This isn't the sequel to 'One Last Dance'. I don't know what the heck this is. It's the product of too much fluff and not enough sleep. I don't know if it's a one-shot, or the beginning of the sequel to 'One Last Dance', or something that will rot in my files forever because no one will read it. I just wrote it in an effort to break my writer's block, and I wanted someone to read it. Maybe it'll grow into a story, maybe not, but it was an idea that was floating around in my mind and wouldn't go away. It's also a reminder to all of my readers that I haven't abandoned you. Enjoy!
This is especially for you, Dusty, for being an avid reviewer, a wonderful writer, and an overall great person in general. I dedicate this whatever-it-is to you, in honor of all the times during 'Broken' and 'Shadow Creature' that you made me cry.
This story picks up about ten minutes after where 'One Last Dance' left off. And Robin does not have amnesia or anything; he is just in a weird kind of shock from emotion overload. I realize it's all very confusing, but I was reading Ray Bradbury, and he always inspires me to talk in long strings of metaphors. Review, please!
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Robin stared blankly into the shadows that surrounded him, feeling the darkness close in around him with a tangible pressure until he was certain that he would drown, his eyes drawn to the motion of a blue cloak vanishing around a faraway corner, its owner lost to sight. A single world-weary sigh fighting its way free of his lips, he fell heavily back against the wall behind him, cracking his head against the concrete and not caring as starbursts of pain exploded before his sightless eyes.
"Raven."
His mouth moved of its own accord, his face numb, his brain in the unresponding depths of shock and his heart barely beating. He could feel the slight pulse against the inside of his skin, and faint though it was, he could have sworn it made resounding echoes in the hallway's utter silence. "Raven……."
He was going to die. He could feel pressure building up in his chest, a strange kind of hollow emptiness, as though all of the anger and fear and laughter and agony that were growing and writhing in the depths of his brain had finally destroyed each other, expanding until there was no more room and then imploding into nothing, leaving a blank white cavity in their wake. And he could feel that whiteness, burning him from the inside out, the shadows of the hallway around him not dark enough to quench its heat.
Aeons away, he heard the hissing shut of a sliding metal door, and the clank of a lock falling into place that drowned out the beating of his weary heart. And still he did not move, even as the muscles of his hands relaxed and the green gauntlets that he always wore fell off and fluttered to the ground like dead leaves, with a whispering sound as they settled on the carpet. With a tremendous effort of will, he lifted his ungloved hand and touched it to his cheek, staring in fascination at the wetness on the tips of his fingers.
Had he been crying? He thought so. It was certainly a possibility. All memories, all emotions were blurred together in a bewildering maelstrom in his mind, and he was certain of nothing except that Raven had been here a moment ago, and now she was gone. The sheer emotion he felt was overpowering his thoughts, until his mind lost all powers of coherence and there was only the glimmer of water on his fingers. There had been something else, he remembered, something else that could have made his face wet, besides tears……
There had been rain.
Yes. Rain. Rain and music. He remembered now. Rain and music and….. pain stabbed through to his heart without tearing his skin…… and dancing. He and Raven – he and Raven had danced, one last dance, for memory's sake, for their sanity. And he knew that it had been like the last dream of a man condemned to hang at dawn, the last drop of water given to a woman sentenced to die in the desert. It had been futile, pointless, and yet filled with far too much emotion and longing for his simple human mind to bear.
And now Raven had returned to her room, plunging into that shadowed chasm where he had never set foot, and the hour was growing late, and the night becoming old, and here was he, standing stunned in the shadows, transfixed by the shards of broken dreams Raven had left in her wake.
His mind still shocked and reeling, he forced his numbed body to move, forced his feet to pick themselves up and fall down again, each few inches he traveled like the next step on the tightrope – his balance lost, his perception falling dizzily away into space. And he walked – slowly, drunkenly, staggering from side to side as though the draught of emotion he had downed had been too much and now he had to sleep, whether or not he managed to make it to his room.
He didn't know why he bothered to walk through the halls, unsteadily, searching for the familiar door. His life had come to an end. The girl he loved had rejected him, doomed him to a life of loving silently, and he could think of nothing but moonlight on her face, with all other memories fled. The day had ended, and he did not want to see another morning.
He stumbled through the deserted halls of Titans tower, his hands moving restlessly, his mouth open and moving silently, his hungry gaze flickering back and forth as though striving to penetrate the darkness all around him. Then, in the recesses of a doorway that loomed out of nowhere, something caught his eye – a glimmer of light.
Unable to think, barely able to breathe, he returned to his most basic instinct, and walked towards the light. Falling against the doorframe as though unable to support himself any longer, he peered bewilderedly into the room, his senses flooded by the bright white radiance that streamed from the naked light bulb in the ceiling.
"Cyborg?" he asked tiredly, his battered brain vaguely recognizing the glinting of light off of metal. As his eyes adjusted from the darkness of the hallway, the blaze of radiance before him dissolved into the half-robot's silhouette, typing at one of many computers that sat, cradled by shelves, fused to the walls, humming quietly to themselves. Dead, Robin thought vaguely. Like me. Dark and lifeless, at the mercy of whoever cares to flip the switch.
