In a dark time, the eye begins to see,

I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;

I hear my echo in the echoing wood—

A lord of nature weeping to a tree.

I live between the heron and the wren,

Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul

At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!

I know the purity of pure despair,

My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.

That place among the rocks—is it a cave,

Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!

A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,

And in broad day the midnight come again!

A man goes far to find out what he is—

Death of the self in a long, tearless night,

All shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.

My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,

Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?

A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.

The mind enters itself, and God the mind,

And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

-In a Dark Time by Theodore Roethke

…

"How are you feeling?"

She gnawed her lip and looked at her hands, fallen open and flat in her lap. "Things are going pretty well. I don't know."

Dr. Connolly smiled gently, pencil twitching across his notepad. "We can come back to that, if you'd like."

"No…" She cocked her head to one side, letting the word fall before speaking again. "I always get so ridiculous, thinking about it all. You know, it's been half a year and I really should—"

"Don't tell yourself that," he interrupted insistently, "Only you can set the timeline for recovery. And you did go through a lot of trauma back in December. It's better that you feel something rather than nothing at all, Darcy. So, on to the next question. How are you doing with the dark nowadays?"

She stared at the books shelved to the left of where he sat, then forced a little laugh. "Still the same. I did what you said, turning some lights off in my apartment at night and going through that process, but I couldn't get past having less than two on. Just the shadows and…" Trailing off, she could only gesture vaguely with her fingers.

"That's fine. That's just fine for now." A pause so quiet that she could hear the cars outside. "Is work being good to you?"

"If accounting can ever be good—yes. It pays the rent." She put a hand to her temple, musing. "You know, I thought about it after last session; I don't think I'm ever going to med school. I just can't go into psychiatry. I've dragged my heels about it enough; it's time I admitted it."

"Well, don't let it go entirely. I think you have much more potential than you let yourself think you have. If you ever do decide to go back to psychiatry, I'll put in a good word for you at my old firm up in Bristol."

"It's nothing personal," she said quietly, eyes on the carpet between their chairs, "But I don't let people make recommendations for me anymore."

He nodded slowly, pencil hesitating for a moment. "Makes sense, considering what you've been through."

"Exactly. Thank you, though."

He set his work aside and sat up, waking the lustrous red Irish Setter who had been sleeping at his feet. "I'm going to go make myself some tea. Want a cup?"

"No thanks. I can't get too sleepy before I go home."

He left the room, the leggy dog following after him, and Darcy listened to the comforting sounds of him working in the kitchen. A flicker of motion outside the wide, dark window made her glance over with a sudden unease, but her searching gaze saw only the dancing bluish-gold hues of a warm spring evening.

"Have you been thinking about it a lot?" Dr. Connolly asked from the kitchen as he poured the hot water into a cup, "The Asylum breakout and that disaster in the Narrows?"

"You know," she replied, smiling as the setter padded over and waited, tail wagging, for her to scratch him behind the ears, "At first, I thought about it night and day. About Crane being caught and then breaking out again, and then being caught and breaking out again. Every time I heard about him in the news, I wouldn't want to leave the house. But now…it's been a while, and I really have forgotten about it. Obviously, he's not out to get me. He would have come for me sooner if he was."

"Good. I was worried that this latest escape would have you nervous, but you seem to accept that it's fine. He'll be out for a couple of days, but they'll find him in no time. Just like usual."

"Just like usual," she repeated lightly as he entered the room with his mug of tea in hand. He seated himself across from her and resumed his work, taking sips from the steaming earthenware cup occasionally.

"How have your parents been?" He asked, looking up from his writing with a wry grin.

"Mom is still her usual self. She was hysterical when she heard about the Asylum break and the toxin in the water supply. That was all right after I told her Laramie was dead. She was asking me to move in again right up until New Year's. I think my dad's been doing a great job of calming her down, though. Now she's obsessed with the Batman. Says he's the savior of Gotham." She shook her head and shrugged, fighting back a smile. "Well, if it keeps her mind off of what I've been through…"

"And you've been sleeping normally? Eating well?"

