I Am The Night

I Am The Night

By evolution-500

Genre: Tragedy

Disclaimer: Batman is a property created by Bob Kane and Bill Fingers and owned by DC Comics. I do not own this character, nor anyone within the DCU.

WARNING: This story contains references to violence and dark themes. Reader discretion is advised.

"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."

- Mark Twain

It had been a rough night.

Gritting his teeth, fifty-six-year-old Bruce Wayne wiped the sweat from his face with a bloodied towel as he stitched up his stomach, his exposed muscular torso hunched over, soaked and pale, riddled with hundreds of scars and burns, a mixture of old and new.

Finishing up, he fell back into his chair by the Batcomputer in relief, the soft leather cool to the touch as Bruce weakly swallowed.

Yet another scrap with Joker, only this time, the damned clown had managed to stab him in the stomach with a switch knife.

Though Bruce had been able to subdue the madman and personally transport him back to Arkham Asylum, he had lost a lot of blood during the fight. It was only by the grace of his peak physical conditioning and through his sheer indomitable will that he managed to survive the odds.

Glancing weakly up at his desk, Bruce found himself looking upon on an old photo of Alfred as the latter stared directly at him from the picture frame, offering a kindly smile.

Seeing the image of his old butler saddened him, yet at the same time, though, he couldn't help smiling regardless. Even as a photograph, he could still hear Alfred doting over him with all of the compassion, tenderness, and concern of a loving father, asking, "What happened, Master Bruce?"

Even several years after Alfred's passing, Bruce could still hear his voice, the old man's eyes softly staring back in nonjudgment.

What happened, Master Bruce?

Shaking his head despondently, Bruce slightly scoffed. "A good question, Alfred," he replied, even though he knew all-too well that nobody was around, listening to the harsh echoing wind and drips of the Batcave.

Staring at the picture, Bruce then reached out and took it into his hands, studying the image of his faithful companion.

Raising a hand, he fondly traced a finger along Alfred's features, his eyes drooping at the thought of his old friend and mentor.

'Things had been so much easier with him around,' Bruce wasn't afraid to admit, though nowadays, that was no longer an option; with Alfred gone, he had to make due with what he had.

What happened, Master Bruce?

Exhaling slightly, Bruce gave a slow, despondent shake of his head before carefully putting the photo back onto the desk, tenderly making certain that it was upright.

Reclining into his chair, the vigilante inhaled the cold air as he stared up to the heavily shadowed stalactite-covered ceiling, wiping himself off with the towel before holding it over the freshly-sown up stitch marks on his stomach, lying there in silent contemplation.

Turning to his side, the billionaire studied the rest of his surroundings, where he was greeted by the imposing sight of the Batcave, a sprawling, forlorn-looking cave system that was practically cloaked with darkness and lined with stone pillars, looking like something out of a gothic nightmare.