A/N: It's a remix, okay? So I am tossing out some dialogues. Also, spoilers for everything just to be safe.
This isn't the first time Raven crushes on a book.
How does anyone calling herself a witch not fall head over heels for that book? The story is an epic with insights into the arts, handwritten in accurate and fluent Azarath ruins, and competently illustrated for 11th century art. It isn't even the first edition thing book that collectors worship. Kevin Knighting told her that the book was one of a kind, not that she believes seedy back alley dealers whom she let off for a discount on tomes, but it only makes her fall more readily for the goddamned moth fest. Which is the saddest thing of course, the book is already coming apart at the seams and the pages look a few years shy of crumbling away. But the last book she loved was The Great Magical Mysteries Of The 12th Century, private compilation, that she had had to commission a crystal dome and remove dust particle by particle for, so Raven supposes she has a type.
The first time the alarm blared red and Beast Boy's obnoxious voice filtered through when she was reading, she contemplated bringing the book for the drive, but freaked out at what could happen to it. Terra had trashed the T-car like a hulk of metal, and it had gone for more swims than the average super vehicle. She could just conceal the book in her cape, but what if monster of the week spurted slime (15% chance)? So she left off where Malchior's waist was wrapped in the Dragon's enormous claws, gasping for breath to read the spell, the dragon's fire ghosting over his neck and illuminating the amber in his eyes.
It is a little too descriptive and possibly obsessed with the dragon's big, strong grips and Malchior's sharp figure, but like she said, perfect for a witch.
Now the book speaks.
"Did you-" she says,
"Speak?"
"Uh-huh,"
"I did," the deep, playful voice runs through her like a current and she feels something inside seize frantically, "And then you dropped me on my spine."
The sorry! is reflexive.
'How do you know my name?', she wants to ask, but answers the question herself, 'Magic'. 'How are you speaking?', 'Magic'.
"Who are you?" she asks instead.
"I am Malchior of Nol, at your service" it, no, he says, the book turns to page half ripped out, one with his piercing eyes she knows are silver and god, was she hit harder on the head than she thought.
"I defeated the dragon Rorek and was trapped inside these pages by its final curse," he continues.
"But that was-"
"Almost one thousand years ago, and I've been waiting for someone to find me ever since.
"Raven, I've been waiting for you."
The pages turn again to another illustration, hers, seeming to be kicking ass and taking names. Of course, her birth had been prophesized for much longer than a millennium by every magic book ever. It's lucky Robin reads nothing but reports, Cyborg nothing but manuals, Beast Boy nothing but comics, and Starfire nothing but weird leaflets,
Raven knows that already, but it sends a blush to her cheeks all the same. It's not the superhero in her that focuses on the book and tries to break the spell. Her attempt prompts a burst of white light from the book, zapping her fingers lightly, residual of ancient magic and too strong for her own. She would have thought too strong for the book.
It didn't occur to her then, but as she retires to her bed clutching her book tightly to her heart, she remembers the magic being warm and not hostile. The thought soon gives way to fresh memories of the easiest conversations she's ever had, as though Malchior was an old friend and not one she's just met, like she has been waiting for him too. They talked about the ideal times that only existed in books, the idiocy she dealt with daily, and why couldn't people understand that witches and wizards preferred candles to natural lighting. The low murmurs and the surprised laughter of the evening lull her to sleep.
