Once again, I own neither the Teen Titans nor the plot points that I shamelessly pilfered from Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire. All the professional stuff is the property of Cartoon Network, DC Comics, HBO, and George RR Martin (covering all bases)

Also, praise be to the glorious Green Bunny who managed to beta this in the midst of baby excitement (Congrats again)

When Changeling woke, his mouth was open, but the scream didn't come out. It remained lodged inside him, so large and oppressive, it kept him from breathing. It felt like there was a boulder on his chest. He struggled, trying to breathe and fight an enemy he was sure was there, but after several moments he finally realized that he was in his bedroom, not on a gray, deserted street, like he had thought. More importantly, he was alone. Slade wasn't with him.

It had all been a dream.

His blocked scream dissolved and left him in a long, shuddering sigh. He sat up and looked around the room, just to be sure his first impression was right. He couldn't see anyone. He couldn't smell anyone. He really was alone. He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs, pressing his face into them. Before he squeezed his eyes shut, a peek at his clock told him it was after three in the morning.

This nightmare was the seventh he'd had in as many nights. Each night the dream was different. Or, different as in it started differently. Each one began with him reliving a happy memory of Raven. Tonight, for example, had featured Raven dragging him along the streets of Alexandria to the largest library in the world. They'd been on their honeymoon, and though there had been many things he'd wanted to do besides tour an old building full of old books they couldn't even touch, he'd enjoyed the rare glimpse of almost childish enthusiasm Raven had displayed (at least by her standards). Right before they made it to the library however, the dream turned, and once again, he was having the same nightmare.

Just like before, Raven had suddenly gone into mission mode, her voice cool and forceful. She'd said that something was wrong, that this wasn't where 'we' were, and, just like before, when he'd asked what she was talking about, Slade crashed the dream with all the appropriateness of a record scratch at an opera performance. What happened next was the worst part. Raven disappeared and then reappeared in the clothes she'd been wearing when she died. While he tried and failed to get to her, he was made to watch as her stomach and chest ripped open and her body turned to ash. He'd only reach her right when she told him to 'find us' and then collapsed into a pile of dust. The only thing Slade would say the entire time was that Raven would return to him "when the sun rose in the west and set in the east" and all that bullshit. As soon as the last word left the cryptic bastard's mouth, the dream would end, and Changeling would wake, trying to fight an enemy that wasn't there. The dreams scared him shitless every time, but thankfully, he hadn't screamed since the first one. As far as his friends knew, he was fine.

Garfield let out a mirthless chuckle. He wishedhe was fine, but he knew he wasn't. Hell, he wasn't even sure whyhe wasn't fine. He straightened his legs and angrily slammed his fists into the mattress. None of this made any sense! He hadn't had nightmares this bad since Raven's death, and even then, they hadn't starred Slade of all people. Slade hadn't killed Raven. Gar hadn't even seen him in years, not since the psycho had mocked him about Terra wanting forget. Why would he be dreaming about Slade? If he was relapsing in his grief or whatever—or if he was simply losing his mind—shouldn't he be having nightmares about the person who'd actually killed his wife?

Without warning, flashes of memories sparked through his mind. He saw long hair so blonde, it looked white. He heard a roar, followed by a bloodcurdling scream and then wet gurgling and silence. He felt flesh tear like wet felt beneath his claws and wetness, thick and hot, pooling in his palms. The memory was over in an instant, but its impact was enough. He yanked up the small trashcan by his bed and vomited into it. Several waves of sickness later, when all he was doing was dry heaving, he put the trashcan back. The muscles in his stomach continued to spasm, and his heart was racing. When he lifted his hand to wipe his mouth, he realized he was trembling.

Calm your body, a voice in his head instructed, regain control.

He closed his eyes and focused on taking deep, slow breaths. After a moment, the lurching sensation in his stomach began to subside.

Clear your mind, the voice advised. Unsurprisingly, it sounded like Raven. Find your center.

He didn't usually like meditating, but right now, he decided it might be a good idea. He continued to breathe deeply, and already, he could feel his heartbeat beginning to slow. With a small, relieved smile, he pulled himself into the lotus position.

