The Journal of Raven Roth, a Slayer

Wednesday 2nd December, 1846

My dearest Robin,

This is the first that I have written in your journal – indeed, only the page before this is your last entry, dated Tuesday 4th November, 1845.

The day that you died.

Over a year has passed since then, and so much has changed, I believe you would be very much astounded.

I hope you do not mind my writing in your personal diary. It feels wrong for me to completely take over it and to write it as though it was my own; or as though I was you. And yet, I do not wish to start afresh with my own, for it is your legacy that I have taken up.

So I will simply write it, addressing it to you yourself. Perhaps it is possible for you, beyond this life, to comprehend what I write in this.

I often talk to you; I come to your graveside and sit and tell you of my training. It is soothing to me, for although I know whether or not you listen to me, deep beneath the earth and stone and wood, I know that what I speak of is something you can – or could – relate to.

I am sitting at your grave now. I shall not stay long, for the December cold is harsh and bitter, but it felt right for me to write my first "letter" to you upon your monument.

And perhaps I must recap again what this past year has brought.

You have served as an inspiration to me. I confess, that upon the very moment that you fell still upon your deathbed, I had decided to take up your mantle. I knew that I could not leave your legend unfinished, and was willing myself to take your place.

You may have murdered my stepfather, but I could not help but admire you.

To me, you were a hero; and I wished to aspire to you.

I wished to do what you had done; to walk the Night's Plutonian Shore.

I hope you will forgive me for taking your journal and your casefile. For taking your weapons and your protective garments; your cross and your wrist guards. For taking your crossbow and for, indeed, sir, taking your very life as my own.

I told the good Father Stone – who I too, this past year, have come to know as "Cyborg" – what I was to do, and although at first he protested and disapproved, he eventually became a great help to me.

I shall speak of him, and young Garfield Logan, later.

As I have told you before, I ventured out to your trainer – the "True Master". I told her of your demise, and the ending to the tale of the Raven Murders. I showed her my special abilities, and implored that she train me as she had you. I expressed that I wished to take up the legend you had left behind.

I had anticipated having problems with her, but she agreed to take me on and train me, as she had you. She taught me to use the weapons you had left; the crossbow and the stakes. She taught me the Oriental fighting style that she taught to you.

She taught me, like you, to survive.

And she taught me, like you, to kill.

It took her just under a year to train me, as opposed to the two it had taken her to train you; but upon that subject, she had stated that it was not because I was of any higher skill than you, but simply because there is only so much you can teach a nine year old at a time.

At the times when I found the training hard, I thought of you. I thought of how young you had been; and how sick you had been, and it pushed me on.

You gave me strength.

At this time, I am now, as you had been, a "slayer".

She has already arranged my "training mission" for me, and I depart to embark upon it on the morrow. I am being sent not to Japan, but to Europe.

To Paris.

I am to assist a magic-affecting slayer by the name of Rorek in his hunt for the Brotherhood of Evil. Indeed, they have struck again in that fair city, and I have heard that Rorek has traveled from England to pursue them. I am to aid him, and leave for France tomorrow by steam ship.

However, I am not to go alone.

As I have said, much has changed within the city of Gotham.

After the death of my stepfather was made known within the papers, Wayne Manor became a pursuit of interest. I was not old enough to inherit the property itself, and so the staff, including my dear friend Alfred, were dismissed and moved on. The library wing has been restored and remains open; however, the house itself has been shut off.

I care little for it. It was too full of painful memories.

I had inherited considerable wealth from my stepfather, however, and used a part of it to pay for renovations to the church and parish house of Father Stone. Both I and Garfield Logan have since moved in with him.

For you see, Robin, while your path of slayership was one you took alone, I have been joined upon mine; Cyborg, during my training with the True Master, trained Beast Boy in his own way.

I suppose Beast Boy is now a hybrid of things; part-novice priest and part slayer himself. That is to say, the boy is no longer defenseless, as you knew him, sir. He has the training of neither Cyborg nor myself, but he reaches a halfway mark between us, and is invaluable to us because of it. He easily switches roles; we jokingly refer to him as something of a "shape-shifter" in this respect.

