I want to thank everyone who has shown an interest in this story, but I am unable to continue at this time. I do not want to leave anyone hanging, so I have compiled a "CliffsNotes" version to summarize what happens to Cassandra and Oswald. I knew how the story would end and had the arc set after the first few episodes of Gotham. Obsession does that to a person. The last entry is something that was written quite a time ago, as were the intermittent descriptions. At some point, I hope to resume composing the story chapter by chapter, until then, the story is as follows:
Oswald takes Cassandra home and introduces her to Iggy when he comes running into the club one day. Oswald does as he promises and teaches Iggy to drive. Here is a portion of that event:
Oswald looks back over his shoulder. "You did well," he told Iggy. "You only hit . . ." He began to count. "Eleven of the twelve orange cones. An improvement!"
Oswald fills the mansion with every variety of gardenia and Cassandra declares it her favorite flower. He makes sure to have some in his office at Oswald's and The Iceberg Lounge.
Unbeknownst to Cassandra, Oswald confiscates a vial of her medicine—with a single insistent gesture, Mother Superior was too scared not to had one over to him while a portion of the nunnery burned. Don't worry, Oswald made improvements on it later, it was the least he could do since he called Fara who in turn contacted Mother Superior and arranged to have the nun set the room on fire. She owed him for the problems they were having years before with a loan shark that was demanding payment from the sisters, in one way or another, for a sizable loan used to purchase a Victorian house across the street to house the homeless. Oswald had dealt with the shark and everyone affiliated with him. He and his cohorts are now on display as a diamond necklace at Spiffany's Jewelry Store, Gotham's version of Tiffany's—yes, this is a real DC invention. Oswald threw in a playground at the convent for the kids to boot. He left his calling card and told Mother Superior he may need a favor one day. He cashed in with the fire at the nunnery.
As Cassandra breathed in the scorched air and listened to Oswald lamenting the fact that the nunnery was burning to ashes and how it looked more hellish than heavenly in its robes of charcoal, flame, and smoke, she congratulated herself on always carrying extra vials of her medicine. There were three doses in her purse. She wondered if Mr. Cobblepot knew of any good, black-market doctors. One who knew how to keep his mouth shut and not pry into business he did not need to know about. She did not want any questions asked.
"My medicine's in there," she said, pointing in the direction of heat. A rafter fell and amber sparks popped up around it. Oswald clammed up and went still.
"What?" he said sharply. A note of confusion laced his voice.
"My medicine. I need my medicine. For my condition." She spoke louder this time, thinking he had not heard her over the roar of the fire.
"What condition?" he asked her.
She sensed another presence near to her and could smell the nun's perfume. Expensive. Like the chocolate she had a habit of hiding in her habit.
Humble pie, my ass.
Mmmm, pie.
"Dear." She heard Mother Superior say. "I was only able to save a handful of your injections. I grabbed the briefcase, but it was not fully latched and they fell out and . . . I was able to grab these." Cassandra could hear the plastic containers thumping against each other as the nun juggled them in her meaty hands.
Cassandra knew she was a hefty woman the first time she had encountered her. Bear hugs tend clarify a person's frame. It was a welcomed hug nonetheless, and we all have our virtues and vices.
At present, Cassandra imagined the nun had just stepped out of the third circle of Dante's Divine Inferno (where the gluttons suffer)—a brief reprieve to offer Cassandra her medicine as an offering to get out of hell and into purgatory. Goodness knows the wings would never hold her if she tried to fly.
She could feel Oswald bristle beside her.
"Mr. Cobblepot!" the nun continued. "Always delighted to see you! Even under these circumstances." Cassandra felt the woman reach out to grasp Oswald's hand before turning back to her to place the loose vials within her own. Cassandra thanked the nun and slid the injections into her pocketbook.
"A pleasure to see you again," responded Oswald. "How are the children enjoying the playground?"
As the two made nice, Cassandra searched her mind, but also kept her ears tuned to their conversation. She was sure she had left the briefcase latched, not locked, but closed. Something had pricked the nun's fancy, made her extra nosey, could it have been a text from . . .
"Mr. Cobblepot, the children could not be happier. I really don't know how the convent could ever think to repay you . . ."
There was a sudden and strained silence, before Oswald said, "No need. It has always been a joy to help the underprivileged children of Gotham City—the orphans, street urchins. My only payment is that they enjoy it to its fullest. The thought of needing to repay me is ludicrous at best, insulting at worst."
It sounded like a warning. Cassandra could hear he was saying this through gritted teeth.
She had needed—no, wanted—an excuse to go home with him. Something that would not make her look easy or stupid. And now she had one.
What did Oswald do—promise them a hefty donation? A truckload of rosaries? New bingo cards?
Cassandra had been warned the man was sneaky. It gave her a rush to experience it for herself. This was done for her. For her benefit. For Cassandra. He wanted her that much. She asked herself why she was excited about that.
Oswald went on about her safety and that he would open his home to her, if she accepted, although he realized he was being pretentious and preposterous to hope she would accept such a forward invitation from a man she did not know. It was if someone pressed the ramble button on his mouth and he could not quit talking. She listened to the pseudo shock, but real concern, in his voice and motioned just a little toward him with her fingers, enough for him to respond to her gesture and take her hand.
Oswald stopped talking.
His hand was calloused on his fingertips and the outward side of his thumb—as if he played a piano the way Andersen's Karen danced without ceasing, a prisoner to her red shoes, he a prisoner to his solitaire. Other than those jagged areas of toughened skin, his hand was smooth. And strong. He had a strong hand—a subtle marriage of gentle masculinity and graceful strength, as hard as granite and as soft as feathers. It reassured her and she never wanted to let go.