Raven once told him that the mantra was the most important part of her meditation style. What was actually said wasn't important; for her, it was simply easier to use the incantation for her powers as a mantra. What really mattered was choosing a phrase that anchored the meditating person into some kind of rhythm. It allowed the person to measure their breathing and heart rate, reach a state of calm faster, and stay calm longer. For him though, no mantra he tried ever felt right. It didn't help pull him into a deep state of calm like Raven's seemed to. No matter what he said, the most he'd gotten out of meditation was mild relaxation. He'd eventually given up and chalked it up to meditation not being for him. However, this time, when he let out the breath he'd been holding, what came out was:

"Jalan atthirari anni."

He opened his eyes and let out a small huff of incredulous laughter. Of course that particular phrase felt right. After all, the inspiration for it had calmed him more than once when it mattered. He closed his eyes again and took another deep breath, letting it out with his new mantra.

"Jalan atthirari anni."

He thought of his nightmares. He thought of Slade. He thought of Mumbo and of the vision he'd had because of him. He thought of Raven. He thought of the baby, Angel. He thought of their murderer. He thought of all these things and then of the mess of feelings that came with them.

Losing Raven had felt like someone had taken an ax to his chest, splitting flesh and shattering bone, until he was wounded so deeply that each breath he took aggravated the pain. Over time, the pain had faded into a dull throb.

And then he saw Raven again, this time with the child he'd never had a chance to meet.

The wound had torn itself open once again, this time even deeper, and the bones had shattered into even finer fragments. When he thought of them, it hurt so much to breathe—to live—when they didn't. In a way, he hurt worse than before, because he'd thought he was getting better.

Psych! yelleda delighted voice in his mind that reminded him of Mumbo.

He missed his wife. He was overjoyed that he'd finally got to meet his little girl. He was angry that they'd both been taken from him again. He despised Mumbo for reopening a wound that had been healing. He was grateful to Mumbo for the few minutes he'd had with the people he loved most, even if it had all been in his head. He blamed Mumbo for the nightmares he was having now. He hated his nightmares. He hated Slade for appearing in them just to mock him about how he'll never see Raven again. He was confused about Slade's presence in his dreams. He thought about Raven's killer. He blamed her more than Mumbo for the turmoil he was experiencing now. He hated Raven's killer. He felt guilty about Raven's killer.

Remembering Raven's few meditation lessons, he thought about all this chaos and pain, thought about it in great detail. And then, with a long exhalation of his mantra, he let it go. He determinedly pushed it all from his mind until all he could see was a bright, white space. His center. It was kind of blurry, but Raven said it was like that the first time someone unlocked it. Designing it would happen in later meditation sessions. Right now, he just needed a place to feel calm.

He looked around the space. Though it was white and brightly lit, it didn't feel stark like a science lab or doctor's office, and for that, he was thankful. He didn't even want to think about how fucked up it would be if the calmest part of his mind was a science lab. What would be next? A cage? Shaking his head to clear those dark thoughts, he focused on the space around him. It was not a lab. The light was warm, like sunshine, and the floor beneath him felt like plush carpet, not tile. It was nice here. Even though he couldn't see all of it, he felt safe in this place.

For a time, he pictured himself in this safe, blurry room, separated from the world until he was ready to take it on again. The exhalation of his mantra was the only sound he made. When he finally opened his eyes again, he felt unbelievably relaxed, practically boneless. He smiled slightly.

"Looks like you were on to something after all, Rae-Rae." he whispered and then grimaced. His throat still burned from his earlier...episode. He needed water. Uncrossing his legs, he stood up and stretched. In his relaxed state, he relished the feeling of muscles shifting and warming beneath his skin. Smiling again, he padded out of the room. He walked silently to the kitchen, listening for any signs that his friends were awake. They'd been acting a little funny around him since the first Slade dream, and he didn't like the idea of having to explain what he was doing up at four in the morning. He made it to the kitchen without incident and then got himself a glass of water. As he sipped at it, he thought about what he would do next.

He honestly didn't feel like going back to sleep. He didn't think he was going to have any more nightmares, but he didn't want to risk it. He eyed the TV for a second and then shook his head. Watching something or starting up a videogame might wake his friends, and no matter what he said, they'd draw their own conclusions about why he was awake at such a weird time. He looked around the ops center and saw nothing that could quietly entertain him. He thought about walking on the beach or going to the roof, but he was feeling too lazy.

