Chapter Text
The Kingdom of Gotham was a land of jagged stone and silver mist, but at its heart sat the Wayne Citadel—a place of unexpected warmth. King Bruce was a man of iron during war, yet within his own walls, he was known for a quiet, steadfast generosity that baffled the neighboring lords. He did not treat his servants as mere fixtures of the architecture, he treated them as the lifeblood of the castle.
When Rudolph West, a man with a heavy brow and a spirit that seemed perpetually curdled, found himself without a roof to shield his young family, the King did not turn him away. Instead, Bruce granted him a stone cottage within the castle’s outer yards—a home far grander than any gardener usually deserved. Rudolph and his wife, Mary, a woman whose eyes were always downcast as if searching for a lost coin, moved into the cottage when their son, Wallace, was but a few months old.
To the King, it was an act of grace. To young Wallace, it was the beginning of a life lived in the shadows of greatness, and the silence of fear.
By the time Wallace was eleven, he knew the rhythm of the castle perfectly. He knew which flagstones were loose, which kitchen maids would sneak him a crust of bread, and, most importantly, he knew the weight of his father’s hand. Rudolph was a man who demanded a perfection he himself did not possess. In the West cottage, a spilled drop of water or a slow response was met with a stinging reprimand or a heavy blow. Wallace did not weep for his pain, for he knew no other life. He assumed all fathers were like the storms-unpredictable, loud, and inevitable.
One sweltering afternoon, Wallace sought refuge in the high branches of a sprawling oak in the Great Garden. Up there, the air was cooler, and the world of chores and heavy silences felt leagues away.
Below him, a new presence disturbed the peace of the garden.
Richard Grayson, the King’s newest ward and adopted prince, was nine years old and possessed the energy of a caged bird finally set free. He had lived in the citadel for only a few days, having been brought there after the tragedy of the traveling circus. To Richard, the castle was a labyrinth of wonders. He wore silk tunics that felt strange against his skin, yet he moved with the effortless grace of the acrobat he had been born to be.
Richard wandered beneath the canopy of the great oak, his eyes wide as he tracked the flight of a blue jay. Suddenly, a rustle of leaves and a sharp snap of a twig caught his attention. He looked up, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the green.
There, perched precariously on a limb that seemed far too high for safety, was a boy with hair the color of autumn embers.
"Hullo!" Richard called out, his voice bright and clear. "Are you a bird, or just a boy who has lost his way?"
The red-headed boy froze. His eyes went wide with a terror that Richard didn't quite understand. With a frantic, feline speed, the boy began to scramble down. He didn't use the ladder-like branches; he slid and dropped, landing on the grass with a heavy thud that should have hurt, yet he scrambled to his feet instantly.
Wallace stared at the younger boy. He saw the fine embroidery on Richard's tunic and the crest of the House of Wayne pinned to his chest. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps.
"Your Highness!" Wallace stammered. He remembered his mother’s frantic lessons on etiquette. He attempted a bow, but it was a clumsy, lurching thing. As he bent his head, several small twigs and a cluster of dried leaves fell from his messy hair onto the pristine grass.
Richard let out a peal of laughter. It wasn't a cruel sound, but it was loud and genuine. "You have a forest in your hair, sir! And you look as though you’ve run from Gotham to the Bludhaven border without stopping."
Wallace flushed a deep crimson, his hands trembling at his sides. "I... I beg your pardon, Prince Richard. I did not know anyone was permitted here at this hour."
"I am permitted everywhere," Richard said with a mischievous grin, stepping closer. "And I should like it if you didn't bow so low. It makes me feel as though I am a hundred years old. What is your name?"
"Wallace, sir. My father is the Master Gardener."
"Well, Wallace, you climb better than the men-at-arms," Richard said, circling him with interest. "Do you think you could show me how you reach that top branch? The King says I must be careful, but he didn't say I couldn't climb."
For a fleeting second, a spark of something like joy touched Wallace’s face. "It is a fine view, sir. You can see the whole of the Western Marches from the—"
"WALLACE!"
A voice like cracking stone thundered across the garden. Wallace’s entire body snapped into a different shape. The slight slouch of a boy vanished, replaced by a rigid, practiced stillness. His face went pale, the light in his eyes extinguished as if by a sudden gust of wind.
Rudolph West stood at the edge of the hedge, his face twisted in a mask of stern disapproval.
Wallace didn't look back at Richard. He began to walk away, his steps mechanical. Then, as if remembering himself, he stopped, turned back, and gave another stiff, awkward bow.
"I must go. Goodbye, sir," Wallace said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
He turned and ran, not with the joy of a child at play, but with the desperate speed of a subject who feared the consequences of a moment's delay.
Richard stood alone under the oak tree, the laughter dying in his throat. He watched the red-haired boy disappear behind the tall hedges, a cold shiver running down his spine despite the heat of the day. He had seen many things in the circus—fear, pain, and exhaustion—but he had never seen a boy look at his own father with the eyes of a cornered animal.
The young prince looked up at the high branches of the tree, the silence of the garden suddenly feeling very heavy indeed.