"Yeah?" Cyborg said absentmindedly, without looking up from his computer. After a moment of silence, he turned around, the expression on his face one of mild impatience. "Yeah, what do you – Robin!"
The red robotic eye swept him up and down, taking in his damp and rumpled uniform, his newly-replaced mask sitting crookedly on his nose, his bare hands – and the look on his face, the blank and desperate mask of a man who has been shot in the heart and is too stubborn to fall down.
Cyborg closed his eyes for a moment, his metal hands clenching into fists on the edge of his keyboard. "Please," he said hoarsely, his voice lacking the confidence and strength it had once had, "please tell me you found her."
"Wha –" Robin stared at him, bewildered, the words sounding like gibberish to his ears. Found who? His world was crashing down around his ears, none of this made sense, he hadn't been looking for anyone –
Memory returned in a rush, and something clicked. Yes, he had been looking for someone. Who? Raven. Raven, who had left the tower, with no note, no explanation, bearing hideous wounds that were only half-healed. Raven, who he had found taking sanctuary in a church – irony of ironies – and who he had talked with, about something, something important. The memories were too painful to reexamine, but he knew it had been important. Raven, who he had danced with –
"Yes," he said, his voice dead and hollow, echoing to him from a great distance. "Yes, I found her. She's in her room now. She's fine."
"Thank God." Cyborg sighed in relief, his metal hands unclenching, his entire body relaxing as he looked at his leader with a jaundiced eye. "Remind me to kill her tomorrow. I hope you yelled at her for leaving in her condition?"
Receiving no answer but Robin's blank stare, the half-robot continued to rant, turning back to his computer, his fingers blurring over the keys. "Broken ribs, a punctured lung, shoulder bone snapped clean in half, bruises and cuts all over. What was she thinking? By all rights, she should be dead. I don't how she managed to keep herself alive after all that happened to her."
"Magic," Robin said briefly, a weak hint of humor in his voice.
"Damn magic," Cyborg muttered darkly. "Damn it to hell. By all rights Raven should be dead now, Robin. Look at this." He moved away from the computer screen, revealing a picture of what was clearly Raven, slumped lifelessly on the basement floor, the blood that covered her body only hinting at the terrible wounds that lay beneath. Robin felt his gaze held transfixed to the screen in mindless horror, even as he tried desperately to look away, tried to rid himself of the image that haunted his nightmares and lingered in the deepest recesses of his fear. He felt that fear now, striking him like a physical blow, a punch to the stomach that knocked the wind from him, the final kick that drowned all conscious thought in terror. Bile rose in his throat as he remembered the raw, demonic pleasure of having his claws imbedded in her flesh, her blood pouring from his fingers – I did that to her. It pounded with the beating of his heart, echoing in his head, a mantra, an unending chant that wounded him with every repetition. I killed her. My fault. My fault. My fault. He looked down at his ungloved hands, the pale skin darkening to take on the color of scarlet scales, the color of blood. Raven's blood. I love her. And now her blood is on my hands.
"From my memory file," Cyborg said grimly, tapping the plate of blue wires and electronics that was set into his head. "I record everything, and I transmit it to that computer. And this file has been keeping me awake for days. I keep wondering – what if things hadn't turned out the way they did? That was close, Robin. Way too close." The half-robot sat down again, turning his back on his leader, hiding the heinous image from view. "You said you found her? Where was she?"
There was no answer. Robin could not bring himself to speak, could not force his mind to form coherent words. He was tired, so tired, as though all of the emotion he had been experiencing had drained his strength as surely as any battle. The memories were so fresh, so new, they still stung like raw wounds when he tried to call them forward, bursting with fear and anger and agony. So he let them lie in the dark depths of his stunned brain. He would remember later. Right now, he only wanted to forget.
Cyborg didn't seem to notice that his leader was lost in his own thoughts. Instead, he continued to speak, as though he didn't expect Robin to answer at all, as though he was quite used to the heavy silence and the blank white stare on the back of his neck. "I hope she didn't fly too far," he said casually, his hands fidgeting restlessly across the keyboard. "She isn't well yet, she isn't healed – not even close. Too much activity, and those wounds will tear right open again, magic or no damned magic. And if they do – we just might lose her."
The last words were spoken softly, with hesitation, as though speaking them gave them shape and form and made them an irreversible reality. Robin didn't even register that Cyborg had spoken – he was too hopelessly lost in the corridors of his own mind, chasing after wraiths of smoke that ran cloaked in blue.
"Listen, Robin," Cyborg said slowly, apprehensively. "I know – I guessed – what's going on between you and Raven. And I can guess why you look like a truck hit you and you haven't realized it yet. I also know that what I just said probably didn't help." Turning around to face his leader again, he rose from his chair, walking over and placing a heavy metal hand on Robin's shoulder. "Raven is going to be fine, okay? I promise. I was just scared when she left, that's all. You don't need to worry about her – about her –" he faltered for a moment, but picked up his courage and continued, "– about her dying. None of us will let that happen. Okay?"