Ed analyzes the medicine. He discovers it is a drug used for schizophrenic patients and not insulin as Cassandra had been led to believe, but also combined with another drug ketamine hydrochloride, usually referred to as Special K. He also tells Oswald there is something else in her blood that he is still testing, but the compound points to an ancient Egyptian mixture of elements believed to promote healing and prolong life. They called it electrum—the word seen scrawled in the journal, and it seems that Cassandra had a high mixture of it in her blood. It should actually make her lethargic and sick, so something must be interfering with it. He would have to study it and get back to Oswald. Upon discovering it—it was the well water on her farm, the swamp water having seeped through and permeated it, that caused longevity and healing. Nygma does not believe it is coming from plant growth and concludes it must be from a chemical leak originating from somewhere within the city. They later discover that there is a basin of chemicals underneath The Monarch Theatre that has been leaking into some water conduits leading outside of Gotham. Dr. Strange had been taking samples from the pit at the theater to use in his own experiments.
"But that cannot be," said Oswald. "Her uncle was sick—from working at Ace Chemicals, you remember the event, the screw-up at the factory, everyone affected died—yet he lived another twenty years . . ." Oswald's voice trailed off as light came on in his head.
Ed hesitated and stared intently at Oswald. He loved dramatic pauses.
"That's just it," he breathed. "The man should have died twenty years earlier."
Oswald blinked, not sure what was suddenly dawning on him. "So it did not heal him, but kept him alive longer because he was drinking it regularly? But Cassandra, she did not stay on the farm . . ."
"She arrived there at around ten years old?"
Oswald nodded his head. "Eight to be exact."
"Yeah. Before puberty. It kind of mixed with her hormones during that time, I'm guessing, and became a part of her. A part of her and the electrum already there."
Oswald takes Cassandra's medicine and replaces it with a placebo. Gradually her memory and eyesight return. She and Harold reunite. Jim Gordon does not pursue carjacking or kidnapping charges against Oswald, as follows:
Gordon had not charged Oswald with any crime. He had witnessed the man's devastation as he lay helpless in his hospital bed and decided to let it pass. The investigation was going in circles anyway. If he had been called to testify in this fake adoption case, he would have sounded like a fool. The memory of Oswald's pained face and that desperate look in his eyes would always haunt Jim Gordon. Mainly, because he had been utterly useless in helping the man find his wife or retain what Cobblepot insisted was his boy. Even Bullock did not press the issue. How could he? He had enough blood on his own hands.
Before her eyesight returns, Oswald arranges for a special show to be presented at the museum where blind patrons can "feel" the paintings through sculptures depicting the artwork and have a prerecorded description of the said work available at the touch of a button. It is a hit not just with her, but with the community. There is much fawning over Oswald by everyone, especially Cassandra. The patrons seem pointedly interested in the blurry photograph of a man in a black bat suit that someone has taken. It is one of the featured sculptures to touch.
Cassandra struggles with her feelings and thoughts during this time for her host. She experiences a growing disrupted arcadia rhythm and finds herself either in his office or the sitting room off his bedchamber to talk to him—that is, if he too is awake during her sleepless nights. On several occasions, she absentmindedly grabs for something around her neck only to find there's nothing there. Oswald notices her doing that and asks her about it. Since the medicine is wearing off (unbeknownst to her), her mind is slipping back and forth between the present and the past and she tells him she thinks she is missing something and asks if he knows someone named Pablo. He laughs and says he does, but will not elaborate. This is how Oswald knows that the medicine is starting to leave her system and he is relieved.
She considers it odd she had never seen him, yet knows what he looks like. She begins to question if her captors had been feeding her brain lies the entire time she was with them. Only those who had sight before going blind would be able to dream as if they had experienced sight in the past.
On those evenings when she did sleep, she dreamt of him without fail, seeing his visage and his form materialize perfectly before her—the caramel freckles scattered across a Devonshire crème face, the eyes that looked like the scent of wintergreen, and lips—the color of bubble gum. He would grin at her—the right side corner of his mouth turning upward, and the left side pointing down. His hair, unruly spikes of black licorice and a voice as thick and warm as melted milk chocolate. Sometimes she woke up hungry (in every sense of the word) whenever she dreamed about him.
Oswald Cobblepot was well-dressed candy.
She is especially confused when the map on Oswald's ceiling recognizes her voice and obeys her commands. Before the drugs start to wear off, she tells Oswald that he is in danger. He tells her he already knows and she wants to know how, but it must be saved for another time. Once Cassandra is weaned from the medicine (she remembers everything that has transpired from her kidnapping until now), he brings out her parents' books and tells her he knew by the journals the dangers facing him, her, and Bruce Wayne. She wants to warn Bruce Wayne, but Oswald still remembers the dream he had of Bruce taking away Iggy, so he is not so keen on the idea. At least, not yet. Besides, he heard he was climbing a mountain somewhere, looking for peace or something.
Eventually, Bruce is made aware of his predicament, but is not entirely convinced. He believes Hugo Strange was doing nothing but babbling about the legend, believing it was real, when he, Gordon, and Lucius "toured" Arkham all those years ago. Still, Cobblepot was no loon. Bruce had learned that soon enough. He would not embrace the idea of a secret cabal, but nor would he dismiss it. Gotham had gone crazy after all. Needed a hero. Soon. But there were still adjustments to be made.
