Epilogue

There's so many wars we fought,
There's so many things we're not,
But with what we have,
I promise you that
We're marching on.

-"Marching On", OneRepublic.

~DKR~

Bloody faces, bruised bodies, exhausted eyes.

They were all around me, some exultant, some weeping, some half-asleep, but they were alive; the bomb hadn't taken them and neither had the battle.

I would find out later that twenty-six hadn't been so lucky.

Scout and I were swarmed the instant we stepped into the base, surrounded on every side by somber congratulations. We had won, but it had come at such a terrible price that celebrating seemed nearly irreverent. Gradually, I made my way to the podium, wincing at the sting of my injuries, and looked out at them quietly. I had left my mask lying on the ground near the truck and Talia's body; I didn't want to be the Maestro right now. Maestro was the leader, the pragmatist, the fighter. I wanted to be Wren, the kid, the friend, the human.

It took me a while to find my voice. "You did it," I all but whispered after nearly a full minute of just staring at them, unable to comprehend much of anything at the moment, "Thank you." (Those appeared to be the only meaningful words I was capable of saying to anyone today.)

"We did it," corrected Rook from the back, sporting a nasty gash that ran diagonally across his mouth, his arms crossed and looking very much like a soldier. "You don't get to act like we did all the work, Maestro."

He looked around at the crowd of kids, appearing somewhat irritated. "Seriously? Are we just going to let her give us all the credit?" he called to the silent teens, lifting his chin before turning back to me. And then he began to clap.

At first, it was just him, the slap of a single pair of hands echoing awkwardly in the warehouse, and I opened my mouth to tell him to stop when two more joined, then three, then seven, and then the entire crowd of people watching burst into thunderous applause. There wasn't any obnoxious cheering, no whistles or jumping up and down. It was simple, and genuine, and serious.

The tears came before I could stop them.

~DKR~

That night was the first time in five months that we didn't schedule a lookout. Instead, every member of the Young placed their mats in the middle of the floor and just... existed. Some played music, some chatted, others mourned, and still others moved from mat to mat treating injuries and handing out rations. I knew the next day – actually, the next month – would be chaos, but tonight they could be kids, maybe for the last time. Judging by the sea of faces around me, some of them were already too far past that point and had been for a while.

I stood on the balcony, just watching them interact – and counting them almost compulsively – when I was startled out of my skin by Savvy materializing by my side. "You can blink, you know. They're not going anywhere," she said, giving me an apologetic smile as I tried to regulate my heartbeat.

Realizing I hadn't seen her since before the battle, I returned her smile and took in her injuries. She was badly bruised, like many of us, but she wasn't missing a limb so I counted it as a win.

"How's Jazz?" I asked, scratching at the bandage on my face from where Talia had cut me. It was highly likely that it would scar.

She sobered and looked away from me, peering down at the kids spread below us. "Scrap managed to set his arm. We lifted a few boxes of medical supplies from the relief trucks that have been pouring into the city all day, so he's got something for the pain," she replied, absently running her fingers over her lips.

I nodded but didn't respond. By some unspoken agreement, Gordon had kept all outside interference from coming to the base, just for the evening. Tomorrow we could get everything sorted out, but tonight we just needed to be together, mourning our losses and recovering in private. Those with serious injuries had, of course, immediately been taken to the Red Cross relief tents set up around the city, but everyone else had come here after the battle on Main Street. Jazz had simply flat-out refused to go to them, stubborn jackass that he was.

"Things are gonna change after this, Savvy," I muttered, so lowly I thought she couldn't hear me, but she did, and she bit her lip.

"You're leaving the Young, aren't you?"

I snapped my head to look at her, surprised. "How did you –?"

She scoffed at me. "Please, Maestro. Contrary to what you seem to think, I actually do know you pretty well."

I was silent, and she nudged me gently with her shoulder. "Why?" she pressed.

How could I explain something that even I didn't fully understand? "Most of them will probably go to families outside the city or into the system," I couldn't keep the disdain out of my voice at the last word, "but the ones who were with us before will need someone who knows how to lead them in peacetime."

"You managed for years before Bane," she pointed out, but I shook my head.

"Once a person becomes a general, I think it's impossible for them to be anything else," I whispered, studying her, "which is why I'm leaving them to you and Jazz. You're the only ones I trust with them. I'm already seeing ghosts everywhere, Savvy. The Young needs leaders who can overcome their past." I swallowed, and carefully kept my gaze from her. "And I can't."

She turned fully to face me, armed with a penetrating stare. "What about you? What will you do?"

I drummed my fingers on the railing and bit my sore lip, sighing heavily. I was so tired. "I don't know. I guess that's what I need to figure out."

"Maestro, I –"

Her no-doubt profound response was cut off by a chorus of kids asking for me to play something, the way they had at the start of the war. I accepted, if only to flee the subject, and strode past my best friend to take the violin from one boy's outstretched hands.

And, looking at the faces around me and feeling the music well up in my spirit, I pressed the bow to the strings and began to play.

~DKR~

It turns out, I was wrong about the next few days being chaos. They were psychotic.

The morning after the battle they descended: government officials and relief workers and Red Cross nurses and law enforcement, treating the wounded and asking questions and helping arrange the reunion of kids with family members. I turned over a list of the names of the kids who had died; I'd located several birth names but so many of them would be buried under their aliases, their real names lost to the world.

Quite a few of my Young had scattered beforehand, seeking shelter elsewhere in order to try to make it on their own; they would regroup once everything had settled down to continue the work they had been doing before Bane. But many – too many – would be put into the system.

I had several shouting matches with Gordon about this, voicing my opinion on the subject loudly and often, even though I had known it would happen. But they were heroes and they deserved better than the Hell they'd be getting if they became wards of the state. He swore to me that the kids would be safe, but I remembered Lacey's story – and I also wasn't an idiot – and knew that there was no way he could guarantee that. The only thing that kept me from tearing him completely apart was that he had decided to take legal guardianship of Scout. If he'd tried to put her into foster care after the promise he'd made to Stitches, I'd have done something extremely violent and very bloody.

In all the madness, Savvy and Jazz disappeared. I knew they were laying low, and that they'd find me once all this was over, but there was no chance they would risk being interrogated by Social Services. They were far too clever for that.

After four days of this, when most of the Young had been dismantled, the base was nearly empty, and the do-gooders were shooting benevolent looks my way, I realized it was time to make my escape. I took one last look at the warehouse where my kids had taken refuge from the monsters of Gotham, brushing my fingers over the Bat Code on the wall and knowing that this time I would never return.

And then I left the building and didn't look back, vanishing into the darkness of the evening.

~DKR~

I could sense the shift in the air the moment I opened the door to my apartment. Someone's here.

