Standing so small before Alfred in the nursery by the window when he delivered the killing blow, while he told her that Bruce had left, disappeared, fell off the edge of the earth.
That she was parentless twice over; no mother and now, no father.
Ariadne had flinched when he told her, flinched but she didn't cry, even when Alfred gave her permission to. Because she never cried. She was known, famous even, for never crying. But she felt it well up within her belly and in her throat; hot, a flash of cold and then hot again, making her head spin.
"It was my fault, Alfred."
Alfred's mouth opened, a horrible sense of familiarity falling over him now.
Nearly black eyes sparkling, Ariadne whimpered, "I made him leave..."
Alfred quickly stepped closer to the little girl, "Oh, no, no, no—,"
"If I hadn't've come home—,"
"It was nothing that you did." The butler cut in, voice both so soothing and so firm, "It was his choice, and his alone."
Her breathing caught, and her bruises and cuts still looked so fresh as she turned pink with the need to weep.
Alfred gently tilted her chin up to meet his eyes, "Do you understand?"
She let Alfred pull her into the safety of his long arms, stroking her head like a day—old chick as she buried her face into his crisp suit.
"I miss him, Alfred. I miss him so much."
"So do I, Miss Ariadne... So do I."
Ariadne didn't cry in front of him, but she did cry that night. From the pain, and from the loss.
But she pulled herself together because she needed to be brave. That was her role in life. That was what her father had liked best; her fearlessness. He liked to see her strong, and maybe if she was strong enough, her father would come home. It was that thought alone that kept her going for so long, gave her faith for so long.
Ariadne waited, at first. Her whole little life became made up of waiting.
Alfred didn't have the heart to tell her that she shouldn't bother.