We are three now; a team. Cyborg suggested the name the "Titans", after the creators in Greek mythology. I know not where this inspiration came from, but it is a name none of us rebel against. I myself rather like it. Beast Boy prefers to introduce us as the "Teen Titans", but I rather think the "teen" part disillusions us in some way.

On the morrow, the three of us – we Titans – set sail for Paris.

Perhaps you were never a "Titan" yourself, sir; but in a way, you are the founder of us. It was your mission – your quest to stop the Raven Murders that has brought us all together. Sometimes, while in high spirits, Cyborg will call you our "leader".

Perhaps he may even be right.

As for the House of Usher, and the Ushers themselves…

I know I have told you of this, sitting at your grave, but I suppose I must write it all anyway.

In another terrifying coincidence, not even three months after the burials of both Dr Roderick Usher and his daughter, the House of Usher itself suddenly imploded and collapsed upon itself, without any kind of warning. It too had been boarded up, and so thankfully no single person was even injured in the collapse, for it was empty; but indeed there was no indication beforehand of such an event.

Upon further examination by experts in the aftermath of the collapse, it was discovered that the foundations of the house had been weak and built on ground that was not completely solid – it had always been inevitable that the house would collapse; it was simply a matter of time before it did so.

As for the fair Lenore Usher, the girl – according to your journal – that you had fallen in love with, and referred to as "Starfire"…

Well, she lies no more than three feet from you. This you know – I have told you this too.

Cyborg could not bury you with her and her father, for you were neither part of her family, nor her husband. It was improper for him to do so. But he placed your grave right next to hers, so that your stone monuments are no less than, as I said, three feet apart.

He called it his "final gift" to you; he cited that if you could not be happy in life, it was the least he could do to at least try to make you happy in death.

I hope you are happy, Robin; whether you can comprehend any of this or not.

Robin and Starfire; perhaps a match made in Heaven.

And perhaps a match reunited in Heaven.

But I do know. I realize that this kind of life – the life that you led – does not allow time for romance.

Sometimes I will catch Beast Boy sparing a glance at me – in the glow of the firelight, as he has been set books to pore over by Cyborg – and wonder if perhaps he feels a little something for me.

I care for him deeply, but I do not feel that way towards him.

And I know he loved Terra. He often speaks of her now, and there is pride in his voice.

Still, I know he watches me. He looks at me; and yet I can see why that might be.

I do wish you could see me now, Robin; if only so I could see the expression on your face.

For I am not the girl I was a year ago; not a slight figure, pulled in and ribboned and laced and layered with petticoats. I no longer fit the traditional role of a girl my age, and so perhaps I can see why he gazes at me so.

For it is true that he has perhaps never seen anything quite like me.

My hair has always grown quickly; and within a year it is no longer the short, cropped style you would have seen me with. It is long, almost to my waist through a desired neglect of cutting it. Long gone are those shaped dresses; impractical as they are. My everyday attire now consists of a style that is perhaps considered masculine in some sense; and in others, simply…

…improper.

I wear pants. Boots with sheathes. Shirts coupled with corsets. Sometimes waistcoats.

I am guilty once again of affecting your garments. The cross I wear at my throat is yours; as is the belt at my waist. It is slightly too large and sits askew upon my hips, but it is practical, for I have never come across another belt of the same design – with sheathes and pouches for weapons.

I kept your coat also; a few of your shirts. They are practical for my purpose now, and such garments are not tailored for women, for women to do not typically blaze this path. It was Cyborg's suggestion that I kept some of your shirts, but the coat was my own idea. I could not bear the thought of him disposing of it.

It is silly and affected to think this way, but when I wear it, it feels slightly as though you are protecting to me. This brings me comfort in the fray, for you were far more experienced than I at this.

You had far more of a reason.

It grows dark; and colder still. I hear Cyborg call out to me from the parish house to return inside.

We have an early start on the morrow.

Believe me, this Brotherhood of Evil shall pay.

They created you, in a sense; but they destroyed you also, and I, in your place, shall seek your revenge.

When I, in the fashion of a thousand slayers before me, including yourself, drive my stake through their foul hearts, I shall recall that I am doing it for you, Robin.

They – and the further beasts and monsters that walk the Night's Plutonian Shore; eyes with all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, and dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before—

They shall walk this Earth—

Nevermore.

END