Running on fumes and absolutely not in the mood for this, I flicked out my batons as Rococo started to growl.

"Whoever's there, come out before I send my dog in!" I called, stepping further inside. A small, unidentifiable noise from my bedroom reached my ears, and I moved towards it on high alert. And then the weapon slipped from my grasp as I blinked stupidly into the diamond-blue eyes of Jonathan Crane.

"Hello Songbird," he greeted with a cool smirk, and somehow the sight of him made me sigh in relief. At least it was an evil I knew. He had been inspecting the books on my desk, delicately fingering the worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo that I had favored when I'd still had the time to read things.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my exhausted brain struggling to process what was in front of me.

He cocked a superior eyebrow as my dog continued to snarl. "As I recall, you mentioned something about coming here if I needed a place to lay low. They're rounding up those involved in the court."

And well they should. Why am I helping you again? Oh yeah, because you have pretty eyes and I'm an idiot, apparently.

I flicked my dog's nose to get him to shut up and moved towards the bed, shedding my jacket and boots with an exhausted wince. "Fantastic. The couch is all yours. Don't touch my instruments."

"And just what are you doing?" he asked, sounding bored with the entire universe as always.

I blinked at him. "I just spent five months fighting a war that I didn't think would ever end. I've been punched, kicked, slapped, cut, and choked with a boot. I've gotten a grand total of twelve hours of sleep over the last four days. My Young have been scattered to the four winds, twenty-six of them are dead, I killed a woman, and I'm still somehow fighting the overpowering urge to kiss you senseless. If you want to torture me, I suggest you do it before I pass out. Otherwise, leave me alone and let me succumb to unconsciousness."

His expression didn't change throughout my rant, and at this point I had already forgotten most of what I'd said, but there was a certain twitch at the corner of his lips that might have been a smile. (Except that it wasn't, because Jonathan Crane did not smile. At least not in a way that wasn't creepy.) Finally, with a slow nod, he turned away and stepped out of the room.

And then the darkness took hold of me and did not let go, and as I slipped into it with blissful ease, three simple words followed me down, down, down into the abyss.

"Sweet dreams, Wren."

~DKR~

The blackness was filled with the dead, the dying, and the fire of those twelve million souls that Talia had sought to take, and when I wasn't burning alive I was drowning in the bay, slipping further and further from the surface as crystal-blue eyes watched from above.

~DKR~

I awoke an indeterminable amount of time later, slightly disoriented and completely sluggish. Groaning, I sat up to feel a slight sting in my palms and looked down to see that my nails had made perfect, crescent-shaped indentions in my skin. My throat felt raw; had I been screaming too?

Great. With a soft sigh, I stood to my feet, swaying slightly, and changed clothes before pulling my hair into a ponytail. A sense of urgency crawled over my skin, screaming that I had slept too late and that I needed to get moving before we ran out of time. I shook myself, trying to ground my mind in the knowledge that it was over, we were safe. I wondered if I'd ever be able to believe it.

Turning to leave my room, I started in surprise when I saw Crane's form in the doorway, his eyes fixed on me.

"How long was I asleep?" I asked, still too tired to be angry that he had probably just seen me change. I was finding it hard to care about much of anything at the moment besides falling back into bed.

"About eighteen hours. You spent most of it screaming," he replied.

"Surprising, considering the last few months have just been so easy on everyone," I snapped, brushing past him to go into the living room.

He caught my wrist as I tried to leave, and I rolled my eyes at the familiar power play. "What did you dream about?"

Our faces were somehow inches apart, our gazes locked and our bodies tensed and primed to do... something... that I didn't understand and he undoubtedly did. I caught myself wishing, not for the first time, that things were different.

"Consequences," I responded after a moment, pulling away to go to my music room. He didn't follow.

It was like that for three days; what few conversations we had were brief and often meaningless, each of us dancing around the other – though he appeared to be less devoted to this concept than I was – and trying to avoid talking about the elephant in the room.

Namely, the fact that I had essentially given myself to him.

I was privately grateful that he didn't address the issue for the first few days; perhaps the psychiatrist in him knew that too much pressure too soon would cause me to break, and that didn't seem to be something he wanted. At least not yet.

It was on the fourth day that things started changing.

I was in the kitchen when it happened – a place I had taken to avoiding more often than not because Crane had made it into his personal workstation – trying to open a stubborn package of crackers with a pair of dull scissors and not making much progress. My hands trembled almost constantly these days.

"Having difficulties?"

His voice startled me so much that my hand slipped, and the edge of the scissors left a wicked slice along my index finger. I swore and whirled around, sucking on the appendage.

"Can you not do that!?" I snapped, trying to steady the adrenaline rush that had shot straight to my legs, instinctively telling me to run.

He studied me coolly. "You're certainly jumpy this morning."

"I might not be if you made some actual noise when you walked, psycho," I spat, forgetting for a moment that I was supposed to be largely indifferent to his presence here. He moved closer, his stance shifting into something more predatory that was no doubt triggered by the sight of my fear.

"Scared, Songbird?" he all but purred, and I swallowed thickly. I was scared, all the time now. I dreamed of fire and woke up smelling blood. My body shook, but not from the cold, and what little music I was capable of writing was dark, and tremulous, and somber.

"Not of you," I snapped without thinking, and before the words even left my lips, I knew it was the wrong thing to say to the man who could stop a person's heart with terror. But instead of the explosive violence I was expecting, he just smirked and moved so close his mouth was inches from mine.

"We both know that's not quite true. But you love it, don't you?"

"Wh-what?" I stammered, mentally kicking myself because stammering? Seriously?

"You dropped your weapon when you saw it was me in the apartment, you defended me to those other rebels, and you took shelter in my basement when you were being chased by Bane's men. I'm the thing you fear most, but you trust me."

That snapped me out of my daze as effectively as a bucket of ice water. "You know better than anyone that 'trust' isn't a word in my vocabulary, so don't play stupid. It's not a good look on you."

Why this statement seemed to irritate him more than the others was beyond me. "Spare me. You're completely capable of trust, but admitting it would make you human and your precious ego wouldn't allow for that, would it? You trust your brats, you trust the commissioner, and you trust that idiotic detective. The surprising part," he leaned in even closer, "the sick part, is that you trust me. Why is that, I wonder?"

I didn't answer, merely glared at him, and his smirk broadened. "Would you like me to tell you?"

"I'd like you to take your psychoanalysis and shove it up your –"

I was silenced by the sudden force of his mouth slamming into mine, bruising and punishing and possessive. He tasted like ice and terror, both things I despised yet was somehow almost irresistibly drawn to. I hated myself for whimpering when he pulled away.

"Because, Wren," he murmured, and I shivered, "despite your best efforts, despite your idealism and your morals, you can't stay away from fear and death and darkness. You understand those things, because you have crusaded against them for most of your life. But haven't you heard the saying?" His voice was now mocking and cold. "When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."

