Chapter Text
Letter 1
To Mr. Pennyworth, Gotham
Archangel, Russia, Dec. 11th, 18—
My dear Alfred,
I write to you from a rough tavern upon the edge of the port. The tea in the north is bitter enough to bite, yet the vodka warms me quicker than the tavern fire. The people here in the north seldom smile, but they cook well. Only yesterday, the innkeeper prepared a soup so rich that I begged its recipe for our kitchen at the Manor, should fate ever grant me a return.
This is the farthest north I have ever ventured in my life, and in less than a week, I’ll be pushing farther still, toward the Pole itself. The cold outside gnaws to the bone, yet the snow renders the land quiet, almost serene. I confess I do miss Gotham - her predictable gloom, her voices, her familiar unrest, and mostly you all back home— but I confess that there is a small part of me that revels in the somber solace in distancing myself from her mud, her clamor, and her endless cries of crime for a while. Though I feel the guilt of leaving my post behind, I trust all are faring well without me.
In St. Petersburg, I made the acquaintance of a fisherman named Will, an endless and aimless talker, yet not without usefulness. He and his crew sail each year into the northern seas for cod, and after I had purchased them more than a few rounds of ale, they agreed to take me aboard with them. Thus, my ship is arranged, and I shall not defer here much longer.
Just the other night, as I endured Will’s tales and the rambling boasts of his fellows, the tavern door swung wide. A bitter wind struck through the hall as a band of sailors just returning from the north hurried in, their faces blanched and grave. They spoke in hushed tones of a vision upon the ice: a monstrous creature, said one sailor; a fiend from hell itself, insisted another. The rumor up here is that a beast, not a man, but something dreadful and unnatural, is roaming the ice. One of the sailors swore the creature’s eyes burned vibrant emerald green, its skin ashen like death itself, its countenance contorted, and upon his skin, bright and angry marks, searing as fire.
I cannot lie, Alfred, such accounts chill me more than any Arctic gale. Yet I still have hope, for still I believe the rumors that he may be out there. I'm set on my task to find my dearest brother and bring him home, but I’m afraid of what I’ll find instead.
You, more than any soul, know how Bruce schooled us: to endure the unendurable, to rise against every obstacle, whatever it may be. I am no stranger to hunger, to thirst, to sleeplessness, nor even to the shadow of death. Many times, I have pressed beyond the limits I thought were human. Yet now I fear I have come to face a challenge not of the body but of the heart. What if the monster they name is truly the brother I seek? What if the soul I cherished is lost beyond redemption?
Still, I try not to think of the worst, and hope is no easy virtue, yet it is one I still hold fast for my brother.
In two days, we sail from Archangel. I know not if I can dispatch letters beyond this point, yet I shall continue to write, even if only to myself.
Pray for me, dear Alfred. I feel, in truth, I cannot endure this trial without a father’s prayers.
Farewell, and convey my reverence to my master.
Yours in faith and duty,
Richard Grayson