I could read, he thought. It wasn't his favorite hobby, like it had been Raven's, but he enjoyed it sometimes. Plus, it was quiet.

Decision made, he rinsed out his empty glass and then left the ops center. Still listening for any signs of his friends, he made his way to a room that had been pretty much vacant for years. He personally hadn't been in it in almost two.

For a second, he just stared at the nameplate on the door. Once, as a joke, he'd used a Sharpie to add "'s Library" to the end of the name. That was really all Raven had used her old bedroom for once they'd gotten serious; that, and meditation. He'd also drawn some bad doodles of candles and books around the nameplate. They looked out of place next to the blocky, official-looking letters of Raven's name, and part of him wished he hadn't done it. The rest of him simply smirked a little at the memory. Raven's reaction to his act of vandalism had been to not react until she nearly drove him crazy with terrified anticipation.

He keyed in the code to enter Raven's room, and the door slid open with a soft hiss. He stepped into the room and looked around, his enhanced vision allowing him to see quite a bit, even with the lights off.

"Yep," he said aloud. "Still uber creepy."

He shut the door behind him and turned on the light. It didn't really do much to brighten the room, in his opinion. It just made the creepiness easier to see. For the most part, Raven's room hadn't really changed from when she had lived in it. The carpet was still blue, the walls were still black and covered in creepy relics (like those spooky theatre masks that stared at him), and the furniture still seemed to loom over him like the villain in the Wicked Scary movies. Only a few things were different.

The most obvious difference was that most of Raven's furniture, like her bed and dresser, was gone, having been moved to his room years ago. The only furniture that remained was a blue, wing-backed chair on the left side of the room and several large bookcases that lined each of the four walls. Most of them stretched from floor to ceiling, and they were all jammed with books of various age and condition. The second most obvious difference made him question the wisdom of coming here.

Boxes were scattered all over the floor, and a combination of faded but instantly recognizable scents wafted from all of them.

About ten months after Raven's death, Gar's friends had decided that he'd had enough time to mope in his room. They'd burst in one afternoon while he was still sleeping and began packing up the stuff he didn't need.

Raven's stuff.

Her uniforms, civilian clothes, toiletries, spare magic things, some things she'd knitted for the baby, and even the book she'd been reading before she died—a copy of Macbeth—had all been tossed into boxes and carried out while he'd screamed and cursed at his friends. It felt like they were packing her away to collect dust and be forgotten, not just her stuff, and he'd told them so, among other, less polite, things, as venomously as possible. All he'd wanted was for them to leave him and Raven's things alone.

His friends had ignored him of course, and when he'd burst into frustrated tears of hurt and outrage—an outburst that embarrassed him now—Vic had simply tossed him over his shoulder and carried him into the ops center while Dick and Kori finished the job. They boxed up the last of Raven's things and then thoroughly cleaned his by then disgusting room. They did his laundry, bedding and curtains included, scrubbed inexplicable stains off the walls, shampooed his carpet, and replaced every light bulb in the once bright room.

When he'd finally been allowed back in, the wall by the bed was the first thing to catch his attention. A wrought iron, collage-style picture frame, as long as the bed itself and half as wide, hung next to his bed, courtesy of Kori, and it was full of pictures. Some were of the entire team. Others were of gatherings with all the titans, including the Titans East and the honoraries. He and Raven could be seen in all of them. The rest of the pictures had a similar theme: him and Raven. There were the team pictures. There were goofy pics he'd snuck her into when they were kids, pictures of them once they'd started dating, their second wedding (Raven had eventually agreed to a 'real' ceremony after their elopement to appease a sulky Kori), pictures of Raven when she was pregnant, and finally, ultrasound pics of their baby.

It was then he understood. His friends hadn't wanted him to forget Raven, far from it. They just didn't want him to suffer by not moving on. He'd turned back to his friends and found them all staring at him with expressions ranging from hopeful to cautious. He'd given them a small smile, to let them know he understood, and then they'd hugged him. It was only after that that he'd truly begun to heal. He'd started sleeping and eating better, accepting the odd offer to go out with his friends, and getting back into his old hobbies. The wound had begun to scab over.

