The man in the boat wondered, not for the first time, if he was completely out of his mind.
He mopped his shorn head dry of the sea spray and approached the giant T in the center of the bay. As instructed, he ignored the buoys that told him to turn back and rang an alarm when he passed them. Apprehension clenched his guts into a knot of discomfort, but he pressed on. He landed upon the rocky shores of the island, intimidated and dwarfed by both the tower upon it and the reputations of the people he knew dwelled within it. He didn't have long to wait as a mechanical man ("Cyborg," he remembered from his scattered, hurried, and incomplete research) turned around the corner of the building at a run.
To be safe, he raised his hands to show a lack of ill-intent. As Cyborg drew closer, he skidded to a surprised halt, jaw hanging open. "Holy Hell," he muttered to himself as he stared at the visitor. He raised an arm to his mouth and spoke into it, the bay's breezes carrying his words to the visitor's ears. "Stand down guys, but come quick. All of you."
An uncomfortable stalemate ensued, the man from the boat keeping his hands up and the cyborg staring at him. Finally, the burn in his arms too much, he lowered them, slowly and being sure to keep them in sight. In next to no time, others appeared, their expressions ranging from shock to a strange sort of longing. Still, no one spoke. Finally, nerves transforming to bravery, the visitor stated the words he had been instructed to ("By a freakin' message in a bottle," he thought to himself for the n-th time).
"I have a message for the Princess Diana, from the Chronicler."
After he spoke, they startled. Tears welled in the eyes of some, and a desperate, disbelieving hope in others. One boy, wearing a dark form-fitting suit with a blue, stylized bird on the front raised his hand to his mouth, holding some sort of device.
"Nightwing to the Watchtower. We need Diana here. Now."
Another uncomfortable silence passed, the visitor confused and unnerved by the reaction of these strange people.
In a shimmer of light, another woman appeared behind the costumed group, wearing an outfit just as fitting to her and as outlandish as the others on the island. She turned towards the shore and a hand rose to her mouth. "By Hera," she swore softly.
The visitor cocked his head to the side. "Princess Diana?" he half-asked and half-stated.
She nodded.
He steeled himself to repeat the words he had memorized. "I am the Messenger known as Jonathan Heyduk, sent by the Chronicler Jon as required by the Tribal Accords. I carry the final words of the Chronicler, as he knew them. May you receive the message?"
And he hoped, and he prayed to a God he only half-believed in that she would say no, or be confused, or accuse him of some prank because they could all have a laugh and he'd be able to leave this uncomfortable situation.
She drew herself up and approached to within arms length. "Yes," she replied, the impassively-sorrowful face of a diplomat gracing her features.
Sighing, Jonathan reached into his pocket and, slowly, removed the rolled sheafs of parchment that he had carried to California from Japan. Handing them over, he stated, "He died a true Amazon."
As the Princess took the roll of parchment with grace befitting her station, he continued. "I have another message, for Rachel, the one everyone calls Raven."
As one, the group facing him shifted to look at a cloaked woman. Her amethyst eyes pooled tears and her long braid's escaped strands danced in the breeze. She stepped forward. "I am Rachel."
Jonathan's throat constricted as he took in the sight of her. The poor dead man whose message he was relaying was right: she was both otherworldly and beautiful. He nearly missed the gems set in a V upon her forehead, and the horns spiraling from her temples, behind her ears, and under her chin, but rather than detract from her beauty, they simply added to it.
Clearing his throat, he stated, as clearly and compassionately as he could, "He loved you. And he's sorry he couldn't tell you himself."
And as the tears escaped her eyes and tracked down her cheeks he felt a foreign sensation overtake his mind. He felt as though he suddenly stood halfway between dreaming and waking, the world's colors taking on a strange prominence as the edges fuzzed and blurred. He saw the gems upon Raven's forehead glow softly. Not of his own volition, he suddenly heard himself speak in a voice not quite his own, a voice smooth and strong, but not overbearing. It was rich in tone, neither deep nor shrill, well enunciated and possessing no discernible accent.
"You stand upon the precipice of destiny and fate, free will granting choices which even still may be shadows. This restlessness of spirit, leading to your exodus from home and comfort, unfulfilled. 'Tis never late 'fore the doings done, and knowing what may come makes forgoing comfort, comforting, and fears abate. A shaft of light amongst the dark, beaming bright with hopeful future, daring to dream of a fairytale suitor. These are the beginnings of sorrows, but not the end. Choice remains at the heart of life."
And the woman Raven's eyes widened, the tears drying, as she touched her hand to her forehead and wondered if such a boon was one that she could possibly hope for.
Jonathan finished, "I love you. And I want to tell you myself."
The world snapped back to normal, colors dimming and edges resharpening. In a bustle of confusion Jonathan was bustled away from the woman called Raven as she stared thoughtfully into space. As Princess Diana spoke to him, his attention was only half on the conversation. Drifting into his ears on the California breeze, he heard Raven state, "I'm going to find him."
And somewhere in the multiverse the Chronicler opened his eyes and smiled.
AN: There ends Chronicler Saga: Teen Titans. It's been a hell of a road, stretching over six years, two career changes, a marriage, three dogs, innumerable crises, and life as we know it. Will there be more? Who can say? The Chronicler Saga was initially supposed to be a trilogy, with this being the third part. I found as I was planning the story that the parts I wanted to write most were pretty much all in this part, and I barely finished that as it was. I have ideas, don't get me wrong, but I'm not sure I want the responsibility of starting another story when there's every possibility I won't finish. Still, I kept coming back to this one, so who knows?
I also apologize for the choppy nature of the narrative in the beginning of the story. Reading it through in one go is somewhat disconcerting, but I'm not feeling the urge to go back and update. Not at the moment, anyway.
Please feel free to review and PM with any questions, comments, and concerns.
Yours Sincerely;
The Chronicler, Jon