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Chapter Text

Cold mist bit into Tim’s naked hands, the sweat on his face and neck making the wind feel icier than what it should be. The Drake and Wayne estate's, despite being neighbors to one another, had a fair distance between them - which not only made Tim’s walk a tiring one, but an exhausting one as well.

Tim could have taken a carriage, but his mother had explicitly said she didn't want any rumors of his visit to Wayne Manor. Especially with the kind of rumors already surrounding said manor that Timothy was now in front of. Since he was forbidden, Tim could not even attempt to hire a carriage. It would not be worth his parents' wrath.

The Wayne Manor cut an imposing presence. While it was made in the same gothic architecture of all Gotham, it was the first . It was what all of the rest of the land’s homes were based off of. The tall stone walls were thick and riddled with gargoyles, judging anyone who approached their iron gate. The fog from earlier had made it harder to see the details inside, but now Tim could see that no lights were visible except from the moon, and judging from the gray clouds gathering above - soon it would be extinguished as well.

It had been weeks since anyone had heard from Lord Wayne, all of the invitations sent had been met with silence. Attempting to breach the gate had been met with a sort of… furious resistance, each story getting more incredulous than the last. Some blamed the stony silence, the fierce deflections, and the grim auras on the dead son of the Lord who they said couldn't rest in peace after such a brutal death, and now haunted his home; slowly driving his father insane.

Tim couldn't help but feel angry at the malicious rumors, not after watching from afar of how kind Jason had been, even to those who may not have ever deserved his kindness. The greedy nobles of the Countdom were just spreading lies to take advantage of the grieving Lord Wayne. It wasn’t something that Tim could stand for, and when he could - safely - he disagreed with the rumours. 

“Just like I wish I could confront my parents,” Tim thought, shaking his head. 

His parents had given him this task, and his feelings on the matter were not important; not worth consideration. He may have been their heir, but he held no power. Tim was well aware of that fact. Well aware that he was replaceable.

Well aware that if he did too much improper conduct, his parents would sire another heir, and he would be… disposed of.

Whatever the truth may have been, one thing was certain; the Lord of Gotham had no heir. Not after the death of his son, Jason, coupled with the rumours that his other son, Richard, had become lost at sea. The knowledge of which made his closest relatives, the Drakes, the next in line. Due to a common ancestor four generation backs - came Janet’s and Jack’s need to know the real status of Count Wayne to know if they should step in to run the Countdom.

The memory of what had transpired before Tim had escorted, and subsequently locked out, of his house was still fresh in his mind.

“ Count Wayne is fond of strays, surely he won't turn you down in the middle of the night.” said Lady Janet as she dug her nails on Timothy's shoulder. ‘So ensure that you don't fail’ left unsaid - but not unheard.

Tim rubbed his shoulder as the phantom nails clawed into him, wondering just what he could - and should - do now. 

He had reached the gates at long last. However, no matter how he shouted, no one appeared to open the gates. Despite the thick, smokey fog; you could see that no lights were on in the manor. There was no way he could climb the walls, and although he was thin for his age - Tim couldn't possibly pass through the iron bars of the gate.

Circulating the front of the manor gates, he could not find any obvious ways to enter the manor. He could not give up; he knew what was at stake - it was more than just his life. He knew that Jason had occasionally snuck out at night - there should be a hidden passage hidden along the walls. It was only a matter of finding it.

And Tim needed to find it.

Lord Wayne, the Countdom of Gotham, needed him to find it.

Once more Tim walked and searched, methodically tracing over the stones and their crevices. This time, Tim encountered a small bush. A small bush with the leaves that Tim remembered once being on the coat he wore to the gala. He could remember his parents' scorn at how unkempt Jason had been. Pushing the plant out of the way, Tim found a hole just small enough for a child like Jason, or himself, to pass through.

Elated, Tim squeezed himself through. Now he would be able to check on Lord Wayne, and ascertain if he was alright - or if he needed help.

Inside the stone walls, the fog was even heavier; and the air was increasingly growing colder. The once proud, esteemed gardens that lined the entrance were abandoned; overgrown weeds and dying flowers destroying the living works of art. It appeared to be that not only did Count Wayne fire most of the staff to care for the inside of the Manor, but also those that tended to the outside grounds as well.

With a drop of water falling on his face, indicating that the clouds above were about to open and pour down their contents, Tim rushed to the doors.

For etiquette, as had been ingrained in him since he had taken his first breath, Tim made sure to knock, using the silver handles. Exactly as he expected, no one answered. Tim waited for several long minutes, shivering as the cold grew. It wormed its way deep into his bones, an icy chill that felt as though it would never thaw. 

Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he pushed the doors open. 

Tim thought himself lucky, if increasingly worried, as the doors opened without resistance to reveal a darkened and empty hall.

Chapter Text

“Hello? Good evening! Is someone there?! Hello? My Lord? Attendants?” Tim's voice echoed back, the only other sound's - his footfalls reflecting back to him.

No matter how or who he called, there was no answer. The Manor was silent and cold, a hollow shell of what had been the liveliest of hearths.

What was he to do? Obviously, Lord Wayne had to be somewhere further inside. Reports all pointed towards the Lord not having left his halls since his son's passing. However, if Tim wandered without light - he would likely trip on the narrow steps of the stairs or miss something in the dark. 

It left Tim with no choice but to sulk around until he found a reliable light source. So, he crept forward as silently as he could until he was able to start searching through the furniture.

“This…” Tim stopped in his tracks, surprise and alarm rising within him. His fingers, which he had trailed along the wood furniture, he lifted close to his face for inspection.  

His hands were dusty, quite dusty in fact.

