NOTES: This fic would not be possible without the continued support and pure genius of Emaniahilel. She – like me – is a bit of an Arella fan and when I said I wanted to write an AU TT fic where Arella came to Earth, she helped me flesh out the plotline of this oneshot, even when I only had one sentence I wanted to build around. That's how much of a genius Em is. THANK YOU, EM!
All of that being said, this is dedicated to my reason for living, my beautiful son, Declan. Though I planned to have you, the moment I found out you were on the way was unexpected in the most beautiful gift of a way; and though I planned on how I would do this parenting thing years before you were born, I still find this path to be completely uncharted and full of wonderful, happy, and terrific surprises.
Uncharted
by Kysra
It happens – as it did the first time – with an elemental shift of time and space. Light rushes below and around, sizzling with lightning and burning brimstone. Her head feels as if it will explode with noise and her skin is at once frozen and scalded – tearing apart then coming back together in excruciating seconds. She can't breathe past the momentary nothing and in that space she dies, is resurrected.
Angela died this way years ago and was reborn in another world, Arella. And as she is thrown to the rain-damp asphalt amid the chill of winter – night-dark sky overhead and surrounding on all sides by sky scrapers – she wonders, wiping a mixture of tears, dirt, and blood from her face, who will she become now?
Rolling painfully to her knees, she tries to ignore the cold and take stock of what has happened and what will be.
Her body feels like a huge, unanimous bruise but there are also cuts oozing blood along her legs – a few fresh abrasions adorning her knees and right hip where she most harshly connected with the alley floor. Her right elbow is raw and splinters of broken beer-glass are dark among the torn skin and red blood. The raw wool dress she has wrapped about her frame for more than a decade has been torn, the hem a ragged fringe framing her shins. She is lucky, she thinks. She cannot detect a single broken bone.
Rising to her feet, she looks around – partly confused but also, hit with a ping of nostalgia. She knows this place, has smelled this same stench of vomit, sweat, and piss and seen the steaming vent sending smoke and heat into the air from beneath foil barred windows. Running a hand through her hair, she recoils at the scent of singed strands, the thready feel of gnarls sticking to her fingers. From here, she's not certain where to go or how to proceed.
Certainly she knows where she should go, has an idea of what needs to happen now that Azarath is dead and she is here; but she shies from that route - if only for the moment. After all, going to jail would not be conducive to the mission entrusted to her by God and Azar . . .
She sneezes and sniffles, quietly, tears burning hot trails into her cheeks as a sob breaks, pounding through her chest and squeezing her throat. No, no. She will not shatter here. She will not allow listless desperation to freeze her to inaction – Angela was prone to resignation, Arella is a creature of determination. There will be time to grieve later – when she is confirmed safe and ensconced someplace where she can remember warmth again. Her body gives a teeth-rattling shiver as the feather-light touch of snow brushes her skin with glittery droplets of ice water.
With faltering steps (she can no longer feel her toes nor the ground beneath them), she moves forward toward purring, clunking, whirring, chirping, beeping, screeching, ob-noxious sounds of cars and people. This world stinks of industry and carelessness – so different from the smoke-laced scents of wintergreen, birch, and rosewater she has become accustomed to. And just like that, she is not only grieving but homesick as well. She sighs and keeps moving, relishing the prick and burn of blood flowing into her extremities to ooze out, hot and aching, from the many wounds her journey has thus far gouged.
Gritting her teeth she pulls her hood a little further over her head, covering her face just enough to mask her features in shadow without obscuring her view. The electric street lights are unstable in this area, clicking on and off at random intervals as delinquents, criminals, and prostitutes stir about a blighted sidewalk and into the street when traffic is stalled. Once, a long time ago, she was one among them - thieving for her daily bread and drinking water from a storm drain.
She never wanted to return here again.