In the eight months it had been since his "intervention," as he called it, he'd never asked where his friends had taken Raven's things, and they'd never said. In hindsight, it was obvious that they'd be here, and he wondered if it was a good idea for him to stay. The thing with Mumbo had really fucked him up, and the nightmares he was having weren't helping. And now, every breath he took taunted him with the old scents of jasmine and lavender. It was probably a bad idea for him be here, but he didn't want to leave. He came here to read. He was going to do it.

Wondering if Raven might have been on to something when she called him a masochist, he made his way to the center of the room and scanned the bookcases around him. The ones near the back, around the window where Raven liked to meditate, he knew were off limits. Those were the ones only Raven could handle, and he'd learned that the hard way. The one time he'd tried to look at those books, one of them had bitten off the tip of his pointer finger. The books against the left wall, behind the wing-backed chair, were ones that were safe for him to touch but too boring for him to bother with. Those were Raven's too. The shelves behind him, on either side of the doorway, housed 'his' books: animal books and comics and sci-fi novels that he'd already read cover to cover. To the right was reading material they'd both enjoyed: a truly eclectic mix of novels and comics featuring everything from Oedipus the King to every Deadpool comic they could get their hands on. He went to that section of shelves. He examined the bookcases, seeing books he loved but never would have touched had it not been for Raven and comics that Raven had loved but would never have even looked at, had it not been for him. He finally picked an old favorite of his, A Midsummer Night's Dream, and made his way to the blue chair near the opposite wall. Sitting down, he looked at the book in his hands and couldn't help but remember when he'd gotten it.

Years ago, when he and Raven had been in that awkward place between unlikely friends and even more unlikely lovers, the city had hosted a charity auction featuring donations from the Teen Titans. Each of them had been required to give an autographed uniform, and then whatever else they wanted to donate was up to them. Not surprising to most, Raven had come up with a box of unwanted books, one of them being the book he held in his hands.

"Hey, Rae!" he called, plucking the book from the box. "How come you're throwin' this one away?"

"I'm not 'throwing it away.' I'm donating it." Raven said in her usual monotone.

Well, that's not fun at all, he thought to himself.

"How come you're 'donating' this, then?" he asked. "Seems like Old Billy Shakes would be your thing."

That got a rise out of her.

"Don't ever refer to Shakespeare as 'Old Billy Shakes' in my presence again."

"See? Now that just proves my point." He tossed the book back into the box. "You get that defensive over me messin' up his name, why are you throwing away one of his books?"

Raven took the book out of the box again. "Once again, I'm not throwing it away. I'm donating it, and the reason I'm donating it, not that it means anything to you, is that this book is translated into modern English. I prefer Shakespeare's works in their original style."

He stared at her. "So... you're throwing away a book, because it's easier to read?" he asked slowly. He wanted to make sure he had this right before he asked why the hell anyone would do that.

Raven had narrowed her eyes at him when he'd mentioned 'throwing away' the book, but she didn't comment on it again. Instead, she simply shook her head. "I don't like translated versions of Shakespeare's works, because a lot of the meaning is lost."

"So, it's 'Lost in Translation'?" he joked.

"Yes," Raven deadpanned. "And though I can tell that was meant to be a joke, I fail to see how it could be."

"Because there's like a movie with that...name..." He trailed off when Raven's blank expression once again proved that she did not find him funny.

After a second of awkward silence (at least on his end), he spoke again. "Yeah, I still don't get why you're getting rid of this." In his mind, Shakespeare was like bookworm Jesus, and Raven was like bookworm High Priestess. Bookworm High Priestess getting rid of one of bookworm Jesus's books did not compute.

His confusion must have shown, because Raven let out an irritated huff. "Since you seem to be so against me giving this away, you keep it. You might actually like it, since it's easier to read." She was gone before he'd had time to tease her about giving him gifts.

He looked down at the book in his hands and made a face. The only Shakespeare play he'd ever read was Romeo and Juliet when he was twelve. Rita had recommended it when he said he wanted to be an actor. He remembered finishing it and being simultaneously disappointed and disgusted that this mess of a story was considered "The Most Iconic Love Story of All Time. TM"

He definitely hadn't wanted to be subjected to another story that was stupid and not in a funny way. However, because he'd been kinda crushing on Rae, he'd refused to throw away one of the few things she'd ever given him. He'd kept it, and then one day, when he was between comics, he'd finally broken down and read it. To this day, he thought a guy named Bottom having his head turned into that of an ass (the donkey kind, but still...) was comedy gold. It was still one of his favorite stories.