"Of course, Doctor." The two of them laughed at the title and the dutiful voice in which she said it.

"Well," he said, voice still warm with mirth, "I think you're doing great. I know you wanted to leave a little early tonight because you had to do some grocery shopping, so I'll just add the fifteen minutes to next week's appointment."

"Sounds good." She stood and buttoned up her jacket, picking up her purse from where it lay on the nearby table. "Thanks so much, Drake. You've been so helpful."

"No problem. See you later." He tried to stand to see her off, but she waved away the formality.

"God, sit down, you! Until next week."

Her eyes were clear and bright as she glanced over her shoulder at him, capturing the image of him seated with the dog at his feet in his well-furnished living room before she shut the door and walked to her car. The warmth and safety of the picture left her the instant his house disappeared around the corner.

…

Something about the moon frightened her now. The sallow light; the pocked, staring face; the way it hovered like a ghost in the leafy trees. Something made her blood slow and her skin feel light. The menace was faint, barely palpable, but always there, trailing a finger along her throat.

Tonight the air was warm and the city was alive, but in a sluggish, satisfied way. The cars were slow and the clouds slide like ships across the windswept indigo sky.

She felt the full moon's gaze follow her home from the grocery store, unblinking and leisurely as the metropolis over which it held sway. Shivering despite the night's tepid heat, she hurried to her apartment building, weighed down with two bags of food.

The doorman stopped her at the lobby entrance, shaking his head.

"Elevator's closed again tonight. We're trying to fix the generator for the higher stories so it doesn't break down again in the winter, and the power will be on and off all night in the entire building until we get the parts from New Jersey. Can't afford to have anyone getting stuck till then"

She smiled and thanked him, but muttered a curse as she headed towards the stairs, hoping to find some familiar face on the way up to help her along in case the lights failed.

There was no such luck; none of the other residents seemed to be similarly stranded to make the climb with her. Once during her climb, a noise came from behind her, below her. She couldn't hear it well; it could have been anything. A footstep, a whisper, a scrape, a groan. She blinked but only climbed faster, her face odd and eerie as a painting in the glaring, greenish light.

The hallway was silent but still lit when she walked towards her apartment. She reached her door hurriedly, uneasy with the shaky blessing of electricity all about her, eager to get inside. She fumbled for her keys and found them. Their jangle seemed loud and irreverent in the still of a spring night as she struggled to hold her bags aloft and open the door at the same time.

She flicked a switch and the apartment was filled with gold and safety. Leaving the door ajar as she hurried to drop her heavy bags on the kitchen counter, she ran a hand through her messy dark hair and rubbed her eyes.

It had been rough for a psych student to find and hold a non-psych job, especially one involving numbers, but she'd managed to do well accounting for Wayne Enterprises. Her education was worthless and she knew little of business, but she felt safe. Therapy was going well and she liked and trusted Drake Connolly as much as she could like and trust a psychiatrist these days. She'd almost forgotten the Asylum, Mike, —him. She was alive.

The phone rang and she looked up sharply, then hurried to answer. It was probably her mother, calling to check in, or Sheila calling to recount the latest gossip. She picked up the receiver and—

Darkness.

Her eyes struggled to adjust, but the black seemed impenetrable. The line was dead—not a single sound came to her straining ears.

A blackout, she realized with unusual calm. She should have seen it coming.

Even as she realized this, the pound of her blood in her ears subsided, allowing her to hear the distant sounds of traffic, of people in the streets, the wailing of a lonely cat somewhere—

A knock at the door.

She froze like a deer in the headlights, heart suspended by a slender filament over the gaping chasm where her insides should have been. Frantically, she wondered whether to scream for help or stay quiet and lost in the night.

She hadn't closed the door. Idiot. Her scalp and spine prickled until they ached. Maybe it was just the concierge, checking around to make sure all was well. She opened her mouth to call a greeting but stopped herself in a rush of panic. She would just stay still. It was blacker than pitch—no one could see her. Maybe whoever it was would go away.