I could only stare at him, trembling in his hold and trying to ignore his words, trying to ignore how accurate they felt. I didn't trust him, because that was impossible and stupid.

A response formed on my lips despite the fact that I had no idea what I was going to say, but thankfully I was spared by the sound of a soft rapping echoing through the apartment. It was coming from my room, where my mostly-useless dog was roused by the noise and immediately began to bark like the brainless animal he was. Oh what now?

Deftly stepping around Crane – who somehow smelled better than any living person had a right to, he must have been sneaking to the gym to shower and gah, down girl! – I grabbed a spare baton off the back of the couch and cautiously entered my bedroom.

"Scout?"

The twelve-year-old lunatic was crouched on my fire escape, knocking on the glass and waving happily through the window as though this was normal adolescent behavior. I was going to kill her. And then Gordon. And then her again.

Swearing sulfurously under my breath, I strode across the worn carpet to the other side of the room and eased the window open for her. She ducked inside gracefully.

"Hey Maestro," she chirped, smiling until I leveled her with a ferocious glare. Her chirping subsided and she shifted her stance into something slightly more sheepish. "Savvy told me where to find you. She and Jazz – who haven't completely disappeared off the face of the earth, by the way – are hiding out in a motel across town. And they're kissing." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "A lot."

I pressed my fingers to my temples, too exasperated to do anything else. "Scout. I. Have. Tripwires. You could have gotten yourself killed."

At this, she scowled. "Please, Maestro, I'm not completely stupid. You had one and it was as plain as day in the middle of the step! Besides, I know how you are about your privacy. Why do you think I didn't try going inside like a normal person? Jazz told me you requested an ax for some mysterious purpose a few months ago."

I cocked an eyebrow at her, prepared to give my usual snide response, when her eyes widened at something over my left shoulder. "What's he doing here?"

I turned to see Crane leaning casually against the doorframe, watching us with something like amusement. Uh-oh.

"Scout, isn't it?" he inquired with the unaffected air of someone who hadn't just mercilessly dissected another person's psyche moments before. I shifted so I was more directly between them.

"The whole city's looking for you," she responded with an alarming amount of ice, until I remembered that this man wasn't her monster and she had no real reason to fear him; he'd never given her one. I had a strong suspicion the one who'd previously held that title had been killed in the courthouse lobby a few days ago. A part of me almost envied her freedom until a traitorous place in my chest rebelled rather violently at the thought of Crane dying, much to my ever-increasing disturbance. I cursed him (and his ridiculously defined cheekbones) to the bottom of the ocean.

"Scout, him staying here is my business. The real question is, what are you doing here?" I cut in before he could respond or my thoughts could devolve into further stupidity.

With a narrow-eyed, wary glare at Crane, she turned her gaze back to me. "Gordon wants to talk to you."

It took everything I had not to roll my eyes. "There's a surprise. Tell him I'm dead."

She frowned at me. "I'm not telling him that, Maestro."

"You seem content enough to play the courier, why couldn't he just deliver the message through you?" I griped, growing irritated now. I just needed a few more days to regroup before I re-entered the world to help Jazz and Savvy take over the Young. Was that too much to ask?

She crossed her arms, looking almost petulant. "He wouldn't tell me. He said you'd know."

And, just like that, I did. Whatever Gordon had to say, it had something to do with the Batman. Or, given the fact that he hadn't even mentioned that much to Scout, it was probably about Bruce Wayne. There was an unexpected pang of sorrow somewhere in the region of my chest, but I pushed it down. Taking my silence to be a negative, Scout stepped closer, eager to coerce me into coming, simply because it was what the commissioner wanted. I wondered if he knew just how deeply she seemed to care about him, how powerful his influence on her was.

"Detective Blake will be there. He wants to talk to you too!"

I could swear I heard a growl from behind me, but my former spy missed it. With a sigh, I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to quell the pounding that had arisen behind my eyes. "When and where?"

Her answering grin was broad, but not as bright as it used to be. I could sense that the same darkness that had stolen over my soul these past few days had touched hers as well. Her earlier cheeriness had no doubt come from her inherent pleasure at knowing things she shouldn't, such as the location of my apartment building, but it hadn't lasted long. I worried for her and made a mental note to tell Gordon to keep a careful eye on her moods in the coming days.

"Tonight at four behind the cafeteria. He says you shouldn't wear the mask," she replied.

I did roll my eyes that time. "Tell him I'll be there. Cross my heart. Now scram, I've got stuff to do." This was a lie, but I didn't want her in close proximity to Crane for any longer than necessary.

Scout grinned again and hugged me once before I had time to brace myself, nearly bowling me over with her affection, and then turned smartly on her heel to make her way back down the fire escape.

Suddenly remembering something, I stuck my head out the window and called after her. "And next time use the indoor stairs! I'm taking down the traps!" They didn't serve much point now, not now that I had Rococo, and since the war was over, I wasn't worried about international terrorists breaking down my door in the middle of the night to drag me to my death. I was fairly confident that nobody else would be a legitimate threat by comparison. And as for the other reason I had put them up...

I stole a quick glance at Crane, who was still watching me expressionlessly. Well, he already knew where they were located anyway.

Scout gave me a thumbs up before vanishing from my sight, and I slammed the window shut once again.

"A summons from the commissioner. How prestigious," Crane remarked, sarcasm thick in his voice as I turned back to face him, and I was instantly wary but tried not to show it.

"Yeah," I responded, waiting for him to reveal the reason for his apparent ire, and when he smirked at me there was something dangerous about it.

"Detective Blake will even be there."

So that's what the sudden malice was about. Well, I wasn't in the mood. He wanted to be irritating? I was an expert on the subject. "Why, Dr. Crane," I responded as I moved closer, playing coy, "if I didn't know any better I'd say you were jealous."

"That would imply that I felt threatened," he commented snidely, and I scowled at him.

Arrogant ass. Would it kill you to admit you cared about me? Even a little bit? "Oh I forgot, you're far superior to us lowly mortals," I hissed, getting right in his face because I was stupid, and angry, and extremely done with this nonsense, "and nobody ever gets to you, right?"

His eyes flickered dark at my proximity and at the challenge in my voice. I wanted to make him bleed the way he made me bleed, to lay him out, open and vulnerable the way he did so many times to me. "Except somebody did, didn't they? A little girl you searched for years to find, because her scream was just a little better than all the rest. Her scream was pretty and it made you feel powerful."

I cocked my head at him, bringing my smirking mouth inches from his, and moved in for the kill. "Nobody ever gets to Jonathan Crane. Nobody ever gets to the Scarecrow. Except me." I searched his gaze, watching his pupils expand like ink on ice. "And I think that scares you."