Something that the head butler of Wayne Manor would never allow. The dread, ever present and lurking in his stomach grew. He knew that Lord Wayne was very close with his personal butler, for it was no secret, if something happened to him then the Count of Gotham would be in trouble.

Or in danger - a danger that not even the Dark Knight may not have been able to defeat, given the weeks of silence…

Shaking his head to rid himself of such thoughts; Tim steeled himself. If Lord Wayne was in peril… it was just one more reason to find him. In any case, there was no reason to believe the Count was in danger - not truly. The manor looked unkempt but with no signs of struggle; Tim was most likely worrying over nothing.

Again.

For all Tim knew - the butler had passed away; and Lord Bruce, in his grief, fired the staff and isolated himself. 

Tim could understand wishing to be alone to process such a grievous change.

But regardless, Tim had a situation to attend to. He resumed his search, bracing himself against many sneezes as the dust began to irritate his lungs. He worked his way through desks, chairs, settee - and finally, on one of the side tables shadowed by the stair's handrail, he found an oil lamp. Alongside the lamp, though inside the table, a match box - both of which was just what he needed. Tim felt as though perhaps his luck was changing for the better.

Maybe he could even dare to hope that his feeling was true.

The lamp burning bright, Tim was finally able to see the hollowed manor properly.

Now there was only the question of where he would search first. It was not understatement to say that the Wayne Manor was the biggest one of all Gotham… 

‘If he was the Count of Gotham, where would he be?’ Tim thought. ‘When Father returned from his travels, he would spend most of his time in his study… though, perhaps, that was because he did not wish to face me ; his disappointing son.’ 

The small child looked helplessly at the different wings of the manor, since his idea of searching the manor to seek out the study was the only idea he had - yet he had no knowledge of where to begin... ‘Which side was Lord’s Bruce study again? Left, or right? I remembered it being opposite the ballroom, so that would be on the left wing?’

Unsure, Tim slowly stole away to the left hallway, past the huge glass windows - which were dirty, and cracked. The view they afforded of the outside was still blanketed by the fog - with the addition of the gentle patter of rain. 

The rain was now the only additional sound aside from Tim's own light footsteps in the manor’s halls. As he progressed, the furniture showed to be no different from the entrance - covered by a thin layer of dust. Tim thought, though he might be wrong due to only having a small light, that the dust was perhaps not as thick here, as it had been previously.

Tim hoped that meant that he was heading in the right direction - as the main quarters of Lord Wayne’s were bound to be better kept than the rest of the manor when they were not entertaining.

Tim despaired as he slowly crept through the eerie manor; Lord Bruce had already been through much hardship in his life, he deserved no more. Tim hoped that he was wrong, and that Mr. Pennyworth had not perished. He hoped that perhaps the man was simply ill, and Tim’s arrival would be in time to send and fetch a doctor.

Eventually, Tim found himself passing different rooms. He edged into each room only far enough to guess at the function. A drawing room, sitting room… Each one equally deserted and silent, poised and stopped in time like a painting left to rot. As Tim infiltrated deeper into the manor, the rain gradually grew louder as he approached the end of the hallway.

It was lashing and heavy; as though in warning…

Tim nearly sank to the ground in relief when he, at last, came across a study. Lord Wayne's study wasn't much different from his father's; with an expensive hardwood table, shelves filled with books, paintings decorating the walls, and leather sofas for guests to sit. In some way, it was even a little plain - compared to the many artifacts, maps, and trinkets from different countries kept in the Drake Manor.

It looked like the rest of the rooms of the house; without the presence of its inhabitants and no hint of where they had gone. 

Though unlike the rest of the house, there was very little dust - outside of the ancient-texts and paintings littering the edges of the room. Indeed; the desk itself appeared dust-free as he approached it. On the desk, he saw many papers spread and scattered across its surface. 

At random, he picked one of the papers. He had no luck understanding a single word - he had never seen languages like what was on the paper. He tried again, with the same outcome. He picked one from the edge on the right, and this time - he had succeeded in locating a page he could almost recognize. Bringing one closer to the oil lamp, Tim squinted as he observed the written letters. Tim could recognize some of what was written, as ancient languages were among what his parents often studied in their archeological digs - but his understanding was poor at best, and the notes were written in more than one language. 

‘This handwriting seems to belong to Lord Wayne.’ he observed. Biting his own lips in concentration, he used the page he could almost read; and he determined that all of the papers had been written in Lord Wayne’s hand. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he began the difficult task of deciphering it. 

“Water… of Pit?” he read, “Can't be…? Earth is the key? The… will…. For it… like red anemone… consume… Will unite… need more… hunger.”  

No matter how hard he tried to read the ancient, dead language - he could only understand a small string of random words that made no sense. Hoping for better luck, Tim tried a few of the other pages scattered about. The other papers were in just as unrecognizable squibbles as the first, though he wasn’t even able to read a single word of one page - he had not even seen the other ancient languages in his parents' artifacts.

Defeated, at least for the time being, Tim folded the page he had been able to read and placed it in his pockets. 

Without Lord Wayne being in his study, he couldn't think of other places to look for him if not in his own personal quarters… Which left the family wing on the second floor as his next destination.

A place that, if Tim entered, he would not be able to pretend he was here simply looking for shelter…

Still, he was left with no other option. Slinking back along the route he took to enter; Tim was left with more doubts than he had before arriving at Wayne Manor. 

