Author's Notes: Again, I thank all of you wonderful readers for your kind reviews and otherworldly patience. Wow, I wrote this TWO YEARS AGO and never posted it - I fail.

If you missed it, I became a single mom (by choice!) in January 2012. My beautiful son is now almost four! So my priority is now basically him and working to support us. I rarely ever have private time let alone fic time (and boy do I miss fic time sometimes! Almost more than private time *LOL*).

That being said, Christmas 2014 I resolved to save some money and make as many hand/homemade gifts as possible and so . . . this was a (late) part of Emaniahilel's Christmas present ^_^

Dedicated to Emaniahilel,

Your friendship means more to me

Than words can properly communicate.

Merry Christmas from Me and the Bean.

Small Beginnings

Part IV: The Parting

By Kysra

Barely a day had passed into eventide as it becomes apparent to Raven that this boy-of-many-names (the very number only lends credence to her knowledge of his all-encompassing arrogance - Richard, Robin, Dick, Wonder boy – courtesy of Miss Gordon, as Uncle Alfred calls her, and Boy Blunder, Raven's secret favorite from the mouth of Bruce) is accustomed to a certain amount of attention . . . and is – summarily – quite disappointed that she requires a certain amount of distance.

Raven has never known what it is to dance, her history of socialization sparse if not nonexistent; however, she can appreciate the intricacies of the interaction between herself and the interloper as a sort of spontaneous lyrical movement.

There is the moment when they are breaking the morning fast that he – at once – gives her space at table then – later – always manages to bump an elbow, tap her shoulder, or chafe her cheek while reaching for this or that condiment or dish.

Then, at the luncheon, which she has taken to eating in the garden if the weather permits, he shall find a reason (even rational to her ears) to join her, sitting quietly though the air around him swirls around her in torrential silent yells, announcing his august presence, tempered by a restrained sort of . . . curiosity.

And, sometimes, in the night, when she retreats to the library, he will follow just as quietly, lounge with a book and even his aura will seem to ignore her. It is then she is most comfortable, setting herself and her chosen text near enough to feel the tired, worn edge of his essence (it reminds her of freshly shorn wool, soft and slightly coarse like wind-blown clouds all morphed with violence but no less beautiful for their abandon).

They find a rhythm of interaction over the months of acquaintance, falling to a staccato beat of approach and retreat and somewhere in the middle of the score, she finds a sense of peace within the strength of his confidence. It is not that she adopts a portion of it for herself but that she comes to accept his presence as is and finds – much to her surprise – that his self-assurance is thoroughly warranted; and – perhaps – her initial interpretation of his soul had been flawed.

He is arrogant – it reads in the tilt of his mouth, the gleam in his eyes, there is no mistaking it; however, his entire character cannot be defined by that trait alone. She knows this, just as she is beginning to understand her entire character cannot be defined by the specter of her father.

More is there rather than less – a keen memory for detail and the mind for complex analyses and deduction; the physical strength, build, and stealth to follow the mental prowess of a hunter of knowledge; the tempered kindness and absolute selflessness to help . . . He is – Raven thinks in her most private thoughts – the very echo and shadow of Bruce.

And yet . . . she also observes the difference. Robin is . . . gentler than Bruce, less refined . . . more approachable. She does not believe this impression is due primarily by their similar age. Rather, the softening seems to be communicated in the tone and volume of his voice, the very hint of uncertainty in his movements . . . the open honesty of his face.

"More and more strange," Raven whispers to the air, through her nose, eyes taken with the mottled colors of the earth as her fingers rake through the loose soil before coming up to gingerly brush errant hair from her face. She yet does not like him, does not truly know what it is to like but knows it is not what she feels when she sees him.

Fingers twirl strands of too-straight hair between them, around them, through them. She supposes she likes Bruce and Uncle Alfred. However, the word like seems too distilled and weak for the strength of her admiration . . . affection.

She smiles, a bare ghost of the expression. Raven has only known one other person well in her entire life and – though strong in spirit – Azar had been mild, quiet, and reserved. In many ways, Bruce and Uncle Alfred are similar to the old teacher; and . . . perhaps, that is why she is entertaining so much trouble reconciling her impression of Robin-Richard-Dick-Boy-Wonder-Blunder.

