Chapter Text
Disaster will come upon you, and you will not know how to conjure it away.
(Isaiah 47:8-14)
Death arrives in the small town of Gotham by horse.
He cuts an imposing figure and the square, made hectic by market day, falls unnaturally silent. It’s as if all that can be heard are the clopping steps of his tall steed, moving slow and steady in a controlled, solemn trot that wouldn’t look out of place in a funeral procession. The animal must have been bred for war, too large and disciplined to be a mere travel companion. Its coat is as black as its rider’s cassock but not as dark as his expression. His gaze, startling bright by comparison— a remarkably vivid blue— sweeps the square. It holds no curiosity, just dispassionate evaluation.
“My presence has been requested by Magistrate Dent,” the man finally declares. He dismounts his horse and tethers it to a hitching post usually reserved for the town constable. Then from his saddle bag he draws a piece of parchment, neatly folded in four. Once unfurled, it reaches from the tips of his fingers to the summit of his broad shoulders. He flourishes the letter for the market’s appraisal, presenting them with the same cursive script that once signed every notice posted outside the Town Hall. “I am a demonologist and inquisitor of the true church, trained in the proper identification of witches. If Gotham will have me, I mean to rid this town of the sorcery corrupting it.”
He doesn’t offer his name but it hardly matters. Most already know and fear it. Bruce Wayne is, when times are good, the church’s darling— a man who exchanged his affluent legacy for religious vocation— but, when times are bleak, he becomes the church’s weapon. He might call himself an ‘inquisitor’ but the townsfolk know better. Wayne is a witch hunter, among the most famous of his kind.
One Gothamite steps forward, deeming himself worthy to represent the rest. His silver monocle glints against the sunlight. “It’s an honour, your reverence. While I’ve heard tales of your dispatch across the Christendom, never did I expect you to grace our modest town. Gotham welcomes you. The former Magistrate has done us a last good turn, as we have need of your expertise.”
Wayne briefly looks the man up and down, unimpressed. His gaze drifts past. “It was Rome’s decision that I come to Gotham, not mine. The Magistrate may have described a town where sin and sacrilege run rampant, but I find no evidence of witchcraft in that description, only human wickedness.”
“We have plenty of evidence now,” calls a woman. She has the shameless tone of a heckler, and her eyes are frighteningly dilated. “The Magistrate is near dead! Having condemned the evil works of the cunning folk, he took ill, and has since fallen into a long sleep from which he cannot wake.”
“And this was not the result of any injury, perhaps to the head?”
“Certainly not,” the woman spits. “My husband was fit for market, sick by midweek, and on the day of fasting, by all appearances, as good as dead! His whole life, he had enjoyed nothing but the best of health. Five days wouldn’t be enough to overcome my Harvey!”
Wayne has the decency to look apologetic. “Please accept my condolences, Mrs. Dent. That is indeed suspicious. Might I visit his bedside before the week’s end? Perhaps I have encountered a similar curse before.”
Mrs. Gilda Dent gives one sharp nod before retreating into the crowd.
Emboldened by her example, other Gothamites begin to shout out their own hardships. The Moore family describe their fevered cattle, which have started spitting mucus and developing strange deformities of the skin; the Belsons speak of their patriarch, who disappeared during a routine voyage that should’ve lasted a fortnight, and whose boat washed up alone on the coastline; the Hawthornes report that their youngest came upon a meeting of masked men and women in the woods, ran home to tell her parents, and fell dead the next day. Others chant the same three names, over and over again. Gordon, Thompkins, Carnes. Many more murmur their accusations to trusted friends and neighbours, too afraid to put a target on their backs by naming a witch outright.
Wayne holds up a hand and the market again falls silent. He surveys the crowd a final time and his gaze settles on a figure lurking on its perimeter, tugging at the hood of his cloak. For just a moment, their eyes meet. Both blue, both cold. The hooded man then dips his head, completely shadowing his features. Wayne turns away.
“I hear you,” he says grimly. “Please show me to my lodgings so that I might prepare myself. I will begin my investigation immediately.”
As the crowds disperse and the market resumes business, most linger in the square to exchange (in fraught whispers) whatever morsels of information they have heard about Inquisitor Wayne. Gossip spreads from the fishmonger’s cart to the fruit stall and all the way to the leather bench on the far side of the square. Wayne has brought about the deaths of two hundred witches, they say. No, two thousand. Several have died by his own hand. He carries a long boning knife on his person at all times— the sort butchers use to pry the skin from dead oxen— because he refuses to treat witches as people. Nobody takes offence at this. Witches have surrendered their humanity to the devil, so of course they deserve it.
Only a handful of the townsfolk pay any attention to Dick Grayson, the primary message runner for the constable, watchmen, and magistrate, as he disappears down a narrow side street. Some watch with suspicion, others with sympathy. Dick is well-loved by the community, for the most part. Handsome, intelligent and toothrottingly charming, he was once considered something of a catch. However, when his guardian’s reputation was soiled, his declined along with hers. These days he’s seen as either Leslie’s victim or accomplice. Ridiculous, Leslie had grumbled upon hearing the rumours. Dick was a terror to raise. If anything, I’m your victim.
