Disclaimer: I don't own the Teen Titans.
Author's note: I'm feeling morbid today. Enjoy.
It was after they had seen the corpse dragged from the sea, after they had looked in horror at the bloated blue face and lolling tongue, after the paramedics covered the body with a blanket and hoisted it, grunting, into the back of the ambulance, after they had numbly walked back inside, that Robin found the letter.
The envelope was slightly yellowed, as if aged, as if someone had written it long ago and stored it a way for the perfect moment. On the back was a bright red wax seal holding the flap closed.
Robin lacked the cognitive ability to make head or tail of it.
"It's a note," he said thickly, waving it in his three friends' faces. After some reflection, he added: "She must have left it."
All at once Robin felt immensely tired. He could do nothing else, he decided, before he took a seat and rested for a moment. The others followed his lead.
Several minutes later, he turned to the envelope. His hands still felt clumsy; his eyes were inexplicably blurred, and he tore the sheet of paper because the wax refused to crumble. He gazed: there were only three lines, each written in black ink.
"Dear Titans," it began, but the T was crossed twice; it might almost have been an upper-case F.
Robin's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Dear Titans," he read.
"If you're reading this, it's because I'm dead. You may read my notebook.
"Raven."
All eyes turned to the tiny leather-bound book on the table in front of them.
Silence welled up.
Beast Boy shifted his weight:
"That's Raven's notebook," he announced.
The others nodded.
"We're not allowed to read it," he said.
A timeless interval was spent processing that.
Robin wanted to speak up, wanted to explain that this was different, really different, because Raven was dead and her threats couldn't hurt anymore, and besides the letter said they could.
Instead, he sat. They all did.
He didn't know how long it would last, that exquisite balance between curiosity and fear, between responsibility and apathy. He didn't want to move and destroy the delicate harmony, but duty, as it often did, compelled him.
He reached toward the book. Three pairs of eyes followed. He carefully pulled open the cover, as one might handle the Declaration of Independence.
"Raven's notebook," he read, in much the same manner as he had the note.
"Do not read this. Extreme pain will result."
Robin considered that Beast Boy was right. The best thing to do was to put it down, and go somewhere safe – to hide – like his room. But something forced him to continue. He turned the page.
"This is a record. They will be curious later. They will ask, How did it happen? They will know what 'it' is. They will ask, and be unable to answer. So I'm going to give them the answer. Today" – she gave a date almost five weeks earlier – "I have made my decision. The rest of my life will be spent explaining it."
Robin paused to let it sink in. He licked his lips and turned the page again.