The object of her thoughts plods into the grass next to her with all the grace of a demented ox. She casts a sidelong glance, takes in his sweat lined bare shoulders and snorts indelicately. He is all mussed hair and gasping breaths, sun-reddened skin and casual flair.

The frenzied, thoroughly kinetic energy saturating the air around him is almost strangling. She thinks if he did not run so much in the mid-morning, he would explode; but she also knows that if he were not so taken with a surplus, he would run like the wind to turn the heads of any who stand to watch.

He is attempting to impress her, she can tell. His stench holds notes of flippant flirtation and masculine pride. She sighs. The attention he craves has been elusive and now he has come to collect once again.

She expects he will do something vulgar and rude, something similar to the time he stole away her veil, dangling it out of her reach until her eyes flashed red. Or he would make a comment about the pallor of her skin, the ashen tint, and invite her to disrobe, the better to soak in the sun's light. Still, he may pull her up and caress her sides, a futile attempt to "tik-ill" her into smiling at him.

He does none of these. Instead, he surprises her by allowing her to see behind the wall lying just beyond the touch of her empathy. "Why do you do that?"

"Why do I do what?" Her eyes are drawn into twin pools of confusion as her head swivels to look upon him fully. He is laid back, arms thrown over his eyes to ward off the sunny light of day. Distantly, she notes again that he is beautiful. His mouth holds her particular interest.

She thinks that maybe his mouth will be a pivotal influence in her near future though she cannot know how that would be so.

"Why do you sit here for hours every day doing nothing? Don't you get bored?"

She knows what a board is but is not certain how to respond to his second question, though she has become somewhat accustomed to this world's propensity for similar sounding words of differing meaning.

Since he has assumed she does nothing, she can only surmise the 'board' he speaks of relates to this state of proposed inaction.

Sighing heavily and feeling long suffering though she has only known him two months and three days, Raven – giving in to a niggling bit of childish fancy – throws a handful of dirt onto his stomach. "It is impossible to do nothing. One breathes, feels, tastes, hears, sees, and exists constantly. Even dead, one performs the action of being dead."

His sigh echoes hers in tone and causes her skin to bristle. "Not what I meant."

"Then make your intent clear."

"Fine." A smile flirts with the corners of his mouth as he rises smoothly to sitting once again, arms crossing over bent knees. "Why are you sitting here when you could be fighting whatever it is you're running from?"

The question is unexpected and her body jumps as if lightning is surging through her violently. Her eyes meet his – bright, ice blue, and just as piercing. She wishes he wore a mask to cover those eyes, sometimes imagines he does. They are too determined, too knowing by half. The collision of their gazes unsettles the fiercely guarded peace she continually seeks.

"What makes you think I run from anything?" There is something in his look that captivates. She suddenly realizes: she is being interrogated, though for what purpose? Her own eyes narrow, lips pursing as a ball of heavy, metallic darkness settles into the hollow just beneath her ribs.

Why must I always be -

"No need to be defensive. I was under the impression you had come to Bruce for help . . . maybe train under him or whatever; but I've noticed you distancing yourself from him and Alfred . . . even squirreling away food." His gaze turns hard, focusing like pure beams of concentrated blue flame skewering her thoughts. "Do you even know where you'll go?"

She turns away from him, feeling lost and ashamed. Sometimes, when the night comes and she becomes aware of the sheer distance of the stars, she wonders if these are the only emotions she will ever feel. More immediately, it occurs to her to hope Bruce and Uncle Alfred have neglected to notice the absence of (a very little) food as well as her subtle quietude. She does not want to seem ungrateful – or worse – a thief.

"Hey." Her back feels warm with his proximity. "Believe it or not, I don't mean to offend you." He laughs a little, but the sound is coarse, the taste bitter. "Just curious . . . and concerned."

He did not have to say so, she can see the grey threads dancing along her peripheral vision, can feel their subtle touch . . . does not really know how to respond appropriately. Then, it occurs to her, despite their similar nature, Bruce is much less difficult to communicate with.

She sighs, turns to him again. "I am . . . not accustomed to . . . socializing or talking to others."

His expression quirks into a ghost of humor, "No kidding."