He snapped.

With something very much like a snarl, I found myself slammed against the wall, his mouth bruising mine for only a moment before he shifted to place furious bites against the column of my throat. He was marking, claiming, asserting; I'd drawn out the Scarecrow on my own this time. Only he was this forceful, which meant only one thing: I was right. I'd gotten under his skin somehow and he hated it. I would have laughed at the role-reversal if my brain wasn't currently a pile of mush.

Somewhere I heard a dog barking ferociously, and out of reflex I snapped my fingers and gave a command that I didn't remember seconds afterward, and Crane was saying something –

"You may think you're clever, Songbird," he snarled, "but you're playing with fire. And if the boy gets any ideas about who you belong to, remember the price. And remember," he hissed, pulling back and gripping my face to look into my eyes, "that I'm patient. I can wait years to get what I want. There is nowhere you can go, nowhere you can hide that I won't find you."

I studied his face, watching the lines of his jaw clench and unclench in something that looked very much like rage, and noted the darkness of his eyes and the tension in his form. Suddenly I didn't want to provoke him anymore; I was overwhelmed with an emotion I couldn't name and all the anger from moments before dissipated. Gently, I pressed my lips to his, easily draining the intensity from the room and trying to soothe the monster that had sprung free.

"I'm not going anywhere," I murmured with a sigh, extricating myself from his arms, "and if you'd been paying attention, you idiot, you'd know that."

I retreated to my music room and remained there for the rest of the day.

~DKR~

As promised, Gordon and John were already waiting for me behind the cafeteria, each wearing dark suits and somber expressions. I was jumpy for a variety of reasons, but primarily because I was out on the streets again without my mask, causing a jittery sense of vulnerability to wash over me in waves. Part of me wanted to just go back home, but I hadn't been comfortable there either, not with Crane prowling around. I fisted my hands in Rococo's fur and reminded myself to breathe.

"What's going on?" I asked quietly, watching as the two men noted my arrival. I turned a guarded smile on John, and he reciprocated, but there was something distant in his eyes and I privately wondered at it. Discreetly, I adjusted the ratty brown scarf at my throat and prayed it wouldn't slip.

Gordon tucked his hands in his pockets and nodded towards a black car, parked along the curb. "We're going to Wayne Manor. I thought you might want to come."

For a moment, I didn't understand, but as comprehension dawned my hand flew to my lips. I'd heard somewhere that the members of the Wayne family were always buried on the property. Oddly touched, I nodded once.

"Yes... I would." It was impossible to quell the gratitude that was rising in my spirit, but I bit my lip to keep from expressing it verbally as we strode to the car. It wouldn't do to let Gordon know he'd done something right.

Before I got in, however, something struck me, and I turned to face John. "You know. Wait, you knew," I murmured quietly, my eyes widening as I remembered our conversation in my apartment, "you knew he was Bruce Wayne. You were trying to tell me."

The detective gave me a smile. "It wasn't my secret to tell, so I couldn't say anything too direct... but I kinda hoped you'd put the pieces together."

I nodded dumbly, awed by this new information, and the three of us ducked into the car.

The commissioner drove, and as the vehicle pulled away no one spoke. We were too weighed down with the knowledge of what was about to happen to make even a slight attempt at conversation. Rococo shifted restlessly, trying to comfortably wedge his bulk into the backseat and failing comically.

The city sped by us, a whirl of grey, and I was pleased to note the return of traffic to the roads. There was construction going on everywhere, and I winced internally as we passed the Stock Exchange – still a wreck from the Young's bomb diversion an eternity ago. But the city was steadily rebuilding, because that was what Gotham did: we rose and fell like the tide, but we never stayed down long. Survival was in our spirit, pulsing in our blood with the need to prove to the rest of the world that we were anything but weak. After what had just happened, I wondered if there was anybody out there who still doubted us.

"They're making a memorial to the Batman." John's voice from the passenger seat startled me out of my reverie, and I met his eyes in the rearview mirror with a degree of difficulty that hadn't been there before. Remember the price.

"They should've done it ages ago," I replied quietly, drumming my fingers on the smooth handle of the door next to me. My bandages were itching, particularly the one on my face. "He's deserved one for a long time."

We were quiet again.

Gradually, we left the city and pulled into the outskirts of Gotham, the roads fringed by trees and fields that hadn't yet been converted into lampposts and concrete. I could see the house in the distance, and really that was too mild a word for the castle that was Wayne Manor. It stretched to the sky like a watchtower, tall and secluded and protective, a symbol of Gotham's Golden Age under Thomas and Martha Wayne.

The car pulled up to a wrought-iron fence that was taller than Rococo and navigated through the open gate, coasting easily along the gently-curving driveway to the front of the Manor. The setting sun lit the weather-worn brick on fire, and it was one of the most beautiful places I'd ever seen.

There were two men waiting for us beside another black car at the front of the mansion; one of them was Lucius Fox and the other was a white-haired man, his face lined with age and grief. I assumed this was Bruce Wayne's butler, Alfred Pennyworth, if the multiple tabloids and spreads that had been done on the former billionaire were anything to go by.

Gordon pulled the car to a stop and the four of us, three humans and a dog, emerged to the general exchange of greetings and shaking of hands. I kept my distance until it was over, but I couldn't help but return Fox's soft smile when he offered it in my direction. I hadn't seen him since we'd discussed his ability to disarm the reactor over a month ago, back when Talia had been Miranda and I hadn't listened to my instinct. A foreign part of me was glad he was safe.

By a wordless agreement, our small party made our way towards the sectioned-off plot of land dedicated to the burial of this family. Two of the three in the center were older, more weatherbeaten, and the names Thomas and Martha Wayne reflected boldly back at me. The third one, however, was obviously new, carved from grey marble and gleaming with traitorous brightness in the light of the dying sun. Two words shouted back at the world, two words and nothing more, revealing a name that meant so much more than wealth and prosperity and frivolity. The name was Bruce Wayne, and he was an angel. Gotham's angel. Mine. And now he was gone.

To my private surprise, Fox laid a single bouquet of red flowers by his headstone, and something wrenched within me. For a moment, we stood in subdued silence around the graves, simply being near one another and remembering the man that had fallen to save our city.

After a few minutes, Gordon removed a small, worn book from the inside of his coat and, by some prior arrangement, began to read from it.

"I see a beautiful city, and a brilliant people, rising from this abyss."

The words floated over us, echoing with a deeper meaning that only five people in the world truly understood.

"I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous, and happy. I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence."

My hands were trembling again.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. It is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known."

