It was another cold summer's day in God's City. Before the war, this part of Brazil was sunny and warm almost all year 'round. Twenty-nine years later, though, and it was still shrouded under perpetual cloud cover. Many of the Amazon's tributaries remained frozen until late July, allowing the few remaining Yanomami natives and Reclaimate Settlers to eek out an existence in what used to be the world's greatest rainforests.

Not much of the rainforests or its diverse fauna remained, now. What happened been consumed during the early years of the war perished under the Scourge's blight and the Endless Winter that followed it. What beasts did roam were mostly ravenous, mindless, undead abominations. Most of the time, they remained frozen, except for those few brief months.

Twenty-nine years, and the horrors of the war were still everywhere to be seen. In far too many cases, they came charging right at you. Twenty-nine years after the war officially ended, they were still fighting it. She had heard that, often times, veterans of great and terrible battles never truly put down their guns; that, in the darkness, they found themselves back to their own hells, fighting the same fights over and over. That was how she felt now. Perhaps that was how she would always feel. New estimates assumed it would take about another fifty years before the planet could be considered secure enough for total re-settlement.

She was young when the war started, barely nineteen. Now she was old, and growing older. Before the war, forty-eight might not have been considered that old, not in the first world, at least. Back when there was adequate access to medical care and supplies, quality food, shelter, and hope for the future. The war had taken most of that away, from all of them. Her own daughter, born at the end of the war, had never even known a warm summer. Something she took for granted when every summer was guaranteed to be warm.

Alecsandra, who sat across from her in this tiny cafe in the 'safe zone' of Rio de Jenero, might not have seemed worse for the struggle of these past three decades, but Raven couldn't help but lament at what she might have been. Standing at six-foot two-inches tall, she was a veritable giant amongst ninety percent of the remaining human population, much of it stunted from malnutrition, disease, and pollution. Her frame was powerful and sturdy, the dainty curves and feminine features largely traded out for practical muscles. Her hair was cut short, shorter then her mother's at the same age.

Alecsandra rarely smiled, not that there was much in her life to smile about. She'd grown up knowing little beyond the shattered husks of great cities and the blighted lands south of the secured zone. That was not to say that she was a hard or cold person. By pre-war standards, perhaps she might have been, but in these times, she was practically a saint. Wherever she went, she was hailed by the people, more so then Raven was. That fact gave Raven hope in her twilight years.

Like her father before her, Alecsandra was a Paladin. A defender of the innocent and the week, a warrior of virtue and honor, a living embodiment of the Light and all its grace. With her, as would it would always be until she was unable to wield it, was her father's hammer. Retribution he'd named it the day he created it. A beacon of hope and strength forged from a weapon of light and a weapon of darkness. They supported and strengthened each other both on and off the battle field. In the final days of the war, when things seemed their bleakest, that weapon had rallied the people to stand against the tides of darkness.

At the war's end, it had given the people hope to push on. The people of the villages and towns they visited often told her that they felt uplifted by its presence, and safe knowing its wielder was standing vigilant.

"A cold wind blows from the south." Alecsandra said. "They say that harsh summer gusts like this means the King in the South is awake."

"Superstition," Raven began. "Nothing more than that. Strong gusts and temperature drops are just the result of the weather."

"I don't know," Alecsandra took a sip from what passed for coffee in this dark age. "At times, that seems like an awfully big coincidence. Hard to imagine that the King in the South doesn't have at least some kind of influence over it."

"Well he does," Raven was quick to point out. "He's the one keeping it so cold in the unsafe areas. Doesn't mean that the gusts are because he's waking up."

"How can you be so sure, mother?" Alecsandra asked. "If he keeps it cold, then what's to stop him from making it just a little bit colder when he wakes up. Some say he does it because he can't stay asleep unless it's cold enough in the south."

"He is never truly asleep, nor is he ever truly awake." Raven smirked at the stories people liked to tell, and the things they were willing to believe. The year 2042, and people were still so superstitious. "The King in the South exists simultaneously between the world of the living, the world of the dead, and the shadow realm between the two. He is, and he is not, and it will always be that way. At least until the world is purged of the undead."

"And then what will happen to him?"

"I don't know, Alecsandra. Perhaps he'll finally let ago. Finally be allow himself to let go, that is. How old would that make him, I wonder? One-hundred and twelve?"

"How could you possibly know something like that?" Raven cocked a quizzical brow at her daughter.

"Well because I met him, back before the war officially started. I was there from the very beginning. We all were. Myself, Robin (though he was going by Nightwing by then), Starfire, Beast Boy, Cyborg, and all the rest of the Titans. Those days seem to be so far gone, now. Heh, I suppose they are in a way. There aren't many of us around who remember those days." Raven could feel herself tearing up at the nostalgic recollection.

"You never talk about them much." Alecsandra mentioned offhandedly, drinking her barely warm coffee.

"No, I suppose I don't. Many of those wound haven't even begun to heal. Most probably never will. Still, maybe it's past time you heard the story. After all, were it not for the war, I never would have met your father, and you never would have been born."

"Does this mean you're finally going to tell me who my father is?" Alecsandra asked, suddenly excited.

"It would be hard to tell you this story without doing just that." Raven stared off into the distance. "Now, where to begin."