If things have remained the same, she will not be bothered overmuch as long as she keeps to the darkest shadows and arms herself with blatant instability so she chuckles to herself, clacks her teeth, sings under her breath a twisted lullaby in the most gutteral voice she can muster. There is a collection of discarded bottles on a dirty stoop. She wastes no time in grabbing one then bashing the side of the building with the base. The glass shatters leaving a jagged, dangerous weapon in her hand - a hand already stained with her own blood and dripping with fresh lacerations.
This isn't Azarath, she muses. There is no reason to allow herself to fall prey to this violent society without a solid, equally violent defense.
And all the while, as she navigates through Hell's Kitchen - even more worn down and scary and dangerous than she remembers - the cold is settling into her bones and stiffening her muscles. Her breath is visible in tufts of steam and her eyes are fixed but unseeing as she works out - in her head - the chances of finding some charitable person or organization at this time of night who will take in a stranger with little more than the veil upon her head and the dress wrapped around her body. By now, she has lost all sensation up to her ankles and when she looks down to view her feet, they are alabaster white and near glowing against the dark pavement.
"Not quite bitten yet . . .," she grins slightly and looks up, her eyes finding the most prominent building against the darkened skyline - a spire separating the moon in halves. "No one ever got anywhere by stalling."
And, just like that, as she passes into the slightly more civilized portion of Gotham's underbelly (where bookies, mobsters, and con men are more likely to dwell) - marked out by the Plum Street Tavern (amazingly still in business), she accepts that - no matter the risk to herself - she needs to go where she should go so that what needs to happen now happens. She is cold now, but she just escaped an inferno and the flames are licking through space and time and will reach into this world if she does not leave.
Her breath pants out a little faster now as old paranoia reintroduces himself. She can almost feel the tongues of fire flicking at her heels, the slow, heavy burn stabbing up to her calves as she moves faster, running through the shadows, keeping her head down, her eyes following the stationary moon, the tower . . . praying. "Let there be light . . . . Give me a sign, anything. I need something to work with." There are building she passes that are new and unfamiliar. She balks and wants to stop and study as her memory is proven wrong and her sense of direction is derailed; but she doesn't stop, doesn't pause. Too much, too fast, everything has been destroyed . . .
Sobs break into her breath, tripping her heart. There are no tears that flow or fall - her tear ducts are frozen over; but she sniffles again and heaves great, wrenching sighs, the rhythm beginning to sound like a name she has no right to utter, Raven. If Raven were to find out what has happened, it would kill her. Not right away, her daughter is made of stern stuff, but - eventually - the misplaced guilt would take root and destroy her from the inside until all that is left is . . . Trigon.
The snow stabs at her face and arms and hands without hesitance or mercy and it is with a distant sort of calm that she realizes she's running, her lungs burning with the cold air rushing in and out and legs turning numb and rubbery. She could call for someone, she knows, but her sense of urgency prods her to keep going, to keep focus, to find . . .
A flash in her peripheral, a spotlight signal standing out - more beautiful than the moon - to beckon . . . Batman.
"Hey!" She flies into something solid and hard and painful. As her body recoils, she overcompensates - throwing her weight forward without taking into account the state of her limbs. She collapses without much effort, and though she tries to land on her knees, they are unresponsive and she ends up sprawled on the ground, her arms pillowing her head.
"What the fuck, bitch?!" Rough hands grab fist-fulls of the too-thin cloth hiding her modesty before jerking up. Her arms and chest hurt - the glass littering her wounds had been partially exposed - now they have been nailed deep into the flesh. Ignoring the pain, the numbing sensation of her hips, she scrambles to bring her feet below her, hands pressing up against the asphalt. The fingers gripping her are violent and impatient, taking her hair and forcing her upright.
She cries out and - wildly - spits in the stranger's face without taking the time to study it. It is the most pacifistic way she can think to negotiate her freedom. Her broken bottle was lost – shattered and driven into her skin - when she fell.
There are voices yelling at her in English - a language she hasn't spoken in quite some time, the tones are biting and gruff and cruel to her ears. They remind her of childhood. She fights and claws and protests, hair whipping about, blood pounding through her head, pulsing in her limbs.
Her face is impacted by an open palm and her neck tenses and extends in response, snapping back and pulling to sprain.
