Murder.
He had heard a lot about murder.
He had seen it in person, he had read about it in novels, listened to podcasts centered around serial killing and had even heard about it from Alfred himself, who on better nights would rock back and forth in his old rocking chair, and tell Rowan about War, about espionage, and about the sum of his life as a member of the MI5.
Hell, Rowan had bear witness to it himself… Probably more than some men.
Most people thought differently about the act of murder.
Alfred, for example, thought of it as nothing but the needless taking of a life.
Bruce, on the other hand, saw it as a line never to be crossed, although judging from the recent course of actions, that may no longer be true.
Still, one thing they could all agree on was that it was a world-shattering act that one should never consider, unless it was under extremely precarious circumstances wherein one's life or lives were at risk.
And, perhaps most importantly, taking a life was supposed to be something to be repulsed by. And so Rowan's first thought was to force himself to feel revulsion.
It took him no more than a fraction of a second to realize that he, in fact, hadn't felt the slightest bit of guilt over what he'd done. And that, given the chance, he'd have made the Shade rip Napier'a head off all the same. Then he closed his eyes, opening them the very next second to find that nothing had changed.
Up hadn't magically become down.
Right hadn't been switched with left, and all was right with the world.
Maybe Bruce was right.
Maybe it really was too easy.
It would have unsettled Rowan less if he'd derived even a modicum of pride from the act, but it didn't feel like he'd done something good or great.
He didn't even feel like he'd stopped the clown from claiming more victims.
Instead, as he looked at the headless thing sprawled eagle-spread on the ground, he could only wonder why nobody had done it sooner.
For all the legends and all the infamy, Jack Napier was really just a man. A man with no friends among higher circles, who nobody liked. Not the kingpins that relied on some sort of stability to conduct their business. Not the cops, who would definitely weep over having to clean up after chemical and possibly biological attacks…
How this pathetic waste of oxygen had lived, much less held the whole fucking city by the balls for nearly half a decade was well and truly beyond Rowan, but it was at last over now.
And then his thought pivoted to how quick it'd been.
Rowan would've loved to choke the life out of the clown; to whisper to him that he was wrong, that he'd be forgotten the moment bigger and scarier entities, whose breath alone could wreak havoc on cities, turned their gazes to Earth, rendering his 'greatest achievement' miniscule by comparison.
Alas, there was no use crying over spilled milk.
Rowan glanced at his mentor, who barely managed a soft, "Rowan," and sighed. "I will turn in my uniform once we regain control of Gotham."
With that said, he spun for the smoldering hole in the side of the building, gaze finding Harleen Quinzel's wide, blue eyes. "Pudding?! Pudding! Pudding!" The woman wailed, as if her calls would somehow unfuck the Joker's mushy brain.
"I'll kill you!" Quinn roared, limping on her one good foot while leaning on an oversized wooden mallet she could barely lift in her condition. Yet she kept going, hatred spewing from her lost eyes. "I'll kill you, Boy Wonder!" Her loyalty would've been commendable, if it had been aimed at anyone else.
With a kick, Rowan knocked the crutch out from under the blonde, then dropped down to the ledge his feet found moments later.
In the dozens of minutes that the 'fight,' if it could even be called that, had taken place, the sun had already risen.
Unlike the previous weeks, it wasn't a faint outline in the sky. It was especially bright today, dying the entirety of Gotham in an insidious, otherworldly red that left the entire world seemingly in silence. Then a viscous blot fell from the sky without warning, splashing against Rowan's temple, then nose, then eyes.
He flinched as a trumpet sounded above, echoing from horizon to horizon as the blood-red sun darkened into a bottomless abyss, quickly followed by the warning shrieks of countless tormented souls.
"What?" Rowan muttered, rubbing the substance between his fingers. It blended so perfectly with the color of his skin that he probably wouldn't have noticed it at all, if not for the gross sensation dripping down his fingertips. He brought it to his nose, which wrinkled at the metallic scent, and released a shuddering sigh.
If something looked, tasted and smelled the part…
"Blood?" Rowan oh'd.
It was raining blood?
Pitter-patter. Viscous blots hammered against the side of the building under Rowan's horrified stare. Unconvinced, he flicked his tongue over a drop near his mouth. Yup. That was blood. There was no doubt about it. His gaze flicked up at the sky again, just in time to see a white blur land beside him.
"Azrael."
"What have you done?" The older man grumbled, sparing only a glance for the headless corpse before marching toward the Demon. It wasn't until he was within striking distance that an old, rusty nail slipped from the inside of his sleeve into his palm.
"Azrael, wa—"
It didn't get the chance to make its case before the weapon found its ribs.
The Order hadn't authorized the use of the Longinus, but as white light flared from the wound, Azrael knew the Holy Nail would be enough. Unfortunately, Azrael had missed. The Nail was supposed to pierce its heart, but had gotten caught between its ribs instead. More unfortunate still, he'd been caught by darkness that writhed like a pit of worms.
