Author's note: This story uses a slightly different backstory for Jeremiah than is shown in the comics, based on how I wrote him on an RPG a while ago. While many of the elements are the same, I've filled in his rather sparse background with my own ideas that will become clear as the story goes on so please do let me know what you think! Alyce's history is much the same as in the comics, though I've introduced her much earlier than is done in the comics. The start of this story is based on an idea I was developed back on the RPG but now I hope to develop it further. I still love you David Hine, I just live to tweak.
Delusions were eating at the soul of Jeremiah Arkham. His asylum had fallen and the spirit of the bat contained within had been let loose on the world. It followed him, snapping at his heels and shouting his guilt from every building top. As he lay on the starched cotton of his bed, the television set drowned out its usual drivel.
The search for missing Arkham Asylum personnel continues. Former administrators, Dr Jonathan Crane and Dr Joan Leland are currently unaccounted for, as well as several members of nursing staff and guards. Dr Harleen Quinzel's status has been changed to missing, presumed dead, after leaked video footage discovered on the internet seems to show her suffering a beating from the criminal known as the Joker, still at large. Citizens are reminded not to approach any of the missing inmates...
Jeremiah threw his fist at the wall. His heirs had failed in their duty. Crane, Leland - they had both run the asylum and failed to crush the bat. They would be held accountable for their mistakes when he found them. The bat would not have let them die so easily - they must be hiding. Oh, his poor failed children...
He was on the street, walking with feet made of lead. His eyes were red - dry from staring at the wall in place of sleep. The roses he had bought were already wilting, their blood red petals falling onto the sidewalk behind him - a trail of followable sin. His tailored coat was buttoned to the neck, not allowing a single breath of the night time chill to brush against his skin. He wore black gloves to cover any crime he might never commit and on his head was a wide hat, his Uncle's from a century ago.
Dorothy Arkham's grave was one of the most intricate in the whole of the Gotham Cemetery, and could be seen in its outline from the gates. Like a man walking to his execution, Jeremiah's steps were slow and laboured with the weight of grief. How long had his little girl been dead? It might have only been a day for his heart felt the sting so freshly and yet it might have been years, as he could hardly remember a day when sorrow had not engulfed him.
As he approached the white marble monument, with its carved angels and roses, Jeremiah saw the form slumped on the grass. Her blonde hair masked her features, spread across her face as it was, and Jeremiah found it hard to breathe. He fell to his knees, the roses dropping from his hand. Would she not have reached that size by now? No spirit would choose to live their eternity as such a small child. Girls dreamed of growing up. And here his Dorothy was - the grown up purgatorial child - waiting for her father to pull her back to life.
The roses continued to wilt, long forgotten at Jeremiah's feet as he reached forward to grasp the angel on the ground. Tears spilled into her hair as he held her, frost turning them to diamonds amongst the gold. Time stops for them and Jeremiah could only cry. He took in his grown daughter, and found the green eyes staring back at him. He thought his memory an unkind friend, as he had always seen hers in his mind's eye as blue – how cruel time could be to the grieving that it tricked them to hold dear falsehoods.
'Dotty,' he breathed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Behind her, the headstone's lying letters shone out bright from the marble.
Dorothy Elizabeth Arkham
1st January 1995 – 14th February 2000
Beloved Daughter.
Jeremiah laughed at the stone, its sound unwelcome in the solemn place. His vision swam. He had a headache – the Bat was closing in and he must keep Dorothy safe. He stole another glance at his angel, the sight warming his heart. She had grown to look so unlike her mother or the madman that had stolen Jeremiah's place. To his mind, she almost resembled him, though her hair was yellow where his was dark. He held his hand out to her and she took it, the tiny thing laughable in the strength of his. Jeremiah almost shattered at the touch. He had not felt as alive since Dorothy's own first breaths but they had no time to waste – the Bat was coming for them and their joy.
He moved as a shade through the city, carrying his stolen princess with him. He darted from taxi to taxi – street to street, not daring to look at her until they were safe behind the locked and chained door of his apartment. Only then did he release the girl from his grip and look at her. She was perfect.
The room swam in front of his eyes as he tried to focus on her. He heard her question him – question his identity. It made him laugh, a shrill and heartbreaking sound that filled the room like smoke. His angel had grown up in purgatory, how would she know him? How would she know how much he adored her? How much he would have done for her?
As his eyes began to fill with darkness and the world melted away, Jeremiah's last vision was of his Dorothy, a lost and wandering cherub sinking into the floor...
On the threadbare carpet of a long neglected study, two bodies laid unconscious, bending to each other's negative like a human ying-yang. The girl, barely seventeen and in dire health, seemed to shine with her golden hair and ivory dress while the man, seeing his way into middle age, was a shade in black. And so it was in this artistic scene, untroubled by bad dreams, that Jeremiah Arkham and Alyce Sinner passed their first night in each other's company.
