Author's Notes: Again, I thank all of you wonderful readers for your kind reviews and otherworldly patience. I actually wrote this nearly THREE YEARS ago and never posted it. WHOOPS!

If you missed it, I became a single mom (by choice!) in January 2012. My beautiful son is now almost 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, in 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,

Your friendship means more to me

Than words can properly communicate.

Merry Christmas from Me and the Bean.

Small Beginnings

Part III: The Offering

By Kysra

Raven sits, bare-headed and skirt hiked to her knees, in the middle of the carefully arranged garden, digging her toes into the soil and wondering that even this feels bizarrely of the 'plass-tick' so prevalent in this world. Yet, it is the most familiar feeling she has yet encountered here and remains, taking in the sun-warmth and light breeze, traced as it is with the bitter scent of vehicular fuel, and wondering idly if surrendering herself to this earth would somehow make her . . . belong.

Uncle Alfred finds her after the sun has changed positions, starting at one shoulder and roaming to face another, her cheeks fired a subtle pink and her hair sprayed with bits of yellow pollen. She actually allows a tiny, barely-there smile for him, has not felt this degree of centered in much too long. The quiet rings in her ears as sweetly as any bird song, the whisper of reeds along the Great River, the chant Azar always hummed when Raven is especially difficult . . . Azarath. Metrion. Zenthos.

He remains silent. It is something she appreciates about this man, his ability to see what she needs and when she needs it. Azar was the same. The bitter sweetness of the similarity is more comfort than burning wound.

"Good day, Uncle Alfred," she says, her voice as quiet and still as the rest of her. She hears the whine of his stiff, animal hide shoes (the smell of 'pah-lish' is acrid in her nostrils, her nose wrinkling) as he lowers to crouch beside her. And suddenly, she feels a childish urge to look at him as it occurs . . . she has never seen him in any position save standing. It is somehow humbling, watching the poise fall to staid.

"Good day, Miss Raven. Should you wish to break your fast, there are some fresh biscuits with a bit of jam, butter, and milk in the breakfast room."

Her stomach gubbles and burbles at the suggestion of food. She has not taken a morsel yet since a small bit of roughage early last eve. But, there is something pulling at her fingertips and staying the rest of her. It feels like hesitation not hers.

As if sensing her thoughts, yet another strange happenstance, considering she does sense his, Uncle Alfred lowers himself to sit fully next to her on the ground . . . surely ruining his fine trousers. The people of this world seem wholly preoccupied with appearance (a fallacy she finds quite alien and – possibly – fatal from her limited experience) and the value of their garments.

She is so engrossed in her own thoughts, her body jumps a bit when he lets out a long sigh, "Miss Raven, I must inform you of the arrival of our most anticipated Master Richard."

Her sigh matches his in tone and length as she ducks her head, gravely confessing, "I know. His stench is what sent me here this rising."

Uncle Alfred makes a gallant show of trying to cover a laugh. "Stench? To my knowledge, the boy has since learned to bathe regularly. . . . Whether he has adopted the consistent use of soap is debatable."

She does not quite understand the joke. "I . . . do not mean to offend. My words apply to . . ." She pauses, searching for a word that would translate smoothly, meaningfully, "essence. His arrogance is of such magnitude I could smell the heavy sour of it at his approach."

Raven is surprised again as Uncle Alfred takes her hands, rising and pulling her along, as he laughs openly – an altogether infrequent sound, she knows. "Miss Raven, if I may say so, you are a delight."

Her toes curl deeper into the soil at the compliment. There have been so few positive word-pictures painted in her life, it has never occurred to her to want for them.

They walk together back to the manor house, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm for no other reason than the old man insists; and for the first time, a feeling so sweet and airy and light like stardust and dreams she can barely put a name to it blooms like the layered camellia that once stood out brightly among the Azarathian hills.

She feels safe.

Allowing herself to bask in that sensation for a moment more, she knows she is not ready for what this signifies. This place, these people, have given her many gifts but none so precious as this. The fingers of her free hand come up to press featherlight against that space beating with the echoes of her heart as if to protect this beautiful seed glowing warm and alive in her chest.

And she knows, her heart dropping as heavily as her hand away from that slight space, . . .

It is time to leave.

But she cannot . . . will not tell them of her impending leave taking now. First, the enigma of this "Master" Richard with his heavy confidence and choking pride must be met and dealt with.

Then, perhaps, she would gently inquire of Bruce, his thoughts on when and where she should seek aid in her mission.

Or simply disappear.

