“Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of Joy.”
-Byron “The Dream” (1816)

Washing the sky in soft orange, red, and a light pink, the sun would soon dip below the horizon. Bruce could smell the scent of leave piles burning in the crisp Autumn air. The Fall carried with it a unique scent, and he could detect it so much better out in the small rural town than in Gotham’s often polluted streets. Bruce let his gaze drift, unfamiliar with his surroundings. To his left, trees painted in the warm colors of the rainbow lined a narrow creek, its waters running high from the late summer storms.

Leaves crunched beneath Bruce’s feet as he followed the little creek to a small park. A young woman sat upon a swing. She glided gently back and forth, her feet dragging on the ground and drawing patterns in the loose dirt. Her dark hair reached down midway to her back, and as Bruce sat down on a swing next to the young woman, he could see her eyes matched the color of the sky. The two were caught in a light breeze, and she pulled her jacket more tightly around her to fight the chill.

Without glancing up at him, she spoke. “It’s getting colder out. You should have brought a sweatshirt.” Bruce looked down to see he only wore a pair of black pants and a black shirt. The young woman tossed him a black sweatshirt and continued, “I always had to remind my son to bring his sweatshirt. We used to come to this park every time we visited this area. He would get so excited and run out of the car.” She looked at Bruce. “I would always have to remind him. I didn’t want him to catch his death of a cold.”

Bruce did not understand why he was here, sitting on a swing and talking to some lady in the middle of nowhere, but something in the woman’s gaze compelled him to stay and listen to every word. A small, wistful smile played on her lips. “His father would help him make a huge mound of leaves, and then he’d get on that swing,” she said, gesturing to another swing set on the other side of the park. “He'd swing as hard as he could, until the swing went as high as it could go. And then he would let go and just ‘fly’ into that pile.”

The young woman laughed at the memory, “I was always so scared he would break his neck, but he loved to do it. And he was always okay.” She nodded. “It was on a perfect day such as that... when he lifted his head out of the pile, covered head to toe in brown and red leaves.... that I first called him my little Robin.” She stared intently at Bruce. “Richard loved to fly... off of that swing, on the trapeze, and on the tops of buildings...”

“Mary,” Bruce whispered in sudden realization and shock.

Mary smiled and for a moment Bruce could see Dick in that warm gaze. “Yes, Bruce. I came here, because... I wanted to tell you thank you.”

“Thank you?” he asked, more than a little surprised. “For what?”

The mother reached over and grasped Bruce’s hand in her own before responding, “I may have brought Richard into this world, but you gave him something to believe in. You taught my little Robin to fly--really fly. And so I thank you.”

She smiled once again and raised a hand in the air, facing up. Bruce watched as tiny flakes of snow fell lightly into her palm. Soon they began to blanket the ground and washed out the park in a world of white.

Mary spoke, “It’s cold out...” The snow fell even heavier and began to blur her face from sight. The voice morphed into the deep baritone of a man. “... why in the world are you out there stumbling in the dark in the middle of a winter night? Come on inside.”

Bruce blinked and accepted the man’s offer. Even in his confusion, he took a moment to look intently at the man in front of him. He appeared young, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties. The man had a kind, honest face and asked, “And just what are you doing out in the middle of a snow storm with just a sweatshirt?"

Bruce stuttered, “I... I guess I left my coat at home...”

The man shook his head and smiled, “Come sit by the fire and warm up a bit, Bruce. I’m sure you’re freezing.”

He followed the man to sit beside the warm fireplace, but asked, “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

The man did not seem to hear Bruce, or if he did, he simply ignored the other man. He quickly disappeared into another room.

Taking a moment to understand his surroundings, Bruce noted that he sat in a winter cabin--the kind one would go to for their vacation. It was plainly decorated, but carried with it a distinct feeling of a loving home. He stared intently at the flames licking at the fireplace and turned just in time to the see the stranger return with two mugs filled to the brim with a dark liquid, steaming rising high into the air.

“Here you go,” he said warmly. “That’s a little hot chocolate for ya. I used to give this to Dick when he came in from the snow half frozen.”

Bruce’s eyes widened in realization and nearly dropped his mug. //Why didn’t I see that before? Some great detective I am.//

John merely smiled at Bruce. “He would make angels in the snow and drag a trail of puddles half way inside. Mary would get upset and then take one look at him all bundled up and couldn’t stay even the slightest bit annoyed. But she tried.” The man smiled and took another sip of his hot chocolate. “She’d say to me, ‘John, I wish you’d teach your son to wipe his feet before he comes in.’ Then she would smile and say to me, ‘But then again you never do either.’”

