Starfire reclined on a grassy clump with the dignity of a goddess in a quattrocento painting, watching Beast Boy sleep. The sometimes wild exertion of the past several hours had left her feeling simultaneously calm, tired, joyful and surprised. As she watched her friend, whose head was flung back over the tree root against which he sprawled, she could almost believe he was dead, except for the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest and the slight gurgling sound he had made when she spoke to him half an hour previously. This suited Starfire; she didn't feel especially like talking. She lay down flat on her back, enjoying the feeling of grass tickling her skin. The latticework of branches blurred in her eyes, melting into the bright sky. There was birdsong in the air, and a whisper of wind. Enough to lull her to sleep.

# # # #

Meanwhile, several weeks ago and on another planet altogether, the control room of Titans Tower was swaddled in soft quietness. Rain was running silently down the reinforced windows. A green cat was curled up on the sofa, its flank rising and falling steadily. And a beautiful purple-clad girl was lying on the floor with her chin resting in her hands, looking up at an equally beautiful purple-haired girl who was floating several metres up in the air in the lotus position. The only sound in the room was a voice that rolled hypnotically through the air.

"Fair Isle, Faeroes: northwest gale 8 to severe gale 9; heavy, thundery showers; poor. Southeast Iceland: northwest storm 10, veering north; heavy rain and snow showers; poor, moderate icing. And now reports from coastal stations. Tiree: northwest, gale 8; wintry showers, then rain; 946, falling…"

Starfire listened, wide-eyed and serious. She had been listening for some minutes. Eventually, the questions bubbling inside her just had to be let out.

"Please – this is some sort of coded signal, transmitted by one of our enemies, that you are monitoring in order to learn their secrets?"

"No."

"Is it, then, a recitation of the strange, haunting poetry of your people?"

"No, it isn't."

"Then surely it must be a magical incantation, part of some great spell that you are weaving?"

"No, Starfire. It's called the Shipping Forecast. It's a weather report. I listen to it because the sound palette is relaxing and the repetitive nature of the words helps me to meditate. It comes over on one of the Tower frequencies at this time every evening. It's from Britain."

"Britain?" repeated Starfire, confused. "What is this?"

"Um…" Raven's composure was momentarily thrown. "I think it's a little island near Europe somewhere. They speak English, anyway."

"That doesn't prove anything." Beast Boy's head popped up over the back of the sofa. "Everywhere speaks English."

"Excuse me, I'm trying to meditate here."

The cloaked figure of Robin came forward from a patch of dim light into a patch of slightly less dim light; apparently he had entered the room unnoticed at some point and been lurking in the shadows until it was time to make a contribution.

"Mad Mod is from Britain, Star," he put in. "That explains all that stuff he says and does. You know, the flags, the music, the clothes, the accent, the teeth. Didn't you realise?"

"I just thought he was extremely strange," Starfire said.

"Dude! You mean there's a whole island full of creeps like Mad Mod?" exclaimed Beast Boy in horror.

"Yes. Luckily it's only a very small island," replied Robin.

"For a small island it sure has a lot of weather," groaned Beast Boy as the recitation continued (Royal Sovereign: southwest, 6; intermittent slight drizzle, 6 miles; 983, falling. Channel Light Vessel Automatic: west, 6...). "Give me good old American weather any day, when the sun's always shining and it's always eighty degrees!" He glanced at the rain running down the window. "Well, most of the time anyway."

"Still trying to meditate over here."

"Hey guys, what are we listening to?" came Cyborg's voice as the doors swished open.

"Dude, check it out: it's Raven's freaky weather forecast from some strange island!"

"Oooo, sounds fun – or not. Speaking of weather, it is WET outside. I've got an idea: why don't we all jump in the T-ship and head south for the winter? Somewhere out there there's a Pacific island with our names on it – sun, sea, surf and the sweet life, huh Robin?"

"I don't know, Cyborg…"

"Oh yes, please let us remove to where there is not the horrible drizzle and the nasty fog all day!"

"I've got an idea," came a voice from above. "Why don't we all get out and leave Raven in peace?!"

Blasts of dark energy chased the others from the room, except Beast Boy who had sensed the explosion coming and vanished back behind the sofa.

"I'll be good, Raven, I promise!" came a wail from out of cover. "I'll be quiet as a mouse – you won't hear a squeak out of me!" He turned into a mouse and hid between the cushions.

"You'd better be," she hissed, and resumed the lotus position. "Now. Azarath, Metrion, Zinthos."