He couldn't read the papers properly - and what he could read and understand only confused him more. With random words like anemone, water and earth - the more reasonable explanation was that Lord Wayne had a gardening hobby. But with the state in which the manor’s gardens were in - that couldn't be right. Tim knew what once-elegant gardens had graced and blessed the entrance of the manor - and what they were now was a dishonourable shade to the beauty they had once been. And why would it be written in an ancient tongue, if it was for something as simple as gardening? Tim couldn't help but think he was missing something big…

But what? Tim could think of many options, but none that would require all of those specific, special pieces. There were some rumors of a raging dryad in the east of the Countdom, perhaps Lord Wayne was searching for some ways to stop her?

But for a reason Tim could not explain… he did not feel as though that was the right option.

A chill went through Tim's body as he paused, finally reaching the staircase to the personal rooms. He eyed the stairs, and the lightlessness of the entrance hall. With no servants, not only the manor was without light - but there was no one to put fire into the hearth to warm and ward against the autumn cold winds and rains.

He could only hope Lord Wayne wasn't blacked out on the grounds, suffering from hypothermia. 

Tim would never reach him in time, if that were the case.

Chapter Text

So instead Tim searched for the upper halls, sulking around dusty rooms. His footsteps, echoing even in their near-silent falls, left a trail on the weather worn, dusty floors. Still, Tim kept quiet as he crept. His footsteps would be easy to track, and Tim tried to convince himself that it was a good thing. After all, it meant that if Lord Wayne happened to cross his tracks he would be able to find Tim.

Tim attempted to keep from his mind that if Lord Wayne could follow his trail; so could anything that may have harmed the Lord…

But it mattered not - Tim was here not only because his parents had sent him, but because he genuinely wished to help the Lord if he could. Lord Wayne had been through so much pain and grief in his life, that Tim’s own heart ached for them man. Lord or not, Noble or not; no one anywhere should have to suffer alone what Lord Wayne had.

And, should Tim’s feeling’s about the butler be correct, he had suffered even more than the Countdom had realised.

But now Tim was going in search of the Lord’s room. Since he had not been in his office, Tim couldn’t think of another place that the Lord could be. Well, that was not strictly true. Tim could think of another place he could be, based upon all of the research that he had found in his office. But being so late at night as it was, Tim figured that he would attempt to see if Lord Wayne had retired for the night. 

If he had not, Tim would go in search of the library. Then, Tim would have a greater chance of running into the Lord if he returned from the library while Tim was searching. Not only that, but Tim’s footprints would also leave a trail for Lord Wayne to investigate if he so decided. 

Tim hoped he would decide to investigate; even if it meant that Tim would be punished for trespassing. Tim was growing so cold, the sooner he found the Lord the sooner he would be able to warm up - hopefully. He was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers and toes; there was an intense glacial tint to the air that even being indoors could not touch. 

The cold that had sunk into the walls of the manor was beginning to sink into the marrow of his bones. A glacial, treacherous icy taint that Tim could not seem to escape. Even being indoors, even slinking away from the walls to the outside of the manor and creeping along the walls that led to her heart did not help the cold.

The further that Tim crept into the manor, the worse the cold became. The closer he came to the family rooms and wing, the icier the weather inside the manor became.

Tim… did not believe that this boded well for his search.

He could only hope, as he had thus far, that he would be granted the kindness of finding Lord Wayne alive. 

Tim was forced to go very, very slowly as he ascended the stairs. They were covered by a film, and Tim was unable to ascertain if the film was merely dust - or if it was ice. It did not have the feeling that it was ice, but Tim could not see how it could be mere dust. Not with how icily cold it was.

And still, he pressed on.

He had little choice to do anything else. 

Finally, at long, long last, Tim reached the family wing of Lord Wayne’s manor. 

Almost immediately, Tim was very disheartened. From what he could see in the waning, water light of the lamp he had taken, there was no evidence that anyone had entered the family hallway. That Tim was the only one who had disturbed the slumber of those anointing the walls of this family hall.

But Tim knew that he could not heed the Wayne ancestors and leave the most private portion of the dwelling. 

He had to find Lord Wayne. The fate of Gotham may rest on him being able to do so.

Tim knew his parents, and he knew that they were not what Gotham needed as rulers.

So Tim edged evermore forward, eyes darting around as he looked for threats. Threats, he saw none of.

However.

What Tim did see was, further down the hall from where the master bedroom doors were ajar - a room that was barred.

At least, Tim was assuming that it was a room. The entrance was blocked off completely, leaving one unable to even see the edges of a doorframe. Chairs, cabinets, armoires, chests - piled high in front of the door.

The strangest thing about it, was that it seemed as though the piles of things were placed as though whatever was inside the room - it didn’t want anyone to enter.

Tim’s curiosity piqued, he cautiously headed towards the barred room. Perhaps he would find the Count inside a room that was not the master suite. 

Tim knew, as did the rest of Lord Wayne’s Countdom, that he had lost his parents at a very young age. Perhaps he was still mourning the loss of them, and had not claimed the master bedroom as his own? Tim had little idea how long people mourned for. He imagined that Lord Wayne had a much better relationship with his parents than Tim did with his.

For though Tim loved his parents dearly, if they perished soon and unexpectedly… He did not believe that their deaths would control his actions.

Tim pushed the thoughts from his mind. He set his lantern down on the ground near where the beginnings of the piled furniture was, before he set to work moving enough of it so that he could get through.

Though his lantern was still flickering, outside the storm had long-since broken - and now the lightning that flashed every few minutes illuminated the ice-frosted glass window panes and gifted Tim more light.

Perhaps, at long, long last, Tim’s luck was finally changing for the better.

It was not the first time he had thought that, but maybe now it would be true.

Tim hoped.

It was all he could do.

So with the flaring lightning as his guide, Tim was able to shuffle his way through the heaped furniture that had accumulated outside of the door. For it was a door, Tim discovered as he wiggled his way through. He had been right, and it appeared as though something - or someone - inside had been trying very hard to keep others out.

