Author's Note: The story begins to take a dark turn at the end of the chapter. Content warning for gore and implied torture.
"No, I don't care about the pain, I'll walk through fire and through rain, just to get closer to you."
Loreen
The shadows under Narrows Bridge stretch unnaturally, darkening in the early morning light, before snapping back into place. The receding darkness reveals the silhouette of Raven and Slade, still crouched in their previous embrace. Raven shakes off the offending hand covering her mouth and moves away. Slade slowly rises behind her.
She moves further out of the shadows cast by the bridge overhead, wandering towards the shoreline of the Avalon River. The muddy banks are littered with the refuse of the city. Fitting, she thinks as she considers the two of them.
Staring off towards the mouth of the waterway where the city's filth spills into the Atlantic, she calls back to Slade, "Who were they?"
Slade moves toward her, standing just over her shoulder. As he approaches, the feathery mask covering the top half of her face draws back into the neckline of her uniform; long curls the deepest shade of amethyst spill out, falling down her back. He takes a moment to appreciate the familiarity before responding. In the quiet of the moment, she glances over her shoulder at him, a look of ill-disguised impatience upon her countenance. And though it's been a decade, it feels as if he remained suspended with her on top of that tower, disregarding the call of duty and expectation; the shock of nostalgia arrests him.
Looking past her to regain his equanimity, he is finally able to speak. "They call themselves the Sons' Acolytes."
The name draws no recognition. Raven returns her gaze to the bay, that strange sense of inevitability she felt as she stood before St. Eustace Church reemerging, overwhelming all else. The premonitions of her dreams whisper unintelligibly, warning her against this path they've found themselves on.
"What were you doing in that church, Slade?" She should leave this alone, return to her apartment, sleep for the few hours that remain before her afternoon shift at RABE Memorial. For a moment, she imagines she called that cab when she left the hospital, arriving home without incident, and veering them both away from this treacherous course. Slade would have slipped into the cathedral, found whatever he was looking for and left, none the wiser. She would have continued with life, blissfully unaware of this rising threat.
Except she knew—knew that this storm had been brewing on the horizon, knew this moment would arrive. She had merely been waiting for the day the lightning would strike, the collision course of her life impossible to avert.
Her dreams, those nightmares, had been calling to her for months; the siren song she had followed without conscious effort. A sinister voice in the back of her mind speaks of destiny, of a prophecy she refuses to hear. She would be no one's puppet again.
His response draws her back from her reverie.
"To think a Titan could so easily procure such knowledge. You must think much less of me these many years later, Raven." She glares sharply at him, at once reminded of his tendency to frustrate. He chuckles lowly at her obvious annoyance.
"To think you had changed at all, Slade." Her body turns toward him, the rigidity of her stance belying her calm demeanor.
He considers her for a moment, notices the dark bruising beneath her eyes, the slope of her shoulders. Long nights, perhaps. Or sleepless. His hidden smirk falls from his lips as his memory is immediately pulled to nights long past when her father would delight in her unending torment.
"It seems I am not the only one so unchanged. Old habits, as they say." Her face reddens, but whether in embarrassment or anger, he cannot tell.
Before she can reply, Slade steps closer, grasping her arm above the bend of her elbow. She intends to pull free but is arrested by the look in his eye staring desperately at her. "Raven, something malicious is at work here in Blüdhaven. It's feeding off the depravity of this city. These... acolytes appeared as if from nowhere, just over a year ago, but they command far more respect than any other syndicate. They're no mere cult. Someone or something is moving in the shadows, setting the stage for what I do not know."
He hesitates before continuing. She has no words to respond, captivated by the gravity of his revelations.
"You should not remain here." The words fall between them, neither knowing what more to say. He drops her arm, turning away. The neglected and worn tether that still binds their souls winds itself around them. She feels moored to him, as if he alone will secure her in this coming tempest.
She is reminded of the day her porcelain skin bore the burning red sigils of her father, conjured by Slade's hand. The day destiny entwined their souls together. She thought those days behind them, hoped they would meet as equals rather than adversaries or... whatever they would now become.
Unbidden, she imagines the rope that binds them snapping, its frayed end swaying above her as she plummets into the unknown. And despite the haziness that obscures her nightly visions, she knows this foresight has haunted her often in her dreams.
She wishes to reach for him, to draw him near as she did so long ago now, to remind herself that she has not yet fallen. Her hands remain by her sides.
"You know as well as I do that I can't leave." Not now. Maybe not ever. She felt they'd both wandered too far onto this path to escape it.
He bows his head, the weight of her decision, of unspoken promises heavy on his shoulders. Quietly, as if commenting only to himself, he responds, "Still so obstinate, little bird. Has so little changed?" He stands straight but does not turn back to her.
"Very well. Tread lightly, Raven. I am sure we will see each other soon." Before she can respond, he is gone, grappling across the underside of Narrows Bridge. She watches as his body moves through the shadows before he disappears past the last pier, his body arching up above the deck.
Her body yearns for rest, but she remains on the embankment long after he's gone, transfixed by his sudden departure. Or perhaps, more aptly, his sudden arrival back in her life.
Returning to St. Eustace Church was foolhardy, but Slade was nothing if not determined. Her involvement, if it came to that, when it came to that, changed things. This was no longer some contract for sport, it was personal.
