The weight of darkness is magnificent. It pushes through the skin yet still leaves the bones and organs intact. Stabbing sensations in the chest can be felt but the heart suffers little. Blood becomes slightly constricted but this is hardly ever noticed. The only aspect truly affected is an intangible one: The soul. The self. The Id and the Ego. Jonathan Crane had no name for this invisible thing. As an atheist he could acknowledge no soul and as a psychiatrist he found these monosyllabic those words a bit insulting to what they were meant to represent. All that aside, there was something silly about placing labels on objects that existed only within dreams. Even the darkness itself was not true darkness. Shadows could not be seen within it. Light could not dispel it. But it was not true darkness. Jonathan only lent it this name because he respected the crushing mass. Respected it, loved it and desired greatly to be its master.
He recognized his own hands; lily white and frail. They were the hands of an old professor. Hands that spent their days pawing through textbooks and wearing down chalk on a board. Now they were his only weapon in mastering the darkness. Jonathan began to move his arms in great sweeping motions, perhaps he could swim through. Swim to the Id and Ego of darkness and strangle it there as it was attempting to do with him.
Darkness though wanted none of this and quickly put an end to the game. Jonathan looked upon his hand growing smaller and blistered. Their color began to glow bronze. Jonathan could feel an emanating heat from his hands and on his bare chest. The hand became crippled, curling into itself. He could feel his palms become raw, blood running freely and filling the trembling ball of flesh that was once a hand.
Pain spread through him like wildfire, hot as the sun...hot as the sun...
Pure orange exploded through the darkness. In an instant warmth could be felt and Jonathan shivered, now realizing how truly cold darkness was.
From memories long since buried a voice called out his name. A woman's voice shook him and Jonathan told himself it was all just a trick. The pain grew more intense. Just a trick, the darkness is trying to confuse him. The woman's voice became louder, each time she called him Jonathan was shaken with a hot pulse. Blood flowed now from his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Jonathan screamed but nothing could be heard over the detached calling of his name.
Darkness had won.
It began as a dot, a black speck in the heart of blinding orange, coming at Jonathan so fast he could not make sense of the sight until it consumed him. Soft and cool, a great mass of feathers billowed past, growing louder and louder with each wave. The woman's voice was long gone now, receded back in memories. Just the feathers growing louder till a great screeching caw rip through it all.
Crows. Millions of crows, their claws cutting and tearing at Jonathan's naked self. He tried to fight them off but his hands had bled down to nubs. They pulled at his flesh, Jonathan could feel his skin being undone, as if he were a rag doll in the hands of a careless child. Soon his meaty organs were exposed but the crows did not stop. They made meals of his heart and stomach, liver and kidneys.
"Jonathan! Jonathan, for God's sake, wake up!"
There is no Jonathan. The crows have made sure of that.
"Dammit, open your eyes!"
Oblong masses found detail and in turn his mind was illuminated with the names of varying objects. There are shelves. They are lined with books. In the books are words. Jonathan notes a desk with a lamp to work by. Brown leather chairs well worn and loved sit by a small mass of embers. A fire place. The window sill outside was piled with quickly melting snow. It is February. Soon a warm sense of safety fills Jonathan as he recognizes the last little details, the trinkets and treasures that mark this room as his own.
He was home, in his bed.
"Where are you?"
"Home. In bed." Jonathan lolled his head about till he found himself locked with a pair of near colorless eyes perched over the most unfortunate overbite. "What is your address?"
"1488 West...West Abernathy."
"Apartment numb-"
"Apartment number one...Gotham City..."
"Good enough," the pale eyes closed, the misshapen mouth begrudgingly formed a smile. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Professor."
"Thank you, er...," a mug of dark, warm liquid was pushed into his hands. Jonathan recognized the strong bittersweet scent immediately as black tea. His hands though were a bit unsure, no matter how much his mind urged them to his fingers refused to make a proper grip. This man...
"It's Jervis, Professor," this Jervis though seemed keen on helping him, guiding the mug to Jonathan's lips and keeping it steady so he may have a drink. It was hot but Jonathan drank the tea up greedily. "Do you remember me?"
"Of course," Jonathan half lied. The name sent off sirens in his head, why for? Perhaps a bit more tea would help.
"Jervis Techt," Jervis seemed to have the same idea as once more he aided Jonathan is raising the mug, "I am your valet. I live here with you in this apartment."