Something warm and wet is filling her nose, the sickeningly warm, coppery taste of blood glides down her throat. Her own hand darts out in a fist and smashes into spongy flesh and solid bone - the imprint and cut of human teeth razing her knuckles.
It's enough to loosen this person's hold, to tear herself away with a broken cry.
This time, she's aware of her speed and nothing else. It doesn't matter that her hair is becoming matted with snow water or that her toes have long since turned blue or that her teeth won't stop chattering and she can barely control her own movements. She has to get out of here (this sidewalk, this street, this city . . . this world) - sooner rather than later - for a variety of reasons, the first of which is to reach someone who 1. will believe in where she's been and what has brought her here and 2. has the resources and knowledge to help.
No longer keeping to the shadows (it didn't do her much good in the first place), she does not mind who she passes, grazes, or bumps. Rather, she runs full-tilt in plain sight and pushes her way through the oncoming foot traffic, club lines, night-time delivery personnel, and strays, completely unapologetic and unharrassed. There is only blind focus on her destination and the determination to get there painted on her face, darkening her usually bright eyes.
It is a small matter that she's not even sure if her destination is the correct one.
Wayne Enterprises is located at Gotham's heart and center. It is the tallest building, the largest employer, the richest business; and she's not sure why but her intuition leads her here . . . that and the beam from the Signal seems to be based either atop or near the Tower. The doors are closed at this hour though a handfull of offices are illuminated - mostly in the upper levels. As she lopes toward it - waiting for safe crossings then running through intersections and weaving through people and construction and taped off man-holes, she sends up a mighty prayer that she'll somehow find a clue that will point the way.
When she (finally) reaches the entranceway steps, she takes a moment to catch her breath, craning her neck to gaze along the facade. Her eyes find the tail of the Bat Signal easily, her lips curving into a grim little smile. The beam does not originate atop the Tower but at some point behind it.
"Excuse me, miss?" The voice is soft-spoken, cultured, British.
Arella jumps and turns to find an elderly gentleman dressed in a heavy coat and black tuxedo pants - a chauffer's cap upon his head. His face is thin and angular and there are white tufts of hair visible from beneath the cap. He is standing near the line of glass doors (shining like slabs of ice), his hands coming exposed as fingers pull gloves off. He stills at something in her look then slowly moves down the short steps toward her. "You must be cold. May I offer you my coat?"
Heart hammering, breath seizing, she doubles over and clutches at her chest. "Please," she manages around the wad of vomit lodged in her throat. Moments later, a heavy weight is settled upon her shoulders and gentle hands are urging her to sit upon the curb. The man kneels before her (he is wearing a tuxedo . . . ) and removes his scarf, wraps it around her feet then takes each of her hands in turn, guiding her fingers into his gloves. "Th - thank you."
There is silence as she catches her breath, wipes her nose. His hands are rubbing at her elbows, and she wonders if she'll ever be warm again. The great, rolling shivers that move through her, quake her voice, give her some hope.
"Perhaps we should move inside," he says softly before meeting her gaze. "If I may say . . . you are in quite a state, madam." A handkerchief is in his hand and before her face in an instant, gently removing the freezing snow from her cheeks, the blood from her nose and lip.
"You're quite prepared." It feels as if she has forgotten that kindness had existed here too. She cannot think of how to act in this world anymore. The rules of etiquette have been lost to her, so she stumbles upon her words and keeps her hands to herself, eyes watchful and intent. The man merely watches back.
"My employer demands that I be ever vigilant. Now, madame, your feet are in need of some medical attention. May I call an ambulance for you?" A giggle pushes through her throat - a surprise to both of them, and his own humor crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It's not only her feet that need medical attention.
"Thank you, but I'm fine," she lies to his face because going to the hospital, having to explain will take too long and probably send her to a mental ward somewhere with padded walls and rubber floors. "I'm in a bit of a hurry . . . . but I could probably step inside for a moment, to thaw, if it's all right?"
