Disclaimer: I don't own the Teen Titans.

Author's note: Sorry; no writing yesterday or most of today. It's Rosh Hashanah – I had to break to eat apples and honey and other delicacies. Now I'm back, and we can return to the story.

Beast Boy sat on a rock, staring out to sea. The water by the horizon was a steely gray. The light, pervasive rain that had started at that moment two days ago continued now. The tiny waves that broke steadily near his feet were nearly clear. He reached into the water with his hand.

Cold.

So he could still feel. He had been numb the past forty or so hours, except for that outburst with Robin.

Stupid Robin. What's his deal? He didn't have to bring her up – bring it up, Beast Boy corrected himself. It was easier to think of her as an "event."

He idly flicked a pebble. It fell into the water, any trace removed by the steady waves.

Raven made two. The people he cared about were dying. He was alone – no, he had to remind himself, he wasn't. He had Cyborg and Starfire . . . and Robin.

But the present wasn't important! It was the past, and Raven, and her explanation.

Seek understanding. Her words returned.

But I don't understand, he thought.

Seek.

And all at once he remembered, and he had to grip the rock under him to keep from tumbling into the frigid water.

Countless days – they must have been only a few weeks ago – and he was playing videogames and happened to look around, and she was there. And it was in her hand. The small black book, to which he hadn't given any thought.

She was probably writing it right then. She was probably saying goodbye as he sat, absorbed in a video game, and paid her no mind.

His fingers tightened on the rock. There was rage; he wanted to direct it at Robin, the arrogant dick, or Raven, the cause of all this; he wanted to direct it anywhere but inward. But it stayed. Beast Boy hated himself. It was a passionate hate, full of loathing, cursing himself for inaction. For a second he saw himself, pulled from the water, his face bluer, not green, and the ghastly purple tongue hanging slack. If he had only –

This is what I wanted. Words came again from the book.

How could you want it? Who made you? Who could have saved you?

What I wanted.

That's impossible. Someone must have – if it was me, I swear –

My decision.

It couldn't have been – there was no way – and Beast Boy realized that he would probably never understand. It would be the most painful thing to happen to him; he would sit there, and Raven's words would come forth, and he wouldn't understand. He couldn't. He'd sit there, he knew, slack-jawed and failing. He was failing at the one thing Raven wanted him to do.

Seek understanding.

But I can't. It's beyond me. I'm failing. Every moment I sit here, I don't seek.

Beast Boy stood; he stepped into the water. It was cold and swirled around his ankles. He looked off to the horizon as the gentle rain continued to fleck his face.

He took a step forward – no. Not like this. He wasn't Raven; he knew that much. In the Tower, there must be something. Something sharp. He saw it in his mind; he was there, and a puddle of red stickiness, and someone standing over him, and a shrill cry that stretched off to infinity.

He coughed, and for the first time in the past two days, Beast Boy cried – not for his comrade already dead, but for himself.