Robin nodded dumbly, still unable to speak, Cyborg's words washing over him like the night tide rhythmic sound, oddly comforting, soothing but meaningless. The syllables made no sense, fracturing into garbled noise that simply seemed to slide off him, not sinking in, not staying long enough to make any kind of impression. What didn't he have to worry about? Who was dying?
Then he realized, with a start, that Cyborg though the cause of his distance was Raven's injuries. The thought made him want to laugh – a kind of crazy joy tore through him, pumping fire through his veins for no real reason, filling the terrible emptiness in his chest with a kind of burning euphoria like the exhilarating high of a drug. He began to laugh, quietly, for he was faced with the choice of laughing or bursting, his emotion expanding until it could no longer be contained by his skin; luckily, Cyborg had walked past him and into the hall, so he did not see. And Robin laughed, every breath tearing at his throat, every exhalation a dagger in his chest. Just as suddenly as it had come, the insane laughter died away, and he was left an empty shell once more.
"Get some sleep, man," Cyborg called over his shoulder, already walking away down the hall towards his own room. "It's almost morning. Tomorrow we'll talk to Raven, and see if she can't heal herself some more with her damned magic." The metallic clanking of his footsteps faded to nothing and Robin, emerging from his shock despite his desperate attempts to remain in ignorant bliss, turned to follow, moving woodenly down the hall. Reaching his room, he hesitated on the dark threshold, imagining the waft of cold air that drifted from the endless abyss that surely lay in the shadowed room, envisioning himself, a dying spark of color and light, falling falling falling through the endless night that lay just beyond that door…….. the darkness that always seemed to await him at every turn.
He stepped into the room, a cold, leering smile gripping the muscles of his face as his boots met solid wood instead of empty air. So he walked through the shadowy cavern, his heart and mind plummeting even though his body was not. When his knees bumped the edge of his mattress he halted, unmoving, his blank stare still boring into the darkness ahead of him, his imagination wild with a fever of pain and imagining ghosts that lurked behind. And soon the cold currents of air in the room became her fingers trailing over his skin, and the darkness was the ever-changing sorrow in her eyes, his mind conjuring up movements at the corners of his eyes that resembled the rippling of a cloak.
Letting himself fall forward onto the bed, his heart a terrible vacuum of broken shards slashing the inside of his body with every motion, his hands clenched into angry fists even as the cold smile still gripped his face, he felt a single tear burn like scalding oil on his cheek. Sleep crept up from behind and overtook him, battering his bruised mind into submission, his body going limp as wild storms of blood and lightning stormed through his dreams.
He thrashed and turned in his sleep, his hands curled into fists lashing out at imagined demons, his teeth gritted in rage and pain as he kicked and squirmed wildly, his covers looped like a noose about his neck. His dreams, visions of fire, blood, rose thorns and broken glass, consumed him – so occupying his sleeping mind with revelations of apocalypse that he did not wake at the cool touch of a white hand on his burning skin, or notice as slim fingers untied the blankets from around his neck. It was not until slender, graceful hands gently lifted the mask from his face that he quieted, feeling the cool touch of air on the bare skin around his eyes. He stopped thrashing at the cold brushing of someone else's hand against his cheek, his hands unclenching, the tension flowing out of his body as his violent nightmares faded. Instead, his dreams were filled with compassionate and pain-filled violet eyes, a gently beautiful face framed by ebony-blue hair, and a graceful silhouette that called to him with a sweet voice and froze the burning ground where she walked.
"Robin………."
The gentle, trembling whisper faded into the silence that hung over the room now that the Boy Wonder had calmed. Robin lay on his side, slumbering peacefully, the expression on his face not a smile, but no longer a scowl of rage or a blank mask of utter despair. The mask lay forgotten on the floor as a small, cold hand smoothed back his tousled hair, and the silhouette in Robin's dreams grew raven wings and became a moon-pale guardian angel in the midst of a maelstrom of fire.
A pale shadow stood over Robin's bed, cloaked in ebony blue, one hand clenched around his, the other resting on his forehead. Straightening up, the figure turned away, the white hands hiding themselves within the shadow of a cloak. The moonlit form was suddenly engulfed by darkness, as a pitch-black ghostly raven, edged in white, faded through the wall, leaving the echoes of a once-smooth voice hanging in the air of the darkened room.
"I'm sorry, Robin, so sorry………."
The boy on the bed reached out his hands in sleep, as though trying to grasp something in his dreams, reach something unattainable and never let go again.
"I love you, Robin, now and forever."
He replied, his eyes still tightly closed, his hands falling limply back to his sides as he turned once again in restless sleep. The murmured words slipped from his lips, fading quickly into the silence. "I love you too, Raven. I love you too."
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Like it? Love it? Hate it? Tell me what you think! Come on, review! And that means you, Dusty! (Like I have to tell you……. I feel like we're in some kind of contest, going back and forth, seeing who can write the saddest story.)