During this time, Oswald showers Cassandra with gifts—jewelry, fine dining, nights at the opera, including one where she pummeled a stranger who dared to touch her and make disparaging remarks about Oswald. She figures out it is the Batman and basically tells him he would never measure up to Oswald. She finds out that Oswald is planning an attack on the inhabitants of the city, including kids, the logic in his mind being that kids were mean to him when he was a boy, so he would put them in their place as well as the nasty adults. Cassandra tells him she is ashamed of him, that he would be attacking innocent people, including ones that needed a break, or some kindness, just like he did as a kid, that he was just making it worse for those who needed help. Oswald is glad that she cannot see yet. He would not want her to know that his "army" is based off the trinkets they used to build in her basement, but on a much larger scale. He tries to shut it down, but there is a kink. Harold fixes it, but some damage has been done, including a portion of his mansion destroyed. Cassandra further chastises Oswald, telling him it would behoove him to rescue children in such dire straits instead of making life worse for them. A plan builds in his mind, one started when he hid the kids that pulled the fire alarms at The Orchard Hotel. He would be a champion of the discarded or abused child, taking them away, saving them from their sad lives and growing a legion of loyal associates at the same time.
Cassandra wakes up Oswald one night and tells him that she thinks her vision is returning and she mentions a locket with a note inside. She wants them, they mean something important to her, but she cannot quite remember why, only problem is, she does not know where they are. Oswald presents the locket with his and Iggy's pictures inside and his love letter to her. She is stunned to receive them, but knows exactly how to open the locket the first time she tries. Oswald explains to her about the situation with the locket and letter, and Cassandra insists that he read it aloud to her. He hesitates, but does it. She cannot respond, but curls up beside him, sliding her arms around his waist and refusing to let him go. He decides not to fight it, inwardly delighted, and they both fall asleep on the couch.
When Cassandra's brain is returned to its full faculties, she is ready to resume the physical aspect of marriage. Well, she had always been ready—if only it had not been for that darn, gentlemanly Oswald, dammit. Oswald presents Cassandra's wedding band and engagement ring to her.
She crawled into his lap, it having been made meatier and softer from lack of exercise and the reintroduction of pastas and pastries into Oswald's diet, not to mention the booze. She started to undo his tie, and his big, luminous eyes watched her every move. She stopped.
"Too soon?" she asked, tilting her head and slightly frowning in concerned question. Oswald wanted to nibble on that familiar wrinkle between her brows. He did not say anything, just shook his head emphatically no.
Please don't stop, he whispered in his brain, even though in the back of his head, he was seized with a fear of how she would react when she saw his bare fat. He was embarrassed by the extra weight he had put on, and although he was certain she would not reject him, the idea of exposing himself to her made him as nervous as if this was their first time together. He wished he had kept himself in better shape and imagined he would come popping out of his clothes like raw dough from a Pillsbury biscuit can. He did not want her to see his flab and reached to for the remote that would dim the lights. She touched his hand.
"Don't," she whispered.
"I am not in the best of shape, as I am sure I do not have to suddenly confess . . . no modern-day Hercules . . . or Adonis . . ." He paused to see if she would remember calling him the latter so long ago. She grinned at him like a shy schoolgirl and continued unraveling his tie. He felt his blood rush, warming the back of his neck and . . . other places. He was a teenage boy again.
She leaned forward and kissed his neck, sending shivers down his spine. When she rocked back to look at him, he felt the flesh below his waist twitch and begin to stiffen from her subtle movement.
"Just so you know, and I want to make myself very clear," she said. "I still think you are the sexiest man I've ever seen, with or without any extra weight, my Adonis. My gypsy boy." She caressed the side of his face. "But if you prefer lights out, that's okay. However you are most comfortable."
When Oswald made no move for the remote, Cassandra leaned to get it, every shift in her body energizing every part of his. He placed his hand over hers and slid the remote from her grasp, throwing it over his shoulder. The impact of it hitting the carpet adjusted the lighting in the room, making it just a wee bit darker. Oswald was secretly grateful.
She kissed him full on the mouth while her hands continued to work their way across his chest. When she released them both for air, he managed to squeak out, "I cannot lose you again."
She had freed him from the silk tie, having thrown it aside, and set work to liberate him from his shirt, slowly unbuttoning the top first three buttons before turning her attention to helping him out of his jacket.
"You won't," she answered. "They taught me so much, and it has only backfired on them, the bastards." She flung his jacket to the couch's armrest and undid the brass buttons on his vest.
"You are to never leave this mansion," he ordered weakly and she paused in undressing him, resting her hands on his chest, and softly responding to his words.
"What did you just say?" He suddenly found something to concentrate on that did not include her face. She thought he looked like a naughty puppy, refusing to meet her eyes. He did however have a firm grasp on her hips.
He shook his head slightly. "I just mean . . . you were taken from me once. It must not happen again."
"Ah," she said. "So I shall be your caged bird. Your dog on a leash." That earned her a sharp rebuke from him as he jerked his head up and glared at her.
"Why do you do that? You always do that!" he spat. "Why do you twist my words and hurl them back at me in a sullied context when you know it is not what I intend. You know it. You know it is not what I mean!" Fury-filled eyes mixed with a trembling bottom lip as he fought the wetness that clung like dew to his lashes. "I have lived in a constant state of illness every day for ten years—ten years you have been gone—my body and my brain and my psyche purging themselves of guilt and fear and loneliness, knowing it was my fault . . ."
Cassandra smoothed the sides of his face and kissed his cheeks. "It's not your fault," she murmured, trying to reassure him. "It's not your fault." He continued his tirade as if he had not heard her.