His gauntlets blazed to life, wreathed in flames that caused the tendrils to recoil, before he resumed his charge toward the Demon that had collapsed to its knees.
Azrael felt the faintest pang of guilt when he saw the surprise on its face. The feeling vanished the moment he noticed its blackened talons reaching for the Holy Nail. The resulting bright bursts of light flayed the skin off its arm and torso, revealing a black heart that pulsed not with blood, but black sludge.
In his mind, whether Rowan Locke had intended it or not, he now stood in direct opposition to humanity, the Order, and therefore God Himself through his thoughtless acceptance of his nature. Azrael had given him more than enough chances to atone, yet each had been foolishly… Squandered. One could take a beast out of the jungle, 'But never the jungle out of the beast.'
Thus, he lunged for the Demon, driving the Holy Nail deeper even as it seized his wrists to halt the thrust.
The struggle carried them through the hole in the wall, off the ledge and to the ground where they crashed on top of Scarecrow.
The villain wheezed as the pair rolled off him, trading punches and kicks in a furious scramble that ended with the heavily-injured Demon flat on its back.
"It's over..."
Azrael muttered, drawing the Sword of Sin out of its sheath which ignited with but a thought from him, wreathed in swirling golden flames.
"Lord, I deliver him unto Thee!"
He brought the Sword low and aimed for its heart, only for bursts of electricity to surge hurl him into the wall.
At the opposite end of the dancing arcs, Rowan's mind was a mess, centered only around the removal of the Nail. Thrice he reached for the Nail wedged between his ribs; thrice he was rebuffed. On the fourth attempt, he tried to pry it loose with a length of rebar jutting from the rubble, but as if it possessed a Will of its own, the Nail only burrowed deeper.
Whether it was the Nail's innate properties or the force of his own efforts driving it farther in, Rowan didn't know.
He only knew it was becoming harder and harder to pull the Nail free, and that the pressure against his ribs was increasing in kind. He called for the Shade next, but it was gone, as was most of the receding crimson tint in his skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Azrael rocketing toward him with a ferocity only the crime of pissing on one's parents' grave could inspire.
Behind him stood Bruce.
Bruce, and the tendrils that had been too late.
Not that Rowan blamed him.
Things had been tense between them, but even Rowan hadn't expected Azrael to attack so decisively.
He groaned as his limbs began to numb, leaving the searing heat between his stomach and chest as the only sensation he could still feel. In the meanwhile, the viscous, crimson blots had thinned into clear droplets.
'Am I bleeding that much?' Rowan mused to himself as he stared at the pool of crimson spreading beneath him. No. It was probably the rain making it look worse. He was going to close his eyes and wake up in the Batcave any moment now! 'A-Any… Moment…'
Slowly, his vision began to blur as the rain soaked him from head to toe. In the background, the Dark Knight and the Knight Templar of the Order of St. Dumas continued to battle, their heavy swings and even heavier blows drowning out the patter of the rain.
Rowan disliked the heat, but even he had to admit this spine-chilling cold was hardly any better.
It was fine, though…
He was going to wake up in the Batcave and have that long-awaited fight with Bruce over murdering the psycho-clown.
Their family dynamics were going to be strained, but things would go back to the way they used to be.
'Yes,'
His lashes weakly brushed away the cold droplets clinging to them with a confused bat of his eyelids.
'Things are going to be…'
His entire life, or lives, to be technical, Rowan had assumed he would go straight down when he died.
Call it knowing himself or whatever.
So imagine his surprise when it was the Light of Heaven that shone upon him instead of the ghastly, beckoning glow of Hell. But how could that be? How could Heaven welcome a Demon into its ranks? How could any judge, let alone an omniscient one, look upon a Hellspawn and see anything but?
Question after question filled his mind until Rowan realized it didn't matter either way.
He was going to Heaven!
Now, he wasn't sure if there'd be a catch waiting for him up there, but anything was better than Hell, right? Not to mention the few times he had been portrayed, the Presence had seemed like a pretty chill guy.
Not the Angels, though, nor the Endless. But, Rowan could make this work… Yes! Yes, he could.
The last of his worries were washed away as light caressed him, melting away the exhaustion he'd kept at bay with obscene amounts of caffeine; the aches and scars accumulated over a lifetime; and finally, even the paranoia that had spared Rowan the grisly fate of so many other street rats.
The Gate blazed with an almost unbearable radiance as he drew nearer, pulling him ever closer.
For a moment, Rowan dared believe he had finally atoned.
For a moment, he dared think that, even if he couldn't have his happily ever after with Ivy, he could settle for a somewhat bittersweet end...
"Oh no, you don't."
And the next, he began to plummet.
Rowan whirled through the air, gaping at the hellish rift that had split Gotham in two.
Then his eyes found the creature buried beneath layers of earth. Its face was little more than shadow and outlines, but the six colossal, blazing eyes were hard to miss.
'Trigon?!'