Truly, Raven does not wish to venture down that path if it is not warranted. While she knows comradeship is a near impossibility for her (for the sake of those who would seek to become comrades), she also understands she cannot face her father alone. The stakes are too high and her confidence too low. It is a conundrum that plagues her to restlessness and nightmare, one she finds impossible to run from and escape.

She swallows, shaking her head and watching the ground, resilient grasses bending with her weight then rising with the pass, "I . . . do not deserve such praise."

Uncle Alfred's aura seems to hiccup with a good-natured sort of silent tease even as his hand – weathered but still strong – pats hers.

They enter the house like that, her face to the earth and a step behind, his steadying hand upon hers. There is a growing coil in her gut, something unfamiliar. Burning. Cold. Ugly. The reflux tastes like anger, and the noxious cloud it gives off betrays the source.

"You didn't tell me she was cute, Bruce." The new voice cracks with adolescence and untried conceit. She cannot control her eyes as they snap up to meet a field of blue – bright as the sky but cold as the colored rock sometimes found among the cave walls, does not attempt to mask the sneer of her lips. With deliberate movements, she separates herself from Uncle Alfred, taking in this 'Master'. His short black hair is coifed with elaborate flair, his clothes chosen with equal care. But not to impress . . . at least not favorably, she surmises by the smirk of his mouth and flare of his nostril. He means to challenge.

The coil grows sharper with the realization, the haze of his blatant egotism blinding her to everything save the realization that he feels familiar.

He is similar to the one named Zatana. And for that reason alone, she must proceed with extreme caution. It is hard to admit, particularly in lieu of the security felt just moments hence; however, should a disagreement occur, she cannot be certain of support from her benefactors. Indeed, an even harder admission: She does not want to be the cause of such a rift.

The boy is not affected by her disquiet nor the pale of her expression. He approaches her without preamble or etiquette, invading her space and smiling while doing so . . . takes her shoulders, palms her cheeks, and kisses her mouth as she freezes.

Before anyone can push/pull him away, he jumps to the sound of the glass doors behind her exploding outward into a million pieces.

She is released just as suddenly as she was taken as he studies the mess and she tries to calm the residents of Nevermore even as it is noted, no one else in the room seems hurt or (somewhat alarming) all that surprised by the destruction.

Bruce is leveling a hard stare at her, "Raven?" he asks, his voice sounds gruff, angry but his aura falls into hers in an awkward, protective embrace. Uncle Alfred is apologizing at her elbow, his concern green-tinged and warm. She is near tears and the boy comes to her again, the anger he hides sweetened by the subtle tang of shock and . . . interest.

"Neat trick." This time, he gives her room to breathe (and run), holding out a hand toward her with the pull of expectation. Though what she would do with his hand as it is, she has no concept. "Sorry about the kiss." He certainly did not feel sorry. Rather, he quite clearly exudes a touch of glee. "I'm Richard Grayson, and I think we should become good friends."

Teeth and jaw aching for the pressure of gritting them so tightly, Raven looks first to Bruce who is glaring – in near the same way he had looked upon Zatana outside the Hall – but offers no quarter, no advice. Uncle Alfred's face belies his disappointment in the boy before her. Master Richard is blatanly unmoved by the growing tension.

Finding strength somewhere in the vicinity of her spleen, Raven turns her gaze to look the boy square in the face. Distantly, she acknowledges he has fine features that – given time and growth of the mind as well as body – will one day – mostly likely – be as handsome and chiseled as those of the Batman.

"I am called Raven, and I disagree with your assessment."

"Oh?" He fairly bounces with suppressed mirth. It tickles along the edges of her consciousness. "Why is that?"

It is in that moment that she decides she has had enough. The offer of friendship – to him – is a disingenuous arrangement, the bitters tainted with conditions, limits, and distrust. Even if a comrade were something she could afford in her quest, she would not choose him because . . .

"I do not like you." She takes her leave then, walking away in a gait weighted with the heaviness of unexpected shame, and just as she reaches the door to enter another corridor, she looks back and takes in the startlement painted across his eyes to tell him (for someone has to regardless of unkindness), "And you stink."

Then she is gone, retreating to her lodgings and wondering at the feeling . . . the knowledge that their acquaintance is not yet over.

Indeed, there is something warm and prickling that settles around her, something that awakens the shadowy tendrils of hope in her soul even stronger than the Batman . . . something that tells her, their time together has just begun.

To Be Continued and Ended. . . . in Part IV: The Parting

A Few Notes: My characterization of Robin is in the midst of his friction with Batman over his role as sidekick. He's also going through a bit of tween angst, not dealing well with puberty and missing his parents – particularly his father. He has not yet made the decision to break away and form the Teen Titans but soon . . . sooooooonnn.