The Journal of Richard Grayson, a Slayer

Tuesday 4th November, 1845

Now I find myself within a race; for indeed this may be my last entry into this humble journal – which has, to some extent, become my legacy.

It is all that will remain of me soon enough – that, and perhaps any monument in the churchyard that anyone is kind enough to lay upon my place of final rest.

Ah, yes – I am dying. I have always known that, of course. My curse has always reminded me. But it seems that this curse shall not be the thing to kill me after all.

My battle last night with the Raven Murderer has left me grievously wounded. I am lucky to have survived the night, this I know. It is unlikely I shall survive this next one.

I wept as I watched the sunrise, for it is something I have always loved. With sunrise dawns a new day, with new promises and hopes. I wept as I watched what was most probably my last, for I have no desire to die.

And yet, better still this way than the slow, drawn out one that undoubtedly my curse would have cast upon me in the coming months. Better to die by my trade than by the thing which stared me upon this unwholesome path to begin with.

Death holds no illusions for me. I believe in God – for I have worn His symbol around my neck, cleansed my stakes in water made holy by His name and beseeched His protection. But I know not if Heaven and Hell exist.

It seems I shall find out soon enough.

I begged them not to take me to hospital. I do not wish to die alone in a white room which I do not know. The good Father Stone, my dear friend Cyborg, was obliging enough. Neither of us have pretended about it all – I am dying, and have no hope of recovery from the state in which my brawl with the beast left me. So he brought me back here, to his parish house, and laid me within the bed he has so generously allowed me to sleep in these past few days. I fear death a little less under these circumstances. This house is blessed, under God's eye, and sets me at ease.

Twice my pen has slipped from my fingers; I am so weak I can scarce put pen to paper. But I must – I must keep writing, for as long as I am able, because I know that after this…

I cannot have long left in this world. Perhaps another few hours, at the most. Breathing is becoming more difficult; my chest heaves in a way that is frightening, in a way that makes me fear that each I take will be my last.

No, I must write of my sorrow, and my guilt.

My guilt is on the part of Raven Roth – for surely it is obvious to me by now that she was guilty to a certain extent. My old master's Tarot had not lied when it had foretold of the girl's deception, for indeed she did deceive me. For that, she must surely feel guilty, for it is, as least in part, her fault that these Raven Murders were precedented on this scale.

But I have murdered her stepfather – the only family she had in this world. That is my job – and have I not stopped the Raven Murderer, as I swore I would? Ah, yes, all that I have achieved. But this victory is sour to me.

Perhaps it is just my own death making me melancholy.

My sorrow is for the lost Lenore; nameless here for evermore.

Oh, Lenore!

I would gladly give my life would it save her own; alas, it would appear my own life is not truly mine, at least not to give, for it is ebbing from me even as I write of this desire.

That rare and radiant maiden; whom the angels now clasp in my stead. Perhaps, if there is a Heaven, and I am permitted there, I shall be with her again. In life it could not have been so; but now her smile is with the stars, far more radiant than any I have ever seen in the sky, and perhaps soon I shall join her.

No longer do I have a place in this world; long have I walked the edges of it, but no more have I a place among the material of this modern world in which we dwell; on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloats over.

But whose violet velvet lining with the lamplight gloating over, she shall press, ah, nevermore!

As for her father – at this again I am much aggrieved. Dr Roderick Usher had no cause to die, and already at the loss of his daughter…

Perhaps it was a mercy to him, but I feel only sorrow for the man. Had he reclined but a few steps, he would still be amongst the living, of this I am sure.

This has been a sad business indeed; and with a macabre end about it all.

And while I may take nothing material to the grave with me, my mind and my memories are mine to keep. Forget thy memories of Lenore; forget this lost Lenore I never shall.

Starfire.

The beauty of whom outshines – and still outshines – the fire of a thousand stars.

As for me, I must lay my pen aside for the final time. I have let it slip from my shaking fingers a further three times and can write no more.

Farewell to these humble pages which have served as a friend to me; somewhere I have been able to write of my pain and pleasure; my joy and sadness; my ease and worry. I have been able to confide within these pages – and those of my case file – what I shall disclose to no man by discourse nor whisper.

And from this bed, and that shadow that lies floating on the floor, my body and soul shall be lifted—

Nevermore.