A/N: Yes, this fic was not up to be worked on. It kind of snuck passed me. I've been trying to work on It Only Takes A Moment XIV: Wishes, Part I and Stupid Cupid--Chapter 6. I got inspired for this one a while ago, though and this weekend, I worked on it, thinking it was an independent one. I didn't realize it was this theme until I was almost done with it. Also, I never said I would do the themes in order. My first instinct is to do them in order, but this one came and since they don't have anything to do with one another...I figured, what the hell?

I've already started work on 09: Figuring.

Thanks: Special thanks to GuardianKysra for playing 'plot-beta' again for this one. General review responses for the last one of these I put up will be on 'Emsscraps' eventually.

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Echoes
by Em

"You're wounds have healed by now / But you still see your scars..."
- This Time, Three Doors Down

Scars
(18: Tears)

It was a bit strange to sit, half-naked in a place not the shower and not my room, but considering I don't wear a bra and the only way to get at the wound required upper body nudity, I had little choice in the matter. Since only Cyborg ever came into the medlab when I was here, there was not much to worry about anyway.

Not that Cyborg had the exclusive right to see me naked (half, or otherwise). No, the possibility of anyone other than Cyborg seeing me naked was worrying, but not out of any sense of propriety or modesty. Not at all. It just so happened to be that Cyborg was the the only one who knew - the only one who had seen them - and having to explain it all once was more than enough for a lifetime. I was not looking forward to having to explain it again.

Cyborg and I had this game we played. Whenever I was hurt he'd ask if I was okay. I'd tell him I was, he'd ask if I wanted help, I'd tell him I didn't need it, and then after awhile, he'd come and help me anyway. I didn't depend on that help, I didn't wait for it, but I appreciated it when he offered it and I especially appreciated that he didn't make me ask for it.

So, when I heard the door open behind me, I didn't immediately react to cover myself because I fully expected it to be Cyborg. I knew of course, the second before he spoke, that it wasn't Cyborg. I was already in action and had flipped on my cloak before the door swooshed closed behind him. Of course, by then, it was too late.

"What happened?"

I also knew that he wasn't asking about the three inch wound along my side.. He was there, he saw how it was that I'd gotten that and he wouldn't go dissecting what went wrong with the fight that got me injured in the first place—he would be saving that for debriefing session the way he always did. Like I said, however, I wasn't looking forward to having to explain anything so I didn't let him know I knew what he was talking about. I still hoped he might take the hint, like he so often did, and not press the issue.

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking before you enter a room?" I asked coldly.

"I asked my question first."

"Well, considering I'm the one that was walked in on while in a state of undress, I think my question has priority," I answered without bothering to turn to look at him.

He came around so that he was facing me and I picked up on the anger in the tightness of his lips and the way he was gritting his teeth, but I was confused as to why he was angry. He took a few moments looking in my eyes, apparently, waiting to see if I would decide to answer his question. When it was apparent that I wouldn't let up, he sighed and let his eyes canvass the gauze and disinfectant and other materials I had set out to treat my wound.

"I came to see if you needed help bandaging your wound," he spoke, forcefully relaxing his face.

I narrowed my eyes, "Where's Cyborg?"

"He took some damage and he's repairing it," Robin answered much to my surprise. He must have seen the look on my face because he was quick to reassure me, "He's fine, but the damage messed with the motor functions to his arm, so I told him I'd come and see if you needed help."

"Well, I don't need help, so thank you, but you can go." I turned my back to him and waited, pretending to dig through the shelves for something.

"No," Robin spoke outright.

I turned on him, trying not to let the pain of the movement show on my face and narrowed my eyes, "Are you going to force me to let you see me half naked?" I challenged.

He stepped close enough that I could feel his heat through the cloak. "What happened?" he repeated meaningfully.

I sighed. I could already tell he wasn't apt to let this go. Whenever he got that tone to his voice...there was no dissuading him. "What does it matter?" I asked. "It happened before the Titans. Way before."

