Author's Notes: Again, I thank all of you wonderful readers for your kind reviews and otherworldly patience. I actually wrote this like 2 or 3 years ago . . . . and just forgot to post it. WHOOPS!
If you missed it, I became a single mom (by choice!) in January 2012. My beautiful son is now four! So my priority is now basically him and working to support us. I rarely ever have private time let alone fic time (and boy do I miss fic time sometimes! Almost more than private time *LOL*).
That being said, Christmas 2014 I resolved to save some money and make as many hand/homemade gifts as possible and so . . . this was part of Emaniahilel's Christmas present ^_^
Dedicated to Emaniahilel,
Whose friendship means more to me
Than words can properly communicate.
Merry Christmas from Me and the Bean.
Small Beginnings
Part II: The Lesson
By Kysra
As the days pass and grow ever closer to equating the vague ' few,' Raven distantly notes the growing tension in Bruce's shoulders, the increase in bruises, the weighted fog thickening his steps. She wonders at it, agonizes on how to act, what to say, if she is welcome to ask.
Unfortunately, no quarter can be found among the rows and columns and sheer abundance of bound knowledge in her newly christened sanctuary – the library or study (Bruce references the latter, Uncle Alfred prefers to name the former). The highly lacquered wooden shelves are cool to the touch; heavy with a subdued, long-suffered pain; and give no quarter. Similarly, the strange writing – entirely too uniform to have its origins from the human hand – within the tomes housed there are little more than useless to one so ignorant of this world's languages.
Frustration is the bitter taste of lemon in her mouth, the acid making her teeth ache with the force of grit.
Uncle Alfred has stated that this 'Master Robin' is as complicated as his foster. She wonders if the intricacy lies in the younger being the master or in there being a 'master' in and of itself. After all, she has seen a little of the fascinating viewing box Bruce rarely operates in the sitting room (though one would think an invention of such magnitude, taking up nearly half the length and breadth of the wall, would be utilized more often) and knows this is a 'free' land. If one is not a slave, then how can one have a 'master'?
Or perhaps this Robin is no master at all? After all, Bruce has yet to address Robin in any form, has failed to mention the impending arrival or what etiquette may be demanded from her. The lack of remark may indicate this figure is unimportant or his assumed appearance, inconsequential.
Yet, that line of reasoning would not explain Bruce's obvious disquietude.
Her hand absently pulls the thinning material of her veil just enough to shadow her eyes. Perhaps this new person she will soon encounter will find her a menace and wish her gone too. Perhaps the ever-constricting brambles writhing beneath the surface of his composure are the result of the ill-advised kindness he has bestowed upon her thus far. Perhaps . . . she has become the burden she does not wish to be.
"You sigh often, you know."
For a moment, her entire body seizes with the wonder of unfamiliar sudden fright before the relief of recognition sends her skin prickling and a distressed heat from her chest through her torso, into her extremities. Silently, she berates herself for losing track of herself so thoroughly. She should have known he was there minutes before his voice reached her. There is great danger in her lack of self-awareness.
Hands smooth over her crown along the edges of her veil to tug nervously on the ends, the hem tightening satisfactorily against her brow even as her head swivels in a forced calm.
She is again startled by the sight of Bruce's dark figure, lounging in a corner chair, spare light falling over his shoulders to illume the volume splayed over his lap. He is gazing at her over the metallic rim of some peculiar translucent mask, a writing utensil poised in his hand.
Blinking, she marvels, how long has he been sitting there? He must be a superior being indeed, to have slipped from my senses so thoroughly.
"I apologize." She says, softly, backing away. "I do not wish to disturb you." Or give you a further reason to send me away.
Smooth and sure as the large felines she would sometimes catch watching her from behind the dense wheatgrass before harvest, he removes the crystalline mask and closes the 'boog'? 'boot' – no, that is footwear – 'book' with a subtle clap.
In that moment, for the first time since she has made his acquaintance as the Batman and accepted his offer for asylum, she understands fully what it means to be prey. Yet, there is no whispering of Fear, merely a quiet, humble Patience.
"Stay. I've been meaning to talk to you anyway."
She swallows and tries to calm her mind. Bruce's body language indicates rest, the light of his aura so dark a blue it nearly fades into the darkness surrounding his sparsely lit corner. The pattern it throws across his form is steady, contained, but somewhat thready among the edges. As if he is sedately excited. He is, Raven muses, a uniquely complicated man.
"I am not averse to speaking." She enunciates carefully, unsure if her speech is clear or the words have been translated properly. The men of the house have shown patience unmatched, truly. She wishes suddenly there were words large and powerful enough to express the depth of her gratitude.
Bruce lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a hoarse laugh. She is growing accustomed to the sound, likes it the way she likes Uncle Alfred's tea – warm with a touch of bitters.
"Well then, I thought it would be prudent to warn you that my . . . son will be joining us in two days. I apologize that you haven't had more time to adjust; however, his arrival was planned months ago. I hope the two of you will get along; but if he says, does, or acts in any way to make you uncomfortable, do not hesitate to let me know."
Raven blinks, slowly. "You . . . you will allow me to stay? Even though your first child will surely need his space and the attention he is accustomed?"
Bruce's eyes crinkle at the corners, though his lips remain in the usual line, as he stands and comes to kneel before her. He doesn't touch her, knows her boundaries and respects them. His gaze is a mask; however, she can feel a wellspring of something she has only ever felt aimed towards others. It is strange to sense something she has so secretly coveted finally directed at herself: Pride.