He put his mug down and rose from his seat. “There were a lot of things I never got to teach my son. I never had the chance. He needed a father... someone to look up to... and I couldn’t be there. Sure I watched over him, but I could never be there *with* him. I’m glad you were... when I couldn’t be. You protected--”

“No I didn’t!” Bruce shot up from his seat, his own mug forgotten on the coffee table. “How can you say I protected him?”

John looked Bruce intently in the eye. “You taught Dick to make his own choices. He became what he wanted to become. You protected him when you brought him to live with you. You protected him when you taught him how to take care of himself.” Bruce looked away, but then John spoke in a tone that commanded attention. “Yes, Dick died. But there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. Nothing.”

Bruce returned his gaze to the man before him. “I could have stopped him from being out there couldn’t I?”

John’s tone softened, “You tried that, didn’t you? Dick became Nightwing anyway. He grew up to make his own choices. Death is a part of life. There was nothing you could have done that you didn’t.” Placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder, he continued. “You were able to teach him about life--both the good and the bad. You taught him to deal with the loss of his family and past way of life. You taught him... what I could not. Thank you for being a father to him.”

“Aren’t you a little warm in that sweatshirt, Bruce?” Bruce jumped and whirled to see his son standing there.

“Dick! Oh my God!”

“Yes!” Dick grinned and walked up to Bruce. “I always wanted to do that,” he said with a familiar twinkle in his eyes. Bruce could only shake his head in wonder. Dick continued. “Anyway,” he said walking up to the other man and sizing him up. “... It’s the end of spring! Almost summer!” He gave Bruce a grin. “I mean, I know you can take pretty much of anything, but I’d still be sweltering in that.”

“Dick?” he asked just getting over his speechlessness. “What is this? What time is it?” He looked around. They stood on a dark beach. Staring out at the ocean, he could not see much beyond the waves crashing against the shore near his feet. Clouds blotted out the stars, there weren’t any boat lights out on the water, and all he could see was a vast nothingness. He could not even tell where the ocean met the sky.

Dick replied, “Oh... a little before daybreak..... And what’s with the totally black outfit? It’s not the Bats costume, so you really have no excuse.” Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but Dick cut him off, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards, “much better.” The older man looked down to see a pair of tan pants and a light shirt. He looked at Dick. His boy seemed so much different than the broken boy he had taken out of the Batmobile. He seemed... happy. And again Bruce filled with sorrow. //But he shouldn’t be here yet.//

“Don’t,” Dick spoke softly.

“It’s all my fault, son. I should have come to save you.”

“You had to make a choice. I understand.”

Bruce shook his head. “I made the wrong one.”

“You know in your mind that’s not true. Now you just have to get this to agree,” Dick said walking up and placing a light hand over Bruce’s heart. “You had many lives in danger that night... mine and the lives of those children on the bus. You could only save one. Them or me.” Dick smiled with more than a little irony. “The timing just really sucked.” Then seriously, “You made the right choice.”

Bruce did not respond. He merely chose to stare back out at the ocean and shake his head. His eyes squinted, thinking he could see light out on the horizon, but very faint...

Dick continued, “Think of all those grateful parents. They all have their children back... saved from the clutches of a madman.”

The older man whirled around to face his son again. “And what about me? When do I get my child back?”

“You will one day.” Dick nodded. Bruce stood for a moment. He could see that the light on the horizon was growing and chasing back back the darkness. //I don’t have much time.//

“Please,” he asked. “I need to know one thing before I have to go... Do you forgive me?”

His son smiled with tears in his eyes and placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “There’s nothing to forgive. I feel very lucky. I have two fathers who love me very much, and I’m thankful for that. I love you, Dad.”

Bruce grasped his son in a tight hug. Tears streamed down both faces. “I love you too, son. I love you too.”

“Here,” Dick said, reluctantly breaking away. Bruce looked down at the red rose petals now pressed in his hand as his son spoke. “Can you give these to Barbara? Tell her I love her... I always will and that I wanted her to have them. Look out for her Bruce... until I can again.” Bruce nodded, unable to speak. “And Bruce?... Tell her she’s not alone... never alone.”

The light touched the beach.

“I will, son. I promise.”

Bruce jerked away on his bed and squinted his eyes at the warm sunlight pouring into the room. The words, I promise, on his lips. He looked to the window to see Dawn had come to wake Gotham’s sleeping inhabitants. //Was it a dream?// Feeling something soft against his fingers, Bruce looked down to see the scarlet rose petals in his hand. “I promise you, Richard.” A cloud passed away from the sun and more light filtered across the picture of Dick on the nightstand... almost as though he smiled.

“Sadness flies on the wings of the morning
and out of the heart of darkness comes the light.”
- Jean Girdaudoux, The Madwoman of Chaillot (1945)