#toendwar05

A charcoal painted sky covered for miles. This native dreariness Gotham was quite accustomed to; smoldering any delicate light that urged to pierce through its veil. Half past seven, and you wouldn’t know it. Heavily the air was scented, a forewarning of the incoming downpour of icy spring showers. Unsuitable conditions to wander off, far from Wayne Manor. Tall blades of untamed grass brush against the Armani fabric at his ankles, dewing the hems. Leaves hurdle along each powerful gust of wind. His cheeks, they’re not raw --- but pink nonetheless, from the slight biting chill. Hazels glossy, stinging from the current.

Bruce ought to be inside, warm and snug beneath cashmere blankets. Stripping off the night’s repercussions, and resting. Bed rest, as Alfred had prescribed. Demanded. He never was one to consider reason, not if it interjected his stalwart will. So up he rose, despite his body’s protest. As far as Bruce had been aware, no one was the wiser. Not Alfred, nor Polly. Not even Diana.

Across the fields he pushed on; slow, mindful steps until the glade of wildflowers came into sight. Hillsides covered in them; near every color in bloom that painted the expanse beyond the mausoleum, and practically far enough to reach the main road. A slow, steady bend just to snap a bluebell from its stem. Daisy following. And enough so to form a bundle, rising only at the first feel of rain. Small droplets tapping at the ruddy skin of his neck, and another against the bridge of his nose. Thunder a faint rumble, but the sound of parting grass and the squelch of it beneath feet catching his attention. A pale face, and sunken eyes sharply behold her ---- her, Gotham’s very own Persephone. Harsh lines soften at her presence, relax over the gentle curves of her body. That look in her eyes. A concealed swallow, but a heavier sigh.