Staring at him a moment, she gathers her thoughts, decides to ignore his flippant tone as she does not quite understand the joke, and ultimately begins, "I was raised alone . . . away from the people of my home world. My teacher was my caretaker. She . . . was not given to conversation either. Merely spoke to me when no other alternative would suffice."

If he was feeling triumphant with her new efforts at communication, he hid it well. "Sounds lonely."

"Quiet." She corrects him and he takes the liberty to scoot closer, his outer thigh jostling her hip, his fingers artfully falling near hers, brushing with all the subtlety of a weak spring breeze. And though Raven is a stranger to most social conventions and has very limited knowledge of flirtation, she knows a flickering warmth in her chest at the little invasion.

The protective cloak of his aura reminds her of a dark night not too long past when a man known as the Bat defended her from the gods of this world.

"So. What happened?" It hurts, the way the question is asked with such disrespectful abandon, the way it zings through her body like an errant arrow . . . for all of the suffering it hides and holds at once. For a moment, she entertains electing to abstain from answering then she turns her head to glance at his eyes and the commanding gaze he shoots back moves her to whisper,

"It is . . . no more." She swallows and bows her head, sending another prayer begging for forgiveness, solace, . . . strength. "The Destroyer of that place will come here eventually."

Lifting her head, unmindful of the tears standing her eyes, Raven meets the boy's scrutiny directly. It will be the first time she admits what she has mentally run from since she arrived. It will be the first time she confesses boldly, without conjecture. The words come and with them – though they change nothing – the bite and bloom of courage. "He gives chase to find me."

He slumps slightly to prop his head in hand, an elbow resting on his knee. The change in vantage forces her to turn her focus slightly downward, his just a touch up. She immediately recognizes the manipulation of space for what it is – an effort to reinforce her verbal empowerment, a gesture to make himself seem less intimidating.

His words, when they come, are more difficult to decipher. "Well, that must suck."

She tries – and summarily fails – to prevent a perplexed look from overcoming her features. What in the infinite worlds did force suction – oral or otherwise – relate to her situation? Further, sense would dictate further questioning such as: Who is he? Why does he want to destroy everything and everyone? How does he know you? When will he arrive? This Robin asks nothing. Instead, he reaches down to fill his hand with earth, watching the individual grains fall in a thin rain.

"If you ask me, leaving will only exacerbate matters. For one thing, if there really is some Destroyer of worlds out there, you're not going to find more capable fighters out there than the Justice League."

She bites her tongue. He obviously does not know that the League has already tried and found her guilty.

"And," he continues, "if you leave and this guy finds you, I would imagine a lot of innocent bystanders would end up dead." The streaming fall of soil ends and the boy straightens, his eyes losing their playful brightness to darken with a striking air of command.

"You don't seem the type to want to cause undue trouble . . . but you also seem stuck which doesn't help anything at all. Your home world has already been destroyed. You obviously think this one will have the same fate. I'm assuming that you're planning to leave this world in a vain attempt to stop that from happening; but I doubt the guy you're running from will give a shit if you're here or not before he burns everything to the ground."

Raven moves to rise, eyes darting to the newly fixed glass door and the crackling black energy encircling the courtyard fountain a few feet away. She feels nervous, the tether around her emotions becoming slack as her breath quickens and hands sweat.

Blithely, he grabs her wrist and forces her down, his palm rough and fingers ironically gentle. She feels trapped by that brusque tenderness – even moreso than by the demanding stare he levels at her, ocean dark and just as capable of drowning. Raven swallows and opens her mouth to order him to release her when he pointedly enunciates, "I'll ask you again: Why are you sitting here when you could be fighting whatever it is you're running from?"

His tone is such that she feels obligated to answer. His look is one that demands obedience; and yet, she hesitates, takes a breath and thinks. There's something tickling along the edges of her aura, a probing that is echoed in his eyes.

He is waiting for something specific from her, and she cannot fathom what that something could be. After moments of confusion and inner speculation, she decides to be honest, "I . . . am not a fighter. Azarath is a world of peace. One does not hurt another – human nor beast nor land nor air nor sea. It simply is not done."