Another knock, carefully measured, then the door slid shut. There. They had gone, and even closed the door for her. The loudness of her breathing filled the quiet, relieved and at ease. Candles; she'd find a few and this would be a cozy little nook, not a lightless prison.

She moved to get the candlesticks and matches from their drawer in the kitchen and heard a footfall echo her own. The traitorous sound was hastily stifled, but undeniable. She became motionless again, her heartbeat becoming an audible, maddened tattoo, each throb a shriek of terror. Her eyes were pinioned open by sheer fear but she could see nothing.

The world was suddenly cold, unreal, petrified. Only the warmth of soft breath by her ear as a voice, so familiar that it seemed almost a figment of her imagination, murmured from behind, "I never break my promises, Ms. Crandell."

Crane. She did scream then, with all her might, all of her consciousness becoming that one terrified, despairing sound. A hand flew over her mouth, firm but uncannily gentle, cold fingers pressing the cry into a muffled nothing. She was powerless, immobilized by raw horror, trembling against him as his voice murmured quiet, somber placations, a stream of words that only deprived her further of hope.

"Not so loud, Darcy. You'll wake the entire building. Hush. I thought I'd never see you again. I thought you would have left the city. But you stayed. Aren't you happy to see me?"

She could only shudder, unable to speak or run.

"Quiet. I have only a short amount of time, Darcy. Make it worth my while. You've changed…" Holding his hand adamantly against her mouth, his free hand rose to touch her hair in the darkness where it fell in choppy strands against the side of her face. "You cut your hair. Your beautiful, long hair."

She tried to twist away—remembering as she did so how she had decided to cut it, to cut away the memory of his hands tangled inside the dark tresses—but he held her fiercely, stronger than she'd ever remembered.

"But that is nothing," he sighed, continuing the unfamiliar, uncharacteristic monologue, "It doesn't matter. Don't be so distressed. It's not what I've come here for."

She finally found her voice, struggling away from his silencing hand. "You're not real," she insisted in a fierce whisper, "I forgot you. I made myself forget."

His hands let go of her with an almost violent fury and she stumbled forward, shaking with suppressed sobs; she heard him walk around to face her in the darkness, she could see the dimmest outline of his shadow only inches away from her. He was finally quiet, processing her words with his usual, machine-like precision. "Then I'll just have to make you remember, won't I?"

Before she could even consider escape, his mouth closed over hers, his kiss long and fierce as if he would consume her. For her, the embrace held no passion, no affection, no softness—only fear. She could not struggle but merely held still as if transfixed, letting him.

After what seemed like a quivering hour, he released her, fading away into hover in the dark. When she said nothing he began to speak again, voice solemn with that eerie semblance of sanity.

"I'm here for a reason, Darcy. I've thought for a long time about what should be done, what needed to be done. My stays in the Asylum have allowed me to think, think more clearly than I have in a long while.

"I've made my best effort to live my life without fear. For the most part, I have succeeded. But when I met you, I realized—you cause me fear, Darcy. Because of my feelings for you, I felt fear, for the first time since my childhood. But natural as fear may be for the weak and vulnerable among us, I cannot let it enter me. Not even for you. Which is why I've come."

She took a timid step back, trying to recover her own senses. Maybe the power would come back. She'd call the police and they'd take him away. Maybe— She stopped, realizing she was just making excuses, trying to set aside the immediate circumstances. She had to face him now, whatever would happen later.

"Darcy, I can't have you continue to exist as my mistake. I simply couldn't allow myself to not put this issue to rest. You know how much I enjoy a sense of closure." He paused, listening hungrily to the sound of her terrified panting. "Don't be so theatrical. I'm not going to give you the toxin again. I considered it—considered making you crazy like me—but I couldn't bring myself to do such a thing. I've brought you something else instead, something to help you sleep in the dark."