"All my fault! Every Jane Doe that rolled into the morgue, I had to see—to reassure myself it wasn't you. Or to see if it was you so that I could quit searching, quit holding onto hope—a rope made of mist. It was I who had to bare the heartless will of the state when they declared you dead after seven years." His eyes filled with tears. "Declared you DEAD. I will not go through that again. I will not!" Then softer, he uttered, "I cannot. Orpheus should have just slit his wrists rather than watch his soulmate return to the underworld."
Cassandra shook her head and grabbed his wrists, kissing each one. Within him churned a quiet desperation. He felt like a madman. "I will perish if you are no longer by my side," he said, then lowered his voice to barely above a whisper, but it did not hide the brokenness in it. "I did perish . . ."
Cassandra let out a small sob and threw her arms around him.
"I'm sorry, my darling. I know how you meant it, but I shall not be made prisoner . . ."
"Not a prisoner . . ." he insisted, tilting his head back to look at her.
"Oswald . . ."
He could not answer, leaning forward to draw closer to her, pulling her back with him and burying his head in the cushiony softness of her breasts. She rubbed the spot between his shoulder blades, trying to offer some silent reassurance. She kissed his neck and saw goose pimples surface.
"I can kick their asses, my love. Surely you know that. Have I not shown you?" When she felt him nod, she continued. "I have learned so much. I would have to be dead, for sure, really dead, before they could touch me again." She covered his face and neck in kisses, continuing to his chest and undoing the rest of his shirt before moving on to the belt on his trousers. He offered no further protest or demand.
Cassandra knows about the woman, Violet, that Oswald broke out of a forced prostitution ring and how he railed at Violet after she found out about his bloody past and called him names and made to leave him. In a fit of rage, he had returned her to the pimp (who was in a body cast curtesy of Oswald). The night Oswald had done this, could not sleep and decided to go back and get her, but she was nowhere to be found—either dead or bought. Later, when he confessed this to Cassandra, she was livid—not about the relationship, but that he had returned Violet. She insisted that he fund a charity for trafficked people and said she would do it herself if he did not, so he did. Cassandra also demanded he find her in case she was still a victim of this trade. Unfortunately, they never find her.
Oswald also told her of a tabloid story that made it seem he was obsessed with a soap opera star. He was, just not romantically. Here are Oswald's thoughts about that:
People believed that he actually had kidnapped that soap opera starlet because he was obsessed with her. Well, okay he was, but not for the romantic reasons that had been rumored. She knew something about Cassandra's whereabouts and he intended to hold her until he knew everything that she did.
Besides, Oswald preferred brunettes, not blondes.
And not redheads either.
He had only been seen around the town with Veronica Vreeland because he was lonely, and she genuinely had seemed to enjoy his company, but had only been using him to gain publicity for herself. It seemed that being an elite socialite just did not do enough to provide for her the limelight for which she knew she was born.
She was not a nice person, which was probably why only he could stand her. After that, being played the fool again, thinking someone was truly his friend, he avoided her and would not take her calls, even in jail—a brief visit, truly, a minor inconvenience—after he had arranged a tragedy for her, which failed to materialize because of Batman. But he would be out of the clinker in no time. As usual, there was always someone on the inside just ready to jump at the chance to be of service to Mr. Cobblepot—either to stay on his good side or to gain some favor from him in return.
The press thought it strange that Veronica still vied for Oswald's attention. Many thought it was just to keep her name in the papers. She was an overnight sensation, and Oswald hated her for the pain she had caused him. He had not been head-over-heels for her by any means, not even a crush, but they shared the same refined tastes and ran with the same crowd. He thought he had formed a bond with an icy cold comrade of sorts. He had been a pawn, a part he did not usually play.
Oswald was done with this crap, all of it, knowing no one could replace his one true love—his best friend and biggest fan Cassandra.
Recurring fits of depression:
What was that saying from the Bible, gain the world, lose your soul? His soul was black and he knew it. There was nothing he could do about it now. So he would rather have something than nothing and since his soul was tainted, it was best to have the world. Even alone.
Who needs faith anyway when one had a mind that could twist the will of others to bend to your own. Every. Single. Time. He could depend on it. It never failed.
Who needs hope when all it ever does is lift you up only to let you go and have you fall to your death. Hope for the best in people. Hope for a father who will love you. Hope for a woman who would love you too. Hope she would stay safe.
He snickered at his own pitifulness.
Who needs love . . .
Not me, he thought haughtily, not believing himself at all.
What good has it ever done him? He ignored the answer. The many answers.
Just—not again. He could not take it.
Ed could not find what was in Cassandra's system that strengthened her legs, but did find another anomaly in the form of "scaring" across her thigh and calf muscles, attaching almost like ligaments. The make-up of the "scar" tissue acted in the opposite way of how scars "work". Instead of tightening her muscles and making her legs stiff and achy, they gave strength to her lower body. He is not sure how the scar tissue got there, but that it held trace elements of an earlier prototype of Venom, a street-drug, now much improved, that had first raised it head in Gotham a decade ago, but the side effects were killer back then—basically dissolved the bone of the user and "melted" the person because of its unrelenting dependency upon calcium. No such thing was happening here—the form was rudimentary. It was not in her bloodstream and did not seep itself into bone. It only adhered to muscle and when catalyzed by adrenaline, the extra strength set in.
When the fight or flight mode was turned on, so was the Venom and therefore the strength. He wondered if Cassandra's early connection to the circus and the "strong men" had anything to do with it, like athletes using steroids to improve their performances. He made a joke that Cassandra was a walking cocktail and that Oswald should add her to the mixed drinks list at the lounge. Oswald did not laugh.