"If you don't want to talk about it --"

"-- I don't want to talk about it."

He sighed. "At least let me help you clean your wound?"

I kept my face deliberately neutral. "No."

He sighed. "Okay, so I'm not really asking." At my raised eyebrows, he looked completely unrepentant. "You can't do it yourself, you know that, and I refuse to let it fester, so save us both some trouble and move the cloak aside so I can treat your wound."

I blinked, and thankfully, it was the only outward sign of surprise I allowed to show at his decidedly blunt speech. It was especially surprising to hear that his tone was not angry or demanding or high handed. It was almost tired, but mostly blank and straight forward.

In that strange way I could never do whenever I tried but somehow was able to do at the oddest moments, I knew that he had been worried about me. That he had known that I let Cyborg help me when I couldn't do it myself.

Something about that knowledge, or perhaps about the open waiting in his expression had me realize how ridiculous it would be to not let him help. I could fight him about this, and we could go on fighting for hours. He might try to forcefully restrain me, but I didn't think he would. I also didn't happen to think that he'd actually be able to forcefully restrain me, not if I was really trying to keep him from doing it. We could even keep verbally fighting about it. I could keep him going in circles for hours on end if I wanted, but I knew that neither one of us would win in the end and it would just delay the inevitable. I, for one, was tired, and didn't want to delay anything.

So, with a flick of my wrist, I turned the cloak so that it fell over my front and pulled away enough of the material so that he could see the wound along my side.

He sucked in a quick intake of breath between his teeth, but started to work instantly.

His hands as he worked were gentle and quick and it occurred to me that he was pretty good at this doctoring stuff even though he rarely had cause to make use of those talents. It was usually Cyborg who patched us up and Robin had never tried to do it himself. I was surprised that he knew what was what and how to be gentle but firm as he wiped away the caked on blood but I was even more surprised to note the look of careful observation on his face as he considered the severity of the wound.

"This might need stitches," he mused.

"Not on me," I assured him.

"You never get stitches?" I shook my head. "It would only give my body some foreign object to expel as it healed me."

"Can't you heal this the way you...?" I shook my head.

"No," I said, having already explained as much to Cyborg and Starfire but never having had cause to explain it to Robin. "I heal faster than you do, yes, but the way I can heal others is not something I can use to heal myself."

"Why?" he asked, starting to take out gauze and antibiotic cream.

"Because..." I faltered and he looked at me. "I don't know," I admitted. "Only that the only time I can use my power to heal myself is if I'm near death and it's a life preservation instinct. For minor things on myself, I cannot." I shrugged. "I heal faster than human, but not instantly."

"How long will it take you to heal this, for example?" he asked, motioning the wound as he gently spread the cold cream on it. I resisted the instinctual desire to pull away. "A day or two. I will still have a slight scar for another two or three days after that and it will be slightly sensitive, but in a week, there will be no sign that it ever happened." I looked at the top of his head as he bent to continue his careful application of the cream. "If it became infected, it would take longer."

"And you keep no scars?" he asked.

I tensed but I wasn't sure if from his gentle touch or from where I could guess this line of conversation was heading. I knew I could stop this by simply clamping my mouth shut and going silent. He would try to draw me out, but he was almost done with the cream and would have to bandage me up soon. I could have not answered his question. The strange thing was...I did.

"Not usually."

"Why didn't the ones on your back heal?"

"I can't heal them." At his look of confusion and some disbelief, I sighed, "They used a holy relic."

"I thought..."

"Your holy relics mean nothing to me," I admitted, "but I am part demon, and the demon in me is at odds with the holiness of our gods. The Gods of Azarath, the place from whence my flesh came." I thought I was going to say nothing more, but for some reason, I found myself elaborating. "Our holy relics do...things to me if used the right way."

I hoped he might leave it at that. I prayed he wouldn't ask what sorts of things because I wasn't sure I could relive the memories that completely.