"Azarath is gone." His tone is heavy, leaden, pointed; and the sound, the words, the meaning hit her with all the force of an angry ram. She had been speaking as if her world was not dead. She had answered as if it was a place and time she could return to. She had been deluding herself with the prospect of normalcy when, in truth, nothing would be as it was ever again.

A strong breeze comes, taking her veil and ruffling her hair, cooling droplets upon her heated cheeks. She did not even know she had shed tears, and when the realization comes, she brings up shaking fingers to dash them away. Her grief would not properly serve the memory and sacrifice of her teacher or the people who had at once shunned and supported her.

Her tears would do nothing for all of the lost dreams of her mother.

Raven allows herself to fold, face buried in hands and cradled by knees, rocking forward and back slowly. Her sobs are quiet and her mind locking in tightly the vitriolic chants of Rage while allowing out the twin whispers and cries of Sadness and Shame.

Distantly, his voice curls into her ears, soft and holding a note of remorse, "You . . . I have this feeling . . . if you're interested, I'm talking to a guy out in Hell's Kitchen. He's a little older than us . . . had a really bad accident and was outfitted with the most amazing tech. We're thinking of moving out to Jump City and forming a team of superheroes – the Titans."

Through the tears, Raven snorts. Of course he would choose such an egotistical moniker.

"I would like to ask you to join us." She feels the weight of his arm come down across her back; and rather than feeling constrictive, his strength seems to flow into her freely, granting her the confidence to peek at him above clasping, damp fingertips. "You may think you aren't a fighter, but you've been fighting for a long time. You're fighting now."

He tightens the arm around her, coaxes her up, catches her chin with his free hand. His eyes are almost glowing – like the offering flames in the Temple once did . . . almost silver, the color of Azar's eyes. She can smell the dirt and sweat on him, sense the absolute belief and conviction before he continues to speak. The feeling fuses steel into her spine, crystallizes her response as he tells her,

"You were born to fight this guy."

Later, after the sky has darkened and the evening meal has been taken, Raven stands in the room bequeathed to her and bends to pack a small bag with her meager belongings and the small supply of food she had shamefully hidden away.

She has neglected to engage the "e-leck-trick" lighting that seemed to burn without fuel, flicker, or wane, but studied by the moon-glow filtering through the near windows. Her heart is full and heavy and Nevermore is quiet for once.

Perhaps it is a sign that she is moving in the right direction.

"You don't have to leave right away, you know." Bruce says from the doorway, his shirt is white and catches the light, almost seeming to glow, a silent rebel to his usual darkness.

Raven turns her head to face him, unfazed at his presence. "I thank you for your continued hospitality." She bows her head and touches fingers to her brow, a sign of deep respect. "However, Richard insists we leave tomorrow."

The man leans upon the door frame, appearing at leisure, but Raven sees the thorny tendrils of stress dragging across the skin at his nape, branching in the air and reaching for her. "Robin is brash . . . impatient and sometimes so concerned with his own ideas and plans he can be short-sighted; but he has good instincts." He pauses a moment, the moonlight catching his eyes and illuminating the oft-times masked blue of the iris. "I think you made the right choice in joining his team."

It is something she has worried over since the decision was made only a few hours hence, still unsure of whether Richard was correct, wondering if she can fight at all, questioning within herself whether she can trust him, confused and blind of where, how to start. She shakes her head. "I . . . am not as sure."

The brambles of his aura soften, as light and comforting as the feathers of the dove, caressing her cheek, her forehead, chafing at her chin. "I've noticed that you don't seem to be sure of anything save the need to run away." His voice is just as light, a touch of humor breaking through in the growing darkness. "You need to have confidence in yourself. I think Robin can help you with that."

She nods slightly, wondering what else there is to say, her fingers tug absently at the ends of her hair; and before she can stop the words, she asks him, "Do you think I can fight him?"

"Yes." No hesitation. It drops like a weight, kicking up the glittery dust of her pride.

"Do you . . . do you think I can . . . defeat him?" She cannot speak louder than a whisper, the words lodging in her throat, the thought expanding in her brain until there is nothing left but the fear of his answer.

Raven understands then, that more than respect Bruce, she trusts him implicitly. And just as it happened the night they first met, he approaches, kneeling before her and looking into her face. This time, however, his features are bare. She can see the tension in his jaw, the angle of his cheek bones, the slope of his nose . . . the intensity of his eyes. The sight is no less intimidating than when he is cowled.