It was also probably the one that reminded him the most of Raven.

He put the book down on the arm of the chair, face down, so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore. He was sitting in his dead wife's old bedroom, surrounded by her scent, with a book she'd once recommended for him after having yet another nightmare about watching her die. This went beyond masochistic.

"Yeah," he said roughly. "I'm not okay."

Clear your mind, the voice in his head repeated. Find your center.

Eager to get back to that safe place he'd finally found in his head, he quickly crossed his legs and started breathing deeply.

"Jalan atthirari anni." he exhaled.

Much faster than before, he was back in the white, sunlit room that was his center. Determined to stay a while, where everything was calm, he focused intently on the space, wanting to make it look like a real room, rather than just a blurry spot. After a while, he had a room around him that was about the size of his bedroom in real life, though it looked much bigger, because it was empty. The walls were whitewashed wood, and beneath his bare feet was plush, white carpet. He dug his toes into it and smiled at the feeling. No wonder Raven had liked to meditate so much. It was nice here.

He looked around the room and noticed that the corners weren't really defined like they would be in a real room. Wondering if he could do something about that, he went first to the corner to his immediate left. Much to his satisfaction, it solidified just as he'd intended. He walked to the corner directly opposite him, and this one solidified around him as well. From there, he walked to the upper right corner of the room, and, just like the others, it solidified for him until the room looked as real as any outside his head. It was then he turned to face the wall that had been behind him, and he was surprised to see what he assumed was a window in the middle of it. He couldn't see outside it, because it was completely covered by a pair of mismatched curtains. The right one was blue, the left orange. Curious, he walked over to the window and stopped about a foot away from it. He didn't remember putting a window in here, but he supposed it made sense to have one since he pictured his center as a room lit by sunlight.

"What did I tell you?" familiar voice said behind him.

He whirled, and at the sight of the speaker, it felt like all the air had been knocked out of him.

"Raven..." he whispered.

She stood against the opposite wall in full uniform. Her hood was up, but he could see her glaring at him in annoyance.

"Garfield." She pronounced the name loudly and carefully, the way she said it when she was annoyed with him. "What did I tell you?"

"I don't know." he said honestly, stepping away from the window.

Suddenly, Raven disappeared.

"Rae!" Gar yelled, upset. He ran a few steps toward the opposite wall.

"Did you put this window here?" she asked. He whirled around again, and there she was standing next to the window. Now, the curtains were cracked, but he still couldn't see outside.

"No..." he said carefully. He took slow steps toward her, afraid she would disappear on him again if he made any sudden moves. When he was about a foot from her, he stopped and spoke again. "Or at least... I don't remember making it."

"What did I tell you?" she repeated again, appearing even more frustrated.

"About what?!" he demanded, feeling just as annoyed at her now. He hated it when she got all cryptic.

"About your mindscape. What did I tell you about constructing your mindscape?"

"I do it." he replied, remembering a meditation lesson from years ago.

"Exactly," Raven replied. "Constructing a formal mindscape for meditative purposes is a very conscious experience."

Changeling cocked his head. "Say what now?"

Raven rolled her eyes, and Changeling bit back a fond smile. He'd even missed her looking at him like he was an idiot. It was nice seeing something so familiar, even if he was pretty sure he was starting to go off the deep end.

"You're the one who makes your center. Every part of it is on purpose. You don't get stuff like a window on accident. I shouldn't even be here if you didn't imagine me here. Did you?"

Gar thought about it for a second. "No."

"So, you have a window and me in here without your conscious consent." Raven prodded.

Gar frowned. That sounded kinda bad.

"So..." he said. "Why's there a window in my head? What does it mean?" He turned to look at her and started when he saw she was already facing him, her hood down.

"Rae?" he asked slowly.

She didn't answer, and her usual blank expression remained unchanged.

"Rae-Rae?" he asked, purposely using a nickname she hated. He poked at her shoulder. Despite the weirdness of the situation, he was happy that his hand hadn't gone through her or something, like he'd kind of expected it to.

