Chapter Text
Alfred wasn’t young by any means when he first came to Gotham. A past known by very few. Reportedly, Alfred was an actor in his youth. He was raised right and proper by an elderly grandmother in the rolling hills of the English countryside. He did well as an actor. Moving from play to play, company to company, movie screen to movie screen. An anybody. An anywhere. An easy face to skate over. Forgettable. Commonplace. How he ended up in Gotham? As a butler for an old money family of all things? If some curious soul were to ask, they would be entreated to a lovely story about a wild youth that had to settle down eventually. A middle-aged man that when called by the father, accepted the opportunity to take over the family business and tradition. A touching story of growing into a legacy.
That was one story.
Another, known by even fewer, placed him still as a boy in England. Perhaps a bit wilder, maybe a bit rougher around the edges. This young man wasn’t from the right and proper English countryside, but instead found himself and his grandmother nestled in the heart of London. He grew with the city, the way all young men tend to do. Pushing for progress and new experiences, desperately clawing his way to opportunities not freely given. This young man made himself useful. Extremely useful, and not easily replaced. A soldier. Eventually, a spy. Indispensable to his country. Made invincible with experience, and perhaps a touch of youthful cockiness. But all stories have a climax and a fall. Laid low by that same so-called experience and more than a little bit of pride, his fairytale crumbled into dust. In this version of the story, this man comes running gratefully when called to Gotham by an ailing father. Running away? Running home? The line between is blurred as the rain follows his flight. The ending is the same. Taking over the family legacy of service to the Wayne’s– perhaps a convenient way to hide from the consequences of past mistakes.
That also, is merely one story.
The truth is both more complicated and much simpler. If it could die with its owner, it would– for he truly is the only one who has all the details, never uttered aloud even years later.
The truth may be lost to the public knowledge, but Gotham Herself may have a piece of the puzzle. Gotham has been growing almost as long as the Pennyworth legacy has been, and She knows a familiar face when She sees one. And no matter how long this face may have been gone, this one is an old friend to Gotham. The Pennyworth legacy rests squarely on the shoulders of a single not-so-young man. Not that anyone else needs to know that.
Regardless of how he came to be in Gotham this time around, Alfred Pennyworth is first and foremost a caretaker. A protector. A guardian. He fortifies his corner of Gotham and fiercely protects any that find themselves upon his doorstep.
He made mistakes with Master Thomas. Master Jason. Mistakes that will never be repeated if Alfred has any breath left in his body. And breath, yes, breath is the one thing that Alfred Pennyworth will never be in short supply of. One moment of violence tore Thomas and Martha out of this life too soon. One broken and scheming man took Jason too soon.
It’s a common phrase, ‘died too soon’. It’s often said in tandem with wilting carnations and sickly smelling lilies. For Alfred, every life preceding a ‘too soon’ grew shorter and shorter. He promised himself and Gotham. Never again. His home would be a place of refuge. Never again would a child in his care, no matter how old, be taken ‘too soon’.
Many a rogue has gone after Gotham’s pretty little prince, Brucie Wayne. Many a rogue has also been suddenly and dramatically curbed because of a supposedly decrepit old man with a shotgun. He promised. There would never again be a ‘too soon’. Alfred Pennyworth doesn’t go back on his word. He doesn’t underestimate the filth that Gotham has to offer.
And yet, Alfred Pennyworth is simply an old man. He cannot stop the world from turning. He cannot stop the evils that have sunk their claws deep into Gotham’s tired bones. He has no power to exert here. Only a heartfelt desire to provide peace to those who need it. He doesn’t know if that will be enough. But– he hasn’t gotten this far by quitting early. Yes. He can do that. He will be the eye of a hurricane in a maelstrom of evil. For as long as Gotham needs him to be.
And so, the villains of Gotham may rage all they want. The pain and suffering they so callously drag through Gotham’s streets leave long trenches of broken dreams, shattered hopes, and the oozing stench of desperation. But all of that ceases to exist on the threshold of Alfred Pennyworth’s home. Alfred’s domain is the hearth, and he rules with an iron fist rival to any monster on the streets. The tortured spirit of Gotham Herself can rage at his door but he will not allow Her entry. The hearth gods of old may have faded, but their spirits live on. Alfred may not know when his children will leave him, but he will be here. He will always be here.