Chapter Text
Dearest Jason,
To believe that I’m still in your thoughts warms me against this wet Bludhaven April. Spring sounds like birdsong so I suppose it is to be expected to have a jaybird join the caroling.
I have been well, I thank you for asking. Occupying myself is always an endeavor that I take to gladly.
Yes, it is true, I am still corresponding with Ms. Anders. Our courtship is going well and each scented letter reminds me that soon we shall meet again in person.
I too wonder how our family fairs. When so much happens in a day, letters hold endless subjects to write about with never enough space it seems.
And how are you, brother? Is the printing press treating you well? Do your eyes strain from your reading? Will I see you bifocaled if I were to visit? (With this next query, I will simply be offended if you ever doubt how far my care for you stretches) How is…Talia? (There I said it. I trust that your chest swells in pride for your courageous older brother).
Lastly, what on earth are you talking about?
Your only older brother,
D
In a leather bound journal
April 7th, 18XX
The days start coming and they do not halt their arrival. I am fed to the proprieties of the upper class as though my youth was not spent in the dusty streets of an uncaring city.
Today as I sat posed in the afternoon light of my living room in surrender to the artistic license of a hired painter, my mind wandered to younger days where I could not fathom the ennui of the upper class pervading me. I had too much to do, too much to learn to become dulled by living through it all too fast.
And yet here I write before retiring for the night, still ignorant to the turns of the world outside of New York. There are experiences that I’ll never understand without living through them, ways of honing myself that I will never reach without submitting myself to the blade.
While I do not fear the blade, a fact that both frightens and instills pride in my father, I understand that my responsibilities prohibit me from truly engaging in the philosophy that one must undergo great pain to achieve great excellence. I’m fooling myself. Or rather I’m attempting to. If pain equivocates success then I’d reckon the folks of my old stomping grounds ought to have been the richest men in our city with my mother the queen.
There are days where I wonder where I’d fit on that scale of fortune. Fortune, my fickle mistress, always surprises me in how she chooses to dress around me. One day an orphan the next day a Wayne. One moment in a carriage the next on an operating table.
Talia tells me to be grateful. That a bum leg is better gotten in the noble manner that I acquired it rather than through a war that I do not believe in. And though they keep their gossip to whispers, I am aware that is how high society believed I should have earned my keep in my father’s manor, decorating the family halls with another soldier, as Bruce’s grandfather fought in against Britain.
Instead my battles are with wily words, fretting fathers, and pestering painters.
Oh, how you would pity me if you were to meet this painter. Debonair in a way that grates at you for how much it appears to be sincere. How I wish that Selina had not been watching over Salami, my cat, an excellent judge of character, would have spared me his company with a swipe of her paw.
Our initial meeting had been trying enough, more at the fault of Bruce for the short notice than the Painter himself, but it did not endear me to him. He’s an odd one, but I suppose that is the nature of artists. When he works, his face works with him, moving into a moue of concentration that seems more worthy of illustration than what he’s being paid to paint. When he gets what he desires out of a subject, his eyes seem to illuminate as if there’s a light in him and he was a human lantern. (Yes, I know, this is why I edit the stories and do not write them).
But here we sat, deluding ourselves that I was someone who was to be painted. Granted it’s simply a commission for the man, I do not forget that. However, it does not stop me from glaring at Lady Fortune who sits astride from me dressed in foreign garbs, taunting me with a shift of etiquette leaving me helpless to decipher how my tides may turn.
This is not even taking into account the dinner with Donna.
At least that meal came to confirm that no matter how talented a man seems to be, recommended by Miss Dewitt herself even, that talent has nothing to do with pleasant. If I had spat at him, sneered his very name, or taunted him, perhaps I would have understood his attitude. However Dick always remarked that I had an aptitude for pressing buttons. Regardless of whatever ill I have done to him, he is a humorous man to rile.
I do take the blame for the singed curtains, the wine stains are fully on Rayner. It is worth mentioning that had the man not been holding a candle so closely to himself, then there would have been no way that my return to the table would have ignited him. Contrary to popular belief, I am not prone to arson. Not at the house of a dear friend at the very least. But I am not so ignorant nor malicious to extinguish a fire with wine when I know it is best to smother a fire.
The scuffle that proceeded may not have been gentlemanly, but I do not think a man so displeased by the satisfaction of a punch would have eyes glowing so brightly in the aftermath.
Until Next Time,
Jason Todd-Wayne
Mr. Todd,
I hope this letter does not find you with a head too crushed by your grandiose sense of self importance. Of course, I am a dreamer and this hope carries more whimsy to be anything more than a lingering dream. Your crown is a weighty one, sir. And it seems unfortunate that at your age you have yet learned to bear it.
However I digress, I am writing to you for the sake of business. If you could find time in that hourglass of yours to spare towards the man that your caring father is paying to paint you, his beloved son, we could establish another session for you to model for me. I’ve practically finished the broader aspects of the portrait and find myself needing to recall the finer details of your visage.
If you were to be so kind to lay down whatever transgression you feel I’ve committed against you so that we may at once reconcile enough for a truce, it would prove beneficial to us both. I will not hold against you, your attempt to ruin our dinner with last fortnight as I am sure you will not hold the rightly deserved first punch that I threw. So I ask again, cooperate with me.
Your humble painter,
K. Rayner
Mr Rayner,
Consider the following amendments:
I hope this letter does not find you with a head too crushed by your grandiose sense of self- importance. Of course, I am a dreamer and this hope carries more whimsy to be anything more than a lingering dream. Your crown is a weighty one, sir. And it seems unfortunate that at your age you have yet learned to learn to bear it. → If intentional, smart use of the word crown as it carries the earlier metaphor well
However, I digress, I am writing to you for the sake of business. If you could find time in that hourglass of yours to spare towards the man that your caring father is paying to paint you, his beloved son, we could establish another session for you to model for me. I’ve practically finished the broader aspects of the portrait and find myself needing to recall the finer details of your visage. → I suppose your staring even outside of our sessions can be attributed to your feeble memory
If you were to be so kind as to lay down whatever transgression you feel I’ve committed against you so that we may at once reconcile enough for a truce, it would prove beneficial to us both. I will not hold against you, your attempt to ruin our dinner with last fortnight as I am sure you will not hold the rightly deserved first punch that I threw. So I ask again, cooperate with me.
Your humble painter, → Quite frankly this is a blatant falsehood
K. Rayner
Editor in Chief of Head Publishing
J. Todd
Mr. Rayner,
Our editor has considered your proposal and has agreed to clear his schedule for this week’s end.
Please be prompt at the address that you should already have in your address book.
Wishing you well,
Robin Segundo