Cassandra attempts to teach Oswald judo, but they usually end up in an amorous embrace instead, so they end up hiring a professional to instruct Oswald, while Cassandra gets a separate workout. They do have fun watching each other train and many times, Oswald would sit there in their private gym with a bowl of cereal or glass of wine to watch. It had a lot to do with him not liking another man that close to her.
She had to be careful to not shatter Oswald or the trainer.
The visible sweat from Cassandra's workout that would gather at the triangle between her legs and upper thighs made Oswald crazy. It was one of his most favorite places to bury his face. Cassandra had to bite her lip whenever Oswald used the small towel to wipe his damp hair, scruffing it up even further. The way his sweatpants showcased his lower half made her appreciate cotton-polyester material. On many occasions, she just wanted to tell the trainer to beat it, but remembered that was why they had called him in the first place—to keep them from pawing each other. These sessions help Oswald take off the weight again. He was giddy with the fact that he could pick Cassandra up now at will and without much effort when he wanted to . . . do stuff. Those judo lessons had been paying off—the amount of strength in his arms even impressed Oswald.
It goes on like this for the next five years. Iggy hangs around them more often and becomes more vital to Oswald's businesses and personal affairs. Cassandra realizes this is Boo. Boo does not realize these are his "adopted" parents. Cassandra pulls capers with Oswald and gets away with it because she is dead after all—she is not in the system and cannot be found or charged. Here is a small snippet about some fellas who were trying to blackmail Penguin by sending him a note stating "I Know What You Did Last Decade" and explaining that they had the hand of the prostitute (Bridgette) he had murdered years ago—recovered from underneath a barroom table and placed in the freezer beside the ice cream and cube steak until needed—but wanted to make it worth their while, so they waited until Oswald was rolling in the dough, because, although they were extorting him now—they hoped he would not hold that tiny detail against them, they always knew he would be somebody and really respected him and could not wait to meet him, and could they get a selfie please. Of course, they could not prove Oswald was involved in any way, and they did not consider this slightly important bit of information beforehand, not to mention that Oswald was vicious and mostly unforgiving, so . . .
He was not agreeable to their request.
Cassandra appeared out of nowhere and opened fire on the lot surrounding Oswald. "How do I love thee, my darling?" she asked. "Let me count the ways."
He broke into a wide smile. "I think there are at least thirty of them, my dear," he said, gesturing to the group of armed criminals she had just gunned down.
The usual hijinks of Gotham villains continues, including The Mad Hatter who kidnaps Miriam and takes her underneath Gotham to his Wonderland. Bullock and Oswald team up to find her since Oswald is familiar with the tunnels thanks to Ed getting them inside. Oswald will want a favor from the police department at some time. They find Miriam and Hatter at a gruesome tea party in what looks like a formal dining area.
Miriam is standing above Hatter with a candlestick in her raised hand. Hatter is slumped forward in his chair over the table. Bullock says, "I think Miriam did it, in the dining room, with the candlestick." Miriam looks up, childlike, and asks, "Does this mean I win?"
Of course, Hatter is not dead.
Someone conducts a test run earthquake within the city of Gotham. One place that is hit badly is The Iceberg Lounge. Oswald jokes that from now on, he is only conducting business on open water, perhaps taking over the fortress at sea or buying a big ole boat and docking it at the harbor. Another hit and the earth opens up, swallowing Oswald and Cassandra. They are on different ridges underneath the ground and Oswald removes his flying umbrella but it is broken. He jumps from his perch to Cassandra's without discarding the umbrella and pierces her side with it as well as knocking her into undergrown steel grids that had supported the lounge.
Bruce shows up in the form of Batman and asks Oswald which one of them he should rescue first. He is testing Oswald. Oswald, oblivious to this "test", answers honestly and says Cassandra, whose body is trying to heal, but because Oswald removed the umbrella, she is bleeding out fast. Batman says there are first responders on scene that can help her.
In Batman's and Cassandra's absence, fear grips Oswald. He yells that no one is to take her, convinced it is The Court come for her. Batman reappears for Oswald just as Oswald thought the bat would not return for him. When they reach the spot where Batman deposited Cassandra, there is nothing but a pool of blood. Oswald lights into Batman and declares that from then on, they are enemies. Batman says they need to combine their efforts to find her and The Court of Owls. They fight, and Oswald proves his worth as a formidable foe to the bat as the judo lessons have paid off, but Batman gets in the final blow rendering Oswald unconscious. He wakes up in his own bed being cared for by Gabe and Fara and Oswald's doctor-on-call. He is fine physically, except for a broken nose, which causes further distortion to his face. He refuses any pain medication. The pain feeds his hate.
At least he still has Iggy. It is vain reassurance. Iggy discovers that Penguin had killed his real parents and makes plan to destroy Oswald and take over his empire. All he has to do is be patient and wait, learning the ropes as he grows into adulthood.
Not unlike his adopted father.
Before & Beyond Pain and Prejudice: A Reimagining, Part III, A Summary
Seven years have passed. During Cassandra's absence, many things have occurred:
Oswald purchased a ship and docked it off the coast of Gotham in waters that cannot be touched by law enforcement. He has also purchased The Fortress and turned it into another Iceberg Lounge, this one with a casino. He and Nygma had almost been killed when they took a boat out to it before its purchase and the fortress exploded. It had deprecated in value at that moment and was much easier to buy.
Certain he has lost Cassandra forever, Oswald takes up smoking cigarettes just to be able to carry the flame and the scent of smoke around with him, occasionally using a cigarette holder whenever he believes someone is invading his space. One smack to the cheek of the culprit with the lit end of a ciggie was enough to make anyone take a step or two backwards.
He became mayor of Gotham and celebrated by taking up smoking cigars.
