IV.
Often enough he would see them again, exactly the way they were all those years ago. It was as if their faces and their surreal expressions had burrowed through his eyes and into the confines of his memory, where they would recycle their own likeness over and over again for him.
When they were dead, splayed across the cold ground with thick blood pooling beneath their bodies, he would kneel there beside them. If he had the choice, he would stay here forever, hoping that they would start moving again beneath his hands, breathing, and say that none of this was real. That would make him happy.
The foggy stillness is broken when he hears footsteps coming from behind him. Wiping the tears he didn't know he had, he turns to face the approaching figure. As his vision clears from crying, the woman grows closer and he sees a pair of white wings that make him gasp. His voice weak and crackling, he manages to ask, "Are... are you an angel?"
He sees her fully now and despite the pretty face, her rough demeanor troubles him. He doesn't realize that he's staring, but when a smirk forms across her lips, he blinks into realization. "No. I'm no angel."
Walking closer to him, she watches as he scoots closer to the frozen bodies behind him and he questions, "But what about your wings?"
Sensing his unease, she stops moving. "It's a long story." She pauses, looking at the young boy before her, his clothing damp and his fingers bloodied. "You probably won't want to hear it."
A silence between them grows as she eyes the two bodies behind him. "This is my mom and dad." He catches her gaze and states, "They're dead."
She can see his eyes swelling as he speaks and takes the chance to move closer to him. Crouching beside the boy, she says, "I'm sorry." Placing a hand beneath his chin, she turns his head toward her and wipes away the tears with her thumbs. "What's your name?"
Sniffling, he answers, "Bruce." He rubs his eyes against the sleeve of his coat and with every ounce of dignity he can muster, he straightens his back. "What's yours?"
"Shayera," she says quietly. Noticing him looking behind her, she takes his hand and brings it to one of her wings.
"That's a weird name." He gently strokes the feathers, drawing back quickly when he see a stain of blood where his fingers had touched, and apologizes.
"I'm not from your world," she replies, taking his hand in hers, not caring that the blood begins spread against her skin. "I was born on a planet called Thanagar."
Lifting his gaze from their hands to her eyes, he realizes, "Then you're all alone here. Like me."
He finds it strange when she starts to smile, but the warmth that blankets his hands begins to comfort him as he hears her say, "No, Bruce. I'm not alone, and neither are you."
—
He sits at the breakfast table the morning after the funeral. For a time, he remains motionless, lost in thought and unaware as the minutes go by. Footsteps moving down the hall bring him out of his light reverie, and he stands from his chair as he watches Shayera enter the kitchen.
She gives him a lazy smile as Bruce begins to prepare breakfast. His hands move efficiently like a skilled cook, like how Alfred had taught him as a child, and he pays no mind to the woman staring at him from behind. "Would you like something to eat?"
She can smell the eggs and the brewing hot coffee and says, "Yes, thank you." She moves to stand beside him and despite his calm exterior, she knows that he is grieving. Reaching for his free hand, she tells him, hoping for once he lets go of his stubbornness, "You're not alone, Bruce. You never will be."
