#etrigan

Gotham City, New Jersey, USA. Monday, June 1st, 1970. 5:00 am. The room lay in darkness, broken only by the faint glow of the city beyond the glass. A window stood partially open, letting in what little fresh air Gotham could offer through the smog. A temperature hovered nearly 50 degrees, ideal for sleep. I have never favored the heat. And this city never truly cools. Very few do. Cold can be endured. Managed. The heat lingers. Clings. The ocean, not far from the city, ensures a steady presence of clouds and rain. The ocean is not far. I can smell it beneath the rot of smoke. It brings the clouds. The rain. Winter is harsher for it. But layers can be added. There is only so much one can move.

I had been asleep. Naturally, I woke before I should have. At first, I took it for rain, the scent of an approaching storm. Familiar. It was not. Never that simple. I remained still, eyes closed, not yet ready to open them. And then I heard it. The front door. Opening. Quiet, not quite enough. An attempt at subtlety. No success. I rose without haste. One glance at the clock. 5:05 am.

His voice came next. Low. Distorted. Whether genuine, or a mockery of one, I could not say. It spoke from within: “Doth some trespass stir thee awake? Shall I rise for slaughter’s sake?” His accent matched my own. As it once was. Older. Unrefined. A relic I have long since corrected to suit the modern tongue. He refuses to.

I forced him down. Swallowed the presence before it could surface further. He has worn me like a puppet before. I will not allow it again. Then- footsteps. Soft but careless. An attempt at quiet lacking discipline. They moved through the apartment at an uneven pace. Pausing. Listening. Just beyond my door. A brief stillness- then movement again. Retreating down the hall.

I know those steps. My body slackened- no less tense for now. The ache remained, buried deep in the bone. Of course. The warning I was given was right. She does roam where she should not. At hours she should not. With a quiet sigh, I rose. A new role in my life. One I am now required to play. I would rather have slept. Dealt with it in the morning. I rose anyway. She might be hurt. Or frightened. Something is wrong. Heavy in the chest. And I don’t ignore such instincts.

Old habit I know but one I’m willing to spend extra money on. Leaving some lights on throughout my penthouse in all hours of the day. The hall, and the odd desk lamps throughout the place that is. It’s better to have them on than to not for more reasons that I need to explain. Due to the hall’s light, my pale skin looks yellow in the warm coloring. The warm light sharpened the angles of my face, jaw, cheekbones, all cast in restless shadows. Readjusting my unbuttoned slacks, keeping them on my hips and from my bare feet from stepping on the bottom of them. The dress shirt I wore the day before loose over my pant’s waistband, opened around the collar, and the wrists opened to make it easier for me to sleep in. To breathe, a better choice of word. I sleep prepared. I felt the markings forming under my eyes. I barely sleep as it is. You can be certain I’m not happy about this.

My apartment has wooden shelves and cabinets filled with so many things. All unique, dangerous, worth more than this world knows. Once a month and every holiday I rewrite the wards, cleanse every inch of my home and the belongings in it to ensure safety. Many have called it a museum which to me is the closest thing to a home.

Salt is a creation that only the gods could grant. Most creatures for one reason or another avoid it. The smell, the touch, the act of having to count every grain causing the same creatures to stay on a side unable to cross. Salt deters most things. Lines at doors and windows are sufficient. My current one by the front door as I took a peek, still...intact. Meaning my escape artist knows better than to disturb it. I educated her on the protection it bears. But a part of me wonders if she simply knows it would reveal her defiance.

I nearly missed it. Not until I approached the stairs. The light catching what shouldn’t have been there. Wet, bare footsteps from the front door...to my bedroom door...then the stairs. So, she had gone out.

I did not bother to soften my steps. If she had any sense left, she would hear me coming. She knows better. That she chose otherwise is…concerning. Her mistake isn’t waking me, it’s ignoring my rules for her own safety. She has to know I’m after her. I made deliberate steps to make my presence known. The stair railings helped me from my slight tired state. I may be awake enough to fight, as a good soldier I’ve always been trained to do. But knowing it was just her made my body act as if I could easily go back to sleep. My British accent proper, my tone firm and loud enough for her to hear clear as day, voice still rough with sleep as I called out her name “Shirley!” just as my foot reached the top step. Now in the small hallway that holds the second story together. The right, the extra full bathroom that’s become hers. Left open. I’m hoping she put the damp clothes in the bathtub instead of the hamper to prevent mold. Two closets stood ahead. To the left, the door to my library, currently hers. No clue how long she’ll be with me. Which is why I haven’t tried to settle her in yet.