The control room, very peacefully, broke into fragments and slipped away, and Raven was at peace with the night and the stars. There was nothing here; there was only – Azarath, Metrion, Zinthos. The Centre.

The stars were burning bright, bright; but clouds were scudding over them. Soon they disappeared from view, although they were still there above. There was a roar and a rushing and a motion.

I am a barque, said Raven's soul, sailing on dark seas, drenched in freezing rain. What dreams may come to me so far from shore?

And it seemed that a light was leading her – could it be Lundy, or Fastnet Rock? Lewis, or the Isle of May? – and she was looking along the beam that rang silent through the pitching dark in five-second peals.

Two vast blue lamps arose from the swell. By their dread fire she could see jagged stacks beset by a foaming rage of years – and something else: a great black shadow rising high above her in the dark. The blue lamps were eyes.

Who are you? she shouted above the breakers' thunder. A voice deeper than the sea rumbled back.

I am Imago, but here I am named Polyolbion. Seek ye to enter this earth, this realm? You are far from home here, voyager. You would not be wise to go on.

No, I am in my home; I merely enter into what is mine. Who are you to deny or dissuade me? I shall go into this earth, this realm, for I wish to see what it may show me.

You are wrong. This place is nothing of yours, and nor am I. Search inside your soul; you know it is true.

She searched her soul, and saw that indeed it was true. But, she said, I will enter nonetheless. She scaled the height of the cliffs with a thought, and stood upon the rain-lashed air before the giant's face.

This isle is full of ghosts, said Polyolbion. Black dogs on the roads and bells sounding from the sand-bars, tolled by sea-rotted hands. In every byway of this land there are ghosts thronging.

But I have come from the wild Pacific shore where the one true windigo howls, and your ghosts hold no terror for me. They are old and feeble and will fade in the moonlight.

You mean to go on, then?

Yes.

She was moving fast inland, like a raindrift on a cold front out of northern skies. Spectral voices wailed in the wind.

Do you dare to brave the churches of this land? asked Polyolbion. Each one contains a lion and a unicorn and has a spire that stabs at heaven. They are dim and empty and smell of a thousand years' decay. Your violet soul cannot enter them.

But I was raised in the Temple Azarath between the planes of being, and your religion holds no terror for me. I have seen the faces of the true god and the true devil, and I serve neither.

You mean to go on, then?

Yes.

She was standing in a benighted churchyard, under the lych-gate, looking at the door. The churchyard was full of flowers. A man was standing in the doorway. He was old and white-haired, and leant on a walking cane. He wore a black frock coat and a ring inset with a gem of brilliant blue, which sparkled and swirled inwardly in the darkness. But his eyes twinkled brighter.

Who are you?

I, too, am Imago, he replied. Come to me, my dear.

She walked up the white gravelled path towards him, and as she passed the flowers wilted and died around her feet.

No! she cried in horror, but was powerless to stop them. The old man fixed her with a piercing gaze.

Why does your soul come sailing on these seas? Hmm? This is the reason: because you know what they mean, the cataracts and hurricanoes crashing on Rockall and St Kilda and Cape Wrath. You know the darkness lives too – and loves, yes. That the stars and the night are entwined, and one is not whole without the other. You are the raven, the herald of the storm. There is something waiting for you in the garden, my dear. An old serpent, stirred up with envy and revenge. Love is his enemy – so look to those you love. You may be surprised by what you see.

And how shall I defeat him?

Fear not, child. Look.

For already the flowers were coming back to life around her – star jasmine and hibiscus, moonflower and phlox, blooming together in the starlight. Pale and ruddy. Purple and green.

In time, said Imago, you will see my face and understand. You still mean to go on?

Yes.

The astral world fragmented and fell away.

# # # #

Raven returned from the Centre to find only night-lights glowing softly in the control room of the tower. Rain was still pouring inaudibly down the glass. All she could hear was the tiny natural hiss in her ears. The green cat was sprawled on the sofa, breathing deeply and rhythmically, every spark of consciousness gone. Raven descended onto the sofa beside it and thought for a long time.

Eventually the cat yawned, got up, stretched, and flopped back down again, its head landing in her lap. Raven scratched it gently between the ears. "What's new, pussycat?" she whispered.

The cat turned back into Beast Boy, roused a little by the repeated feeling of her fingernails brushing his scalp. His head turned to face her, though his eyes remained gummed together with sleep.

"Is the weather report finished yet, Rae?" he murmured, still mostly dreaming.

"Yes, BB, it's finished. I'm afraid there's a storm coming."