Which was funny until it wasn’t.
The Thompkins residence can be found on the outskirts of town, a relatively large plot with three buildings on it— a shed for livestock, a home for George Thompkins and his wife, Lucille, and a smaller cottage for their unmarried daughter, Leslie. Dick had lived there fifteen years, ever since the death of his parents. Nobody but Leslie, a spinster known to sell herbal remedies from her cottage, was willing to take him in. She raised him progressively, with an uncommon respect for those considered inferior, and put multiple rather dangerous ideas in his head. If Dick were to say any of Leslie’s strongest convictions out loud, both of them would be jailed for it.
Usually he avoids returning from market too early, as there’s the possibility that Leslie has a female patient in some compromising position, but today it’s the very reason he must hurry. Opening the womb for the purpose of ending childbirth is strictly forbidden and tantamount to murder. Although the technique Leslie uses is natural, relying on no supernatural forces, it’s the sort of proof her detractors are looking for. They’ll have her dead by the week’s end for infanticide and witchcraft. Perhaps sooner, with Wayne lurking about town.
As soon as he’s passed the main district, he breaks into a sprint, hurtling down the most isolated backstreets of old Gotham (often dubbed the 'Crime Alleys’). Nobody bothers him in the light of day. He stumbles into the grassy fields of the outer town, gaze locking on Leslie’s thatch-roofed cottage in the distance, and spins around to see if he’s being followed. He’s not. Still frantic, he scans the fields for any unwanted visitors, and lets out a brief huff of relief when he realises there’s nobody around at all.
They still have time. Leslie’s in no immediate danger.
Dick runs anyway.
He uses the Isley family’s pasture as a shortcut, trampling flowers and praying that their daughter, Pamela, won’t have his head for it. Loose cattle watch him bemusedly, mooing as if to ask what’s wrong. They’re fond of Dick, who has been sneaking onto the Isley’s land for the past decade to feed and pet them.
Dick throws the bemused cows a wave. “Sorry girls! I’ll be back to see you soon, hopefully!”
He vaults over the fence. That he stumbles on the way down is evidence of his nerves, as Dick never stumbles. Sheep scatter around him and Haley, the herding dog, barks her disapproval. He calls out an apology as he passes the flock and Haley barks again, torn between following him and guarding the sheep. She can sense his panic. Clever girl.
Leslie opens the door just as he reaches the cottage, sticking out her head to check on the animals. “That damn dog,” she begins, looking exasperated, but then she notices the sheen of sweat on Dick’s forehead and the alarm in his expression. “Get inside. Quickly.”
Dick ducks past her, almost collapsing in his favourite wicker chair. Leslie bolts the door and shutters the windows.
“It’s Wayne,” he breathes into the darkness. A small flame flickers to life beside him as Leslie lights the wall sconce. “He was called to town by the old magistrate— he intends to start a witch hunt.”
Leslie sets the tinderbox down on the table with a loud clack. “Is that so?”
She’s painfully calm. Dick wonders if it’s for his benefit. They both know that if Wayne heeds the rumours around her medical practice, Leslie is marked for death.
“Yes, it’s so,” Dick snaps, frustrated. He of all people knows how dangerous a witch hunt can be. Leslie’s apathy chafes. Don’t do this to me, he wants to scream. You can’t die as well. You’re not allowed to. “He arrived like a horseman of the apocalypse, riding a black steed and brandishing a boning knife!”
Leslie only looks amused. “Does he mean to eat his witches?”
Dick’s lips twitch but he maintains his scowl. “Leslie. Please. Your name has already reached his ears.”
His guardian finally sighs, sinking into a seat across from him. “Yes, I suppose it was inevitable. Do they still believe I dance naked in the woods every thirteenth night? That I cook you, my hapless victim, children's flesh disguised as mutton?”
Leslie stopped attending market three years ago. Rumours that she made a contract with the devil have existed as long as Dick’s known her but they grew legs after the death of Jason Woodrue, a fellow herbalist considered her rival in the field. The idea that Leslie would’ve killed Woodrue for such a trivial reason is insulting. She’s not competitive— her treatments are purposefully limited to female patients for nominal prices. It’s not fair that her generosity has been repaid with suspicion, but it is to be expected.
As a spinster with more interest in natural remedies and scholastics than marriage, she’s seen as a disgrace to her sex. Her progressive opinions, half the time, come across as heretical. She makes potions in her cottage and is said to offer abortifacients to expecting mothers.
She’s the perfect candidate for a witch trial because most of the allegations made against her are true. The baby-eating, less so, but the baby-killing? In the eyes of the law, Leslie is guilty of murder.
“Does it matter?” Dick asks. There’s a dull ache in his chest. He doesn’t know how to fix this, doesn’t know if it can be fixed. It feels like the world is slowly collapsing around him. “There’s proof enough, at least by their standards.”
“You’re not wrong, of course. They may bend the truth but it remains the truth. Perhaps I really am a witch— just not one who stands with the devil.”