"1488 West Abernathy Lane," the response was completely Pavlovian. Jonathan did not seem at all aware that he had spoken a word. Just went back to sipping delicately at his tea, eyes lidded and still terribly adrift. Jervis just kept at his side, holding the mug steady as Jonathan's fingers curled and uncurled themselves around it, never gaining much of a grip. He watched those distant, woebegone eyes, waiting for the far between moment when a soft sparkle would come over them and a new memory was illuminated. Perhaps something from his well guarded youth, perhaps something from the years they had shared as colleagues at the university. It could too just have been as simple as when a fledgling got itself trapped in the butler's pantry last week and nearly scared the professor to death with its ruckus.
Jervis felt the mug slip from his hand. Jonathan's own had finally remembered how to function and though he still looked so much like a lost child Jervis felt it safe enough to leave his master's side and do anyway with any evidence from the night before...
The syringe and empty vial were not really suspect. Such things were common paraphernalia in a doctor's home or office, as innocent as a stethoscope or jar full of tongue depressors. Jervis though knew the secret these fragile items concealed. The story they told of a man consumed by nightmares. Obsessed with fear. His few tethers to the world outside were his valet and a teaching job that he was neglecting more and more with each passing semester. Jervis knew that soon it would only be him and as he placed the vial and syringe back into the hollowed out pages of a short story anthology he wondered then how much longer till Jonathan would be lost for good.
Jervis closed the book, ran his fingers over the embossed lettering of the author's name. Washington Irving, one of Jonathan's favorites. Or at least he had been once upon a time. Once upon a time the old professor had actually read fiction. Now that bit of his library had been sold off, even the rare, limited print copy of Through The Looking Glass Jervis had purchased for him the first Christmas under his employ. Everything was text books now, fantasy and myth replaced with facts and records. All that remained was what Jervis held; a hollowed out old book. Something that once was and could never be again.
"I have a meeting today...board of directors. I have to get dressed," Jonathan was quite alert now, upright in bed and his blue eyes wide at this great revelation, but he still spoke as if he were trapped within his dreams. His words wandered lazily, almost without purpose from his lips. The professor's strange speech pattern was something unique though quite unintentionally crafted. Jonathan was a Georgian, born and bred and well aware of the negative stigma attached to it. After countless years, tutors and cash spent Jonathan managed to tighten the reigns on his sharp accent, but still a sweet sort of sleepiness lingered in his voice. An intriguing contrast to his quick temper and fiery red hair.
"Perhaps after breakfast and a little more tea. I'm sure the board would understand if-"
"No," Jonathan snapped as he began untangling himself from his bedding. Jervis was regrettably not in the mood to deal with the stubborn professor. It broke his heart to think he had become too hard or too old to care for Jonathan like he once had. Like he promised he always would. So often in his years at the university did Jervis's childlike naivety lead him astray, mostly with the girls. He never meant any harm but of course none of them understood that. Only the red headed loner from the psychology department would stand up for him, speaking so eloquently in his defense. In time the two square pegs formed a valuable friendship and when Jervis was terminated and forced without hope into streets, it was Jonathan who found him once more among the wretched and the forgotten. Who pulled him up, dusted him off and, despite his own misfortunes in the face of an uncertain economy, gave him a job as his valet.
Even at the most difficult times of The Depression Jonathan had managed to keep their pantry full. He could stretch a dollar into a week, bartering with anyone who would hear him out. Now, Jervis had not even prepared a breakfast for his master. He was not even going to try for one last push for the haggard man before him to take a bite of a muffin or spoonful of oatmeal. Then again in the times when Jervis would slave over the most appetizing meal he could manage with what he was given Jonathan would always turn it away.
"Do I look as if I need to consume?" Jonathan would sometimes ask with great venom. Jervis knew Jonathan was sensitive about his frail frame. When and if something was made and Jonathan felt insulted that it was Jervis would quickly shuffle it outside to the patio for any lucky transient who might happen upon it. So instead of making a scene he took to sifting through Jonathan's suits to find something that did not make him look like the cantankerous old recluse that he was. If anything, Jonathan's fine collection of hats, designed to conceal both his hated natural hair color and the few grays that had begun to tint it would put him back in good spirits.
