his mother's jewelry, save for a few things here and there that Bruce kept for sentiment's sake: a cuff link, a framed photo, a little bottle of perfume. These things ended up in two cardboard boxes, one labeled 'Dad' and one labeled 'Mom,' both in Bruce's neat but still clumsy child's handwriting. He had flatly refused to let anyone move the furniture, or rearrange the room in any way. There were a dozen other bedrooms in the Manor; it wouldn't hurt anything to let this one simply be.

Nearly twenty years later, those two boxes still sat in the far corner of the room, nestled between the window and the closet door. There was no dust, of course—it was one of the rooms in Alfred's weekly cleaning rotation—but somehow the room still felt abandoned. Even with Bruce's wristwatch and cell phone adorning the dresser, and his slippers resting on the floor next to the nightstand, it felt hollow. Maybe it had been a disservice to his parents to turn their room into a mausoleum. Maybe they would have been happy that he had finally found the courage to stay here, if not for the circumstances that had forced him into it.

Bruce checked the clock one more time, considered his chances of falling back asleep, and made a decision. It took him the better part of an hour, but he managed to move the two cardboard boxes over to the bed. Luckily they were small, lightweight and easily carried, but even so the physical exertion drained him. It was a stark reminder of how much he had lost, when moving less than twenty pounds across a room was a serious challenge.

Once he had recovered, Bruce turned on the bedside lamp and opened up the boxes. The sight that greeted him brought back a flood of memories, along with a soft, almost welcome, pang of grief.

Reverently, Bruce began to pull things out, one at a time.

Alfred found him like that a little while later, still far too early for either of them to be awake. By then, Bruce was surrounded on the bed by miscellaneous mementos. Some transported him immediately back to his childhood, like the little wooden jewelry box he had painted in art class and given to his mother. Each of the six faces was a different bright, garish color, and the lines between them meandered rather than strictly following the corners, but she had never cared that it was ugly. She had awarded it pride of place on her vanity anyway, calling it her Treasure Box.

Others he couldn't remember his reason for keeping, like one of his father's green patterned neckties. Had it been a gift from Bruce, a birthday or Father's Day present? Had Thomas Wayne worn it on some special occasion that nine-year-old Bruce wanted to commemorate? Was there something special about this particular tie, as opposed to the dozens of others that had been packed up and donated?

"Master Bruce?" Alfred said quietly, walking inside. For once, he wasn't impeccably dressed in one of his many identical work suits, but wearing a finely-made dressing robe over nightclothes.

Bruce held up the seemingly-ordinary green tie. "Do you know why I kept this?" he asked.

Alfred came closer, blinking. Then he smiled. "I believe that was one of your father's anniversary gifts, that year. He hated colorful ties, calling them gaudy. So of course your mother gave him one at every opportunity, just to watch him open it in polite company and pretend to like it."

Bruce looked down at the strip of green cloth in his hands. "I had forgotten she did that," he said quietly.

"I imagine there is much you've forgotten about them," Alfred said. He found an empty corner of the bed and sat down with his intrinsic elegance, turning to face Bruce. "So have I, I'm afraid, although I had the advantage of having known them longer than you did." He reached over and picked up a loose sheet of paper, an embossed invitation announcing the sixth annual Wayne Children's Benefit at the convention center downtown. The date was exactly one week before the night they had died. "It's the nature of life to move on, to forget things as time passes," he said, running one finger across the slightly raised text. "I'm quite sure they wouldn't be upset, if that's what's bothering you."

Bruce's lips twitched in half a smile. Alfred hadn't dispensed unsolicited emotional advice, let alone said that many words in a row without calling him 'sir,' since before Bruce had left for college. Apparently Bruce wasn't the only one feeling nostalgic, tonight.

"What prompted this, if you don't mind my asking?" Alfred nodded at the loose debris scattered all across the bed. "It's quite late for reminiscing. Or early, rather."