Still, she didn't answer, and upon closer inspection, Gar realized that not only was her face blank, her eyes were too. She didn't appear to be really looking at anything.

"Raven!" he exclaimed, alarmed.

"Find us." she whispered and then disappeared.

"What does that even mean?!" he yelled at the ceiling, angered at the reference to his nightmares. He looked back at the window. Just as his gaze connected with it, the curtains were yanked open by an unseen force, and he was thrown across the room. From the opposite wall, Changeling could see a window much larger than he'd expected. It took up almost the entire wall now. Outside the window, Raven's face appeared, her eyes glowing red. On her forehead was the mark of Scathe.

It felt like his stomach dropped into his shoes. "No..."

"The gem was born of evil's fire. The gem shall be his portal." she said in a rapid, mechanical voice. She shot away from the window, revealing that her entire body was covered in markings, and she floated in the lotus position. She looked exactly the way she had when she became the portal. "He comes to claim. He comes to sire the end of all things mortal."

"No!" Gar yelled, springing to his feet. A earthshaking roar sent him back to the ground.

Raven continued to chant, and she didn't stop even when she disappeared from view. In her place Trigon appeared, sitting on a throne made from the gutted Titans tower. Around him was a lake of lava and a fiery wasteland.

"Perhaps a remnant of my daughter still exists." the demon rumbled.

As suddenly as he appeared, he was gone, but his voice remained, impossible to ignore. Over and over again, he suggested that part of Raven still existed, and his words wove themselves around the prophecy that Raven's voice continued to chant into a cacophony that made Changeling clap his hands over his ears and shut his eyes.

"No more!" he yelled over the noise.

The immense roar sounded again, startling him into dropping his hands and opening his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the face of Slade in the window. As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared, and once again, Slade's voice rang out, somehow managing to both blend in with the other voices and remain distinct.

"When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east..."

In the window, a blinding light appeared on the left side and then flew to the right in an arch, getting dimmer as it went. By the time it reached the right side, the light was no brighter than a candle flame.

"The gem was born of evil's fire..."

"When the seas go dry..."

"Perhaps a remnant of my daughter still exists..."

A wave of blue and black crashed over the ball of light, and both disappeared with a tormented scream.

"When the mountains blow away in the wind like leaves..."

"The gem shall be his portal..."

Blue eyes appeared before him before shutting and disappearing.

"He comes to claim. He comes to sire the end of all things mortal."

"When you find another woman able to carry a changeling's child..."

He saw the familiar form of a gray-skinned woman with purple hair.

"That is when Raven will return to you."

"The gem..."

"...still exists."

Suddenly, the orange and blue curtains in his mind yanked themselves closed, and Changeling's eyes shot open. Instead of an empty, white room around him, he saw a dark room full of bookshelves. He was in Raven's room again.

He'd been booted from his own mind!

Putting a hand on his chest like it would slow his racing heart, he closed his eyes again and tried to calm himself. When it felt like he could stand up without having a heart attack, he opened his eyes again.

"What...the hell...was that?!" he panted aloud.

The last part of his vision played through his mind again.

"The gem...still exists."

He sat bolt upright in his chair. The gem thing had been a prophecy. What if the Slade thing was a prophecy? As cryptic as he seemed to be, his taunts and stuff had always made sense in the end. And then there was Trigon's "perhaps a remnant of my daughter still exists" thing.

Gar stood up and began to pace. Raven had survived the fucking end of the world. Two stab wounds should have been cake, but somehow, she died anyway. Or they thought she died. What if she wasn't dead? What if this was just like what happened when she became the portal? Even though they'd hoped it wasn't true, they'd all sorta believed that Raven had died because of Trigon. She hadn't though. A part of her had still been around. What if that's what was happening now?

And what if this is just wishful thinking? asked a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Dick. You're grieving the loss of your wife and child. You had a vivid hallucination about them a little over a week ago. It's completely normal for you to have a setback, grieving-wise.

This is not normal! Garfield shot back.

Then maybe you're just goin' nuts, supplied an unhelpful voice that sounded like Vic.

Maybe I am, he thought, sinking to the floor and putting his head in his hands. This was too good or too weird to be true; he couldn't decide which yet. All he knew was that it probably wasn't true. How and why the hell would Slade be involved if it was?