Tim offered a small, quiet apology to the room itself - asking for forgiveness for intruding. He did not wish to disturb whoever - or whatever - resided inside, he was simply searching for the missing Lord.

Tim… thought that he felt the room warm a little. Just the smallest amount. As though what was inside approved of Tim’s apology.

He could only hope that it was true, and that this would not be his last night on this earth.

For now, he had managed to enter the room. He had a small path, just big enough for Tim to wiggle his way through. Hopefully, how small the path was would deter anything bigger than Tim from storming their way through.

And hopefully, if something… lethal was in the room, it would be too big to easily get through the small path - and it would give Tim a bit of extra time to get away.

He wriggled his way back through the stacks until he could grab his lamp, which was beginning to dwindle, and then he wiggled back to the door. 

Tim withdrew a hairpin that had once belonged to one of his nanny’s so long ago from the depths of his pocket. It was old, with the beginnings of rust forming along some of the edges. But Tim kept it, because it was the only thing that Tim had for picking locks. He was not a master at picking locks, but he must have known enough - as he was able to open the locked door that had been behind the furniture.

Now, with the door unlocked, it was time to brave whatever was hidden inside that so clearly did not wish to come out.

The furniture, what little was left inside the room, was shattered and broken. The bed was in disarray; smashed into more pieces than Tim could hope to count. Ripped to tiny pieces, it made the room itself appear war-torn. The only thing that stood was the bookcase.

It was organized, if dusty. With the chaos of the room and hallway at large, it looked even more out of place than anything Tim had seen thus far. Almost as if an invisible force was drawing him forward, Tim approached the shelves slowly.

He hoped that it was anchored well, and would not fall and crush him.

At random, for the invisible force that had seemed to draw him forward had vanished, Tim picked a book off of the shelf. 

Inside, Tim found inscribed “For my little wing, Jason.” in elegant calligraphy. 

Tim faltered. 

Tim had heard about Jason Wayne, who had not? The boy they say was killed by the wicked jester that haunted the streets of Gotham. The cursed creature that travelled the Countdom, wreaking havoc in the name of madness and laughter. The clown that desired to make people laugh in sorrow and madness, cry tears of happiness while granting twisted wishes.

Tim had heard rumors that Jason had gone in search of his birth mother, and had had no choice when he was confronted with the clown of darkness. 

It had been around the same time that Tim had thought to seek out the clown, for whatever price the jester demanded of him would be worth paying to learn what made his parents leave him behind for so many years and for so many days.

But when Jason had died at the hands of the creature, Tim had been unsure. If Jason, who was a better person than Tim could ever hope to aspire to be, lost his life to the thing… 

Tim surely would fare an even worse fate.

Tim jumped and flinched as the sky boomed a thunderous crackle. Lightning lit up the world at nearly the same moment, indicating that they were in the heart of the storm. 

Looking around fearfully, Tim clutched the book to his chest. From what Tim could see, there was nothing in the room besides himself. But there was a sense that Tim was being watched, that someone was staring straight at him. 

Tim ducked his head, looking down at his wet, muddy shoes. He knew that his parents hated even accidental eye contact - and if it was Lord Wayne that was spying him, Tim did not dare make eye contact. 

He was already invading his home, he would do well to not break any more rules.

And yet, no one came forward. No thing even came forward. All that happened, was a cold breeze tugging at his shirt and the light of his lamp becoming extinguished. Tim swallowed, biting his lip.

“Hello?” he whispered to the empty room. He knew, that sometimes his parents found amusement in fooling Tim into thinking that something else was stalking him, when in reality it was them. Tim did not understand those times; he could not help but think that those ‘jokes’ were simply mean and cruel.

Mere silence awaited Tim this time, no parents or Lord leaving a hidden place to laugh at him.

He flinched again, looking at the ruined bed in terror when there was an unexpected creak in the floorboards. He inched a step away, still holding the stolen book - and prepared to use it to defend himself if he must.

Tim was drawing on his courage to ask again who was there, when from under the bed a mouse scurried out. As it disappeared in a crack at the far end of the room, Tim knelt to the ground as the terror left him in a rush. Breathing hard, Tim panted at his shoes until he was able to raise his head once more. Then he took the single chance he had left, and lit his lamp once more.

It was nearly burnt out, and Tim could only hope that it would last until he had left the room once more.

As he straightened from igniting the lamp, he saw something gleam from under the broken bed. Surprised, Tim crawled forward and pulled it out. Discarding the book he had been clutching previous, Tim opened the new book he had happened upon.

Or at least, that had been his intention. He found the book to be locked, which he found curious. Once more pulling out his hairpin from a long-gone nanny, he picked the lock; slowly but surely.

Once again, on the first page there was a dedication; “To my chum, Jason. Happy fourteenth birthday my son.” . 

It was written in neat handwriting, not unlike that of his parents. It contrasted Jason’s own handwriting, which was on the next page.

This - this was proof that Bruce had loved his son! His parents, all of Gotham, had been wrong! Bruce loved his son, and had always claimed him as his son.

And Tim now had proof of that.

Tim now had proof that not all of Gotham’s Elite only had children because they were expected too. That sometimes they had a child because they loved them, not because they had need of an heir.

His parents had been lying, just like Tim had known they had been when attempting to justify why they cared not for him.

This… this was life changing to Tim. This meant more to Tim than he could ever possibly articulate. Even now, he could not think of how much his life had been altered by one easy sentence, just that it had been changed forevermore.

He… did not wish to intrude on what were believably precious moments between father and son, but Tim had to know what had driven Jason to seek out his birth mother. 

Tim could not understand it. Why would Jason search for a woman that had given him up, when he so clearly had a father who loved him dearly? 

