And The World Burns

Alfred Pennyworth removed his black tie and undid the top button on his shirt. He inspected himself in the mirror on the inside door of his wardrobe. It may have been the late, overcast twilight playing a trick with his sight, but his face appeared sallow, ill, like a man with flu. His body, thin and wiry, no longer held its usual promise of elegance from a man who prided himself on his physical fitness. Instead, he appeared stooped and inert.

He shut the wardrobe and walked towards his window. The view over the many acres of Wayne Manor was obscured by building work that was taking place on the east wing. The outlines of Gotham's skyscrapers could just be made out against the dying light. Alfred was getting used to not seeing that dreaded bat-signal in the sky as he had done for most nights over previous months. There was at least some solace in that.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

'Come in,' Alfred said.

Bruce Wayne entered the room. He had also removed his jacket and tie. Alfred became aware that the pile of books on top of his night stand was crooked. He corrected the fault immediately. Bruce walked to an easy chair in the corner and sat down. Alfred remained standing for a moment, quite unsure what to do with himself. It was very unusual for Bruce to visit him in his room. The butler eventually relented and sat down on his bed facing him.

'It's been a tough day,' Bruce said.

'Tough, sir? I'd say it's been bloody awful,' Alfred replied sharply.

Bruce let that pass with a faint nod. Alfred instantly regretted his outburst, fearful that he may have laid yet more grief on his young charge. Bruce had been walking around Wayne Manor for a few days in a trance-like state, now that they had reached the day of the funeral and got through it, Alfred was determined that his employer should not lose his sense of purpose entirely.

'We both loved Rachel, Alfred,' Bruce said.

'That we did, sir.' Alfred replied.

'I never thought that I would outlive her.'

Alfred's eyes darted around the room uncomfortably as he searched for something to distract them. Amongst the army photos, the pictures of Thomas Wayne and the Picasso prints that dominated most of his wall space was a picture of a young woman that he found himself staring at.

'At least we got the chance to say goodbye,' Alfred said quietly.

Bruce got to his feet, and inspected the photograph of the young woman. He had clearly followed Alfred's gaze. Even though he did not come here often, he knew Alfred's quarters well enough to note that this picture was a new addition. Bruce did not recognise her, she had long brown hair, falling to just below her shoulders. She was inordinately pretty, her smile was enigmatic as she looked at the lens of the camera as if challenging it.

'Her name was Eve,' Alfred said.

Bruce walked back to his seat with the picture in his hands. From the age of the photograph, it must have been taken when Alfred was in his early twenties.

'So, who was she, Alfred?' Bruce asked.

'She was the reason I joined the army, Bruce,' Alfred replied.

Bruce was startled by the use of his first name. He had never addressed Alfred formally, but he had rarely if ever heard his butler return such informality. He found that he welcomed it.

'What happened?' he eventually asked.

'A long time ago, when I was a much younger man, I made the mistake of falling in love,' Alfred replied.

The butler walked to his wardrobe and pulled out a bottle of red wine with two glasses. He offered one to Bruce.

'This is a particularly fine Rioja that I stole from the wine cellar,' Alfred said.

'I'll have to dock it from your wages,' Bruce replied.

'Well, it's a good job I run the accounts then!'

Alfred smiled at his own joke. Bruce returned the compliment, but the expression was an unconvincing facsimile.

Having poured full glasses for the two of them, Alfred returned to sit on his bed. He sipped furtively as he considered his next words. Bruce seemed calm, he was slumped on the easy chair, much as he would have been when he was a teenager. He had a benign, almost vacant expression on his face that Alfred knew from experience was, perhaps rather strangely to an outsider, a sign of him being in deep thought.

'She was twenty three years old,' Alfred said, bringing Bruce back to the room.

'Who was?' Bruce asked.

'The woman in the picture you're holding.'

Bruce looked again at the picture. It was only now that he realised that she bore a striking similarity to Rachel.

'We met when I was working in a pub in London,' Alfred said.

'The Hook and Anchor?' Bruce asked.

'The Hook and Anchor. Quite right. So, we met there and, well, you know how these things develop.'

'And what happened?'

'Well, one day, after we'd been together for about a year, she told me that she didn't love me. She told me that she felt nothing for me and that it was likely that she never would,' Alfred continued.

Bruce drank in a draught of his wine, then looked anew at his butler, a man whom he had known for many years. As a Guardian, Alfred had always seemed immune to such considerations in Bruce's mind.

'She was everything I desired,' Alfred said.

Again, he took a deep sip before continuing.

'My love for her was such that it nearly destroyed me.'

Alfred got off his bed and walked to the light switch to turn them on.

'Just as surely as the love you carry for Rachel will destroy you if you let it,' he said, sitting back down on the edge of his bed.

Bruce surveyed the room briefly. Alfred's furnishings were Spartan. The army had prepared him for a tidy, ordered life, which was an ethos that he had remained true to ever since. Yet, now, beyond that efficient front was the truth of what his butler had just told him.

'Rachel is dead, Alfred,' Bruce said.

'Yes, Bruce, she is. Just as Eve is alive. Nonetheless, she is as absent from my life as Rachel is from yours,' Alfred replied.

'What should I do?' Bruce asked.

For one moment, he looked as vulnerable as he had on the day his parents died. Alfred knew that despite his current state, he owed Bruce the truth.

'You must rise, sir, but not as that bat creature. You must rise as Bruce Wayne. That's what Rachel would have wanted,' Alfred said.

'How do you know that?' Bruce asked.

'I loved Rachel like a daughter, just as I love you like a son. She only ever wanted what's best for you. Just as I want that for you now,' Alfred concluded.

Bruce put down his empty glass and stood up. He did not seem to be able to look directly at Alfred.

'Thank you for the wine,' he said.

'It's yours, sir,' Alfred said.

Bruce nodded as he turned to leave. He walked towards the door.

'Goodnight Alfred,' he said.

'Goodnight sir' the butler replied as the door shut.

Alfred corked the bottle of Rioja and put it back in his wardrobe. He would clean the two wine glasses tomorrow morning. He picked up the picture of Eve, which Bruce had left on the arm of his easy chair.

As he reached through his possessions, he found a small lockbox. He opened it, rifling among the letters to make space for the picture.

He locked it and put it back in its usual spot beneath his hanging suit jackets. He closed the door to his wardrobe and leant on it for a moment.

'Goodnight Eve,' he said to himself.

He undressed, switched off the lights and climbed into bed, hoping that sleep would take him soon.