I didn't recognize this text, but it didn't matter because I had somehow started crying softly and was desperately trying to stop before the men could see. Rococo let out a soft whine at my distress, and I placed a hand in his fur to ground myself, to remind myself that we had succeeded, that we were here and alive and whole. All because of the name that gleamed at me from the marble that jutted from the dirt. There wasn't a body beneath this soil, and that was the price of our survival. Rest well, Angel, and protect us still.

Gradually, the men moved away, respectfully leaving Alfred to his private grief. I was still crying soundlessly, unable to stop as I followed Rococo's gentle guidance from the scene. All of the weight of the past five months slammed into me in that moment, and the tears came with a vengeance for the ones we'd lost. After a moment, I felt a hand lightly touch my shoulder, and without even checking to see who it was I turned and pressed my face into the person's chest, trying to get ahold of myself. I immediately detected the unmistakable smell of coffee and woodsmoke, and realized that the arms that came around me had done it before.

I pulled back quickly, wiping my eyes, to stare into John's. "Sorry," I muttered, stepping away, but his grip tightened briefly. Not enough to alarm me, but enough to keep me where I was.

"Maestro, tell me what's wrong. This isn't just about Bruce." I suppressed a scoff. Everything in the entire universe was wrong. My angel was gone, I wasn't fit to lead the Young, and I felt... things, for the man that had haunted my dreams since I was a child.

"Is this about Crane?" he pressed, and I sighed before resting my forehead on his chest.

"Not everything is about Crane, John." This was true; only most things were about Crane.

He was quiet a moment. "Scout says he's staying with you."

I froze, closing my eyes in exasperation before pulling away from him – and succeeding this time. That explained his distance earlier.

"He is." Before he could reply, I held up a hand to stop him. "This isn't the time or place, John." Seeing that Gordon was waiting by the car, I moved in that direction, if only to escape the conversation.

"I care about you, you know," he called suddenly, "I have for a while."

I turned slowly to face him, suddenly feeling as vulnerable as a person in the crosshairs of a sniper. "Don't say things like that."

"Why not?" he asked, coming closer, and I fought the urge to take a step back. "Maestro, I know you're afraid. Just don't shut me out."

I looked directly at him, wishing it wasn't so difficult to do so. "I'm not... I can't..." I struggled to free the words from my tongue. "I need space, alright? You can't ask me to... give you some sort of answer. I mean I just can't... I have nothing to give you. At least not what you're looking for."

He shifted, his hands in his pockets, and I was blindsided once again by how attractive he was. The detective was handsome in a different way than Crane, vibrant and bold and shaped by a past he fought to overcome. My tormentor, however, was ice, gleaming and beautiful, but cold and sharp to the touch. And, unlike John, Crane had succumbed to his past.

There was a certain tragedy there, but I forced myself not to reflect on it as I awaited John's response.

"You mean you don't feel anything for me." Again, it was a statement, not a question. This was such a bizarre conversation.

"That's ridiculous and you know it," I snapped suddenly, "What I'm trying to tell you is that I have absolutely no clue what's going on right now, or how I'm going to get past any of this. Please, I'm begging you, please don't push this." My tone changed from icy to pleading in half a second, and before I could suffer further loss of dignity I turned on my heel and strode back to the car without interruption this time.

I needed to be home, writing my music, and avoiding Crane. That, at least, was semi-sane and borderline normal.

"Excuse me, Ma'am?"

I jumped at the sudden break into my thoughts and turned to see none other than Alfred standing there, his eyes red-rimmed, but his stance strong. Here, I observed, is a good man.

"Master Wayne left this for you." To my astonishment, he withdrew a large white envelope that appeared slightly bulky from inside his coat and extended it to me. The word "Maestro" was written in curvy script across the surface. Reaching out with trembling hands, I accepted the envelope and felt its weight between my fingers.

"When did he write this?" I asked breathlessly, unable to do much of anything besides stand and stare at the writing of my angel.

There was a flash of pain across the older man's face. "I found it on the piano when I returned here after..." he didn't need to say much else. It was just after. I didn't know how long the pair of them had been separated from one another, perhaps even before Bane's occupation, but that would've meant...

"He remembered me," I whispered, something like sunlight expanding in my chest.

"He talked about you often, Ma'am. He was particularly fond of your exploits that made the evening news. You made quite the impression on him."

I couldn't stop the incredulous, watery laugh that left my lips. "But I was twelve."

"He was ten."

I thought about the two gravestones beside my angel's and understood immediately.

In that second, the girl knows this happened to him once, too. Maybe it was both his parents, maybe just one, like her, but she understands in that exact moment that she is not the only one between them to have a family member die this way.

"His will is going to be read in a few days. I understand he's made some provisions for you, detailed in that letter," Alfred continued, and tears were springing to my eyes again because there was no way, absolutely no way this was happening.

"Thank you," I murmured, pressing a hand to my mouth in an effort to stifle a sob. Today's just been a roller coaster of emotions, hasn't it?

He gave me a somber smile. "Just doing my job, Miss."

But mere thanks weren't enough this time, not for this person who loved the Batman as much as I did and more. And suddenly I was speaking without knowing what was leaving my mouth.

"I'm very sorry for your loss... I'm sorry he's gone. He was... he was everything, sir, and I hope you know that I'm very, very grateful for what he did. I owe him everything," I breathed out in a rush, before quickly ducking past him, not wanting to embarrass myself further. I felt his eyes on me as I moved towards where Gordon and John were, but my face was burning so I didn't look back at him.

"...changed your mind?" the commissioner was saying, "about quitting the force?"

I looked at John sharply, but he wouldn't meet my gaze. Why hadn't he said anything?

"You know what you said about structures becoming shackles? You were right, and I can't take it, the injustice. I mean, no one's ever gonna know who saved an entire city," John replied, his jaw tightening with discontent.

Gordon and I shared a knowing smile, the first time we'd ever done so.

"They know," the commissioner replied, turning to get back into the car, and I fingered the letter in my hands before looking at John once more, triumph welling in my heart.

"It was the Batman."

~DKR~

Crane was on my couch when I got home, flipping through one of the novels from my desk. Several candles had been lit around the apartment, casting eerie, writhing shadows on the walls, and he looked like a king of demons among his subjects. I knew immediately I wouldn't be reading that letter tonight.

He glanced up when I arrived, his gaze raking over me with the biting chill of a December wind. I was struck with the urge to kiss him again. I have really got to get that under control.

"Hey," I greeted awkwardly, for lack of anything better to say as I moved to the first aid kit on the kitchen counter, needing to change the bandages on my face and side. The one on my cheek was simple, healing well and resulting in nothing other than the slightest twinge of discomfort when I smiled. It would have been best to have stitches, but it seemed to be mending itself fine despite the lack of proper treatment. The one on my side was more difficult. It appeared to be a little infected despite the copious amounts of peroxide I was putting on it, and the skin around the wound was bright red and swollen. And it hurt. I let out a hiss as I pulled the bandage away from the injury, cursing furiously.