So, horribly, guiltily, Tim sat on the tattered ruins of the bed and began to read. 

Quickly, he devoured the contents of the diary. He read every interaction that Jason had recorded having with his father as though he was starving for it. So many pages were filled with Jason’s wonder at how different Bruce was from his expectations, and how Jason loved him so.

And yet… all things had to come to an end. 

In the later entries, Jason wrote about how he was beginning to doubt his place at Bruce’s side. How he wasn’t sure if his father still loved him as he once had, for an unnamed transgression that had happened previously. How it led to him and his father fighting, arguing where once there had been calmer talks taking place.

The last entry, was a note of how Jason was going to go and find his mother…

Tim swallowed, knowing how that search ended.

Guiltily, morosely, Tim closed the diary from the back of the book. He froze as, as the pages fluttered down - there was one last paragraph written in the very back of the book.

In a harsh, crude scrawl “Please, let me go” was carved into the journal backing.

Lightning cracked, before disappearing - once again plunging Tim into darkness. The lamp, just as Tim had feared, had burned itself out. It left Tim sitting in the darkness alone, just as he so often was in his own home.

Unlike when he was in his own manor, this time… Tim was driven to speak.

“I'm sorry." Tim whispered into the empty room. He was talking to the diary, looking down at where he could feel himself holding it even if he couldn't see it. "I'm sorry you went through that. I'm sorry you felt like he didn't love you. I'm sorry that your mother turned out to not be what you hoped… 

“And I'm sorry that it seems like your father couldn't let you go. I just - it doesn't make me not sorry, but Mr. Wayne seemed to love you so very dearly. He loved you how my parents never could bring themselves to love me. I'm sorry that he showed you he loved you in a way that ended up hurting you. If I could change it I would… I don't have much of a life, and you seemed to have so much of a loving, wonderful life before Lord Wayne and yourself came to be at odds… 

“My parents h-hate me; I know they resent me… If I could I would give you my life… You would get a father back who loves you dearly, and my parents would be free to get another heir… everyone would win, by me giving you my life… Well, everyone but me… But when have I ever mattered? Not really, and not for a long long time…

"I just - I'm sorry I can't change the past for you Jason. I hope - I hope you know how loved you are; wherever you are." Tim blinked, and he could feel the tears slowly start to slide over and down his cheeks.

With silent, inaudible plops, the tears landed on the diary. Unlike in the fairytales Tim tried so hard to disappear into, no new words magically appeared with the fallen boys handwriting.

Instead, the storm outside screamed, slamming the cracked windows open wide. The wind blew the rain hard enough that Tim was once again becoming soaked with rain, so he hastily pushed the book from Jason’s older brother out of the way of the rain. The diary he had read still in hand, Tim hastily hurried out of the room.

As he finished wriggling his way through the furniture, he froze. There, standing at the end of the hallway and very clearly transparent, was someone watching him. It was the outline of a man, or so Tim believed. He was see through - 

He was a ghost, or something akin to a ghost.

Terror well up inside of Tim, made worse when he was pushed away from the room by a different force.

Scrambling to his feet, Tim turned - and fled.

Chapter Text

Tim sprinted, as fast as his legs could take him. His lungs burned from a mix of lack of oxygen and fear, his blurry eyes making him stumble and trip. Tim refused to fall to his knees, digging his nails into wood to keep himself upright. He used his hold to launch himself onwards, terror filling his very soul as he hurtled through the blackened hallway.

He could feel stinging in the fingers of his right hand, but he didn't dare stop running to glance at them. Thoughts of finding Mr. Wayne had long since flown from his mind - Tim was no longer fearful and terrified of failing his parents. 

He was fearful and terrified of whatever had been watching him.

Tim had the book still in his left hand; though he only realized as much when he slammed his hand into the doorframe of a room to whirl around the threshold. Agony shot up his fingers, snaking through his wrist and flaming up to past his elbow. Despite the pain, he clutched the book. He had claimed it through all of this terror - he refused to give it up now.

Tim - Tim wanted to tell the world that Mr. Wayne loved his son.

He wanted to tell his parents that it was possible to love your child. Tim was young, but he knew now that it was possible for adults to love, care, and protect children that were in their care. He had proof! He could show them!

Maybe they would get angry at him and throw him out; but Tim knew now that it was possible for someone to love someone not of family! 

Tim... was almost selfish enough to hope that he could find that one day... 

But for that to happen he first needed to find a way out of the manor, before whatever was in that room caught him.

Then, and only then, would it be possible for Tim to show the world that Lord Wayne had a heart as deep as Gotham’s crime empire.

But he could not share his findings with anyone if the Being that had been watching him caught up to him once more.

So Tim raced through the halls, his heart in his throat. He had little idea of where he was going, lost beyond hope in the shadowy halls. The night was so dark, and with the mist and the storm covering the moon - he had to rely on the brief, infrequent flashes of lightning. 

It was during one such flash that Tim spotted what looked like a bookcase. Perhaps that was another way to enter Lord Wayne's study! And Tim could remember from his time earlier, Lord Wayne had extra lamps and lights to do his work by!

With the flare of hope in his heart, Tim ran towards where he thought he had seen the bookcase - blinded by the darkness once more

Still, Tim could not let that deter him. He needed to find a source of light so he could get out - before whatever had been watching him got him.

A crack of lightning lit up the room in front of him; but it was too late. Tim couldn't stop himself in time, the fear making him run faster than he had ever managed before.

It proved to be his downfall in the end, as the study he was racing towards wasn't a back way into the study at all - but the entrance to what looked like the library.