I rubbed at my eyes as the dim hall light revealed the room beyond. The air smelling like the baking soda and lemon mixture that I use to clean the carpet, my doing. Cleaned. Controlled. As it should be. I held the doorknob. I did not twist the knob right away. I didn’t open with force. I did it enough that she knew I was there, displeased. The lights were off. With the hall light briefly shining in. My body in the way to see it all. The curtain to a small balcony door was drawn open. A bit of comfort for her throughout the night with the street light down below. I leaned on the doorway, my arms crossing my chest. Fatigue lingered, but I kept it in check. The demon in my mind lightly chuckles for a second “The maiden tests limits she does not understand. She should be corrected.” I had to tighten my eyes harder than normal. I felt the bite of the beast that time. He said it with no argument. She broke a rule in his eyes.

I exhaled slowly through my nose, a quiet answer to him. “That would be premature.” I murmured, my true accent breaking through, the demon knows it better than anyone else. No point in hiding it from him. “Tis her first offense.” which was true. Her actions did not yet warrant consequences. At least right away. Depending on her defense or if she does it again though. Then…punishment. It’s not my current concern.

“On.”

The word left me low and certain as I tapped the wall. An action I do so often I barely think when it’s done. Beyond my reach, the switch answered. The penthouse, stubborn in its age, still relied on such things. The dim light bled into the room, thin, uneasy, but sufficient. Enough to see her.

She sat on her makeshift bed. Made up of the cushions of the two loveseats she’s sandwiched between with sheets and a thick blanket and pillow. All extras of my own bedding I’ve given to her for the time. They’re designed for an adult man. Not what a child would pick. The coffee table moved to the balcony door for her to sleep in the current spot. A 6 year old girl, smaller than she should be. A darker skin complexion to my own. Her face is narrower than most children her age, though still soft with youth. Too slight for her age. Cat shaped eyes with light blue eyes like mine. Her hair, once auburn like my own, now sits uneven, shortened by her own hand. Bleached blonde, though the truth of it returns at the roots. Self-inflicted. Before me. Another detail to account for.

My concern though, one I still haven’t gotten an answer for. The only relief is she’s not hiding it from me anymore. The scars on her neck. I can’t react despite wanting to. My instinct to hunt stirs. To find who did this, and end it. Find out the truth behind her wounds and seek justice in her name. It’s part of my being that will never die. But that’s not what she needs right now, this early on. But this is a topic I will not let go.

Her hair is slightly damp. A different shirt. So not only did she go out. She tried to erase it. I moved from the door frame and glanced around to see if the damp clothes were in the room. I didn’t see them. Although it didn’t change the tension of the moment.

My voice was level, firm, but not raised “Shirley?” looking down at her with my arms still crossed “You know better.” a beat to let it sink in “Do not lie to me. Explain.”

She did not meet me with defiance. Only disappointment. Her accent, American, that hadn’t developed yet due to her age. “I thought something bad happened.” She said. Eyes lowered.

I gave a small nod and uncrossed my arms. That...changed things. Before stepping closer and sitting on the edge of the loveseat closest to the door. Uncomfortable but sufficient for now “That’s the middle of it.” a brief pause “Begin from the start.” I motioned once with my two fingers, subtle, deliberate.

She nodded. As though committing the instruction into memory “Right.” drawing out the “t” sound. Her way of trying to sound more proper than she needed. A quirk I don’t see in correcting. It predates my involvement. Meaning someone educated it to her. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. She pointed to the pillow right beside her “I was sleeping.”

“I see.” A sad fact I learned earlier that week. If you don’t respond. She will repeat until you do. Only way for her to know you heard her.

“And I woke.” she fidgeted her fingers over her chest. She continued quickly before I could question her “And I tried to sleep. I wanted to sleep. I swear.”

