Solace

by immertreu

August 17, 2009

"Why? Why? Why?" yelled eight-year-old Bruce Wayne, tearing his pillow to shreds and feathers. "Why did they have to die?" he cried. Finally, he flung himself over the remnants of his wrecked bedding, so lost in his despair that he hadn't noticed the door to his room opening and Alfred Pennyworth entering to look after his distraught ward whose cries had woken the old butler in his room down the hall.

The light streaming in through the now open door revealed the outcome of Bruce's outburst. Feathers and pieces of cloth – once a pillow and a comforter – littered the floor, scrunched up papers and broken toys lay strewn everywhere, and the clothes Alfred had carefully folded and hung over a chair the previous evening were added to the messy heap in the middle of the room.

Alfred didn't try to scold the young boy. He merely walked over to the bed where Bruce lay with his face buried in the mattress, his whole body shaking with silent sobs. It broke the old man's heart to see his charge like this. He carefully sat down next to Bruce and laid a hand on one trembling shoulder, making his presence known without startling the frightened boy too much. Bruce didn't turn, but his body seemed to relax a little under the familiar touch, and Alfred placed his other hand on the boy's tense back, silently drawing soothing circles there.

There was nothing he could say to ease Bruce's pain right now. His ward wouldn't listen to him anyway. Yet the old butler knew that his presence was needed and much appreciated by the grieving child because he was the only family Bruce Wayne had left in this cruel world. The boy had been too still and quiet during the days following his parents' funeral, and Alfred had known that an outburst like the one he had just witnessed would have happened sooner or later.

While never losing touch with the shaking body beneath his fingers, Alfred looked around the spacious room, taking in the damage. Grief and despair had given the child powers of a much bigger man – the destroyed possessions on the floor bore witness to that. He had always suspected that the young heir of the Wayne dynasty was capable of such violent feelings and actions, and he regretted deeply that his speculations had been correct. He had seen it deep within those innocent hazel eyes which, until recently, had looked into the world with wonderment and joy.

The old butler grieved immensely for Thomas and Martha Wayne, who had not only been his former employers but his friends – his family. Yet his greatest ache right now was that their precious son had lost his childhood, his innocence, and his absolute positive approach to life – all destroyed in one terrible night because of the actions of a single desperate man.

Alfred's own life as a child in England hadn't been easy either, but he'd never been forced to survive such a trauma at such a young age. His parents had been kind and loving, and despite the constant lack of money, everyone in the Pennyworths' household had been happy and content.

His thoughts returned to the here and now when the tiny figure under his hands moved his head to look up at his friend and guardian. Bruce had never dismissed Alfred as a mere butler, and he was grateful to his charge's parents for that. They had always taught their son to respect any living being and treat him as an equal, despite his status, wealth or lack thereof.

"Alfred?" Bruce murmured.

"Yes, Master Bruce?" the butler replied in a calming voice. He searched the boy's eyes and his body language for signs that the worst was over now and what he would require next to feel safe and secure in this big empty house. In fact, the manor reminded Alfred more and more of a mausoleum with every passing day, now that Master and Mistress Wayne were not coming home.

Bruce hesitated, but eventually he whispered something in such a small voice that Alfred had to lean close to understand the words.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," the butler replied sincerely, trying not to disturb the boy any more. "I understand," he added, stroking Bruce's unruly hair that fell over his eyes in thick dark strands. He looked nothing like the composed heir of the Wayne's he'd been portraying ever since that fateful night now. His frightened eyes looked too big for his pale face, and grief and sorrow seemed to have dimmed their usual sparkling hazel to almost black.

The boy had hardly spoken since the funeral and often shut himself off from this world, staring into space for hours from his place by the window. Even Rachel hadn't been able to crack her friend's hardened shell of sadness and pain, and after a while, the saddened child had given up. Alfred couldn't blame her. A situation like this was almost too hard to bear for anyone, let alone a child.

Bruce finally rolled over to face his old friend. Alfred noticed that he clutched something in his little hands. Hesitating, the child opened his fists and unfolded a photograph for Alfred to see. The old man had to hold back a pained gasp of surprise. He remembered the day he'd taken the picture very well. It had been only three days before the murder that ripped their family apart in the vast gardens behind Wayne Manor. The picture showed Bruce and his father tumbling down the slow hill behind the house, while Mistress Wayne stood by, laughing and watching her two boisterous boys. It had been a perfect and sunny late October day…

Alfred sighed inwardly and smiled for the boy's sake. "It was a beautiful day, wasn't it?" he asked his young charge, taking the picture from Bruce's hands and carefully smoothing out the wrinkles.

"Yes, it was," came the small reply.

Bruce rubbed his tired and red-rimmed eyes with the knuckles of both hands and finally sat up, quickly taking back the offered picture. He looked at his dead parents with such an expression of loneliness and longing on his tear-stained face that pained the old man's heart to see. Yet he didn't dare draw the boy into a comforting hug. Bruce, who had always loved to be cuddled and happily enjoyed long hours curled up on the sofa, leaning against Alfred or his parents, had recently become closed up and very distant. He allowed Alfred to touch him once in a while, small gestures such as a comforting hand on the back, such as the one he had allowed tonight, but ever since his breakdown after the funeral, he hadn't hugged his mentor or reached out to take his hand again.

The butler feared for his young charge, but he knew that he had to be patient and let the boy take one step at a time to recover from his loss. The child psychiatrist whose number Officer Gordon, a very kind and caring man, had given to Alfred to ask for advice had also said as much. He could only hope that one day, preferably a day in the very near future, Master Bruce would loose the weird behavior and the unhealthy mannerisms he had demonstrated since the tragedy that destroyed their life. Bruce had been adamant in his refusal to even think about seeing any kind of therapist to work through his pain, and Alfred respected that – at least for now. He knew that the boy still blamed himself for his parents' death, but only time could tell whether he'd be able to overcome this tragedy on his own or needed more help than his old guardian could give.

After a few minutes spent in brooding silence, Alfred decided that he had to try at least something to shake Bruce from his stupor of grief, and stood.

"Would you like some hot chocolate, Master Bruce?" he asked gently.

He hadn't been able to convince the boy to eat anything other than sweets these past few days, but at least that way, he was eating something. He was thin enough as it was. And maybe the hot drink would relax his tensed up body enough to allow Bruce to get some sleep – not in his wrecked room, of course. Alfred would set him up in his own bed with enough pillows and blankets to build a warm cave to hide in, and he would sleep on the sofa to be near his charge. It wouldn't be the first time – and probably not the last.

At first, Bruce showed no sign that he had even heard his worried mentor, but after a few seconds, he raised his intense gaze from the picture in his hands and nodded with an expression on his face the old man couldn't quite interpret.

"Yes, please," he replied, and, to Alfred's pleasant surprise, got up and took his guardian by his free hand, leading him silently toward the door. And for the first time in this dreadful week, a small but sincere smile touched the old butler's lips as they marched down the great stairwell into the kitchen, hand in hand.

A small glimmer of hope had just entered their lives. Alfred would make sure not to waste it.

The End