He nods and helps her up, guides and supports her when her legs give out and she realizes that she's missed feeling a person - solid and warm - against her. He smells of cologne and peppermint and . . . disinfectant? She grins, ignoring the sting of cuts reopening. "May I ask what brings you out into this foul weather, miss? And why would you venture out with so little protection from the cold?"
The lobby is a (heavenly, blessedly, warm) large, cavernous space with shining brown marble floors and gold filligree, chandeleurs like stalagmites reaching toward the ground, and tasteful flower and green arrangements here and there - on the floor, on tables, on wall ledges and overhangs. She's preoccupied with the study of this room as the gentleman lowers her into a plush, leather upholstered chair, then leaves to a nearby washroom. Still, she answers him, "I was . . . compelled to fix something that needed fixing. Unfortunately, I wasn't aware that Gotham was in the doldrums of winter. If I had, I would have -"
He is back, setting a crystal punch bowl full of water at her feet. Carefully, he takes up one foot then the other and lowers them into the water. There is no steam dancing upon the surface so she knows it is not hot but - somehow - the water feels scalding to her abused feet. Her back archs away from the back rest and her legs tense to rigid as her teeth come together, barring back a scream.
The man is at her elbow, takes her hand and lets her squeeze. Labor, wasn't as painful as this, but at least she knew her feet were still alive.
"Thank you . . . so much - for this." She can't seem to sit still, her body restless and writhing. Where once her skin was goosepimpled and shivering with cold, she is now sweating beneath the fur-lined coat draped over her shoulders.
"It is the least I can do, madame -"
"Arella." Honestly, she doesn't care if giving her name is reckless - there are those still on Earth who would welcome Trigon's wrath, and those who know her face, her former name, and - possibly - this one.
"Miss Arella. May I have my hand for a moment to fetch the first aid kit?"
He leaves again as soon as she is able to release him, and - for some reason - she feels like laughing. She does giggle again, thinking she may be descending into hysteria. All things equal, she's pretty proud of herself for holding on as long as she has.
It does occur to her that she should go, slip out the door and resume her running tour of the city; but something stops her. Azar had once told her that kindness is something rare and precious, it should be savored, studied, and repaid. She smiles softly, the memory only bringing a heavy sweetness. Azar was the kindest person she has ever known.
The gentleman is back momentarily, kneeling before her on the hard floor. "Ah, I can bandage myself. Please don't trouble yourself anymore than this." She reaches - awkwardly - for the first aid tin in his hands, and he bats her away.
"Nonsense." With a towel draped across his thighs, he takes her right foot and dries it. He notes that the skin is still cold but the color is coming back as he cleans and bandages the multitude of open wounds, pulls a thick sock (where he acquired such a thing in Wayne Tower is anyone's guess) over her ankle then repeats the process with the left foot. "Forgive me for asking . . . you said something about needing to fix something somewhere?"
She hisses when an alcohol soaked cotton ball is smoothed over her ruined elbow. "I need to . . . get out of the city. Someone's after me." He murmurs an apology for the hurt and asks her if she would like him to remove the glass from the cuts there. She is suddenly very grateful for his discretion and lack of judgment.
"Have you alerted the authorities?" His hands are moving with a deft sort of knowledge even as his eyes - dark brown and wise - take hers, measuring.
Not really understanding why but not questioning it, she trusts him enough to gesture to her dress and reply, "I'm afraid the authorities - as they are - would send me to the funny farm before ever listening to me. I was actually trying to find the Batman. I assume he knows someone who can help me."
The man pats her knee and she's suddenly reminded of her grand-father, the only person in her family who had loved her. "I'm sure he does."
Arella blinks, realizing, "I never did get your name, sir."
"Alfred."
"Alfred," she smiles again, feeling lighter and at peace. She knows it is the calm before the proverbial storm, and she allows herself the time and calm to savor it. "Thank you."
He's bandaging her hands and moves on to clean the cuts on her face. She can't stop smiling. She wants to hug him. She hasn't given or received a hug since before Raven was born, and when she thinks of all the missed opportunities, her heart aches.
