Disclaimer: TT is not mine, and I make no money. Mmm:(
Well, it WAS going to be a one shot, but then this continuation kinda crawled its way out of my skull. I did a bit more research and (hopefully) worked out all the kinds. Enjoy!!
It is a refreshing sensation to have my bones cloaked in living flesh again. You are searching for me but will not find me. I am but an afterthought and for once I do not mind. Raven finally turned on her sire, when it seemed to matter the least, but Trigon fell nonetheless. A world slayer conquered by adolescents. It smacks of a cruel irony. I am amused as I watch your struggle to recover, each of your comrades consumed by their own limited thoughts. You search so fiercely, but you will not find me. I am bent, but that is all. Bends can be straightened. I am not worried.
The sea is to my back. I glance over my shoulder and watch the water. I am concealed by a jagged range of debris; concrete, ash fault, and steel mangled into a small shelter. All of humanity's instruments for conquering this world effortlessly swept aside. The sun is setting and its glare intensifies upon the waves. What pain I feel is precious. Savoury, even, though that hazards upon the bizarre doesn't it? I am not a man who adorns himself with pleasant illusions. I am fortunate to emerge, mortality intact. Ah, but what an insufferable creature I must have been, even in death determined to be master of my own fate.
I look again. Your friends have gathered their wits. They stare with awe at Raven's new façade and this time, I do have the flesh to smile. You don't share their elation. I can see from here you are troubled, and I know it is my absence that troubles you. Ah, dear boy, our conversation seems to have bent us both. This is a power I have not felt for a long time. I wonder how it weakens you, to have your paternal supplement vanish. When I gather my strength, I shall see where this takes me. Such a gaping wound draws my curiosity. I have long discarded the trappings of fatherhood, but never did I discard the knowledge. For in all its forms there is power. You will expect this, clever child that you are, but I am clever too, and older and better at this game.
I am not a cruel man. Cruelty would demand some sort of passion—for blood, for conquest, for revenge. I may act cruel when I choose, but if life has taught me anything, it is emotion has a way of consuming the soul. What good would that do me, dear child? Could you answer me? I think you could. Clever boy. My power over you comes not from intelligence or ability. I feel nothing, and though you can do many things, dear child, that is one thing you can never attain. You are infinitely softer than I, predictable, vulnerable. My amusement deepens. When I finally decipher your little mind, I am certain your methods will reveal themselves. But for now, they remain a mystery. I am content with that.
Oh my. Your mystery has just cost me my ocean view. You come towards me, dear child, and I am an old man with many things yet to do. The cliff at my feet used to be sharp, but Trigon's presence has shattered it and sent debris tumbling onto the beach. Trigon has been more useful than I had anticipated. I slip off the edge, just as you round my little lair, and though I am mortal again with mortal pains and weaknesses, I land on the sand just as you peek over the cliff's edge. You hesitate when I turn away, but you follow me down without a word to your friends. Brave child.
"Slade." This time you draw your staff, but honour stays your hand. You are always so careful to avoid my blind side. What do you fear, child? That you would win through my weakness, or that I would not care if you tried?
"Robin." I look at you over my shoulder. "How did you find me?"
"You're bleeding."
Ah, I have become very careless in my time as an immortal. I left a trail of breadcrumbs.
"Are you surprised?"
You're scowling at me. "Almost."
I choose not to pick up the thread. Our last conversation was strange. Whatever you are searching for, you will not find it in me, though the masquerade could prove diverting. I am of the flesh now, at last, and with this flesh comes half-forgotten urgencies. You can have the last word, dear child. It has been a long day.
I find I am smiling again. Your silence is devastated. How unbearable it must be for you as another giant of your childhood turns away. Does the list sear your little mind? Your parents, your hero, your nemesis. No one has time for you, dear little Robin. Not even Slade. Ah, but perhaps that time is past. It is especially Slade. My need for you lent me patience. Time, now, to fix that.
Anger ill-befits you, dear child. It is your anger that drives you towards me while I am still half-turned, still alert. I can see your hasty charge and its inevitable conclusion. You leap into the air, arms high and face contorted; your staff a lethal thing in your capable hands.
Child, you could have been so much.
All victory requires of me is to step aside. You are thrown off-balance, having overestimated your resources and underestimated mine. It is a rare mistake, but you are my canvas now. I draw my right arm high and deliver a back-hand that sends you face first into the sand. How ignoble you look, how unworthy of my time.