Tim bit his lip as he stumbled, trying to keep himself from yelping. He almost managed it, but then his next step set him plunging down a flight of stairs. He must have been on the second floor of the library - which would only make sense.

Tim had little idea of what noise he made as he tumbled and plunged down the stairs. He landed with a hard thwump, book flying from his hands and skittering across the floor. 

It took Tim a long moment, before he managed to force himself to inhale sharply. It made his entire body throb with pain; clearly he was going to be extremely bruised and banged up tomorrow.

That is, if he made it to tomorrow…

Tim coughed as he forced himself up to his knees, the hard landing on the dusty floor did not lend itself to easy breathing. It took him two tries, but Tim finally made his painful way to his feet.

He was just grateful that no one was there to see him in tears. He knew it wasn't manly of him, but his parents or anyone who would tell them wasn't even there. He could afford to be ‘weak’ for the moment.

Tim doubted the being that had been watching him would care if he was strong or not.

Slowly, Tim forced himself to limp towards where the book had fallen, bending over painfully to pick it up. He froze as he saw that he was in front of what looked like… a nest.

Lightning flared once again, and Tim was able to see what looked like the outline of two people. The red blanket on the right had the darker blanket, probably black, wrapped around one side. The bottom of the red blanket was bunched up, as though whomever sat with the red blanket kept their feet on the furniture. The black blanket flowed to the floor, as though the one who sat there sat in a more proper and dignified way.

Tim couldn't remember ever seeing the youngest member of Lord Wayne's household without clothing of red. Something in the other boy's wardrobe was always red.

The blankets... Tim realized that the blankets were arranged in such a way... the blankets displayed the last time that the father and son had been close.

The blankets, once again shrouded in the gloom of the dark night, held a frozen moment in time.

Tim - Tim shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be looking at this. It may have only been blankets, but this scene was too... intimate for him to be looking at.

Maybe this is why the figure appeared before him - it knew that Tim was going to find this place and it wanted to stop him. Tim felt terrible that he had been so frightened that he had stumbled right to where he hadn't been supposed to go! He almost wished that the figure would appear again, so that Tim could apologize to it for being so terrible and terrified he had fled in exactly the wrong direction.

Tim flinched when thunder boomed overhead, and then he froze when he thought he movement came from the blackened doorway.

Any thoughts of apologizing vanished from his thoughts, and once more he turned and raced away in the opposite direction.

He was on the lower level now, but he had completely lost any orientation as to where he was. Regardless, he fled once more. He raced away - slower this time, as the fall had seemed to have twisted his ankle. 

He barreled through the gloomy, dark halls with no regard to where he was headed. All his focus was on getting out; as soon as Tim came to a door he was going to leave with his prize and never return.

No matter what his parents said or threatened him with.

No matter if it was from Count Wayne himself - Tim was not going to return.

Tim skidded to a stop, though he didn’t manage it in time. He went crashing through the closed door, sprawling on the floor with a yelp. He was stunned for a long moment; why did he keep plunging to the floor?

It hurt .

Chapter Text

Tim groaned and struggled up to his feet once more. 

His parents were going to be so disappointed - they hated when he was hurt and they couldn’t flaunt him to the other Nobles in Gotham. And with the amount he had fallen and gotten hurt; he was going to be locked away in his tower of a room for a very, very long time.

He was dismayed when he realized that the diary had been flung into the room by his fall. It was so dark in the room, and the weather had grown colder since he had been in the drab manor - which froze over the windows and left Tim in near total darkness in... wherever it was he had landed. Tim wouldn’t be surprised in the least to find that any windows that the manor still had were so thick with ice he would barely be able to see the lightning anymore.

Tim needed to find a light, so that he could find the book and go back to Drake Manor. He was oh so cold, and he was growing weary from the constant terror.

He stumbled and bumped around, and when his hand brushed across what felt like a lamp he nearly cried. He clutched it to his chest desperately, eyes darting around uselessly as though he could miraculously see purely due to what he held.

Of course, that was not what happened. Tim sighed, limping forward slowly and continuing to search for some way to light his precious lamp. A few more minutes of questing Tim finally located a lamp and a way to light it. He blinked rapidly and squinted, real light blinding him after he had spent so long in the darkness.

He found himself in a room. He looked around curiously; guardedly. The room was very organized, and it held less dust than the rest of cryptic manor from what Tim could tell. It looked as though it had been lived in and used until recently - Tim even spotted a worn, leather bound journal on the table beside the bed.

Which also had more lanterns! Tim was definitely going to ensure that he was able to leave with at least one, as well as the journal. It was under the bed, and as he started to kneel to get the journal - which had of course skittered underneath the bed - only for his body to throb . 

Tim gasped in pained surprise, collapsing onto the bed that he had been using to kneel down with. It took him a moment to get his breath back; took time until Tim was able to force himself to roll into sitting on the side of the bed. 

His body was thrumming with pain, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Tim was nearly drawn to tears; he couldn’t ever remember a time when he had ever been in such pain before. 

Tim didn’t dare to cry. He didn’t know what the creature that he had seen earlier would do to him if he was caught crying as, according to his parents, it was one of the weakest things that he could do. He certainly didn’t want to find out. He didn’t know how the creature would treat him, but Tim could imagine that he would just be marking himself as easy prey.

Since he had to wait for the pain to fade away, Tim slowly dared to drag the journal closer to himself to read.

He was pleasantly surprised that this one was in English as well.

Tim bit his lip nervously; he felt terrible for reading another personal journal. He had already dared to read one personal journal tonight - but he needed to know if it would be possible for him to help anyone that lived in this manor.