"Couldn't sleep," Bruce said, attempting to sound nonchalant. It wouldn't fool Alfred for a heartbeat, but there were appearances to uphold, even in private. "Thought maybe it was time I decided if there was anything worth keeping in here, once and for all."

"In that case," Alfred said, standing back up and heading toward the hall, "I'll go put on some coffee, and we'll see what we have, shall we?"

Bruce nodded absently, dismissing him. Once he had disappeared, Bruce leaned over slightly to remove the final item from his mother's box. It was a small book, no bigger than Bruce's hand and perhaps an inch thick. The cover was heavy brown leather, faded and worn smooth with age. The pages were yellowing and onion-skin thin against his finger as he thumbed across one corner. At first he thought it might have been an old family bible, the kind with a name inscribed in small gold lettering on the front.

Intrigued, Bruce turned the little book toward the lamp and brought it closer to his eyes. Written across the cover in calligraphy-style letters was The Book of Fae, and in smaller, plainer script underneath, A Practical Guide.

Bruce frowned. His first thought—that it must be a book of children's stories—was disproven simply by flipping quickly through a few pages. The text was small and tightly packed, with no pictures to be found. He read a sentence here and there at random and found the language mildly outdated, like the classic literature he'd read in school. Even accounting for the semi-formal tone, though, the words weren't meant for children. It read more like a scientific text than a storybook.

Curious, Bruce flipped back to the introduction and began to read it, but he didn't get very far. When Alfred returned a few minutes later with fresh coffee, Bruce held up the little book to give him a good view, asking, "Do you know what this is?"

Alfred glanced at it while putting the coffee tray on the dresser. "I don't believe I've ever seen that particular book before, sir," he said.

Bruce thoughtfully rubbed one palm across the soft leather cover. "It was in the box with my mother's things," he said. "You don't know where it came from?"

"I'm afraid not," Alfred said, handing over a steaming mug.

Bruce shrugged and set the book aside on the nightstand.

It lay there, forgotten, for more than a week.

/~*~/

The next time that Bruce lost his battle with sleep, he followed through with his original plan to get up and walk around. He managed two slow circlets around the room, and even one trip down the hall to the sitting room and back. When he returned to bed, exhausted and sore, he fell asleep almost immediately.

It backfired when he was in more pain than normal during the following day's physical therapy session, which frustrated his therapist and subsequently put Bruce in a sour mood. He admitted to his nighttime wanderings, and got a firm order to stay in bed regardless of any insomnia. Before leaving, she—rather snidely, Bruce felt—suggested he request a prescription for a sleep aid at his next checkup, if he continued to have trouble.

Three days later, Bruce once again found himself awake in the small hours of the morning, with Bane's deep laughter still echoing through his skull. He flipped on the bedside lamp without sitting up, trying to dampen the flood of adrenaline in his system. That's when his eye fell on the strange little book, still sitting innocuously on the nightstand.

When Alfred came to fetch him for breakfast the next morning, he found Bruce already sitting up, book in hand.

"Are you sure you've never seen this before?" Bruce asked, setting it aside as he got to his feet.

"Quite sure, sir," Alfred said. He reached out to steady Bruce as he undressed for his morning shower. "What is it?"

Bruce handed over his pajamas and accepted the cane in return. "Just some old stories," he said. He turned toward the bathroom, hesitating. "Faerie stories, actually," he added.

"Ah, yes," Alfred said with a fond smile as he leaned over to turn on the water, placing one hand in the stream to check the temperature. "Your mother was fond of those."

This, Bruce did remember. Martha Wayne had tucked him in every night with a bedtime story, at least until he was six years old and decided he was too grown-up for such things. She had begun every story with the same words, a sort of ritualistic scene-setting: The world all around us is not the only world there is. Behind the world we can see, there is another that we cannot see, hidden and secret. That is where the fae come from.

After that each tale would be different, one about a resourceful orphan who tricked mischievous elves into doing his chores, the next about a prince who went into hiding from his wicked uncle by trading places with a changeling. No matter where the stories ended up, though, they all started the same way. As a child, Bruce had memorized the words so that he could recite them with his mother, before the story proper began.