You just heard that you don't have things like windows in your center on accident, said the cranky voice that reminded him of Raven. Are you giving up on me?

"I can't," he said out loud, and a tear slid down his cheek. "Wishful thinking or not, I can't just give up."

Whether it was wishful thinking or not, Gar knew that they'd had weird, supernatural junk happen to them before. It was possible. It was possible that Rae was still alive, just like after Trigon. He was sure of it.

And there was no harm in looking into it, right?

Other than the harm to your mental health, the Dick voice grumbled.

Gar ignored that thought. If the vision thing he'd had wasn't true—if Raven really was gone—then at least he'd knowfor sure, and he could get on with his life. If it was true—if he could find Raven when the sun "rose in the west and set in the east" and all that—then he'd get his wife back! He might get his family back.

Quashing any remaining doubt in his mind, he looked around the room. He really had no idea how to go about "looking into this," but he had a feeling the books were probably the best place to start. He had to do—he grimaced—research. He stood up and started to examine the books that were exclusively Raven's and safe for him to touch. He scrunched his face in thought. No. He needed research space first! He went back to the wing-back chair and dragged it into the center of the room, sneezing at the dust it kicked up by scraping against the old carpet. When it was where he liked it, he began picking up boxes and stacking them into a makeshift desk in front of the chair.

Then he went back to the wall of books that were safe for him to touch but only Raven had used. Unsure of what he was looking for exactly, he pulled everything in English off the shelves. He looked at the ten books in hands and then back at the bookcases. He sighed when he noticed that he'd barely made a dent. He took the books back to his box desk and then went back to the shelves. He stared at the books for a moment, and then pulled out everything in French. He could read that too. This haul was bigger, about twenty books, and he carried them back to his research space. He piled a couple of more boxes on the floor next to the chair, expanding his table, and then went back to the wall of "Raven's" books. He noticed that there were several books and even scrolls on the shelves that were written in Azarathian. He spoke the language better than he could read it, but he decided it was worth a shot. Shrugging, he swept an Azarathian shelf bare and then carried the books back to his boxes.

He went back to the bookcases and cleared out everything in Azarathian, carrying it all back to his improvised desk. He took a moment to sort the books into piles that wouldn't fall over and then went back to the bookcases. As far as he could tell, there were no more English, French, or Azarathian books there. He stepped back to examine all the shelves. He'd managed to clear away about half of Raven's books for his research, which was more than he'd expected but less than he'd hoped for. As far as he could tell, the rest of them were in the shit ton of languages Raven had spoken, but he couldn't. He recognized Latin words in most of the remaining titles and German in some others, but the rest were a lost cause. After a moment, he shrugged. He could read English and French, which were "Romantic" languages. Maybe, if he found absolutely nothing useful in the sixty odd books he'd managed to pull out, he could try the Latin ones.

He went back to his chair and cracked open a particularly thick English book about demons. When he opened it, it reminded him a great deal of the few text books he'd seen in his life. It was even split into units, and Trigon the Terrible had one devoted entirely to him. That seemed like a solid place to start. He settled in and began to read. The words were long and the text small, and despite it being about one of the scariest enemies he'd ever had to face, it was probably the driest thing he'd ever tried to read. However, he persevered. By the time sunlight shone through Raven's thick curtains, he'd managed to read all the speculation about where Trigon had come from and about the establishment of the Church of Blood.

Deciding that was a good place to stop, he stood and went to the window. He opened the curtains and squinted at the bright light. His eyes adjusted after a minute, and he tried to gauge the time by the sun's position in the sky. He was fairly sure it was about eight in the morning. His friends would be up by now, and while it was a little early for him, his being awake wouldn't be unheard of. However, he couldn't be seen coming out of Raven's old bedroom. He looked back at the books in front of his chair. He doubted his friends would understand what was going on with him right now. In fact, he was sure they wouldn't understand. If he told them he'd had a vision of his dead wife, Trigon, and Slade and then started babbling about prophecies, they'd cart him off to a nut house before he finished speaking. Honestly, it was probably what he'd do if he was in their shoes. He'd have to keep this a secret for a while.

He morphed into a beetle and flew back to his room through the air vent.

Reviews make the creative world go round.