"When convenient I believe we ought to make a venture to the 12th Street arcade. You are in a rather dire need for a few new jackets and ties. Maybe some new loafers as well." Jervis very well knew though that Jonathan was not listening. Behind him he could hear Jonathan lumbering about with his peculiar gait. Long legs and old age had given him a unique footfall. Papers could be heard being tossing about, file cabinets slamming both open and shut. "I think a little less brown might be good. And a few less patches too," Jervis tsked as he pulled out a musty tweed jacket with thinning leather elbow patches, "walking around dressed like this," then, with a chuckle, "...you look like a damn scarecrow."
This comment caught Jonathan's eyes in the cruelest way. -
Only a moment ago he had awoken in agony. A crown of knots around his skull being pulled tighter and tighter with each beat of his heart. The rotted sack of bile and vodka that served as his stomach was a raging sea of misery and there seemed to be the most ear shattering ring all around him that none of the strange shadow-people in his vision seemed to notice.
Only a moment ago Edward Nygma had the hangover from hell. Now he was drowning in icy pleasure. Each cold wave that washed over took with it a layer of ache and nausea, healing Edward inside and out. Only when his lungs were ready to burst could Edward bear to pull himself from beneath the showers, heaving shamelessly in the budding morning light. Wet and shivering, Edward felt renewed. He opened his eyes, desiring so much to see this glorious shower from heaven above that had saved his life.
Edward found himself standing in the central fountain of Gotham University.
The mystic shadow people were now taking shape as confused and frightened students heading to the day's first classes.
Though a proud young man Edward could not help but to enjoy a hearty laugh at his situation. Since sixteen he had assured anyone who would listen that nothing on heaven or earth would get him to enter the prestigious Gotham U. Apparently the combination of good wine and cheap vodka had not been fully considered.
"Me oh my," a fey creature leapt into the collecting pool to Edward's left, causing him to foolishly try and protect himself from the splash, "would you look at the boychick? Soaked to the bone, the poor baby." The scolding tsk that followed slowly tapped awake a groggy part of Edward's brain.
"Echo," his voice can a bit more roughly then he would have liked, especially after inhaling an unsafe amount of city water, "or perhaps an angel come with a reprieve for my pitiable situation?" To this Echo only offered her signature laugh whose familiarity Edward found himself just falling into. It was easier to live a life as a care free rake of a youth when you had some sort of constant in your life. And Echo was as constant and solid as they came.
"There you are!" Another detached voice, this one though as bright and loud as the speed it was coming at Edward. Before he could attempt a sweet coo of Query's name as he had done for Echo the girl had already thrown herself unceremoniously into the fountain, pawing excitedly at him like a child would a favorite toy they thought had gone missing.
Above the hullabaloo of the reunion Edward could hear Echo spit a few unpleasant words. They were a sight, Edward Nygma and his girls but they would not have had it any other way. Life was meant to be lived in front of an audience as far as the trio was concerned and on that fine February morning they had attracted quite an impressive one.
"Would ya look at all the egg heads?" Query cried. "The lot of ya would make one hell of an omelet!"
"Egg heads, eh?" Edward stepped forward, greeting the intrigued students with his wide, glistening smile, "Let's see how smart this batch is! How would you all like to take class with me, Professor Nygma, and learn the great riddles of the Sphinx? To decode the subtle play of words and unlock the third eye so they might see what was never intended to be shone?" The buzzing excitement around the group did not surprise Edward in the least, with their arms full of Algebra, trigonometry and psychology books how could they not want to spend their morning with his oh so charming, albeit terribly hung over, self?
"Start 'em off easy Eddie," Echo purred behind him.
"Indeed I shall," said Edward, "now, listen up!" The students all took a collective step forward. "A rooster sitting atop on a perfectly triangular roof lays an egg. Which direction does it roll and why?" For a moment the crowd was silent, a few of the trigonometry students began flipping through their books before a feminine voice perked up:
"Um, roosters don't lay eggs, sir."
"Correct!" Edward pointed to the girl while simultaneously tapping the tip of his nose. Laughter and applause drew more students to the scene.
"What's going on?"
"Who're those guys?"
Edward's charm drew encouragements.
"Oh, please tell another one!"
"Yeah, that first one was too tricky!"
"Patience now, patience, calm yourselves," there was little conviction in Edward's words, the last thing he wanted was for the crowd to lose any of their energy for his act or any of their love for him.
At this thought, Edward turned and began to scale the fountain. Echo and Query took their unspoken cue to whip the crowd into a frenzy, getting them to chant and cheer for their new professor. Once he reached the top Edward resumed his lesson and the students were completely hypnotized, helplessly caught under his spell.