And then her eye catches on the newspaper sitting on the table next to her chair. "Raven?" She is so shocked (somewhat appalled) that she rudely pushes his hand away from the cheek he has been dabbing with antiseptic and lunges for the paper. There, on the front page, is her daughter dressed in a leotard and cape and wrangling a monstrous beast called Cinderblock with a lasso of black energy.
"Are you a fan, Miss Arella?"
"A fan?" Her confusion must be evident on her face for his answering look is set between amused and intrigued.
"Of the Titans."
He gestures to the article which she skims and discovers her child - whom left Azarath to seek a way to defeat Trigon - has been playing superhero in neighboring Jump City. "Sweet Azar . . . " Somehow, Arella had assumed her daughter would know to keep a low profile. "At least I know where she is now."
"You know Mi-, Raven, the Dark Witch?" His expression has become serious, focused, almost . . . cold, "Personally?"
She blanches. Had she spoken out loud? And how should she respond? Lies would beget more lies. Honesty would bring more questions . . . assuming he would believe her in the first place. Ah well . . . "You could say that. She's my daughter."
He doesn't seem surprised at all, just squints at her for a moment before setting a band-aid just above an eyebrow and standing to offer a hand. "She has your eyes."
Arella doesn't quite know what to say to that, but she takes his hand, allows him to pull her up, and in a fit of complete selfishness, she leans forward and wraps her newly bandaged arms around his waist and leans her head just under his chin. The coat falls with a whisper and 'clump' but she doesn't mind, her heart is full and calm and safe for the first time in a very, very long time. "Thank you, for everything. You don't know what your kindness means to me."
He doesn't hug her back but pats her shoulder awkwardly, and that's okay. She merely wants to show her appreciation (and feel human again . . . centered).
Releasing him, she bends to pick up the coat and holds it out to him. "I'm afraid I have no money to repay you."
"Nonsense," he says, gesturing to keep the coat, "It was an unexpected pleasure making your acquaintance." There is a moment, just a sparkling little bit of an idea, that she wonders if - in a different world, alternative to this one - Angela Roth becomes this man's child. That girl wouldn't have run away from home. That girl would have led a happy, normal life free of demons, teen pregnancy, dimension hopping, and running.
Arella has felt, for a while now, that she is doomed to a lifetime of running; and at thirty-two years old, she is already exhausted.
"And yours," she says, eyes prickling with tears, spirit crowing at the hot feel of them. She feels, smiling at this man - the only person out of seeming hundreds she passed that reached out to help her, that she has been touched by God. With one more offering of thanks, she turns and just as she steps through the double glass doors, his voice gives her pause,
"If you wait upon the roof of the police building, I'm sure the Batman will turn up."
She turns and gifts him with a smile so pure and big, it strains her facial muscles. "I can't thank you enough."
"You are very welcome. Don't be a stranger."
Her skin tingles, but there really is nothing else to say; so, with a heart brimming with hope and optimism it had previously lacked, she leaves Alfred and Wayne Enterprises behind, braving the cold with a more suitable armor, and feeling a little less crazy, a little more grounded, . . . a lot more confident despite the grief still simmering in the vicinity of her spleen.
The wind has picked up and it assaults her hair (her veil came loose miles ago) and cheeks and eyes. She can barely see for the knife-sharp sting of the air and the hot, blurring tears. Resolutely, she makes her way - sedately this time, ignoring how the fibers of her socks catch and rip against the asphalt.
She's not quite sure how much time elapsed from the moment she met Alfred to the second she left, but the moon is lower in the sky and there are less people on the street. The snow is still falling, faster than before, and is coating the streetlamps and cars. There is a subtle stillness despite the low whistle of the wind, as if the city is a vacuum of air instead of a bustling metropolis full of skyscrapers.
And - she notes - the Signal is no longer shining. Swallowing, she keeps moving forward, wondering briefly if she should wait till tomorrow night.
No . . . She can't wait that long. For all she knows, Trigon is hot on her tail. Azar's barrier will only last so long. Besides, Where would I go? She cannot impose upon Alfred . . . doesn't even know where she would find him. He's surely left the Tower already.