I fought the urge to laugh. Swallowing the amusement of her attempt. The effort of suppressing it was…unpleasant “Really?” The word left me softer than intended, edged with mild disbelief.

“Yes.” she hissed it out “I really did.” she met my tone without hesitation, matching it, in her own way “But then the police music started screaming.”

A pause ”...You mean sirens?” My brows furrowed slightly. I heard none. And I would have.

She then continued with “So I went down to see.”

There it is. Her mistake. I murmured to myself more than her “You remind me of someone…” Stopping myself from trailing off. My lips twitched with a smirk for a second. The demon under my skin seemed to enjoy the act in a weird way. More than certain she saw my reaction “You are 6 years old.” I begin evenly “It’s five in the morning.” a pause “And instead of waking the nearest adult...” My gaze held hers ”…you chose to leave this building alone.” Another beat of silence “To investigate something that does not concern you.” I let that settle before continuing “Shirley.” Softer now, but no less firm. “You agreed to my terms.” another beat “While you are under my roof, under my protection, you will prioritize your safety.” A slight tilt of my head “Curiosity comes second.”

“I know.” she says to defend herself.

I leaned back. Bracing myself with an arm against the loveseat “And yet,” I replied evenly “you chose to leave this building.” a brief pause “At this hour.” another beat “In the rain.” My gaze remained fixed on hers “That would be unwise anywhere.” Another beat “In Gotham…” a faint exhale through my nose ”…that’s how children disappear.”

She looked a little embarrassed. “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“Needed?” my pale blue eyed gaze fixed on her, unblinking “No.” I said evenly “You did not.” a brief pause “But if I am to be woken in order to investigate…” I leaned forward slightly ”…then I will be woken before you leave. Not after.” My tone sharpened, just enough. “You will not go alone.”

This is not new. I was warned of her…tendencies. Curiosity, poorly timed and poorly directed. I understand it. More than most. She perceives the world differently. As I do. That does not make her capable of surviving it. Not yet.

There is a difference between awareness and readiness. She has only one of the two. And despite everything, she is still a child. One who struggles with something as simple as untangling her own hair. Then again…I recall a similar lecture, given to me centuries ago, before life took hold of what I was meant to be.

“I just…” she faltered, unable to give shape to it. That made me pause. The feeling in my chest had not faded. In fact…it sharpened it.

The last bit of playfulness left my expression “Do you feel it as well?” Her light blue eyes looked into mine “Describe it.” a beat “And don’t agree with me. Don’t guess.” My voice lowered, focused now. “Tell me exactly what you feel.”

“Thick.” she says with a strong click for the k. “Hard to breathe. Like when wind pushes on my face.” she points to her chest “But…here.”

I gave a small, deliberate nod. “Yes.” I said evenly “I feel it as well.” My gaze drifted briefly, not in distraction, but in consideration. Not so much the question but how to ask it to her in the current use of the English tongue. I returned my attention to her, brows drawn slightly “Tell me,” my tone quieter. A pause “Do you know why?” another beat “Anything at all, however small. Something you did not know before?”

She attempted to mirror my expression as she thought. The result was…not entirely successful. Though I admit, it was difficult not to find it faintly endearing. Either she’ll say she did not know or offer something of value. Then again she’s still young. It’s possible my question exceeded her understanding. Instead “Where’s the swamp?”

A pause. A heartbeat or two from me ”...What?” I asked. My brain stalled. Evident in my face. Not by complexity, but from irrelevance. What could that possibly…? “The closest would be Bester Woods,” I said after a moment, slower now. “Just beyond Bristol, to the north.” I gestures past her to the direction. She followed by looking that way over her right shoulder. She turned immediately, too quickly to be considered a thought.

I live in Gotham City. A place many would condemn, and just as many would defend, often in the same breath. Across the waters lies Metropolis. Further up still, New York City. Three cities bound by design. The same architects shaped them, though their hands never touched the work directly. Their vision alone was enough. Art Deco, as the modern world calls it. A shared skeleton beneath three very different bodies. I’ve been to all three. Not as a visitor. As a resident. They are often described with Cinderella. I find that inaccurate. They are closer to the Fates then to Princesses. Metropolis: The Maiden. Endless beginnings. Bright. Certain for the future. New York: The Mother. Balanced. Measured. Ever in motion, yet rarely uncertain. And Gotham…the Crone. Weathered. Unyielding. Perpetually at war with itself. It endures what the others refuse to acknowledge. And in that suffering…there is wisdom. A truth that neither of it’s sisters are willing to hear. I considered New York once. But that city belongs to fables. And I have lived through enough of those. Given my age. Gotham was the only place that made sense.