She tried to draw back, but he advanced to quickly, finding her hand in the gloom and leading her gently into the bedroom. She followed, unresisting, as if finally realizing the utter bleakness of her situation.

"It won't hurt," he promised, "I asked them if it would hurt. It would kill me too, to see you in pain now. I just need you to stand still."

She listened with dull-eyed despair, not knowing what would come but no longer caring. Somehow, she knew it was ending. Outside, everything seemed to become static and perfect.

The moon shone like a whitish phantom through the blinds, its pale light finding the long, thin gleam of a needle as it sank into the soft curve of her elbow. He injected the fluid carefully into her veins, as if it were a gift.

"Jonathan—" she began at last in a sleepy protest, endearment and plea in one. Her hand fumbled blindly, numbly, for his, and found it in the dark. Her vision was becoming distorted and hazy; there was no way of telling light from dark, friend from foe. Just twilight and dreaming and his voice.

"I needed you to be safe. Somewhere where I can always find you. You don't need to be afraid anymore, Darcy—good night."

…

He held her wilting form, light as a bird's, against him, listening for the last catch of her breath, feeling for the final thud of her pulse. Both came within seconds; he heaved a sigh of release and laid her on her bed, eased his hand free of her brittle grip, her face like a circle of light in the overwhelming dark. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, waiting for the door inside him to close.

Minutes passed and it didn't close. Minutes passed and he realized what he had done.

He had killed her.

He hadn't cried since the endless, stretching days after Amy's death. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be brought low by grief. Now, the tears of long, lonely years visited upon him with a cruel intensity, until he cradled his aching head in his hands and wished to die too.

It had been a mistake. He had thought it was the only choice, the best choice. Such an easy act, to render her his. Locked in his cell, he had needed to kill her, ached to kill her, wanted her inert and safe.

But now he realized that killing her had only magnified his vulnerability and allowed it to flourish. Now, not only did he have a heart again, but it seethed, caged and animal, with the passion of so many days lost in coldness.

He cried until there was nothing left in him, until only hollow, dry moans racked his bent form. The bedroom was soaked in his tears and the silence that followed. He curled up on the floor by her bed, where her still, lifeless form lay, and closed his eyes, disappearing into the dark like an unwanted memory.

When he opened his eyes again, reason returned reluctantly, as if ashamed to be seen in the place of his outburst.

He needed to leave. They would find her, know it was him, chase him to the ground. Leaving

immediately was all he could do to hope to survive and elude capture. He stood roughly and tried to leave the room without looking at her, but he had to stop and turn back.

She lay where he had left her, one arm lying against the curve of her hip, palm facing downward, the limp pressure of cold fingers creating soft hollows in the blanket beneath her. The other hand lay by her forehead, upturned, supplicating and begging not to be forgotten. He watched her with no emotion but despair, a sad familiarity with something that would never return.

"Goodbye," he said without really realizing he'd said it, until the word emerged, numb and childlike and lost. "Goodbye."

He made his way from the apartment in darkness, exiting so quietly that those who heard him thought he was only a creak of the old structure or the shifting of tenants overhead. A side door led him outward into the lukewarm night, into a grimy alley forsaken by moonlight. The rush of traffic, the chatter of people, the whispering wind—the city's laughter—filled his ears as his mind struggled to adjust to the glaring black-and-white world he'd entered.

It was there, in the stark void, he realized everything was gone. He was an outsider again, hating his self-imposed exile and hating himself; an insane, twisted scarecrow whose toxin-addled mind would forget all of this by tomorrow. Anger and regret filled him, but neither could revive the dead. They would only drive him further down the treacherous way he already walked.

He knew he would continue to wage war on society and the city he hated merely because he had nothing left to hold on to or remember. No one to make him turn away from the precipice. No one to question his impending leap and the darkness he'd thought to be his fate. As she had.

Without Darcy, there was nothing left to do now but disappear.

Disappearing had always been easy.

The End

For Emily, best of editors and best of friends.