"I know that with training and support, you will."

She swallows the words and the worry along with it. Her arms ache, fingers twitch with the want to embrace him, to cry, laugh and be held. Instead, she blinks rapidly to stymie the reflex and ducks her head as his hand comes down upon her head to ruffle the uncovered hair at her crown.

The affection – for surely, she has begun to recognize these gestures as they are – is still alien but not unwelcome. She tries to hide a small smile at the pleasure; and she knows she has been unsuccessful when he chuckles under his breath as he rises to walk toward the door, "Good-bye, Raven. If you ever need anything, call me."

"I shall. Many blessings." As his form vanishes among the shadows beyond the open door, Raven sends up a small, fervent prayer, " . . . many blessings for and in all ways. Azarath. Metrion. Zenthos."

She wakes with the dawn, when the house is quiet and outside entertains an audible hush. It is a marvel, she thinks, this city with its gray stung sun-rise and warming 'kohn kreet' – like a weather-roughened living skin – flat yet sloping beneath her bare toes.

The sun, its waking light and radiant heat negotiate the billows of her dress to reach and wrap her cold hands, kiss her eyelids. It is an embrace she needs, tainted as it is with the hint of acrid filth she is becoming accustomed to.

Lowering herself to sit upon the "drive" (she still cannot understand having one word to describe both a noun and verb), Raven brings her knees to her chest and sighs, relishing the quiet here and inside.

Resting her chin between her knees, she reflects on the many suns and moons she has spent here in this place with these men . . . with Richard. There is an air of melancholy, a subtle weight at her back and stifling her nose. It feels similar to loss.

Raven did not know her mother and knowing that woman was gone had filled her with regret, but any longing she may have entertained – no matter how small and short-lived – had been put to rest long ago.

The loss of Azar was altogether different.

She had lived with Azar. Azar had - in the most real and complete sense – raised her from infancy; however, there had always been a distance there that could not be bridged by physical proximity. Azar's overt reserve, Raven knows, was enacted with the most pure of intentions; and Raven had loved Azar . . . as much as Raven could realize love . . . yet, the death of Azar – and Azarath as a whole – had left more a sense of guilt than grief.

Her eyes stare out unblinking as she breathes in and breathes out, wondering at how even now, still here, she has begun to feel . . . bereft of their company . . . already misses them: Bruce and Uncle Alfred.

Arms unaccustomed to holding or being held tighten around her legs. She has never had a family, though she had studied such relations from afar in Azarath (and secretly wished to have such bonds for her own); however, the emotion she has so dangerously developed toward the two men is such that it is as if they are the answer to those secret wishes, and somehow . . . somehow she knows they see in her the same.

To part from such fragile, new ties fills her with a sense of dread that, refreshingly, has nothing to do with her father.

She smiles slightly and closes her eyes, a wave of something unfamiliar coming over her. It brings a subtle heat, an energy, an anchoring sort of stable weight that is at once liberating and grounding, very similar to one of Uncle Alfred's fresh teas. Her head lifts with the sensation, swivels with the realization, and her eyes find Richard standing there, fresh garments clothing his body, no shoes protecting his feet.

His eyes still hold a hint of sleep fog. His hair stands up in the air – no doubt disturbed by the wandering fingers that comb through it again and again at her scrutiny.

She smiles at him, completely happy for the first time in her life as she understands now: she has the power to change her fate.

"We're going to leave soon," Richard says without preamble, his voice thick and slightly rough in the subdued whisper of morning. "Are you ready?"

That confident spark – a bare shadow of Richard's own brand of buoyant self-assurance – grows in increments as a new future is laid before her, building upon the boy's strong shoulders and stretching out to encompass the two men yet resting in the house behind them.

She stands, shifting smoothly to her feet without her usual awkwardness and stares him down with a gaze as direct as any he has aimed at her in the recent past. Her chin tilts up just slightly as her fingers pull the veil from her hair, letting the breeze tease the newly shorn locks. When she speaks, he smiles at her, a cocky, knowing line that at once breeds a strange, flaming sort of trust.

"I am ready."

The Beginning