I crouch beside you. "If you had been my apprentice, dear boy, this would not be hard." You look at me, you see that I know. As always, you defy expectation and remain as you are, sprawled in the sand, anger spent. I lean a little closer, for these soul-destroying moments forged me. "You are too clever to lay yourself at my mercy, but dear boy, you will always see me as you do now." I soften my voice, intimately, as a father might whisper encouragement to his son. "Imagine my face, imagine it as you remember your own father and imagine my voice as his. Know that every pain I feel belongs to him, and that with every agony you endure, I will feel nothing for you. Not even the lowliest amusement."
I am unbent.
I stand tall and leave you to your bruised pride. Your torment does bring me some pleasure though that is not for you to know, dear child. Some wounds fester more deeply than others and I sense this is your greatest weakness. My contempt can be dealt with, but my utter indifference drives you mad and unlocks all those ghosts lurking in your closet. Are you still afraid of the dark, Robin?
You lay there sputtering into the sand. No, dear child, your demise shall be a spectacle. I will not kill you today, but I will savour this first brushstroke, and I will imagine how layered your death will be, how utterly complete my victory.
But I am of flesh, and flesh only knows need. I ignore your voice, driven by the need to restart my life, and walk softly across the beach. The surf is loud here, driving relentlessly against the rocky shoreline. It is a cacophony. Yet your voice persists, cuts through it all.
"You can't control me that easily, Slade." Your voice doesn't sound broken, but you are angry. "I know about you too, about Addie—"
"A valiant try, Robin, but this contest does not suit you." I stop and glance back. You are on your knees, nothing humble in your gaze or posture. Defiant child, defiant brilliant child, and you could have been my apprentice. What a waste. "This was the day the world was to end. I have better things to do than fight. But remember, Robin, tomorrow there will be no such courtesy." Again you have pushed me off balance. I am beginning to resent you for this ability. You know you have surprised me. Though not for the right reasons, I think, maudlin creature that you are.
I am not in the habit of forgetting things. But when you said her name, indeed it took effort to recall a face that matched. It is odd to hear her name on someone else's tongue. Addie is not merely dead, she is long dead. My wife, my sons, my daughter, my military career, my powers. I find it difficult to recall them and the weight of time quickly drags them back into the darkness. I suppose it does not matter though it does provide food for thought. Dear child, you seek weakness in me, but this tactic is double-edged. For it reveals your desperation to find it.
Though it means a delay I face you a second time. It is a stoic gesture but I know you will believe it impulsive. "How?"
My composure annoys you. "The HIVE archives. They called her The Mistress." You are standing now, staff in hand, studying me. "Rose wasn't mentioned."
Ahh, Rose. A by-product of my frivolous youth. It amuses me to look back and see the man I had been. In Thailand of all places, having wild flings with displaced refugees and playing the roguish hero. My laughter surprises you, as well it should. Learn your place, dear child. They are nothing but a passing entertainment now.
"Did you think that would matter, Robin?" Your seeking expression scrapes against my back, and standing or kneeling I have scored a victory. "If you persist you will be going back on your word. You said nothing would change. Were you lying, dear boy?"
"No, I could've said more and you know it." You've sheathed your staff in your belt and now it is you who turns away. "And she's alive, somewhere, if that matters at all. Think about that when you want another apprentice."
Galling brat, to say such a thing.
"Consider it payment for your help." You look at me without malice. No, dear child, I can see your understanding. You have outmanoeuvred me again.
And then you are scaling the wall, agile and capable, leaping up the ruined cliffside with an ease I can only envy. Once that would have been me.
No longer.
The sun has set, but darkness is welcoming. My blood has vanished from the sand, cleansed by the tide and carried by the sea. My flesh still hurts but the novelty has passed and it is only a hindrance. The same can be said for you, child, daring to speak in such a fashion. With sincerity of all things. Where one dent was smoothed another has been created.
You have gone and left me staring for a second time—not quite believing. There is an odd pain to our recent conversations, one I have not felt in a long time. You are the apprentice I envisioned, and you are not mine to wield. Though it is beneath me to hate you, I do, dear child. And it troubles me your death will have such significance. Crimes of passion have no place outside the pages of books, and I am too old to be embarking on yet another of life's little dramas. You are exhausting me with expectations, child.
There is, however, something to be salvaged from our second conversation. Rose is alive. I had not known that.
I am…surprised.
This is the corrected version. Major thanks to Death Merchant! I even remember telling myself that; it's not Abbie, it's Addie. D'oh. Smacks self in face.
