Into the Mirror Black: III

CONTENT:
Rating: Teen
Flavor: Drama, Angst
Language: some
Violence: some
Nudity: none
Sex: none
Other: none

Author's Note:

3 am, the hour of death.

III

===#===

Darkness and cold engulfed the world. The railing grew icy under Malcolm's bare hands; he released it. He suffered a momentary loss of equilibrium, when he couldn't tell if he stood on a high balcony or on the ground. When he reached to touch the rail again, it was gone. Gone, too, was the ghost of Sara Lance.

The ground beneath his feet was cold. It was definitely ground, he could feel it now through the soles of his shoes. His outstretched arms still met nothing but empty air. He stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust, or for the darkness to lift. Perhaps he would open his eyes and see his bedroom again.

After what seemed like an interminable time, he did notice a lightening of the area where he was standing. He turned, trying to get his bearings. From the thick darkness, a tall figure emerged, even blacker, hooded. "Isn't this a little cliche'?" Malcolm asked. His voice sounded dead in the night. He turned further, looked around. They were standing in a graveyard, he and the figure in the garb of the League assassins. "Yeah, typical." He kept his voice irreverent, trying to deny the sense of unease growing within him.

The figure lifted a gloved hand and pointed at a gravestone.

"I suppose I'm doomed to die, cold and alone, unloved," he complained sarcastically. He tried to disassociate any feelings from these words, but deep inside, they pained him. He was determined to fight that fate.

The figure only pointed. Immovable. Implacable.

Malcolm steeled himself. "Fine. If I must." He walked closer to the indicated marker. The name CHRISTOPHER GREENFELD was carved upon the stone. He frowned slightly. "I don't know who that is."

The figure moved down the row, pointed to the next gravestone.

"Damon Reed," Malcolm read, still confused. They moved on to the next. "Brenda Adams. Is this supposed to mean something to me?"

Imperiously, the figure pointed at the grave.

Malcolm shook his head. "What am I supposed to be seeing?" He looked again, and this time, he read the whole thing. "Brenda Adams. Born October 11, 1988. Died May fi-" His voice died in his throat. "May 15, 2013." The Undertaking.

He looked down the rest of the row. Rows. The markers all had the Starling City logo at the top, dedicated to the earthquake victims. He read the next stone. Robin Adams, Born June 6, 2006. Died, May 15, 2013. Mother and child died together.

He cut a glare at the silent figure. "This is the past," he said tightly. "If you're the ghost of the future, shouldn't you show me something I don't already know?"

The dark spectre only pointed again, this time through the rows of gravestones.

"What?" Malcolm asked belligerently. "More lives? Or should I say, deaths? Is that your message?"

The figure shook its head.

"Who are you?" Malcolm stepped closer, peered into the shadowed hood. He caught a glimpse of colourless eyes. "I know who you are - Oliver! Trying to turn me to your ways? Of granting people second chances? Of mercy, and your pledge not to kill?"

The figure shook its head again, pointed.

"Then what? Guilt? You should have been stronger! You should have been able to kill him! You had the skill! You nearly killed yourself to defeat me. Why couldn't you use that indomitable conviction to kill Ra's al Ghul?"

Impatiently, the figure pointed, then moved forward between the graves.

Malcolm dogged it. "I thought you-!" Then he saw someone there, in the graveyard; a woman in white. She knelt before one of the graves, weeping. "Is that... Laurel?" He edged closer. "Crying over Sara. We've been over this; this is the past. I have to live with my decisions, and I accept that. I accept the guilt, the consequences, all of it. But I made those decisions, and I've made my peace with them."

The figure shook its head, slowly. It raised its arm, pointed at the woman.

Malcolm looked again. He looked at the gravestone; it was different from the others. He saw the words etched upon it: Beloved Son. "Tommy?" His eyes shifted to the weeping woman. His mouth formed her name, though no sound issued from his lips. "Rebecca."

His dead wife was here, mourning their son. He backed away. The dark figure grabbed his arm, tried to shove him forward. Imperiously, it pointed towards the woman.

"I can't," he said in a breathless panic. "I can't face her. No! No, not... not now." What could he say? How could he explain? How could he atone? He fought loose from the dark figure's grip.

The figure released him and strode forward. It drew a sword.

"Wait, what are you-? No!" Malcolm saw the figure raise the blade, but he was frozen, paralyzed by fear. The figure lashed down viciously, shearing through the woman's neck. She crumpled, lifeless, headless, blood staining her dress crimson. "No!"

The figure spun the blade, shedding blood from the edge. It sheathed the weapon. It turned back to Malcolm, beckoned him. Its eyes were cold within the shadow-shrouded hood.

Malcolm showed his teeth. "Now I know you. Ra's al Ghul! You couldn't kill me, so you do this? You think you can get to me through my family? You bastard!"

The figure shook its head slowly, almost mockingly.

"You coward!" Malcolm moved forward. "Give me a sword; we can end this right now!"

He stopped as the figure spoke. Its voice was a low rumble, disguised with a voice modulator. "You can't kill me."

"You are not immortal," he growled. "I will find a way, if it's the last thing I do! I won't stop until you are dead. I will destroy you!"

"You can't defeat me." The deep modulation began to fade; the voice became lighter, with a warmer tone, almost familiar.

"I will not rest until I bring your empire crashing down! I will do anything it takes," Malcolm threatened. "I will kill your friends, I will rip away your allies, even destroy your minions who follow your every command. You will be alone, vulnerable and weak, and you will never get to me."

"You can't escape me."

Burning cold shot through Malcolm's veins as he recognized that voice. The figure pulled off its hood, revealing a face he knew, the face he saw in the mirror every day. The figure sneered at him, its eyes like ice chips.

"No," Malcolm breathed. His limbs went numb; his mind frozen in shock.

"...No..."

He was his own fate.

===X===

End Notes:

-So, Bloodsong, where's the last chapter? You know, where Malcolm wakes up and is all "Oh! I haven't missed Christmas! It's not too late to change my ways! God bless us, every one!"?

Uh, yeah. I don't think that happens.

-So what does happen?

Well, I think (barring details I got wrong about who is where and doing what on Christmas Eve) this story can just drop into canon. Malcolm wakes up and basically hasn't really changed. It was just a dream, after all. (Right?) Or... has he changed? Perhaps in subtle ways we won't really see until years down the road.

By the way, now that you know who the shadowy figure is that Malcolm is talking to (if you didn't figure it out before), go back and review what he says to 'Oliver' and 'Raz.' ;)

===!===
PS: can folks please not post spoilers in the reviews? like don't mention what happens, exactly. thanks so much! :)