They were also the first words of the introduction to the strange little book. Bruce had recognized them, upon reading them for a second time.

"It had something to do with her grandmother, I believe," Alfred continued. Apparently satisfied with the water temperature, he stepped back and held the shower door open. "Or her great-grandmother, even. Perhaps your mother inherited that book; it certainly looks old enough."

"A hundred years, at least," Bruce agreed, stepping into the hot water.

Once he was clean, dressed, and fed according to Alfred's exacting standards, Bruce had an appointment with his primary doctor to discuss his long-term treatment plan. When that was done, he forced himself to swing briefly by Wayne Tower, just to put in an appearance and answer a few questions, reassure himself that the interim CEO was handling things properly.

He returned home that afternoon exhausted, hurting, and irritable, and once again the strange little book was completely forgotten.

/~*~/

Just after dark four days later, the police raided a warehouse by the water, looking to dismantle a drug smuggling ring. It was unclear what went wrong, whether someone in the GCPD had tipped off the gang or if it was just poorly executed on their part, but almost immediately upon their arrival the raid turned into a shootout. Within minutes, the entire block had become a veritable war zone.

By the time the news helicopters arrived to cover the story, the target warehouse had gone up in flames. At least a half-dozen cops were already dead, along with an unknown number of drug runners. Fire crews were frantically trying to contain the blaze, which was in danger of spreading out from the warehouse district and into the dockside slums, where the tightly-packed apartment buildings would become deathtraps.

Bruce caught only a few seconds of the special news bulletin before he was out of his chair and heading for the secret elevator. He made it only two steps before, in his hurry, the tip of the cane lost traction on the Manor's hardwood flooring. If he had just let himself fall, it might not have been so bad, but once again Bruce's combat instincts served him poorly. He twisted, trying to catch himself, and the resulting spike of pain temporarily blinded him. He screamed as he hit the floor, a long, loud yell of frustration and agony.

"Master Bruce!"

Alfred was crouched at his side a moment later, helping him sit up.

"I should be out there," Bruce hissed through clenched teeth, struggling to control his breathing and push back the pain.

Alfred's hands were steady on his shoulders, supporting him. "Haven't you done enough?" he asked quietly.

"People are dying," Bruce snapped.

There were tears in Alfred's eyes. "I know," he said.

Bruce looked away. "People are dying, Alfred," he repeated, softly this time. "People are dying and I can't save them."

"I know," Alfred said again. His hands tightened on Bruce's shoulders. "But you're not doing them any good on the floor."

Bruce turned to face him. "What can I do?" he asked. He didn't care that it made him sound childish to ask; a part of him would always think that Alfred had all the answers. "What good am I, like this?"

Alfred sighed. "Let's get you back to a chair, to start with," he said, sensible as ever. "Then tomorrow you can call the Mayor and offer to host a benefit for the families of the victims."

Bruce's mouth twisted in disdain. "Raising a little money won't solve anything."

"It will be your first public appearance since the accident," Alfred pointed out. "Why, you'll raise enough to send every single one of their children to college, and pay off their mortgages besides."

Bruce shook his head. "It's not enough," he said.

Alfred's smile was sad. "Nothing ever is, sir," he said.

/~*~/

It was later that night, as Bruce failed to fall asleep despite Alfred's prescribed soothing tea, that he thought of the book again. Reading it was a far cry from listening to one of his mother's old stories—the text was too dry for that, a pseudo-scientific discourse on faeries and their characteristics without any of the charm or whimsy that had made the tales themselves entertaining—but something about it was comforting, anyway. If nothing else, maybe it would be boring enough to lull him to sleep.

Bruce turned on the light and picked up the book from where it waited patiently on his nightstand. He flipped through it, trying to remember how far he'd gotten the week before, but in the end he simply returned to the introduction. He read the first few lines aloud, letting the words echo in his head, warm and familiar. He was five years old again, lying curled up in too many blankets, watching rain as it ran down the window as he listened to his mother's voice. Behind the world we can see, there is another that we cannot see, hidden and secret. That is where the fae come from.

