XXIX
Keep Calm and Carry On
Alfred had not openly shed tears since the deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, twenty years ago. Bruce was like a son to him, and Richard… confident, brash young Richard, like a son as well. The had been closer to brothers, Bruce and Richard but Bruce had been like a father. Both had been denied the innocence of youth, burdened with the saddle of parental loss.
And now Richard was gone and the tears filled his eyes.
At this moment, before him stood the last of the Wayne line. Bruce, who could no longer hide the anger in his broken heart. And his wife, a mysterious, beautiful woman lying prone on the floor in the corner. Another raven-haired woman lie on the bed. Had Bruce called her Raven's mother?
"...Master Bruce. Shall I bring the medical supplies for Mrs. Wayne?" Alfred was surprised when Bruce turned to him and took his shoulders in a steely grip. For a moment he stared into the old servant's eyes.
"Alfred, look after them. There is something I have to do." With that gravelly-voiced remark, Bruce departed. Alfred called after him. Now was not the time to be alone. The look in his eyes… He couldn't lose Bruce as well. That look was madness. Anything to get Bruce to turn around…
To no avail.
No one had ever told Alfred that grief felt so like fear.1
It wasn't until he took a deep breath that Alfred realized he had fallen to his knees. They had lost Richard. Bruce may lose himself to his own demons. But there was still Mrs. Wayne and her mother. If Raven awoke, could she help Bruce? Bring him back from the edge?
"Get up, old man," he told himself. Alfred Pennyworth rose, went to the liquor cabinet and unlocked the bottom door. There was a bottle of Courvoisier he had been saving for a special occasion but now seemed like the best time. Pouring himself two fingers worth, he raised his glass to the air.
"To you, Master Grayson. Your courage was only exceeded by your duty." With that, the old butler tipped the brandy and felt its quiet fire travel down his throat, re-igniting a small part of him, something resembling courage. It would be easy to stay here and drink himself into a stupor, but now was not the time for drunken old men. His father's words came back to haunt him…
'Keep Calm and Carry On.'
It was an expression from the war that seemed appropriate given what had befallen them. With that, Alfred made his way to the bedroom. Desperately trying to shake off the effects of shock, Alfred forced himself to re-examine the situation. A woman in her early forties lie on the bed – locked in what seemed to be a nightmare, muttering incomprehensibly. Mrs. Wayne lay on the floor in a strange costume that Alfred had never seen. Her condition however, looked familiar. Ages ago, he had visited his niece Daphne in England who, unfortunately, had suffered from catatonic schizophrenia. He had had the misfortune to have been present during one of her early bouts. The resemblance was uncanny.
Like many eccentric billionaires, Bruce kept a small pharmacy on-site in the mansion. Unlike many billionaires, Bruce did not abuse the prescription drugs he had access to. He had devoted himself to fitness, to performance. Physically, Bruce Wayne was as healthy as an ox. But the man's psyche had never recovered after the loss of his parents, emotions ran too deep in Bruce.
Alfred considered the risks of sedating Mrs. Wayne, considering her mixed ancestry. When she began to spasm on the floor, he placed pillows around her to prevent injury and made his decision.
On the way to the medical room, Alfred brought up Oracle to get the appropriate dose of haloperidol for a woman of Mrs. Wayne's size and then selected the appropriate dermal patch. Alfred was a qualified first aid responder with a wealth of knowledge even if modern medical technology and wi-screens made it almost redundant.
On his way back to the bedroom, Alfred brought up Bruce's location. Secretly, he did this often. As a butler, it was always best to keep track of where your employer was - from a service perspective of course. While in Wayne manor, Alfred could predict Bruce's wants and needs just by his location and mood.
But this was different.
Oracle pinpointed Bruce in the caves below the manor. This was a place Alfred had no access to, hidden behind two feet of steel and concrete. Wayne manor was built on a system of extensive caves which had been converted into Wayne's private bunker. In his younger days, Bruce had deposited systems and prototype weapons in these caves. It was an arsenal of death. Wayne Industries had its secrets. The best kept was that Bruce Wayne was more than a billionaire – he was a very dangerous and powerful man who stored weapons too deadly to be handed over to the world in his basement.
If they were lucky, Bruce was only screaming at the darkness, loosing rage to the colony of bats who lined the caverns. However, if he was not…
Alfred shuddered.
As he re-entered the bedroom, there was little change in his two female charges. Carefully, he applied the patch to Mrs. Wayne's neck and waited until she seemed to calm down. Then, with some degree of effort as he was no longer a young man, he managed to place her on the very large master bed, close to her mother and brushed the ebony hair from her face... Side-by-side, there was no doubt they were mother and daughter. Raven-haired with a gentle demeanor, both exceedingly beautiful although somehow tinged with sadness.
With Raven comfortably settled, he took Raven's mother's hand – gently, as he did not want to startle her or suddenly wake her from her trauma. However noble and gentle his contact, it was enough. Alfred was suddenly drawn into Arella's nightmare…
1. C.S. Lewis paraphrased "A Grief Observed"