“Never say that to any but me,” Dick groans. “You know better than to indulge their fantasies. Everything you tell them could be seen as a confession. Your humour will damn you.”
Leslie smiles. But tiredly, as if burdened. He can tell how much energy the gesture takes and feels utterly helpless. “I’m sorry, Dick. I’ll take care not to offend them. Father will attest to my good character, as will the constable and some of the more affluent families I trade with. I have friends in high places, remember? We’ll be alright.”
It would be so easy to believe her. To take her words as the unimpeachable truth, as a child would. But Dick won’t be fooled by empty reassurances again. He’s well aware of how difficult it is to escape a bad faith accusation.
As if to distract him, sudden enmity kindles in his chest. It replaces the fear, calming him somewhat, and fills his head with thoughts of resentment instead.
"The bastard," he swears.
"The bastard," Leslie repeats, like a toast. She probably isn't even sure which one he's referring to. There are a lot of bastards in Gotham besides the newly arrived Bruce Wayne.
In fairness, it's not Wayne’s fault the townsfolk cling to old-world superstitions; nor is he the one who pointed the finger at Leslie in the first place. But religion is a weapon and, at the church’s behest, it takes the form of one man in particular.
Wayne is the witch hunter, representative of all others. Even if he hasn’t killed thousands, he’s killed enough to build a reputation for being merciless, which itself is far too many. Dick doesn’t even believe in witches. At least not ones with magical powers. A drowned witch is just a drowned woman to him. A hanged man, the same.
It doesn’t matter that Wayne is more instrument than man— Dick hates him as he would any murderer.
“We can leave,” he suggests, even if Gotham is the only home he’s known since the death of his parents. Even if it’s where their graves lie. “Start over in Blüdhaven, if we have to.”
Leslie softens. She knows how much Gotham means to him, for better or for worse. Dick tries not to feel patronised when she stands, ruffles his hair, then drifts away to explore her many shelves of medicinal herbs. “It won’t come to that, Dick. This is our home. I’ll try to reduce the number of patients I take, maybe stop trading for the time being. We can hide anything that might cause scandal under the floorboards of the outhouse. Everything is going to be fine. After all, I’ve been through this song and dance before.”
Dick wonders if she's feigning optimism for his sake. It's not working. He feels less at ease now than he did locking eyes with Wayne in the town square.
He draws his knees to his chest, curling in on himself. “Right.”
Leslie means well. She understands that Dick is scared and wants to protect him from that fear, the way she would when he was a child, but she can’t begin to comprehend how much danger she’s in now. Maybe she’s grown complacent after surviving the last witch hunt, fifteen years ago. Maybe she genuinely believes that the relative wealth of her family and her connections will save her a second time. But being a recluse with little to no interest in public discourse, Leslie has never witnessed the riots, the whisper campaigns, the stupid pamphlets handed out during market. She doesn’t know how afraid and angry the town has become. How desperate they are to find someone to pin it on.
Instinctively, Dick can tell that a storm is brewing. And that he and Leslie are right in its path.
“Here,” Leslie says. She’s boxed the majority of her herbs and gestures for Dick to stand and take them. The jars rattle when he does. “Remember— it’s the lefthand corner, under the loose floorboards. Rearrange the hay so that nothing sticks out.”
She takes a quick peek through the shutters before nodding encouragingly. Dick leaves for the outhouse without another word, box clanking as he goes.
Once the herbs are sealed away, Dick doesn’t return to the cottage. Instead, he wanders toward the patch of shade where Haley and her sheep have gathered. Haley, being a mediocre herder, is dozing in the grass while the flock grazes. Dick settles beside her, burying a hand in her smooth coat.
“You believe me, don’t you girl?” he murmurs. Her nose twitches and she squirms closer, burrowing into Dick’s side. He pats her head. “You sense it too— that thing that’s followed him into town. The third horseman brings famine, they say, one that starves the poor and gluts the rich. Leslie doesn't consider herself weak but, in this matter, and in this matter only, she is. And I am weaker still.”
Haley lets out a low whine. It’s not in response to Dick but to some sound in the distance, causing her to spring to her feet and assume the most threatening stance she can as a small dog, all curled-lipped and hunched. Her ears flatten against her head, hackles rising. She stares over Dick’s shoulder, somewhere past the boundaries of the Isley property.
Dick turns slowly. He knows the sight that awaits him before he sees or hears it. A man approaching by horse, just an inky black outline on the horizon. So small and far-off he could be mistaken for a raven. Or a prowling wolf, to have frightened Haley like this.
“Ssh,” Dick tells the dog, stroking her soft head. Another anxious noise tears from the back of her throat; part snarl, part whimper. “Be good. You don’t want Wayne to think you’re our familiar, now do you?”
Haley butts him with said soft head. It doesn’t feel so soft while knocking him in the ribs. Dick changes tact, offering gentle, soothing rubs down her neck and back. She relaxes into the touch.
“It’s okay,” he says, for both of their sakes. His smile hardly wavers as he watches the horseman's silhouette draw closer. “We’re going to be okay, I promise.”
The lie has been said to Dick so often that he recites it like a prayer. With hope, foolish hope, and never honest belief.