He long ago rejected the notion that this would be an easy assignment. Had he known then what he knows now, he would have laughed heartily at the request from his current benefactor before readily declining. Of course, had he known then she would come crashing back into his life should he take the contract, he doubts he would have refused, doubts he could have refused.
He wonders whether he will ever again be able to choose a path that does not lead him back to her. He shakes the thought from his mind, focusing on the task at hand.
For how powerful this cult has become, he is still surprised by the ease with which he can access their base of operations. The cathedral is by no means impenetrable. Rather, their brazen neglect for precaution or defense puts him on guard. There can be only two reasons for the oversight: foolishness or confidence. His instinct tells him there is intention behind their negligence—the unassuming building merely a decoy, luring in unsuspecting prey.
He silently berates himself for his previous brash decision, noting with frustration his last entrance left too obvious a sign of his endeavors.
Despite his previous interruptions, both by Raven and the Sons' Acolytes, he meets no further interference. Again, he is struck by the feeling of being lured, but into what he does not know.
The evidence of his and Raven's earlier visit remains: the shattered glass, the splintered pew, the cracked column. He knows the building should be crowded with the disciples of the Sons' Acolytes, their frenzied activity one minded, their sole focus on locating the individuals who dared enter their sanctum. And yet... no one.
The emptiness urges him onward, his intuition compelling him to get the job done, now.
The gilded shrine sat at the back of the apse draws his attention. Laying on the marble top is a stand holding a heavily worn grimoire, the leather edges faded, curling in on itself. The once brilliant gold embossing on the cover now scratched and dull. The tome appears innocuous, but Slade knows better.
Before taking the volume, he ensures there are no devices set to alarm should he move the object. Finding nothing of concern, he secures the book to the strap across his chest, fitting it into place before adjusting the strap so the book lay against his back.
Without the grimoire blocking it, the tabernacle displayed on the shrine draws his attention. It's gaudy ornamentation slightly altered; the carving of the crucifix etched onto the doors of the receptacle marred by new engravings. Running his finger against the impression, he is reminded of the Mark of Skath, the burning sigils he once drew forth on Raven. The reminder of that fateful night paints a deep frown onto his face.
As he traces the new outline, the engraving begins to glow a fiery red. Pulling his hand away as if burned, he decides against inspecting further. He knows he has pushed his luck as far as he should for today and dares not draw any further attention.
Still, the designs etched into the surface of the tabernacle taunt him, attempting to lure him in. He quickly decides to scan the engraving so he can examine it further once safely away from the cathedral. He can't shake the feeling that this cult and their schemes are somehow connected to Raven; that they would both again be ensnared in something beyond their control.
As he scales the shrine to exit through the broken stained-glass window, he is overcome with a sense of dread.
This was too easy, something isn't right.
He is certain he was meant to encounter no resistance; certain he would succeed in his objective. He feels as if the entire stage was set for him, but if he performed as expected, and to what end, he cannot say.
Again, he glances at the garish shrine, its opulence overshadowing the alterations in its design. He is glad to have left well enough alone.
Mount Zynar, Isle Nation of Zandia
A figure stands before a bound woman, her body unnaturally gaunt. Her hands are chained above her head, her frame held aloft by the bindings securing her to the ceiling. Her head is bowed, her chest unmoving. The man lifts her chin with a blood-soaked finger, an endless gaze stares back from unseeing eyes.
"Tch, pathetic." He lets her head drop and steps back to observe his work of art. Her skin is marred by thin, looping incisions still leaking her beautiful life essence. The designs carved into her body bring a sinister smile to his face.
Her blood pools below her, the repetitive drip, drip, drip a melody to his ears.
He thrusts his hand into her chest, blood red magic extending from his fingertips forming the sharpest of claws. The talons easily tear through the woman's flesh, her rib cage breaking under the force of his strike. He tears out her heart and holds it aloft.
Exultantly he crushes the organ in his fist, the gushing blood pouring into his open mouth. Her lifeblood drips down his arm, the feel of its warmth trickling down his skin a delight.
A woman clears her throat behind him. He turns, the heart still clutched in his hand, his skin now stained red.
"Excuse me, Sire. Shall we prepare the pool?" She gestures at the woman's feet, where a device has collected the young maiden's blood.
A lecherous smile stretches across the man's face.
"Yes, Sister, that would be excellent. We will need the vitality for the coming crusade." As he speaks, hooded figures emerge from the shadows, ready to act on their master's bidding.
The woman steps forward, her hand outstretched. The heart is placed in her palm.
"Has Azrael provided any new intelligence?"
She carefully places the heart into a velvet lined box atop an altar before responding, "He states there has been an interesting development. Our dear girl has an unexpected champion, he who has forsaken the Old Gods."
"And what of our plans?" The man runs his hands through his ivory hair, the strands now streaked in red, a scowl pulling at his lips.
She observes the change in his demeanor. "Azrael believes it will be to our advantage, Sire. You need not worry. She will be yours soon."
His grin returns easily to his face. "Sister, call forth the disciples. It is time to bathe in blood."
She bows deeply in respect, waiting for his retreat. Once gone, she turns back to the altar, placing her hands upon the desecrated heart.
"Brother Blood has given you his love, his devotion. Now let your life essence give strength in his time of need."
The heart thuds dully under her ministrations.