Rowan jolted before quickly calming down. There was a hierarchy to the Multiverse, and the Presence was practically at the very top. Even during the events of Day of Judgment, he had strolled into Hell and reclaimed a captured Angel while the Despoiler could do nothing but watch in the corner like a cuck.
And in his own domain, no less!
Rowan was in safe hands.
Sure enough, Heaven's pull suddenly strengthened, while the Demon could only glare in impotent fury.
His features twisted into a nasty snarl.
"Remember what you promised me, Presence! He's mine!"
Suddenly, as though another force had seized him, the heavenly pull faltered. Shocked, Rowan watched the pearly gates continue to blaze with blinding radiance even as their doors slowly swung shut, thus sealing his fate. Once more, endless questions swam in his mind, but the most prominent one must be, "Why?!" Rowan barked at the Heavenly Gates just as heavy, molten chains coiled around his ankle, then his torso, and finally his neck.
Why show him what he could never have?
Why make a show of it?
Why give him hope at all?
Why?!
WHY?!
"WHY?!!"
Eyes narrowing into a glare so venomous it seemed capable of cursing Heaven itself, Rowan gritted his teeth and bristled. Maybe there was a reason for this... Maybe it was another part of the Presence's grand design... Maybe it was going to work out for the better? But as the one personally suffering through it, Rowan thought it was shit.
Nevertheless, neither the Almighty nor the Despoiler paid his thoughts any heed.
Time seemed to crawl as he descended, as though the universe itself wished to grant him one last glimpse of the Paradise he had been denied before the hellish chains dragged him into the unknown depths below.
"Runt of the litter…
Gotta toughen you up."
The Despoiler's crimson and unnaturally long arm flexed, yanking him into Hell.
In the next instant, the rift sealed shut. The hellish flames cooled and dispersed into the ether, leaving behind only a city none the wiser to the cosmic event that had just transpired, and two rain-soaked Knights.
One had been beaten so thoroughly that much of his armor lay scattered across the ground in broken pieces.
The other cradled a corpse gone cold beneath the rain.
.
.
.
For the umpteenth time, Alfred Pennyworth adjusted his cravat. It was perfectly presentable for the occasion, yet his mind seemed determined to find fault with it today. Or perhaps it simply had to, if only to distract him from the recent loss.
With a sigh, the old butler stretched his shoulders before rubbing at the ache in his neck. Whatever powers he had gained from drinking Rowan's blood had long since worn off, leaving him with a body that was as weary as his heart. This wasn't the first time, and likely wouldn't be the last either, but it never became any easier sending off young men who should have had their whole lives ahead of them.
Would Bruce be next?
Dick?
He sighed, combing a hand through his hair, only to find a clump of it in his palm. He stared at the gray strands absentmindedly, his gaze drifting to the towering tree near the heart of Gotham.
It had been two weeks since Bruce carried Rowan Locke's body back to the Batcave. A little over a week had passed since Pamela Isley, to everyone's surprise, sacrificed herself to conjure the massive tree whose pollen cured the people of Gotham.
Neither lived to see the fruits of their labor, but their efforts had indeed borne fruit. Not that Gotham was going to recover within a year or two, but it would return to business, for better or for worse, once the bridge reconstruction was complete. With another sigh, he glanced at the clock, only to realize he had spent tens of minutes staring out the window.
Finally, the old man found the courage to lower his gaze.
Below the cloud rested a coffin, surrounded by white flowers and a couple of people whispering to each other. It was ironic, since he knew how much Rowan had loathed white. 'It gets dirty too quickly,' The boy would say.
There wasn't much to do.
Rowan hadn't had many friends, and the Zatannas were still M.I.A., so only family and a handful of close friends like Ted Grant, Miss Gordon, and Selina Kyle were in attendance. In the corner, Dick whispered with the older girl while Ted lingered near the back. Miss Kyle was nowhere to be found, though Alfred suspected she was in the Batcave.
His charge would need some coaxing to emerge from his cave, after all, and Alfred was far too world-weary at the moment to be the voice of reason. He wandered the room in a daze, suddenly reminded of how cold and quiet Wayne Manor had been after the late Mr. and Mrs. Wayne were mercilessly gunned down, especially after Master Bruce upped and left for his... 'Studies.'
Sometimes, he could still hear their ghosts… Like Martha Wayne and her teasing remarks about his perpetual bachelorhood. The woman had been almost addicted to introducing him to every eligible lady in her social circle. Other times, he would hear Thomas grumbling over the latest laws and regulations from the living room, agreeing with some and disagreeing with others.
'Thanks, Alfred!'
He could hear Rowan's already.
The proceedings passed in a blur, with Alfred remaining close at hand to offer what little comfort he could until the coffin was lowered into the cemetery behind Wayne Manor, only a few feet from Martha's and Thomas's graves.
It did not rain that day.
Instead, the city basked beneath an unusually gentle sun, as though even the heavens had chosen mercy.
Alfred took it as a sign that the boy had gone to a better place.
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