It was almost enough to make him smile. He was glad that he had opened those boxes, that he had given himself an opportunity to recall the good moments along with the bad. It was nice to know that his mother could still comfort him, twenty years after she had died.

He was about to put the book back down when his eye was caught by the final paragraph of the introduction. He had skimmed it earlier, but hadn't paid it much attention. It read: Summoning a fae is a dangerous venture and should be attempted only as a final recourse, for though there is little that a fae cannot offer a mortal, the price of such a bargain can be high. If attempted, forcing a binding is advised to ensure the desired outcome.

Bruce lowered the book, shaking his head. The entire thing was written that way, as if it were nonfiction. There were pages of instructions on how to ward your kitchen to keep any fae from causing mischief inside, or rituals to invite them to bless your crops or purify a rancid well. There was a section about what to say to escape unscathed, if approached by a fae under open moonlight. Another dealt with the proper way to request sacred tears or blood for one of many described herbal remedies that required such things as ingredients. It was all absurd.

Still, Bruce flipped through the book until he located the section on summoning. The pages were filled with more warnings, each more dire than the last, and then a short set of instructions. Apparently, all he needed was a few basic tools and a considerable amount of willpower.

For just a moment, Bruce allowed himself to entertain the thought. Wouldn't it be nice, if he could summon a faerie and make a bargain to restore his spine? Even the harshest of the book's warnings wouldn't deter him. Bruce had already given up everything for the sake of his self-imposed mission; what price could possibly compare to the sacrifices he'd already made? He'd be careful—he'd use the binding that the book mentioned, whatever that was—and he'd word his request so that there could be no misunderstanding.

Bruce was halfway through memorizing the summoning ritual before he caught himself. What was he doing? Was he truly so desperate, that he'd believe in children's stories? He knew better. Gotham wasn't a city that encouraged faith or fanciful notions. Bruce might have had his illusions stripped away even earlier than most, but no one who grew up here could truly believe in miraculous second chances. Better to face the truth: Bruce would never wear the cape and cowl again. Nothing could change that.

He closed the book and put it back on the nightstand. He had a physical therapy appointment tomorrow afternoon, and he needed to sleep.

Convinced of his own logic, Bruce turned off the lamp and closed his eyes.

/~*~/

Two hours later, Bruce was still awake.

He sat up and turned the light back on. He read the instructions for the summoning again, and then found the complementary section on bindings, like it recommended. The instructions were short and straightforward; he memorized them easily.

The whole thing would take maybe half an hour. He could collect all the items he would need from various places around the Manor.

It would never work, of course. Bruce knew that. The only thing that would happen was that he'd feel like an idiot for believing in faerie tales. He'd lost so much of his dignity already; surely there was no need to just abandon the rest. He wasn't a child, to wish upon a star and expect results.

Then he thought about the fire that was likely still raging by the docks, and the people who might not have had a chance to get out. He thought about the cops who had been gunned down on the street, struggling to do a job they weren't equipped for. He thought about the drug runners themselves, most of whom were likely kids from low-income families who hadn't seen a future anywhere but in a gang, who had died trying to protect the profits of rich and powerful men who wouldn't lose a single moment of sleep over their sacrifice.

Bruce had failed them. He'd go on failing them, every day for the rest of his life. He'd be forced to watch as other people fought and bled and died for his city, unable to help them. Unable to save them.

If there was even a chance—no matter how slim, no matter how impossible—didn't he owe it to Gotham to take it? As long as he dismissed it as fantasy, there would be a tiny, nagging voice in the back of his head whispering that he'd given up. At least if he tried it, he could prove to himself that he'd done everything he could. When he finished the summoning ritual and nothing answered, he'd be able to finally move on, to lay the Batman to rest once and for all.

After all, he had nothing left to lose.