It is a deceptively long walk to the police department building and her heart is beating hard and fast against her rib cage, her breath a puffing series of miniature clouds . . . Her earlier energy has given way to a satisfying full-body ache, the slow burn of her optimism settling into an airy kind of tiredness.
She studies the building from across the street, tilting her head this way and that, thinking on what would be her best option - going up from the inside or using the fire escape bordering the alley?
Imagining the sort of brouhaha that would break out if someone in uniform saw her - bandaged, bedraggled, and wearing - what she was sure was – a fairly expensive coat over a dirty, bloodied dress, Arella closes her eyes and figures the fire escape would be her best bet.
She sighs . . . Azarath was a world of natural beauty and minimal human intrusiveness; and though hard manual labor was required for most - even the simplest - tasks, she did not relish the idea of taxing her body anymore than it has been.
Her hands - bandaged and bleeding cold - rub absently against her thighs. No one ever got anywhere by standing still.
Entire body shaking and zinging with anticipation, she strides across the highway when all is clear and the 'Walk' sign blinks at her. She looks around, peers through narrowed eyes into the darkness, behind the line of trashcans at the back of the alley. When she feels secure enough, she glances up at the lowest rung of the fire escape and blows a long, weary breath through parted lips. She will have to jump the distance and hope her upper body strength is enough.
Suddenly, it hits her that she is on her way to meet possibly the last human being she will ever have contact with. That thought leads to the very reality of Azarath's fate, all of her friends . . . Azar, and the very depth of loss no one else will ever be privy to besides herself. The grief grips her heart, tightens in her chest, and fuels her limbs with a fury that has her grasping at freezing metal and kicking into the air for purchase.
With effort and an angry fire in her veins screaming for vengeance, justice, she pulls herself up enough to grab the next rung then the next and the next, lifting her feet up to push against the bottom-most rung, supporting herself - the screeching of metal upon metal and the grating sounds of metal upon brick thick in the winter stillness.
It doesn't matter if the police hear her. It doesn't matter as long as she has one moment to speak to Gotham's resident superhero. It doesn't matter as long as she ceases to exist in this dimension and her daughter is warned of the possible coming danger. This is her resolution, her mission. She will not give in to desperation. She will do what she can to bring Trigon's downfall. She will do everything in her power to stop him in his tracks, and she will not allow herself to fail. Her life in Azarath was a blessing from Azar. Her return to Earth held the promise of redemption; but first, she would have to muster the courage to make it.
Ignoring the groan of her bones, the ache of her bruised muscles, and the pulsing of her still-fresh wounds, Arella climbs, fumbling here and there where ice has formed - invisible but tangible - upon the platform grating and rungs; and when she finally reaches the roof, panting and nerveless, she thanks God and all his angels and saints that no one noticed her. It would have been difficult to speak to the Batman if she was arrested or in prison.
She grins and reaches up to pull a non-existent veil tighter over her head, thanking Alfred again in her head, and taking the steps across the roof to the Bat Signal - standing cold and alone and woefully unlit and -
Was that sound foot steps coming from - where . . . ?
A door to the roof opens to her right just as she ducks behind what she thinks is a heating unit (it rumbles and makes it difficult to hear what is happening a few feet away). There is a pause as her back presses against the hot metal and her breath stalls. She is hypersensitive to the cacophony of combined machine noise, wind whistle, and under-silence; and her mind is a jumble of panicked chaos shot with silent begging for deliverance or, at the very least, invisibility.
Her chest is beginning to burn with the need for air when – before she can even comprehend what is happening – a strong force takes her by the shoulder, whirls her around in a staggering arc, then hauls her into the metallic side of the furnace with a loud sound . . . like a clap of thunder. Her head makes contact first as stars burst before her eyes, mouth slack and voice stolen by surprise.
It takes her a moment to get her bearings, sinking down into limp knees before the hand gripping the front of her dress pulls up, bringing her to hang upon sock clad tip toes.