There was a quiet shuffle behind me, and then icy fingers on my hips, bared beneath my raised shirt. I whirled around, crying out in pain when my wounded side banged the counter, and glared up at Crane.

"Will you quit that!?" I snapped, and I could swear he was amused.

"You're the one with the exceptional hearing. Listen better."

I scowled at him as he reached around me for the peroxide and roll of bandages. "What are you doing, Crane?" I was entirely not in the mood for... whatever this was.

"Jonathan," he corrected sharply, and whatever else I was going to say was lost, because what on earth was happening right now – "and as I recall, you stitched me up once before. I'm simply returning the favor."

I was speechless as he proceeded to do just that, pressing the alcohol with astounding gentleness into my wound, pausing only when I winced in pain, before bandaging the injury with the ease of someone who believed this insanity to be perfectly normal. When he was finished, he pulled the shirt back down over my waist but did not move, his gaze lingering too long to be innocent on my lips. (Not that I could ever associate anything he did with innocence. This smelled like manipulation.)

"Now that's a bad idea," I muttered, my own eyes flicking to his mouth, and he gave me a sharp smile, shadows shifting along the razor edges of his face.

"You've had worse," he replied quietly, but made no move to come closer. I caught the message easily. He had made his decision clear. I would have to make mine.

But I couldn't, not yet, because this was insane, and with a growl of frustration I pushed past him, heading back out the door. "I'm going to dismantle my traps. Don't follow me."

He didn't, instead settling himself back on my couch and picking up the novel again, perfectly content to sit and wait and watch. It was as though he knew something I didn't, and the thought was distinctly unnerving.

I didn't sleep at all that night.

~DKR~

It happened two days later.

It was early and I was still in bed, having decided that not moving for the rest of the day was an extraordinarily well-thought-out plan. Crane was tinkering with something in the kitchen – I didn't really want to know what – and Coco was busy gnawing on a huge bone I'd procured for him in the living room. It seemed oddly domestic if I thought about it, so naturally I didn't.

And then I heard the unmistakable slamming of a car door outside, echoing off the walls of the empty buildings around my apartment. Brow furrowed, I slowly sat up and crawled to the end of my cot, peering out the window and down to the street.

I knew what was about to happen the moment I saw who it was. Carefully, I climbed out of bed and padded into the kitchen, watching Crane – no, it was Jonathan now, and I would never really get used to it – slowly tipping a beaker of clear liquid into a vial. The stopper he used was black.

"They're here," I murmured softly, and he stiffened for only the barest of seconds before turning to me, his expression blank.

"Your spy, I presume?"

I nodded once. "This was bound to happen eventually, Cr – Jonathan..." I was momentarily distracted by the word leaving my lips, "you couldn't have stayed here forever."

There was no way to interpret the look he was giving me. "Indeed."

We were quiet for a moment, and Rococo lifted his head to growl at the door, no doubt hearing them moving a few floors below us. I took a fleeting second to wonder if I should have removed my traps after all, and then decided it was for the best.

Jonathan – yep, still weird – blinked once, and then turned back towards the counter, shuffling papers with a touch of urgency. Carefully, he swept up the black-capped vial and a larger tube of cloudy liquid and shut them in his notebook, before extending it to me. Evidence of his work was still scattered all around my kitchen, but this, what he held in his hands, was the most important to him.

"Keep this for me," he said in a voice that made my bones splinter, and I stared at it, the notebook that held the secrets to humanity's nightmares.

Taking it, keeping it safe for him, hiding it until he could retrieve it again... it was wrong. It was dangerous. I met his eyes, and they bored into me, cold, intense, and darkening.

With a slow nod, I accepted the notebook and took it into my bedroom, shutting it in the back of one of my desk drawers.

I could hear them on the steps to my floor, and Rococo was now barking like a lunatic. The knocking started just as I emerged from my bedroom. For a moment, I didn't answer, just stared at Jonathan, feeling a need to do... something, but I wasn't sure what. And then the moment passed and I sighed, before striding to the door and throwing it open.

"What is it about a condemned apartment complex that screams, 'I'm up here, come bother me'?" I asked, watching as Gordon and John blinked in surprise.

"Can we come in?" the commissioner asked, shifting his hands to his pockets. I gave a slow nod and stepped aside to allow them entrance.

As soon as John spotted Jonathan, his gaze hardened to flint, and a silent challenge passed between them. You can practically smell the testosterone.

"You know why we're here," John stated coolly, and the former psychiatrist raised a superior eyebrow but didn't reply.

"I thought you quit the force," I cut in, crossing my arms, but the younger of the two men didn't remove his eyes from Jonathan.

"There was one last thing I had to do first," he replied, before stepping forward to arrest my demon. Or was he, anymore? Everything was getting so confused. My hands were shaking again.

I turned to Gordon, who was taking in the scene, and my apartment, with a mildly curious expression. "You made a deal with him," I reminded, voice lowered so neither of the two men behind me could hear, "you'd do what you could for him if he helped us, that was the deal."

Gordon peered at me with an unreadable expression. "I may not be able to keep him out of prison, Maestro."

"I don't care, just as long as you hold up your end of the bargain. He's the reason you're alive. Don't forget that," I replied lowly, my gaze never leaving his. After another moment of searching my face, he nodded, and I stepped away, glad he didn't press for details.

"This will have to be submitted as evidence," John was saying, nodding towards the makeshift lab on my counter, and I shrugged.

"Take it. You'll probably want to clear out his basement as well, if you haven't already." I had a particular vendetta against it, even if hiding there once did save my life. Jonathan seemed to understand this and gave me a cocky smirk, his powerful persona not diminishing even with his hands locked behind his back.

"Anything else we should know?" Gordon asked.

"Not that I'm aware of," I replied without hesitation, and John didn't look like he bought my lie, but he knew better than to press. The doctor himself gave no outward acknowledgement of what I'd said, but there was a flicker in his eyes that might have been gratitude – if he had been capable of it.

Something was building between the three of us, me and John Blake and Jonathan Crane, swelling with every passing second. And as the former moved to lead the latter from the room, it exploded with incredible accuracy, leaving me breathless and terrified. But the answer was clear, perhaps had always been clear, and with a soft, furious curse I took two steps forward, grabbed Jonathan's tie, and slammed my mouth to his.

John Blake was warmth, and safety, and light. He represented everything good in this city, everything I fought for, everything I wanted to protect. He trusted me when he had no reason to, he bandaged my wounds when I screamed at him to leave, and he wanted me to see the good in myself when all I saw was death.

But God forgive me, because he wasn't the one I wanted.