Despite its reputation, Gotham is vast. Three primary islands. Two smaller ones. All bound together, and to the mainline, by a network of bridges that seem perpetually in need of repair. Beyond the city proper, its reach extends further than most realize. Woodlands. Dense. Encroaching. Bester Woods. And within it, a swamp as Shirley named it. A stretch of land contested more often than claimed. Gotham and Bludhaven trade it back and forth with little ceremony, as though neither truly wishes to keep it. An understandable position. Bludhaven itself lies not far beyond. Worse in many respects. A distinction it seems determined to maintain.

Shirley looked back at me, relief evident in her expression. She knows something. Of that, I am certain of. The difficulty lies elsewhere. Her curiosity mirrors my own. The distinction is in the method. She moves without hesitation, headlong into the unknown. I observe. I gather. I understand before I act.

I never was a parent. I planned. Hoped. Even came close. I should correct myself. A guardian, then. A more accurate term. I have known her for a week. And still, I know very little. A part of me considered pressing her. Asking until there’s nothing unanswered. But that would serve me more than it would serve her. My telepathy offers little assistance. Surface impressions. Distinction between truth and falsehood. Enough to confirm what I already suspect. She knows more than she’s said. Not out of deception. She simply has not thought about saying it. Her mind wanders. Unfocused. Elsewhere. Another trait we share.

Then her body without her control, made her yawn. Quiet, soundless but impossible to ignore. A reminder. For both of us. The hour had not changed simply because our attention had. The rational part of me stirred, late, but not absent. This could wait. It should wait. The demon’s voice followed soon after, low and amused within my mind “At last, a spark to stir my sight, yet thou would chase it through the night.” a dramatic flare “The child is frail, as mortals be, Not forged from what thou art to see.” Then he spoke low, as if doing me a favor “Let morning come-let shadows keep, their secrets buried while she sleeps.”

A low growl settled in my throat, quiet, contained. Not for the child. For the demon that stirred within my mind. “Frail” Is not the word I permit being directed to Shirley. Not spoken. Not implied. The reaction alone was enough. The demon was pleased. They always are. Negativity feeds them. It sharpens their presence. Gives them purchase. It once unsettled me, being called empty. Emotionless. Detached. And an incorrect one. My stoic exterior...is my mask. The part I play. The darkness that shares my soul loves everything overexerted. To indulge it, to react fully, without measure, is to give it leverage. And I feel everything. Too much. Before my curse, I did not temper it. I laughed without restraint. Grieved without limit. Loved without caution. I carried it all with me. Every loss. Every attachment. Proof that it mattered. The same heart still remains. And it is the reason I am here. Worse still, it is what once allowed the demon to run unchecked. I would be a fool to believe he desires anything less than my ruin. So I don’t indulge…at least I try.

Her head was a slight tilt. Tired but clearly trying to figure me out. She heard the growl. But saw it wasn’t for her. I had not told her about the demon. She’ll never need to. No summoning. No communicating. That’s a promise.

I allowed my expression to soften, just slightly. Enough to show the exhaustion that had settled in. “The sandman must be growing impatient.” I murmured “To visit us twice in a single night.” I placed a light hand against her shoulder before rising to my feet. My legs protested the movement. The seat had not been kind. She rubbed at her eyes and gave a small, agreeing nod before shifting down onto the cushions. Settling. A few steps around the loveseat and I moved towards the door. My hand rested on the knob as I paused, glancing back at her. She was watching me. Head against the pillow. Eyes heavy, but not yet closed. Another habit. One I have come to recognize quickly. The first nights, she would rise after I left, checking the door. Ensuring it remained unlocked. I understand the instinct. Even if I do not agree with the methods that created it. Now she no longer checks. Not directly. But she does not sleep until I am gone. Trust, in its early stages. Measured. Conditional. I cannot yet tell when she truly rests. And tonight…is not the night to test it.