He lost his position as mayor of Gotham and sulked while smoking pipes.
Fara was killed defending her homeland, Themyscira, also known as Paradise Island, and her queen, Hippolyta, although it looked as if she had turned traitor to them. Gabe and Oswald were blindfolded and drugged in order to allow them to attend her funeral on the island. Oswald saw Diana and was enraptured because she reminded him of Cassandra, except she loomed over him. After the funeral, he and Gabe stayed the night and Minerva tried to seduce Oswald who fought to reject her advances. The queen caught her and placed a guard outside his and Gabe's door and they were flown back to Gotham the next morning. He and Gabe mourned Fara for the rest of their lives. Here is a portion of when Oswald first saw Wonder Woman—not knowing that is who she was at the time:
He wanted her. He watched Diana from afar, mesmerized by her shell and nothing more. She looked so much like Cassandra, except this woman towered over him like a mountain.
He sighed.
Cassandra.
It had been such a long time ago and such a brief moment, he wondered if she had indeed been a hallucination or a dream. If Gabe or Fara had not spoken of her since, he would have believed he had imagined her and consider himself mad. Madder than a hatter. The maddest of them all.
And, yet, wasn't he? He played the part well. Covered the crazy. A portion of him was broken and irreparable, morphed into something else, not a someone else. A bird with a death wish . . . for everyone.
But this should not have happened to Fara. How could he have known, and the prospect of demanding that she stay as his employee was laughable. She would have snapped him in half with her pinky finger. Which was why it was so hard to believe she was dead, on her trip to the Elysian Fields by way of cavern. Decapitated. Gave her life to save her home, this island paradise. Yet only few knew this—that in reality she had played pawn and sacrificed herself for her queen and her friends. He didn't even know how he and Gabe had gotten here. If he could find a way to avenge her, he would.
He becomes a media mogul and Bruce thinks he had beaten Oswald by buying up stocks in the conglomerate. Oswald has the last laugh when at the last minute, reveals that Fara had left everything to Oswald since she had no heirs. That included her stocks.
Iggy succeeded in taking over Oswald's empire for a short stint and even called himself Emperor Penguin. Oswald is remorseful when he has to sometimes use his weapons against his own son. He refuses to kill him, but tries to get him under control. Many times after an altercation, Oswald would escape to his office, lock the door, and put his head in his hands, refusing to cry. Iggy guinea pigged himself and turned himself into a morphed version of a bat and man with a little venom mixed in for extra fun. He ends up a formidable foe in Blackgate, having now donned the name Emperor Blackgate, but is delivered back to Oswald. Oswald works with Nygma to try to find an appropriate antidote. The addition of the venom makes progress slow. Oswald keeps Iggy drugged just enough to render him harmless, even using the hypnotism powder on him on occasion. He ensures he is not harmed and refuses to allow Batman to take him. He still harbors distrust and anger with the bird after Batman allowed The Court to spirit away with Cassandra.
Oswald is whisked away one night as he sleeps and placed in Cassandra's coffin at The Court of Owls lair. He wakes and is told he can only stay with her for a while. Cassandra is as cold as ice and her skin is stark white with blue veins visible underneath. She seems iridescent like snow at dusk or a dragonflies wings reflected by a cloud-covered sun, but her hair is as dark as onyx, except for two thick waves of white hair sprouting from either temple and curling upon her shoulders. We are a match, he thinks, ruminating on his own pale streak of hair down the center of his bangs that he kept concealed with black dye.
Oswald tells his abductor to cover him with the cement slab and allow him to expire. His kidnapper refuses. Oswald wants to take her back with him, but is told he cannot. She is getting ready to wake up. Oswald believes the voice he hears whispering to him is female. She says she is going to set her free again and this time she will not die. She tells him to sing her a lullaby. He begins to sing "Someone To Watch Over Me".
He does not remember falling asleep, but wakes to find himself back in his own bed with potted gardenias covering his room and the petals strewn across his bed. Outside on a ledge are two winged creatures—one in brown, one in grey. The one in brown turns and vanishes into the night. The other one, dressed in streaks of black, white, and grey, stares down into Oswald's bedroom. It is Cassandra. Here is how she felt when she was first revived:
Her hearing was attuned. She could hear the sighs of an ant. Of an individual ant. She could tell you which one out of a hundred. Her sense of smell was heightened. She could smell the lit cigarette of a sweaty man in a sex-saturated club three blocks away. She no longer desired salt but craved French sweets—less sugar. She could taste the fluoride in fresh water. Her eyesight was better than perfect. She was convinced she was The Bionic Woman incarnate. And, when she was touched—it was like being tickled by an army of feathers. There was absolutely no pain. Not even deep down, and she had tested this—with a knife. She did not even bleed. This was not normal.
Back at The Court of Owls, they are informed that although several talons are ready to be unleashed on Gotham, a handful have gone rogue, including Cassandra and the owl that set her free, of course being the young owlet that had been obsessed with the couple, now all grown up.
Cassandra manipulates Catwoman to be at the right place at the right time to save Oswald from Ephraim Newhouse, a disgraced talon who was revived by The Court to murder Oswald in order to redeem himself and rid The Court of the Cobblepot name and any future heirs. What Cassandra thought was a letter opener the very first time she had examined Oswald's office at this first club, was in fact an assassin's blade that belonged to The Court.
Cassandra reunites with Oswald and watches over him for several years from afar, only visiting every once in a while. During this time, Iggy passes away.