He had long since given up on wanting to tell his parents anything. The creature, the run, the pain - the fact that Tim hadn’t wanted to come to spy on Count Wayne to begin with; it all had built up to cementing in Tim’s mind that he did not want to tell his parents a thing about what had gone on tonight.

And it had little to do with the fact that his parents would not believe his recounting…

But Tim truly did want to help the Count. The amount of grief that the man must be feeling; having lost his youngest son… Tim didn’t think he could even imagine that. And if Tim was going to try to help him in any way, he needed to invade this person’s privacy and read the journal.

So with a heavy heart, Tim started to read.

It was a journal from Mr. Pennyworth’s account. It detailed that Jason, or Tim supposed that he should refer to him as Mr. Todd Wayne, had found his birth mother that had given him up when he had been born. With Mr. Wayne trying to prevent Mr. Todd Wayne from participating in their nightly activities, Mr. Todd Wayne had run away.

Mr. Pennyworth speculated that his youngest grandson had attempted to flee to his older brother first, Mr. Richard Grayson, but had failed in that attempt because he was out at sea. When it became apparent that Mr. Grayson was not home to answer his brother, he seemed to have made up his mind to seek out his birth mother.

Tim, even though he was simply reading a recount, had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was what had doomed the Count’s son to his ultimate demise.

Tim’s heart ached with pain while he read the man’s recount of finding out that his grandson had perished in the attempt to find his mother. Tim’s eyes filled with tears as he read the shaky handwriting describing how he and his son, the Count, were too late as they arrived to try to save him.

Tim had to blink back tears as he read the heartbreak in the man’s writing. He had to put the journal and look away, blinking rapidly as he realized that he could see watermarks from teardrops on the warn pages of the diary. He may never have realized the depths of love that the Butler felt towards his charges had he not broken in and read the journal. 

Clearly the butler was not just a butler in the Wayne household…

Tim had to gather himself before he could continue reading. He wished that any of his parent’s hires cared for him as Mr. Pennyworth cared for him.

Tim wouldn’t be selfish and wish that his parents cared for him as such. He knew that they were too busy for that…

He read on. Tim read as Count Wayne seemed to lose himself to a grief-driven obsession, unable to cope with the reality that his son had perished at the hands of a mad clown and his own mother.

Mr. Pennyworth attempted to draw his son back from the grieving madness, spending hours every day attempting to reason with him. He even sent a letter to Mr. Grayson, pleading for him to come home. Tim could read the reason, which was that Mr. Pennyworth had a despondent hope that the return of his living son would snap the Count out of his grief.

Tim read on, hoping to find a better end…

Chapter Text

Tim read on, and found that his hopes appeared to be pointless…

He neared the end of the journal, and found the last written passage;

My boy… Master Bruce has already had so much heartache dealt to him in his young life. He has witnessed his parents end before his very eyes when he was but a boy. Not even with two digits to his age, and he had witnessed their heartbreaking end. And then; when he was barely a man and had witnessed another tragedy before his very eyes. 

While I wish daily that Master Dick had not lost his parents at all, I will be eternally grateful that Master Bruce had the young lad to focus on. I believe, though I am uncertain if it is true or not, that the boy was the only thing that kept Master Bruce from being reminded of his own tragic grief and being consumed by it.

I have sent for Master Dick, and I hope that the young sir will arrive in time. I have been feeling unwell as of late; and I fear that if I should pass on it will ensure Master Bruce is unable to ever return from his grief. I fear that there will be no one here to ensure that Master Bruce will take even the slightest bit of himself.

I fear for what will happen to my son, and my grandson should he return to an empty manor.

Master Bruce has truly lost himself to his grief, and that is why I am so fearful for what should happen if I, too, am forced to leave him. He has delved deeper into the dark arts and spirits than what many do, to the concern of myself. 

He has managed to tether Master Jason’s soul to this world; a heinous act if what his spirit has portrayed is accurate. 

Time and time again, Master Jason has pleaded with his Father to let him go. To allow him to cross over to the afterlife and finally find peace. He has pleaded for his Father to release him; to allow him the mercy of not being forced to observe a world that he can no longer partake in.

Slowly, Master Jason is being driven to madness. I believe that the experiments and binding his soul to this world have done my Grandson no favours. Master Bruce has had to place a protective ward around his manor. Master Jason has reached the point where he must be contained for the safety of those around him. He was not contained before, and he once nearly caused the death of the delightful, personable young Drake Heir. 

It was after that dark, dreadful moment that Master Bruce chose to confine Master Jason’s soul to the manor grounds. He still wreaks havoc, worse than he ever did when he was still among the living. 

Routinely, daily, even hourly ; the boy begs his Father for the mercy of allowing him to pass on. It causes myself no end of pain that I am unable to help my youngest Grandson. I try as well, to reason with my son to let him go as he so desperately desires. 

It is always in vain.

Master Jason has become more demon than child as of late, though in one of his most lucid moments he has hidden the journal that his Father requires to complete the ritual to create him a new life.

Master Jason… I firmly believe that Master Jason has reached the point in his ending where he just wishes for peace . Master Jason is tired , and desires to rest now. 

My poor Grandson… if anyone has earned their peace in the afterlife it is my Grandchild. They have dealt with enough hardship in his life thus far, they deserve their rest now.

Master Jason hiding the journal is perhaps the child’s last desperate attempt to make his Father see reason.

I fear it will not be enough…

Tim closed the book, having reached the end. He was numb - numbly in pain. A combination that he never thought he would be able to reach. 

A combination Tim hadn’t believed existed.

He wanted to apologize to the book, speak his sorrow that he felt towards the Wayne clan aloud. But after what had happened in Jason’s room when he had done so - Tim didn’t dare. He took a long moment to gather then say what he wished mentally, but no sound escaped him. 