I wanted – I needed, for reasons I will never be able to explain – Jonathan Crane. The dual-personality sociopath that thought my scream of terror was pretty. He was my choice. And, somehow, I could not bring myself to regret it.

Finally, I pulled away, and his eyes were hooded, and dark, and triumphant. "I'll wait for you," I breathed against his mouth, and he nodded once before whispering directly into my hypersensitive ears.

"See you soon, Wren."

It was an exact echo of the words he'd murmured before leaving me at the courthouse, and I shivered at the promise that lay within them. And then he was gone, leaving only the scent of fear and John's hardened glance in his wake.

~DKR~

It was quiet when John came back up the steps by himself this time, his walk deliberate, purposeful. Hurt.

"You're in love with him." His tone was factual, rather than accusatory, but it cut as deeply as though he had flung the words.

"No," I responded sharply, leaning against the counter, "it's not love." And it wasn't. This was... fixation. Desire. Ownership. A mild, unexplainable, twisted sort of affection, at the very most. Not love. Love beyond that of a mother for her child, beyond a guardian angel for his charge, was a myth. At least for people like me.

"You said you needed space. I was willing to wait." He was still just stating facts, but there was pain in his eyes. It took everything I had to be able to meet his gaze.

"You shouldn't have to. You can do better than me."

"No!" John snapped, and it was the first time he'd directed that much anger at me, and I flinched, "Choose Crane, choose any scumbag on this planet if you want but don't you dare go into this believing that you don't deserve anything better. That's a cop-out, and I think you know it."

"What I know is that I can't love you, John. That's what you need, and that's what you deserve. And the woman that gives that to you will be the luckiest woman in the whole horrible world," I replied levelly, trying to make him understand, "but it will never be me."

He was the one that flinched this time, glancing to the floor and shifting on his feet. "Did he do something to you? Did he threaten you?"

I sighed, having expected this. "At first it was a deal, sort of. But that changed, and I need you to understand that this... thing with him... it's not coerced, not really. I don't know how to describe it."

His gaze snapped from the floor to meet mine, sharp and probing and intense. It was hard to breathe under a look like that. "You said it was ridiculous to think you didn't feel anything for me."

I swallowed. "Yes."

"What do you feel?" he asked quietly, and the way he walked toward me wasn't predatory. It was gentle, and questioning, and easy, prepared to halt the moment I looked threatened. But I wasn't threatened, not by him, never by him, and he came to a stop about a foot away from me.

I searched his face, let my eyes sweep over the lines of his jaw and cheekbones, and searched myself for the answer to his question. There was safety there, and hope, and twinges of companionship. And beneath all that was a stirring, a spark of something foreign and beautiful that would never be able to grow beyond that hidden section of my spirit.

"Trust," I whispered, choosing to give him the one thing he had asked for since our whole relationship began, "I trust you, John Blake, and that's the only thing in the world I'm capable of offering. I'm only sorry it isn't more."

A soft smile touched his handsome face, like the dawn breaking after a bitter night, and he slowly leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth. It was a kiss of parting, of letting go.

"And I trust you," he murmured, pulling away and giving a quiet, sad laugh, "and I'll always be here for you. Whenever you need me. That's not ever gonna change, Maestro."

I didn't deserve to have the trust of a man like him. I never would. He turned away then, stepping towards the door with the walk of a man who didn't want to, and I called after him one last time.

"You can't wait for me, John," I said quietly, "you can't."

He looked over his shoulder at me, his smile a bit brighter as he echoed the same words I'd said to him so many times. "No promises."

And then he was gone.

~DKR~

Things moved quickly after that.

Jonathan was sentenced by a legitimate judge in the courtroom he once controlled, not to death or exile – or death by exile – but, due to Gordon's vouching and string-pulling, a five-year stay in the maximum security wing at Arkham Asylum. At the end of his sentence, his case and psyche would be reviewed, and he would either be released under the watchful eye of several psychiatrists, or his stay would be lengthened.

While I favored this decision, the rest of the city did not. Questions were asked, research was done, and witnesses were hunted down, the media relentless in discovering every detail of what had happened behind the scenes during Bane's occupation. I was informed by Gordon that my name came up more than once, and that there was now a desperate search to locate me and extract any and all information on my involvement with the war. My name was plastered across newspapers and evening news reports, a new bone for the media hounds to dig up. I was back to sneaking through alleyways again, it seemed, but I didn't mind. It was where I belonged, where I thrived.

I emerged from my solitude rarely now, most often to help Jazz and Savvy in their efforts to reform the Young. They were about thirty strong, and soon they wouldn't need my help at all.

I was in the back of the room when the memorial to the Batman was unveiled in city hall in a rush of royal blue fabric, and I stared, transfixed, at the ebony statue that gleamed with the flashes of a million cameras. He was there before me as he had been when he saved my life, hunched but unbowed, dark and somber and ever-watchful. Along the far wall, a plaque had been raised, and it listed the names of those who had died fighting for the city. I nearly wept when I saw the name Violet Graves etched onto the memorial in brilliant gold lettering. Scout was there with Gordon, and I saw her lifting her chin bravely as her loss stared her in the face.

And then Bruce Wayne's will was read, and Wayne Manor was left to the city to be converted into a children's home, and I danced around my apartment like a lunatic when I discovered that my Young were being removed from the foster system to stay there instead. My angel, it seemed, was still looking out for us.

Alfred received most of what was left of the Wayne fortune, and I was told John received something as well, but it was unclear exactly what. We hadn't spoken since the day he'd arrested Jonathan.

And all the while the letter from the Batman rested on my desk, gathering dust. For about a month, I distracted myself with helping Savvy and Jazz, composing, and watching the city rebuild from afar. But I was plagued by nightmares that prevented me from sleeping, and the slightest foreign noise sent my heart racing with terror, and finally I just needed to feel safe again; I needed to hear from my angel to calm the ghosts that clawed for my soul.

And so, standing in my kitchen on a cool Thursday afternoon, I opened the letter.

~DKR~

Maestro,

If you're reading this, then that means the city is safe, due in no small part to your efforts. For that, you have my thanks.

You probably think I don't remember you, from that night all those years ago. You were young, too young, for what you saw, and for that I'm sorry. Trust me, I know what that's like. I've kept a careful eye on you for a very long time, and a part of me regrets not helping you more than I did. Part of me wonders what you could have become if I had taken you in, if I had kept you safe from the nightmares of the world. I considered it, believe me.

But then I saw the way you led. I saw your resolve in helping others, I saw your love for this city. And I knew then that you were supposed to become something outside of what I could shape you into, outside of safe. You were supposed to be a protector.

And that means you don't owe who you are or what you became to anybody, and certainly not to me. You pulled yourself up and rose to be what you are now: a strong young woman who would do anything to keep the innocent safe. I have no right to be proud of you, but I am anyway.

