Alfred had been dusting the lower shelves in the study when Jamie 
came in, panting. "There's. At the door. A young man wants to 
speak with you."

Alfred placed the figurine he'd moved aside back carefully into 
place, ignoring Jamie for the moment, giving the young servant 
time to regain his breath. Jamie knew better to be running through 
the halls of Wayne Manor, and out of the corner of his eye Alfred 
saw him blanch, straighten out his coat, and determinedly slow his 
breathing. 

"For me, you say?" He'd heard the doorbell ring, of course, but had 
left it to the staff to answer what he'd assumed would be one of the 
many daily deliveries. Of necessity, he had finally accepted the 
truth that he could no longer see to the upkeep of Wayne Manor 
alone, as he once did. There had always been a day staff to see 
after menial chores, but now there was also a small, carefully 
screened, cadre of "assistants" to aid him. None of them knew 
Master Bruce's secret--yet--but Alfred knew it was only a matter of 
time before he would have to take one of them into his, and 
Bruce's, confidence. A successor, though Bruce refused to hear it 
spoken of in those terms. "Then let's not keep him waiting any 
longer."

Alfred turned his wheelchair. propelling it through the door of the 
study and down the long hallway, Jamie trotting (not *too* fast) 
after him. He was reminded, as always, of Ms. Barbara's carefully 
ignored suggestion that they indulge in "wheelchair races" down 
the length of Wayne Manor's corridors. 



Alfred reached the entrance to the main foyer and stopped. Vanity, 
perhaps, but as long as he *could* walk he would greet the visitor 
as a man should, on his feet. He left the wheelchair out of sight and 
crossed the foyer to the vestibule.

The young man had been given a seat just inside the door, Corinna 
hovering unobtrusively nearby. Alfred nodded to her and she 
scurried off. 

certain Arabic cast to his features, somehow familiar. "Mr. 
Pennyworth, I am Thomas Ibn Xu'fassch," he announced, "I am 
here to see my father." looked Alfred in the eye and said quietly, "I 
am the son of the Bat."

Alfred had already discerned that from the young man's 
patronymic*

On rare occasions throughout the years, Alfred had encountered 
someone at the door to Wayne Manor who knew, or *thought* he 
or she knew, of Master Bruce's other identity. In each case, a snap 
judgment had been required as to the proper response. Most often a 
polite confusion, followed by a firm yet amused denial and the 
provision of the latest cover story. But in a handful of instances, 
the person making the 'accusation' either indubitably knew already 
or could not be dissuaded. 

This young man...Alfred had never met him, but knew him all the 
same. There could be no dissembling. "You are the Lady Talia's 
son?"

"I am." Pride and arrogance shone from him, and strength as well. 
"My mother has told me of you, and that *he* trusts you."

"I...see." Alfred studied him, feeling the weight of *inevitability.* 
Bruce had believed--or chosen to believe, more likely--that years 
ago, after his brief 'marriage' to Talia, that their child had been 
miscarried as she told him. To Alfred's knowledge, Bruce had 
never pursued the matter further, and in all their subsequent 
encounters Talia never spoke of it. Here stood the proof of her lie, 
proof that Bruce never sought or perhaps, wanted.


He turned too fast, wavered, and felt Ibn Xu'fassch's arm under his, 
holding him steady. "Allow me to aid you, sir, as you have aided 
my father so faithfully through the years."

An unwarranted familiarity, perhaps, but he was in no position to 
decline it.




"I will *not*--" he paused long enough for the silence to become 
significant-- "be called 'Robin'."

"No. It doesn't suit you." Bruce's--his *father's* tone, so casually 
indifferent. Not that Thomas had *wanted* the name, not in the 
least, but it grated on him to have it unceremoniously denied. 
Perhaps Bruce felt that he'd hadn't earned the legacy. The idea 
made Thomas perversely eager to fight for it.

He wasn't about to afford Bruce the satisfaction, but on the other 
hand.... "Oh? What makes you so certain?"

Bruce almost smiled. "Robin is a symbol of light. You're *my* 
son."

"And my mother's. And the grandson of the demon." Thomas 
barked a harsh laugh. "No 'light' in my pedigree."

The intensity in Bruce's gaze nearly drove Thomas back a step, but 
he held his ground. "Talia raised you without me but she *named* 
you Thomas for your other grandfather, who always chose to heal 
rather than harm. He's as much a part of you as Ra's al-Ghul."

Thomas carefully avoided the impulse to dismiss the assertation. 
One did not, he knew, disregard Bruce's sainted father, even by 
accident. "So perhaps I am not predestined to darkness, then?"

Bruce suddenly seemed very tired. "You'll be...what you choose to 
be."