All the same, Tim hoped that the words reached Mr. Pennyworth, Count Wayne, and Mr. Todd Wayne.

Tim was starting to feel spooked again, so he painfully crouched to the floor and got the diary that had been flung underneath the bed. He retrieved it, painfully standing up and hobbling to the door. All the time he had spent sitting and unmoving had left him very sore. 

Tim refused to give up without at least one more escape attempt.

He used the lantern he had, and had managed to make it to where he thought he had entered, when there was once more and icily cold wind blasting through the room. His precious lantern extinguished, plunging him into the depths of darkness once more. 

His terror spiked, and Tim thought he saw the glowing outline of… s omething … standing before the way out.

Tim didn’t wait to find out what the something was. He turned and fled, back up the stairs as fast as his throbbing body would let him.

He abandoned the lantern halfway up the stairs, throwing it as far away from himself as he could in the hopes of distracting the something from following him. The lantern was useless at this point; there was too much wind to be able to light it once more.

Onward Tim fled, winding through the halls in the darkness. More than once, more than a dozen times, he slipped on the ice that had taken over the manor halls. It was on one such slip that he went sliding into a room. 

Filled with terror, Tim sprang to his feet. He looked around wildly, only to pause. He had been here before - this was Count Wayne’s study. Tim… Tim had started his night in this very room.

But what was different from now than what it had been before; was that the grandfather clock was propped open.

Not only that, but there was light coming from within.

Tim - he had no wish to be caught by the something that had stalked him through the manor halls. Tim only ever wanted to help Count Wayne. It seemed as though the Count was in the hidden passage. 

Tim gathered what dregs of courage remained in his body, and he started forward. He slipped into the passage, shutting the door behind himself fully.

Chapter Text

Tim descended the spiral steps of the stairway, the oil lamp swinging gently in one hand; illuminating the secret passage Tim had been so... lucky to stumble upon. The other, still holding the heirs journal.

How long had he walked in this passage, this corridor of damp and doom?

Without the movement of the moon or the rain or wind, there was no way for Tim to tell the passage of time as he so carefully crept forward. Bereft of railings, he had no choice but put his hand in the rough stonewalls to keep himself from plummeting down the slippery slope.

He went down.

Down.

And down. 

Underground.

Beyond where the sunlight had ever touched, beyond where even hope had ever traveled.

How did Tim know that? For he could feel the last smidgen of his hope sizzling out and dying. Something more than he knew was going on here, something he may never get to speak of. Still, regardless, he pressed on.

Finally he arrived at a narrow hallway.

He crept forward timidly; doing his best to ensure that each of his foot-falls were as silent as he could possibly make them. He could hear voices ahead; voices that grew louder with each careful step forward. 

Tim had yet to venture close enough to be able to discern what was being said - but the fact that there was someone here speaking bode well for his quest to check on Lord Wayne. Perhaps his feelings were for naught, and himself and Lord Wayne were going to walk out of this catacomb and reenter the light together.

At long last, Tim slowly, timidly, poked his head around the corner.

The moment he did so, Lord Wayne - as Tim could now see the figure that was speaking - said something that made the room crackle with power. 

The diary, the one that Tim had kept on his person despite all of the harrowing hazards that he had faced thus far, burned where he held it - hidden from the sight of the room. With a stifled yelp, Tim dropped the book as the fiery pain became too much for him to continue to hold it.

It cracked open as it fell, the book opening to a seemingly random page. Tim caught one of the page numbers, thirteen, before a blinding light from the center of the room stole any chance that he may have had at catching the reason why the book fell open to that page. Tim shielded his eyes and cringed back, holding the blinding, painful light would fade soon.

There was a crash and an excruciating, howl-like shriek that made every hair on Tim’s body stand on end. He was frozen in place, terror stealing his ability to run, to move, to breathe.

When the light finally cleared and Tim started to get his sight back, he was left questioning himself and his mind. 

There was no way that Mr. Pennyworth could be that pale… and translucent, if he were still alive. There was simply no humanly way that it was possible. And there was no way for Jason Todd to be standing in front of Lord Wayne. 

For it was Jason Todd, despite how he was bone-white and a little too perfect to still be human.

Before Tim could react, Jason’s head - with eyes as black as the abyss, snapped towards where he was standing, before he blurred.

Tim was barely able to register the agonizing pain that lanced through his neck as his mind frantically attempted to make sense of what was going on around him. From twin places in his neck, a burning lava was racing through his veins. He could do nothing but hang there, limp, until what was burning him decided to let him go.

With how much pain he was in, Tim wasn't certain if he wanted to be let go...

It didn’t let him go, though; regardless of what Tim did or did not truly want. It just… kept going and going, until Tim could feel his heartbeat slowing down. Until he could no longer support himself. Then the pain stopped, blessedly, and Tim sunk to the floor.

The ceiling above him was hazy, and was darkening by the second.

Tim didn't think he had long left for this world. He wondered who would mourn him.

He wondered if anyone would mourn him.

Jason, alive once more, appeared in his vision. He blocked the ceiling, blocked the rest of the cave. Tim couldn't see anything else but Jason, he could barely even hear the shouts of concern from Lord Wayne and the ghostly butler.

With his vision fading, and his body going numb, all Tim could see was Jason. Jason, who was crying for him. Jason, who was hugging him close, like nothing could separate them just like he wished his parents would do.

Jason, who Tim thought was the reason… the world finally misted into a never-ending black.

Before he completely lost himself, Tim closed his eyes and tried to force a smile.

Now, now the world would know how much Lord Wayne loved his heir, his son.

Now Tim knew that it was possible to love an heir, just as he'd dreamed.

Now he would get a chance to find that, in his next life.