Alfred Pennyworth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flippin_peachy) wrote2024-07-24 08:11 pm
flippin_peachy) wrote2024-07-24 08:11 pm
RP With Oswald Cobblepot
He was cold.
It was the type of cold that seeps into you, past your flesh and straight down to your bones to make them ache, ache in a way that makes you feel as if you were slowly being turned to stone.
And maybe he was.
It certainly felt like he had been here in this spot for centuries, motionless and cold.
And alone.
He was alone now, his one true north taken from him and when that happened he had fallen into this cold, dark place where his bones ached and his head throbbed and his hands were wet and sticky with blood. He can still hear the soft exhale of breath as Bruce died in his arms, his body slowly going limp and heavy.
And then....
nothing.
Just a cold, black feeling that had swarmed up inside him. It was a feeling he had spent a long time keeping locked away, ever since the day he had left the Army, since the day he found Esme dead in their flat. It was familiar and cold.
So bloody cold.
Just as he is now, cold and empty now that he had found the wretched bitch who had murdered his boy and made her pay. Knocking her away from the poor sod she had been busy torturing and onto the ground, straddling her and wrapping his callused hands around her head and bashing it.
Over and over.
And over.
Until....
Nothing.
Just silence and the feeling of being cold.
As if his heart had turned to stone.
It was the type of cold that seeps into you, past your flesh and straight down to your bones to make them ache, ache in a way that makes you feel as if you were slowly being turned to stone.
And maybe he was.
It certainly felt like he had been here in this spot for centuries, motionless and cold.
And alone.
He was alone now, his one true north taken from him and when that happened he had fallen into this cold, dark place where his bones ached and his head throbbed and his hands were wet and sticky with blood. He can still hear the soft exhale of breath as Bruce died in his arms, his body slowly going limp and heavy.
And then....
nothing.
Just a cold, black feeling that had swarmed up inside him. It was a feeling he had spent a long time keeping locked away, ever since the day he had left the Army, since the day he found Esme dead in their flat. It was familiar and cold.
So bloody cold.
Just as he is now, cold and empty now that he had found the wretched bitch who had murdered his boy and made her pay. Knocking her away from the poor sod she had been busy torturing and onto the ground, straddling her and wrapping his callused hands around her head and bashing it.
Over and over.
And over.
Until....
Nothing.
Just silence and the feeling of being cold.
As if his heart had turned to stone.
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