Cassandra and Oswald continue to fight against The Court, alongside others who do so as well, in one scenario where Cassandra set fire to the airship and it crashes down ablaze into Miller Harbor, also known as Gotham Harbor. It is only when Oswald starts showing signs of dementia that she permanently settles into his home, rarely venturing outside unless it is around the gardens to stroll with him as he uses his cane or to push him when he finally succumbs to needing a wheelchair.
Cassandra requests morphine from Ed to mix with a poison that The Court has developed in order to execute their assassins, because it was the only thing that would kill them for good with no chance of revival. The Court had also devised it to be extremely painful, a special formula that would attack what was left of sensory nerve cells, which is why Cassandra requested the morphine.
Around this period, Gabe passes away. Much of Oswald's fortune has been dedicated to the upkeep of not only himself, but Gabe's family, organizations that help children, individuals with disabilities, and bird-related charities, with several places having been named after him or Gertrud. He names a garden within a standalone aviary after Cassandra. Happily for Oswald and against Maroni's fleeting threats in a Christmas Eve nightmare, Oswald does have his name (in varies forms) on a street, a bridge, and a handful of institutions and companies. He was not forgotten. Here is the final chapter of the story:
Before & Beyond Pain and Prejudice: A Reimagining, Part III, Final Chapter
The carved mahogany four-post bed was almost as impressive as the man in it, himself a work of art as far as Cassandra was concerned, having been whittled and molded into a grand design, a breathtaking sculpture, not unlike those fine canvases that had not been recognized as masterpieces in their own day, now hanging worldwide in museums and galleries and the homes of the very rich.
She could feel his eyes upon her as he drained the last dregs of tea from the china cup before handing it to her, catching her hand and placing a kiss upon her inner wrist. She planted one on his forehead and turned to place the cup upon a cart before stacking crumb-ridden plates on top of one another, their delicate clinking filling the room and mixing with the sound of the popping fire. It was the same cart he had used to leave her breakfast one morning, and many mornings after that.
"Well, my pretty little Chickadee. How would you like to come sit in my lap?" He patted his thigh, still chilled underneath the covers, no matter how many blankets Cassandra covered him with or logs she put on the fire.
"You are a fresh one," she teased, making herself comfortable upon his old legs, sitting her butt on the mattress, but draping her limbs over his thighs to not put pressure on aged bones, her knees leaning against his substantial stomach. The years had seen Oswald pack the weight back on the sicker he became.
"You are cheating me, you delicious bird." He buried his nose in the crevice of her neck, and she laughed, clasping his face, her other arm around his shoulders. She played with his hair. He was due for a cut. He would not like that. It would be a fight.
When he stopped his nuzzling, she waited. Oswald breathed in deeply, taking in her scent, and then suddenly sat straight up to look her in the eyes.
"Cassandra?" he blinked. "How long have I been gone this time?
"It does not matter, my sweet." This time had been all day long. He had slept for most of it, tossing and turning, and calling her name.
"How long?"
"It's always you, Oswald. My darling."
"But I cannot remember . . . my doppelgangers grant me no pardon." His mouth turned down at the corners and he issued a sob. "I am so jealous of them right now. They rob me of my time with you. I hate them so much."
She withheld telling him that he said this nearly every single day when he could escape from the disease that ravaged his mind. How she dreaded those moments when his face would change and those cobwebs would weave their poison across his brain and erase any memory of her from him as his spouse. Oswald knew her during those times as only his nurse and mistress whom he proposed to every day, having forgotten that he had the day before, and every day, she said yes.
Cassandra lived for the moments when they could be truly together, such as now, man and wife. A voyeur would misinterpret the scene if spying through a window, only seeing a geezer romancing, sometimes more appropriately—pawing at, a young woman. But time had aged Oswald and experiments had stayed Cassandra's youth.
He pulled her close, as tight as his wasting muscles would allow. She wanted to cry along with him for the feebleness in his body and mind, or perhaps it was for the bane of her own, unnatural longevity as she wished instead to be slow-moving and wrinkled like her better half. She stroked his white hair, curling the silky strands around her fingers. His beautiful snowy tresses set against his alabaster skin, gave him the ethereal appearance of a visiting faerie or some otherworldly phantom. She knew deep down, it would not be long until he joined the ranks of such spirits.
"I love you, Oswald. ALL of you. All of your personalities. You know that." Oswald shook as he surrendered completely into the trappings of a crying spell, his wails as heartbreaking as the ones emitted by a lonely wolf baying at the moon.
"I know some of my personalities! I know who I am . . . how I can be . . ." His head came up to look at her, and he grabbed her upper arms. "Should I ever lay a hand on you with intent for violence, you kill me, Cassandra. Do you hear, you kill me!" She kissed him repeatedly on the forehead. He continued. "I know that you heal in an instant, I do. But you should not have to continuously heal because of injuries issued by my hand." Her kisses had reached the side of face and his voice become softer. "You kill me, Cassandra . . ." he whispered. "You utterly kill me." Her plump lips met his wrinkled ones and in her mind's eye, she saw him as young and as fresh as the baby-faced man she had met on her farm, frumpled and fearful and angry at the world.
It was everything she could do to not break down, a crumbled mess in his arms. She had to be strong for him, with their time together so scarce and becoming fewer—the hourglass running out of sand—she wanted his memories to be good. Whatever good meant for people like them, and whatever memories could be salvaged at that final moment.
She sat back to look at him. "I need to cut your hair." Oswald saw the tears glistening in her eyes ready to spill over. He reached over to touch her eyelids, leaving Cassandra no other choice but to close them. The pressure from his thumb released the saline and the water ran down her cheeks.