His hands had stilled and for a few moments, I was almost convinced he would let it go. Then, I felt the rage wash over me like a wave crashing the shore. I had to brace myself with both hands on the medlab examining table not to reel from the force of it.

"Who did that to you?" he asked, his voice steely calm.

I closed my eyes against the flow of feelings and was incredibly grateful that he couldn't see my face in his current position. I pushed my barriers up at the onslaught of emotions, not even trying to name each of them as they beat against my defenses, but I felt pity there, clear as if it were my own and the anger I felt at that realization helped me to manage speech. "Don't pity me," I said coldly.

"Who did that to you?" he repeated.

"A sect of the monks on Azarath," I answered, keeping my voice as plain and blank as possible.

For a few seconds, he was confused. He had been imagining some torture at the hands of enemies and the reality that my own caretakers had done such a thing to me was, for a few moments, beyond his comprehension. "How could...?" he started.

I wanted to cut off this questioning and above all, the pity, before it could grow so I told him the truth as bluntly as possible. "I deserved it."

"What?"

His reaction was completely unexpected. Telling Cyborg had been different. He had never really asked for all the details, only how it could be done and why I hadn't been able to heal it. I had told him the skeletal outline of the story and he had patted my shoulder and continued helping me heal. I knew he felt for me, but Cyborg at least, knew better than to feel pity for someone who had survived, because every survivor knew that it could have been worse.

From Robin I felt anger and protectiveness and righteousness and all manner of desire to make the people who had hurt me pay and the extent of it twisted me inside.

"I killed a little boy," I answered. I hoped he would be disappointed in me, or disgusted or anything that would make him stop feeling as if he would take on the world in the hopes of easing my pain. Disgust and disappointment, even anger I could handle. Not the others. I couldn't stand much more of that.

"I--" Robin started.

"So, don't pity me," I cut him off before he could say anything else. "I don't deserve it."

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

I glared at him, "Why do you need to know?" I challenged. "Do you want the gruesome details?"

"You tell me you killed a little boy and I believe you," he said softly. "But I don't believe it's as cut and dry or black and white as you're making it out to seem, Raven," he said gently. "If anyone can understand the nuances of gray, I can."

For a few moments, we stared at each other, each certain in our own reasons. For the greater part of my life, I had carried the sign of my greatest evil, all the proof some of the people on Azarath needed that I was more demon than human, as if they had needed anything other than the tone of my skin and the abilities I possessed. I could not pretend that what I had done had not happened and whenever the facts of that day had resurfaced, it had been a painful jab at all my hard won self-control. Other people had asked me to tell the story, some out of a true wish to know-most to punish me. A few people had pitied me: Azar, for one, and some of the more kindhearted of the Priestesses. Most had been disgusted and had never been able to look at me the same again.

Whether the result was pity or disgust, however, each telling served only to ostracized me further and further from the people around me.

Pity. Disgust. Hatred. These I had experienced with the telling of the tale. Cyborg had portrayed nothing as I had told him only a minimal amount - only that it was punishment for a childhood indiscretion, a forgotten lesson. He felt anger toward my tutors for such treatment and thought he understood why I had to be the way I had to be if I had been punished in such a way for showing emotion, but he had never asked for the details.

Not the way Robin was.

And no one, no one, had claimed to 'understand' my actions. I knew he wouldn't think he understood anything once he knew the true story and for some reason, beyond my comprehension, I decided to tell it to him.

