Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne is five years old, when he falls into a dried-up well.
He's a brave little boy, his mother always says so. He always feels big and proud when she calls him that, but now he thinks she was lying.
He is surrounded on all sides by darkness and small black shapes, birds?, are flying around him wildly.
He's scared and small.
He already screamed his voice hoarse minutes ago and yet no one came to save him. He thinks himself stupid that he wandered so far out from the Manor without informing anyone. He was warned against doing so before. He made a mistake.
He will never make it again because he will be left here until he dies, alone and forgotten. Who will miss a foolish boy like him, one who can't listen to the advice of adults who know better than him?
He is curled up into himself, clutching his hands against his ears, eyes closed tight and face wet with tears. His breathing is loud and fast, it feels like his heart is pounding through his entire body.
He is afraid. He is fear itself.
Finally, the flying creatures calm and stop, the sounds of their fluttery wings quieting in the dark and leaving him alone in the ensuing silence. He hiccups.
The night birds are scary but at least they were keeping him company during his last moments. He wants them back. He wants to know someone, something is here with him. That he isn't forgotten yet.
"I don't want to be alone!" he cries, hitting his small fists against his head, feeling tears falling down his face again.
The darkness turns cold. The change is so abrupt that Bruce gasps in surprise and his body trembles.
Not alone.
It's not a voice, but Bruce understands it somehow. He doesn't hear it, but something is there in the darkness all around him.
Bruce gapes and raises his head, trying to make out anything in the darkness. A shape or something. He's unable to.
"Who are you?" he whispers into the dark. The cold pulses, brushes against him and pulls back, distancing itself. It feels like it formed a circle around him. Bruce doesn’t know how he can tell, but he feels it deep in his bones.
I have no name, is what he understands it communicates to him in response.
Bruce thinks that must be very sad, having no name, nothing that you would be called by other people. Or perhaps the darkness had no people to speak to. But it was talking to Bruce now.
You can tame what you name, he thinks to himself. And he feels a little less scared. Less alone.
What sort of name would suit this being in the darkness, he wonders.
"What were those flying animals?" he asks instead, looking for ideas.
Bats. The things informs him.
Bats, Bruce knows that word. A flying mammal.
Bats are scary in the dark. But he thinks he would like to meet one in the light where he could actually see it.
He's not alone anymore. He's with the bats and the nameless thing now.
"Batman," he suggests, hit by a sudden surge of inspiration. "Would you like to be named that?"
The cold withdraws. And then forms into being right next to him, making Bruce's teeth jitter against each other from the force of a shiver that shakes his body. The cold disappears just as soon as it appears and Bruce makes a panicked noise.
Is the thing gone? Was it upset that Bruce couldn't handle the cold feeling it brought with itself?
"Please, come back," he begs into the dark, scrambling onto his knees. Hands searching through the dirt on the ground beneath him even though he doesn't even know where to look for the being. "I'm going to be good. What did I do wrong? Please, I'll do better, I promise!"
There's suddenly a touch on his arm and he jerks back, screams. A few bats go into flight at that, but they don't get close to his face like they did earlier.
The touch brushes against him again and Bruce realizes that it isn't a hand like he thought at first. It's a steady pressure against him, one that covers his entire back all at once. And it's cold, but not as cold as it was in the darkness before.
I am Batman. Thank you.
Bruce smiles and tears appear in his eyes but they are happy tears, he knows. People cry when they are happy sometimes. Bruce knows he is happy because his heart feels like a little sun inside his ribcage, shining with warmth and joy.
I am going to help you.
The presence from his back turns big and grand, moves as if it was water in a pool, covering every part of him. And suddenly Bruce is floating up into the air. He gasps in delight, moving his arms and legs wildly. Batman holds him through it, steadily lifting him up through the dark tunnel of the well.
Bruce has to close his eyes when the light blinds them suddenly. It hurts. He was in the dark for so long that he forgot how bright the world could be.
They are out of the well very soon.
He's put carefully on the ground and he feels the warmth of the afternoon sun on his skin. The pressure that lifted him draws back and disappears into itself, the sensation of its presence turning smaller in front of him. He rubs his hands against his eyelids.
Alright?
It feels like a question. Bruce opens his eyes and falls into a dark abyss that stares right back at him.
He's surprised that he's allowed to see the dark being.
Batman is kneeling before him, human-shaped and entirely black. The darkness of it is spread far on the ground behind it like a cloak, a long carpet, smokey at the edges of the figure. It has long horns on the top of its head. Or maybe they are ears. Would it be polite to ask?
"I'm alright!" he rushes to answer. "Thank you! You saved me!"
He smiles at Batman.
Bruce curiously reaches out a hesitant hand and touches a finger to the black mass. His finger goes right into the incorporeal thing, the tip of it turning horribly cold where it comes into contact with Batman. Bruce pulls his hand back with a yelp, shaking it to get rid of the unpleasant sensation.
Careful. Sorry.
"I can't touch you," Bruce pouts. "That's odd."
I am different. You are not, child.
Bruce is really interested in the way Batman speaks. The voice-that-is-not-a-voice seems to be separated into two. There's the meaning of the words that appears in Bruce's head without issue, like a lightbulb turning on in his thoughts. But underneath that there is some kind of physical sound, a growl, rough, stifled, dangerous.
"What are you?" Bruce asks curiously. "Does your kind have a name? Your species?"
He has to wait a long time for an answer.
Monster.
That's a sad answer. Bruce is sad that Batman believes in it.
"You're not a monster," he says. "You helped me. You are good."
The being is quiet.
Thank you.
It communicates finally. It turns smaller suddenly, curling into a floating little ball.
I am tired. I have to leave.
It says. And suddenly it curls up further and poofs away and Bruce is alone again. His mouth opens in shock and his eyebrows rise.
Did all this really just happen?
He should head back to the Manor anyway.
He runs. Away from the well and the darkness, and the bats.
He wants to meet Batman again.