Her veil has fallen and the coat – so sweetly gifted – begins to slip from her shoulders, her fingers now encompassed in fleece cuffs and stored body heat. She swallows, then fights to open her eyes – screwed shut with discovery and the shock of assault.
There, the smell of leather and smoke. Here, the sensation of another body pressing against her, supporting her weight. The neck of her dress is tight against her throat where her chin brushes against glove and hard knuckles.
Again, she swallows, opens her eyes and focuses on the grim, masked face of the Batman, dark eyes boring into her face. She can't help it. She smiles, nearly laughs, with utter and complete joy. (There is a bare moment when her hands itch to frame his face, her mouth rings to kiss him – she is so happy; but his expression, the shadow of his eyes and the frowning tilt of his mouth stop her.)
"Why are you here?" His voice is low, gruff, menacing. And yet, what she notes first is that he has not asked who she is . . . which meant one of two things: either he already knows or just didn't care.
She is hoping the former.
Thoughts flying like maniacal doves 'round and 'round with no sense of direction nor destination, Arella opens her mouth to speak, to nail down an answer, an explanation, something.
He's probably just as intimidating without the costume, she thinks ruefully. "Help." It is the best she can come up with, exhaustion dragging her body further into numbness and fear tinged fascination sending her brain into hyperactivity.
Sincerely, she wonders just how he hasn't carted her off to Arkham just yet. Though she has no mirror, she is certain she must look at least slightly crazy. Sometimes, if she is honest with herself, she believes she actually is.
There must be something in her thoughts, in her eyes, in her face or the way her eyes are watering cold above her smiling mouth that the Batman loosens his hold enough that she stands on her own two feet (albeit a bit unsteadily). He releases the cloth at her neck just long enough to take both her wrists and pin them behind her without any force.
A formality, she assumes. Regardless of how weak and pathetic she actually is, he is still the Batman, a fighter and target of countless criminals. She would be just as paranoid in his shoes.
. . . Is paranoid to a certain extent. And the longer this exchange lasts . . .
"I need help. I – Azarath is gone, and I need to –"
"Gone?" He growls the inquiry under his breath, with so much menace that she folds in on herself in reaction. She's still having trouble adapting to this world's dark violence when her heart remains with the peace and friendship she has unwillingly left behind.
Struggling against the lump in her throat, she tries again to explain, averts her eyes from the intensity of his glaring study, "It was Scath . . . Trigon. He –" The truth – the very nature of her folly fifteen years ago struck her like a burning arrow through her heart and with it, her face crumples and fat, hot tears defiantly roll from shut eyes. "He found me. He destroyed everything."
She allows her weight to pull her forward, her forehead coming to rest on the cold leather at the Batman's shoulder. He doesn't push her away, permits this trespass of sniveling and tears even as Arella bites back a wail.
. . . so tired. She's just so tired. And cold. And filled with the knowledge that this is all her fault. If she hadn't run away, hadn't sought refuge with a cult, hadn't given herself and her child to an evil god . . .
The cold does not matter, nor the Dark Knight before her, nor the notion that her actions had – ultimately – caused the destruction of a world that had been a sanctuary for those who believed themselves lost. It didn't matter because those very same selfish, ignorant actions had also born a possible solution.
Yes. It was too late for Azarath, and Arella would always bear the blame (warranted or no) for the death of such a beautiful sanctuary; but it wasn't too late to stop Trigon. And to do that . . .
"I need to leave Earth, he'll follow me. I know he will. And you must tell Raven. She needs to be ready if he decides to come for her too." She tries to ignore the fact that she is babbling . . . and how shrill and shaky her voice is (only partially from the cold but more from the rolling sobs still tearing through her throat like arctic waves. She tries not to think that even this behavior – no matter how well intentioned – could be construed as even more proof of her questionable sanity.
Loosening his hold on her hands but not the pressure or tension of his body, the Batman stares her down and asks (though she believes instantly that he already knows the answer), "And what good would running do?"