"For the first few years of my life, I didn't know what the Prophecy regarding my purpose was. I was kept away from all that, no one told me and the priestesses were adept at controlling their thoughts and emotions around me so I didn't know any better. All things considered," I paused when his hands stilled for a moment, but at realizing that I had stopped, he continued and so did I. "But, it was only a matter of time before the children..." I stopped and began again. "I don't remember how, but I got away one day. I heard the children playing and I wanted to...I don't know, I think I just wanted to get closer. I hadn't felt emotions like I could almost feel from them, but the children..." I closed my eyes, "They knew about me. Something at least, enough. They called me demon spawn. I didn't understand, but then this one child, he was older than me, I don't know by how much, but he said so many things. Many I didn't understand and some that I did. And when the names for me didn't seem to hurt me, only confuse me, he started in on calling my mother a slut and too many other things. I felt hurt and angry and I just wanted him to stop. I just remember clutching my head and saying, 'stop, stop, stop, JUST STOP' and then I blacked out." I wasn't sure what to say next but I looked at him when I said it. "He stopped." Robin's face registered the recognition of what I was implying, so I didn't give details. "The monks found me passed out and the boy dead. It was such a public spectacle that I had to be publicly punished for escaping and for the death --"

"But..." I couldn't let him speak, or I wouldn't finish.

"Only Azar saved me, Robin," I told him. "They would have killed me."

"I thought Azarath was a pacifist society?" he asked.

"It is," I confirmed. "But there is - was - a sect that believed I was a danger and that I should be destroyed." I stopped and despite my intention to keep my voice neutral, I laughed the laugh without humor and scoffed, "Destroyed," I repeated with some bitterness. "That was their word," I told Robin. "As if only humans are killed or murdered while everything else is destroyed- for the better good." I shook my head and forced my voice and expression back into neutrality. "Azar saved me, but I had to be punished, so that I would not forget what losing my control would cause me and those around me."

I shrugged the cloak and it slipped off my shoulders, exposing the full extent of the white scars crisscrossing my back. I stood off the table and turned around so he could see it all, holding the cloak to my chest. I looked at him over my shoulder, but I couldn't stand the expression on his face as he took in his first full look at the scars decorating the otherwise flawless flesh and I looked away. I stared at the plain white wall next to the gunmetal gray door as if I couldn't feel the heat of his stare at my back. As if I wasn't thinking that things would be so different now between us.

As if I didn't care.

"Now you understand how being whipped with a holy relic was the merciful thing to do?" I asked when moments passed and he had not spoken. "Why I should not be pitied?"

At the first brush of his fingers against the ugly, discolored lines, I tensed and inhaled a sharp breath through my teeth, as if the warmth of his hand hurt, the way the very air had hurt for weeks back when the wounds were fresh. He tensed in response, but didn't pull his hands away, and softly, lightly enough so that it was almost just the suggestion of his warmth that touched my suddenly cold skin, he traced each and every scar. When he was satisfied, his hand and his warmth fell away and with the breaking of contact, I seemed to come back into myself, as if I had been held in place by something larger and stronger than that touch could ever really be. I felt free to move suddenly, and move I did.

I didn't want to turn around and look at his face. I didn't want him to see the tears gathering on my lids which I couldn't explain. I didn't want any of it, so I took one step, then another, trying to coordinate an escape around the bed in front of me to the door so very close within reach, but I got no more than three steps, barely around the far edge of the bed before I felt his arms encompass me from behind.

The weight of his strength fell on me as he pressed himself against my back and held on tightly. I felt the warmth of him even through the bullet resistant material of his uniform and the softness of his lips as they touched the very tip of one scar where it crested over my shoulder. And I was surrounded by the warmth and scent of him. It enveloped me like a soft and comfortable blanket and underneath it all, the steady rhythm of his heart seemed to coax my heart into life as it beat against my body.

Later, he would tell me how evil and sin were states of mind, how no one could do evil or commit sin if they didn't know they were doing so. How horrible mistakes were just that: senseless mistakes that should never have been made but once made had to be lived with, learned from, and surpassed.

Later.

Then, and for what seemed like hours, he held me.

And for the first time in my relatively young life, I cried.

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A/N: Another one where I mess not only with Raven's past, but with her body itself. I don't know, I just figured that if anyone were to have been whipped it would've been her. Don't ask me why I was thinking of something like that...