Decided to add another part. This takes place after Damian's funeral in Batman Incorporated #9

What is a Penny Worth?

Part 2

"I didn't think Miss Talia was capable of this, Master Bruce . . ."

"Alfred. You ALLOWED Damian to leave the cave against my expressed INSTRUCTIONS."

"Sir. I was sure he could look after himself . . . I had no idea . . . Sir."

"Take a VACATION Alfred. We'll talk when this was OVER."

'Sir . . . I . . ."

"TAKE A VACATION."

I walked back to the manor, staring back at Mr. Wayne. My throat was dry, but the prickle of tears that were un-shed earlier now mingled with the rain.

'Take a vacation.'

Though the words seemed benign, I knew the meaning behind them. I could tell the way he said it in his voice. He did not wish to voice it in front of the others, his remaining sons, but I knew. In allowing Damian to leave the cave I alone must face the responsibility that in my naivety, I was the one responsible for placing Damian in danger . . . and Damian paid the price for my mistake. It was as if Master Bruce had slapped me in the face . . . and I would have deserved it.

Too many times I questioned Master Bruce with regards to his other sons, the first being Richard Grayson when he was eight years old. Jason was eleven when he joined us, and then Tim, who was 13. Master Damian . . . I do not know why I thought of him as different. Maybe because his mother had trained him, but I did not know that he would be fighting an opponent twice his size and strength.

Even so . . . I failed. And in the harshness of Master Wayne's words, he had also said the same thing. And even if he said we would talk later, I know what that talk will be about without having to go into details. The talk will not be necessary, for I know what the outcome will be.

I walked into my rooms and looked around. These three rooms, a sitting room with a fireplace, a bedroom, and a private bath, had been my private quarters since I arrived here those many years ago. I move to the small fireplace mantle and brush my fingers on each of the photos displayed there. I have no right to them now. Sitting down, I know what I must do, but my heart cannot help but break in that process. I pull out a sheet of my personal stationary and begin writing. I have to stop for a moment and sit back before my tears hit the paper and smear the ink. Once completed, I fold the sheet into thirds and place it in an envelope, and address it. I place it in my pocket. I will place it on Mr. Wayne's desk in the study as my last act of service.

I walk to the closet inside my bedroom and pull out an old suitcase. With each piece of clothing that I place inside, I am reminded how I came to be here and just how long my service to Mr. Wayne has been. I realize despite my years of service, I had very little that was truly mine. Perhaps what I own could fill a crate or two, but most everything that is in the two main rooms belong to this house, the furnishings, some of the books, and maybe . . .

As I finish the first part of my packing, I realize I have no other suitcases. Everything else will have to be sent to where I was going, everything that is mine, what little I have. Before that, I pull out an old leather bound case from my bedside table. I check it once and everything is in order. A butler returning from years of service meant only two things, one that he was retiring or two that he was disgraced. I shake off the thought immediately realizing if I continued on this line of thinking, I might not do what I intend. Closing the suitcase, I take the handle and carry it into the kitchen and place it in the hallway that leads to the garage along with the leather bound case.

Before leaving, I prepare a light lunch for everyone and place it in the dining room without saying word. I spy Master Richard standing in the hallway staring toward the front door. He must be waiting for Mr. Wayne. I do not say anything to gain his attention. The food that I have prepared will not spoil waiting for it to be eaten; it will be there just the same when they are ready to partake.

I move back through the kitchen and take another exit to the hall that leads toward the private den and Mr. Wayne's study, the very one that Master Richard and Mr. Wayne would use when Commissioner Gordon would contact them. The study now days was used for private meetings between his sons, the poles leading to the cave hidden behind a bookcase all but forgotten.

I place the envelope on Mr. Wayne's desk then leave. I take the same hallway back to the kitchen and pick up the suitcase. I move to the garage and find my bicycle. At least that I will be able to take with me. I strap my suitcase and the leather bound case on the back, place a ring around one of my pant legs to keep it from getting caught in the chain and mount my bicycle. Instead of opening the garage door, I take the side door and move down the path in the pouring rain so as not to be noticed. I am aware that I did not bring a raincoat, but right now with the way I am feeling, I prefer the rain. Perhaps it will wash this feeling away, this feeling that I have lost the most important people in my life, the only family I have ever known. For right now this penny is feeling worthless . . .

And when a Pennyworth is feeling worthless . . .

I just hope when Mr. Wayne reads my letter that some day, he will forgive me.

End?

A/N: What do you think was written in the letter that Alfred wrote? Can anyone guess? Notice how Alfred refers to Bruce throughout the short story. Why do you think that is so?