"Are we really going to have this conversation again?" he teased her softly. "Did you learn nothing from the first time you suggested gleaning a bit of tape from my tresses?" He titled his double chins down until they rested on his collarbone and peered up from her underneath his long lashes. Grey, but long. To Cassandra, Oswald looked thirty-six years old. She grinned.
"What?" he asked.
She shrugged. "I'm just adoring you," she answered.
Oswald leaned back and closed his eyes. "You may continue," he said with a pleased smirk.
She chuckled. "You know I'll never stop."
"Naturally."
Even at this age, he still looked so put together. Velvet smoking jacket (although she had been able to ween him off the cigarettes and cigars, he still insisted on a good pipe) in dark burgundy and gold accents, with gold rope lining the fabric. Silk pajamas, the black shiny material refusing to stay hidden underneath the robe. Hair, although white and receding, was slicked back as smooth as marble, but as soft as rabbit's fur.
"I love you," he told her. "I love you, Cassandra. Even my doppelgangers love you. I can feel it."
Cassandra bit her lip to stifle a building sob. She sat there playing with the front of his jacket and clamping her lips together.
Enough of this silly, selfish crying, she thought. He must not see you like this. It would distress him. So owl up, baby.
"I love you, Oswald."
"In this world and the next?" He asked, grinning like a cocky schoolboy.
"In this world and the next," she assured him. He breathed a sigh of relief and Cassandra waited to hear his intake of breath as she watched him doze off, only there was not one.
She leaned forward, listening, and heard nothing. His chest had fallen still and his face was relaxed. She placed her fingers on the side of his throat and found no pulse. She called his name, panic building in her voice, and shook his shoulders, before pressing her ear against his chest. Warm, but silent.
A gradual keening went up from the bed, the bedroom, the mansion, the street, the city, and into the sky. Had Cassandra's anguish manifested itself in flames, her howls would have lit up the night as bright as a mid-day afternoon during summer—the world encased in fire.
She had outlived the love of her life.
Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, much-feared villain and crime lord, who had shed the blood of many and caused ruin to the masses, passed peacefully away in his bedchamber—his candle extinguished with barely a whisper. Who would have imagined that a man whose entire life had consisted of nothing but vengeance and avarice would end his days cozy in his bed, well attended to, and with the person he loved the most curled up in his lap like a kitten. A man to whom death was a hobby and power a favorite pastime, exited his worn, abused, brittle body for another form without a hair on his head being damaged.
And, in the misty silence of in between, he waited.
Although there was a great turnout for his remembrance service—where many stopped at the entrance to the auditorium for photo ops—only a few attended his funeral. Most of the people he had known, he had either killed, ordered killed, or offended so deeply that they saw no gain and risked no retribution if they did not wish a bon voyage to this particular man on this particular voyage. Good riddance and take out the rubbish, it was muttered, as they left the auditorium, casting aside the program that listed the untold number of philanthropists endeavors from which Oswald Cobblepot's accomplishments and altruism had benefitted them. Not so much as a cold acknowledgement of the good he had inadvertently done was expressed without contempt or ungratefulness.
Cassandra stood in the rain, not feeling the drizzle as it coated her face, unable to distinguish the rain from shed tears. A tiny crew had gathered—whether bound by history, love, or a twisted form of respect. It included James Gordon and Harvey Bullock—who could barely walk, The Joker—who had to drag Harlequin with him to the cemetery, Edward Nygma, also known as The Riddler—who donned a cane of his own to help keep his balance, and billionaire Bruce Wayne.
There were no eulogies offered, only flowers left at the base of the crypt in the mausoleum. Most were roses, some were lilies . . . one was a nosegay of gardenias.
Cassandra was never seen or heard from again after that day, leaving a further broken place within the heart of only one.
There are rumors that two bodies are entombed in that concrete coffin where Oswald Cobblepot lies. One of a man, the other, a woman.
The story goes—if one should believe in such nonsense, that a dark-haired lady in all her grief for this unseemly old mobster and lout, had ingested a vial of poison and laid herself down among the flowers below his place of resting to wait on death. It is further gossiped among campfires and sleepovers that Batman himself saw her take her life and instead of calling for an ambulance, disemboweled the tomb of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot from the Cobblepot family mausoleum and placed the dead woman inside, closed it up, and left us all none the wiser. Years after the deaths of Cassandra and Oswald, this was proven to be true when another earthquake hit the city and broke open the coffin. Inside they found two skeletons, sleeping side by side. It was never proven that Batman played their Yenta.
How would one even guess to discern how the tale began? Perhaps there had been another spectator at the funeral, one who secretly loved the couple, being wholly fascinated by them since her childhood, swept up in their romance, who now nursed a broken heart and had stolen a snow globe with which to comfort herself with the flakes and the music and the dancing automations. A being who had always wished them well, intervening on their behalf whenever she could. Watching . . . like an owl.
But, no one knew for sure. Not really.
And, patient reader, if you should desire to further believe in the rare creature that every person hunts—true love that survives even after cruel death, and the stories that surround lovers who have been parted by the heartless Reaper yet are able find each other again . . . then take heart in knowing that some citizens of Gotham have sworn up and down that on certain nights when the moon is fully waxed and the stars are shameless in their flirtations, a couple promenades through the aviary at the Gotham zoo. A comely young woman who glides arm-in-arm with a youthful, fresh-faced man who no longer limps—a man who can run—who can fly even, but chooses instead to cling to the lady at his side—herself a specter no longer haunted, both of them dark and laughing, and that a little blond boy comes running up to them—tiny and innocent and as bright as the sun, with arms outstretched, waiting to be lifted to his father's shoulders before waving to someone in the distance as they gently evaporate into the night.
Of course, it is only a legend.
THE END