"You are welcome to stay here as long as you like, regardless of Robin's presence. Understand?"
Lowering her eyes to the polished floor, Raven feels something in her nose pinch, the backs of her eyes growing hot with a tingling slow burn. She wants to cry, to be held in comfort until Fear fades away into nothing. Instead she lets out a long-years-held breath and answers, "Yes."
He smiles at her, his aura snapping with kinetic affection. It is an overwhelming blanket of zinging sweetness. She can almost taste it. The thought is disturbing and welcomed at the same time, and her stomach twists with the opposition.
A heavy hand presses down upon her head in a careful, soft pat. "Are you going to tell me what you've been doing in here for over an hour?"
Her eyes jump to meet his, still warm and approving. She pauses for a moment – usually, adults wish simply to deal with, be free of, or avoid her. She is not certain how to answer the unfamiliar fondness. "I . . . was under the impression you had only just arrived."
"I've been here all morning. You were quiet coming in, but still noticeable."
Her cold fingertips rest, for a bare moment, to the chakra affixed to her brow as she closes her eyes. It is too dangerous, she knows, to be so preoccupied with this world, its many and various wonders, and all of the potential trouble she has brought to the Door. "I apologize for intruding."
She allows her hand to fall. There is nothing she can do about prior trespasses. "I . . . am not sure what brought me here. I shall endeavor to keep to myself in the future."
Perhaps a few turns about the garden would clear her mind. Though, despite her initial liking of the various ferns, flowering plants, herbs, and trees, she now understands it is an artificial bit of 'nature.' The hollow confusion of the blooms and weeds is not conducive to the level of meditation she seeks.
But Bruce surprises her – yet again – by rising to slide a particular tome from his collection and holding it to her. The cover is of a material similar to the dried up skin of animals – but does not radiate with the smell or darkness of death. The body is worn in places. Other areas are miscolored and fade. She cradles it in her hands, traces the golden letters emblazoned on the face.
Then he is again genuflecting before her, his hand lingering on the book as well. "You don't need to keep to yourself. You're free to roam about the manor as you please. I was asking because you seemed interested in this book but afraid to borrow it."
Oh . . . Her throat feels tight as she states, "The binding is strange to me. In Azarath, should something be worthy enough to be chronicled, the details would be etched upon a sheet of pressed, blanched grass." A beat of her heart, blood rushing through her ears, as the sharp sting of shame lodged in the small of her back. "Also, I do not know how to read your written English."
This time, Bruce smiles. The expression is as near to pure as he is capable. "Would you like to learn?"
Her answering smile is – similarly – near to truth as she is capable. "Please."
It is the first time she has uttered a plea for the sake of her own pleasure, and she bites her lip, downcasts her eyes as soon as the appeal is made. She is truly a selfish child, she thinks, to be so wanting and disrespectful. She knows the layered and intricate clothing Bruce wears in day hours are a uniform of sorts, though of a different purpose than the hard, difficult stuff he dons as the Bat; knows the work he does while clothed in either is complicated, stressful, and – in case of the latter – dangerous; knows she must not further strain his valuable time.
But just as she is opening her mouth to retract the request, Bruce stands and jauntily grabs her hand, pulling her to a nearby table and urging her to sit even as he takes a chair to her side. The book she has flirted with all morning is laid out before her, as Bruce begins explaining the alien uniformity of the letters is the result of a mechanical print machine and that the flow of words are arranged from her left and running to right.
There are moments, during her reading lesson, when she studies the man who has been – in many ways – a savior, and something in her chest bubbles gaily, filling her with the want to laugh. He is animated and seems, in those moments, completely at ease and almost happy, the usual tension in his shoulders somehow absent.
He works with her for many hours, until the alphabet is swimming behind her eyes in tempting waves of knowledge. She can read very small words now, can determine the meaning but not the pronunciation or connotations of some of the larger; but there is something in those tiny victories, in the prospect of worlds, dreams, opportunities opening before her that breaks through the highly polished discipline and urges the edges of her mouth into a smile.
She can feel Bruce watching her with that mixture of affection tinged guardedness she is becoming accustomed to. "I think this is the first time I've seen you smile with any sort of self-confidence." His hand finds her head again, ruffling gently though still careful of her veil.
"Thank you, for teaching me . . . and everything else." She says, bowing her head humbly, in respect and gratitude as she has been taught.
He shakes his head with a grin more self-deprecating than amused and holds out a hand to pull her to her feet. It is past time for lunch, and Raven's stomach announces its upset at the delay it has suffered. "It's my pleasure." Bruce says, his voice betraying no polite untruths. And then, a sigh, "I hope some of your humility rubs off on Robin . . ." And some of his confidence rubs off on you. She can hear the unspoken in a place near her temple. She cannot help but agree cautiously. Master Robin is yet a mystery and she would not wish to be overly arrogant in any measure of confidence.
However, as they begin to walk to the dining room where Uncle Alfred has been patiently awaiting their collective arrival, she cannot help but ask, "How is it in this world something invisible and . . . to my limited knowledge, intangible, has the ability to rub off between two differing, physically substantial subjects?"
Bruce merely laughs, a sound that makes her think of the complexity of coexisting freedom and entrapment. "You'll see soon enough."
Coming soon . . . Part 3: The Offering