That question hits her hard. What good has it done? She has an abundance of past experience to draw on that exemplifies how ineffectual running can be; and yet, she persists . . . The very definition of insanity . . .
She meets his hard, measuring gaze, "I . . . do not know what else to do . . ."
He sighs, his breath flowing into the cold, smokey steam clouds. Somehow she had thought this creature would be above such commonplace matters of physics. "Raven knows her father is coming. She's been training with Robin and the other Teen Titans to prepare."
Closing her eyes, she allows that news to sink in. If she isn't going to run then . . . she honestly has no idea what she should be doing. Her path has always been of motion, putting as much distance between herself and whatever problems were following as possible. First, it had been her parents and the abuse they had rained down upon her; then, it had been the hunger and subhuman condition of Gotham's streets and underbelly; next, the Church (that was no church at all) and it's patron god-demon), her pregnancy, and . . . Raven; and finally, this last trek, back to Earth to Gotham, away from the sanctuary that too easily and early fell because her blood had lured the Beast back into her life to destroy everything she had wished for the strength to protect.
And there, something crystallizes . . . something hard, unyielding, and strong. She cannot protect something she is running from. "I want to protect this world." She opens her eyes, feeling a blessed warmth tingle from the roots of her hair and shiver down her entire body, "I want to protect them and everything."
I won't let my daughter's sanctuary die as mine did. I won't be the harbinger of that destruction. Instead, she would take the path forward into uncharted territory. She would stop looking over her shoulder and telling herself that running away was the noble thing to do, the unselfish thing. She would use that momentum and energy to stand still, stare danger in the face, and FIGHT.
The Batman's mouth ticks upward for a scarce fraction of a second, but it's enough for Arella to know he's understood where her mind is. He releases her completely, and she notices – for the first time – the snow falling heavily around them.
She is reminded briefly of a snowglobe her friend used to have and how such quiet beauty can appear in the most simple of ways. And, despite her bedraggled, wounded state, for the first time in her life, with the simple conviction to stand her ground, she feels empowered, strong, and beautiful.
Her thoughts quiet. Her limbs and chest are warm.
"I can't do this alone." She says softly, snowflakes catching in her lashes and melting onto her cheeks, an echo of her tears.
"I know," Batman's voice is low and grave but – somehow – soothing. His gloved hand comes up between them, a gifted offering that makes her heart stop for a moment then leap into her throat making it hard to swallow, to breathe. "You won't have to."
And there, her sense of propriety crumbles, her feet stumble to close the space as she throws her arms about his chest, her hands finding his back as she willfully hugs him, whispering choked 'thank you's and wondering at his understanding.
It is so much more than she had hoped, infinitely more than she expected; and she doesn't know where to go from here, doesn't really understand where this will lead. There is no way to know what her remaining and Batman's sanction of it will cost; but in this moment, she feels confident that everything will be put to rights and one day . . .
Raven will be free.
To be continued . . .
A few more words from the Author: I began writing this a LONG time ago. So long ago it was before my son was born and that was more than four years ago! I had 8 pages written by the time my son was about 8 months old (he's 4 years old!) and I finished the last scene (with Batman) on November 27, 2013. So if the writing style changes throughout, that's probably why! I'm sure there are some tense issues. I apologize for those. I tend to start in present tense and then morph into past quite a bit. I try to catch those flights in narrative but sometimes, I just don't see it.
As for content, my perception of Arella is a mixed bag of emotion. Sometimes I see her as very weak and other times as very strong. I wanted to bring about an evolution in microcosm here. And I wanted Batman to lend himself to that evolution while not actually prodding her into it.
I was not going to continue this line of narrative as it was always conceived as a oneshot and I honestly didn't know where it would go if it WERE continued for a long time. Although I kinda picture Arella getting a job as Bruce's secretary . . . Dunno why. And after like a year of reading this over again and again, it came to me I could probably go there . . .
Also, I should mention that I'm well aware Raven went to Azarath (briefly) in the cartoon and saw (at least a projection) of her mother. Therefore, this can be considered AU to the cartoon storyline.
As always, thank you for reading!