You probably know by now that I've left my home open to the at-risk kids of Gotham, in the hopes that they can have a brighter future than what the state could offer them. As you are also probably aware, I have left most of the remainder of my belongings to Alfred.

However, there is one last thing I haven't taken care of, and that's why I'm leaving my penthouse to you. Legally it will belong to Alfred, but you'll find the keys enclosed in this letter. It isn't much, but it's the only way I can truly express my gratitude, as well as shelter you the way I should have a long time ago.

The coming months will be hard, but know that you aren't alone. Continue to make your beautiful music, and don't be afraid.

Keep them safe, Wren.

~BW

(P.S. You should consider a visit to Pickney Cemetery. Their cherry blossoms are beautiful in the springtime.)

~DKR~

I was sobbing by the time I finished reading the letter, making the ink run as tears dotted the page. My legs suddenly weren't strong enough to hold me as I slid to the ground against the cabinets, trembling with a million different emotions. He knew my name. He knew my name. He knew my name.

And not only that, but he'd left me his penthouse... he thought I was strong... he'd said he was proud of me... Only my mother had ever said those words, and I wept to read them now. Gingerly, I tipped the pair of keys out of the envelope and held them in my hands, watching as the light glinted off of them with the promise of something better. To my surprise, something else slid out and landed with a sharp clatter against the cracked tile beneath me.

It was another bat symbol, shatter-sharp and gleaming and entirely without blood. When he'd written this letter, there was no way he could have known how I'd lose the first one he'd given me, by burying it in the stomach of a terrorist, but I couldn't help but feel as though the gesture was one of forgiveness. I wept some more.

Rococo came trotting in, plopping down and licking my face gently, as was his habit when I was distressed. I wrestled with grief and remorse and explosive, inexplicable giddiness, and read the letter six more times while continuing to cry. I was a wreck, a disgusting, snotty wreck, but it didn't even matter because the Batman was proud of me.

After about twenty minutes of this madness, I finally managed to pull myself together and process the postscript at the bottom of the page. The words "Pickney Cemetery" jumped out at me, twisting something deep within my heart, and with a sudden determination I bounded to my feet. Rococo chuffed at me curiously, and I gave him a soft smile before kissing his massive head and striding to the door, anticipation bubbling in my stomach.

I had a cemetery to visit.

~DKR~

He was right about the cherry blossoms; they were absolutely gorgeous.

Spring was sweeping in now, with awkward starts and stops of cold and warm and cold again, but still advancing. You could taste it in the breeze, smell it in the freshly-mowed grass and see it in the rebirth of my city. Spring was coming.

Pickney Cemetery was, for the most part, an ugly affair, lined with gravel driveways and sectioned off from the rest of the world by a rusted iron gate and crumbling brick walls. The pink-and-white blossoms were the only exception to the general deteriorating state of the graveyard. But for me, it was the most sacred place in the universe, because it was where my mother was buried.

My boots and Coco's paws crunched noisily on the path as we entered, the gates held open by large rocks on either side. I'd made this walk exactly three times before: once when my mother was buried, on the same day I ran away from my social worker, again when I founded the Young, and finally when the Batman had reappeared on the news for the first time since Harvey Dent died. There wasn't a headstone by her plot for obvious reasons, just a simple metal marker, but I knew the location like I knew my music. She was buried at the foot of the last tree in the road.

For my part, I had no idea why my angel had wanted me to visit this place. Maybe he just thought I needed some time to reflect upon my old life before moving on to my new one. I chuffed out a soft laugh. Maybe he'd left a bouquet by her grave. I wouldn't put it past him.

I couldn't have been more wrong, because nothing in the world could have prepared me for what I saw at the base of that tree: a gravestone. It was carved in ornate grey marble, speckled with black here and there, and there were words on it but I couldn't make them out as I fell to my knees and great I was about to cry again –

Oh angel... The stone was beautiful and cool to the touch, the flecks of black shining in the light; it must have cost a small fortune. I reached out a trembling hand and touched it, letting out a half-laugh, half-sob. Her full name was there, and how he'd discovered that I'll never know, along with the year she was born and had died, and below that was the inscription, "Safe in the arms of the angels."

The media sometimes mockingly called the Batman "The World's Greatest Detective." I thought back to the contents of the letter he'd given me and didn't doubt it.

"Mama, are you seeing this?" It took me a moment to realize I was speaking out loud. Moved to a state that was somehow beyond tears, I could only sit and stare at the one thing I'd only ever dreamed about. Rococo sprawled next to me as I leaned back against the tree and let the wind blow across my skin.

It felt like change. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse, but it was coming just the same. And with the feeling of impending change came hope; hope that maybe, just maybe, the city could be stronger than ever before. I thought back to what Gordon had read at Bruce's funeral and smiled. Hope was dangerous because it gave you wings, but nobody ever said flying was without risk. Not everything would be perfect, but we would live on, and learn to thrive again.

Beside me, Rococo sniffed at the grass around the headstone, sneezed once, and lumbered to his feet. I gave him another smile. "You're right boy, let's get out of here."

I pressed a kiss to the cool marble of my mother's gravestone, whispered a quick prayer into it, and rose, dusting off my jeans. It was time to go; I had a new home to inspect and a life to rebuild. With a fond smile at the cherry blossoms that danced above my head, I turned on my heel and left the cemetery, humming a new tune under my breath.

I didn't look back.

A/N: And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the end. However, fear not, because, due to popular demand, I will be going through with my plans for a sequel! (If anyone's wondering when Bruce wrote that letter, btw, I'm saying it was right after he made it back into Gotham when he escaped the prison. So there.)

I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro and any OCs. The recommended song for this chapter is "Marching On" by OneRepublic.

Special thanks to my beta, Amai-chan1993, who edited this chapter during midterm week while also simultaneously fighting off a horde of killer ninjas and preventing the zombie apocalypse.

Special thanks also to: thirteen-yellow-roses, Jasmine Scarthing, hogwartsalways5928, Andromeda Athena, XxLostInTheMusicxX, IKhandoZatman, JeanieBeanie33, Eva Sirico, TwilightWorshipper14, Katerina-Evasivi, Liluri, , Guest, Miss Singing in the Rain, AssassinsCreedFAN, Deathstoke Terminator, Kagome Narome, takara410, Guest, densrl, LiveALittle2011, Emonster94, RomanticideToxicity, Onesmartcookie78, GreyRoseOfHope, and obsessivesyndrome for reviewing! Thanks to all who have kept up with the story through its ups and downs and long wait between update periods! You guys are the best and I love you all!

You all have my everlasting gratitude. Thanks for the experience, it was great to do this with you. Review and lemme know if you enjoyed it as much as I did, yeah?

Sincerely Yours,

Starcrier.