Chapter Text
Breathing in the crisp air of England, Raven found herself staring at the entrance of St. Paul’s cathedral. Imposing and grand, this was the last opportunity she had to visit the famous church before Cyborg picked her up in a few hours. The catch? She would technically be breaking and entering if she went inside now, at 1:00 am in the morning.
She had hoped to visit during the day, but she was busy. First by attempting to locate and extend an invitation to the Squire (which she didn’t accept), and then by investigating London to see who or what was responsible for the numerous attacks around the city. Despite Robin’s theory that something supernatural was at play, it just turned out to be a hoax perpetuated by Springheeled Jack. He looked demonic, she’ll give him that, but he was no supernatural creature. He was apprehended and handed over to the police.
All that was left for her to do now was to get back to the states. But she didn’t expect for Cyborg to already be on his way. That meant if she wanted to take a look at the cathedral’s legendary artwork and architecture, it would have to be done now.
She bit her lip at the thought. Even if it was trespassing, one little peek wouldn’t hurt, right? But on the other hand, she can already imagine the headlines if they just-so-happened to capture her on camera: “A Witch Breaking into Church?!” or “Titan Breaking into One of Britain’s Great Landmarks?!”. She can envision Robin’s lecture as well.
But still...
She really wanted to see the inside in person. If she kept herself to the main chapel and abstained from exploring its crypts, it shouldn’t be too bad. And it’s not like she broke the rules all the time like Beast Boy. She could allow herself this one indulgence.
She even appreciated the irony of it. A half-demon breaking into a venerated church to look at artwork? That would be profane to most evangelists. Or would it be fitting because she was committing a sin?
She sardonically smiled. ‘Well, it's now or never.’
Opening a dark portal underneath her feet, Raven found herself rising in the cathedral’s famous domed interior. Taking a moment to admire the superb baroque craftsmanship, Raven found the silence of the area to be quite calming.
With her footsteps barely making any noise on the marbled ground, she situated herself on one of the cathedral’s many wooden seats. With the borderline absurd amount of white and gold adorning the interior, Raven was almost inclined to declare the area as needlessly opulent. A building that would be better paired with a greedy king than an organization as allegedly wholesome as the Christian Church.
There was no denying its beauty, however. Just as there was no denying that there was a sense of grand majesty about this place. Even at night, the area felt so large and magnificent that she could see why so many people visited the place. It inspired awe through majesty, and that majesty in turn was expected to be turned inward into prayer unto God. To invigorate the soul through visual medium so that they can produce silent hymns of faith.
Raven would scoff at the notion if it wasn’t so intertwined with spirituality.
The idea suddenly had her mind turning toward the morose. The fate of her own soul was a...complicated topic. One she was afraid of finding the answer to. As the daughter of a demon, was she doomed to go to hell?
She looked at a depiction of St. Mark, finger raised as he seemingly spoke to a pair of angels who leaned ever closer to hear his words. Unlike St. Luke, who was more concerned with a roll of parchment, Mark was more attentive. Eyes opened and at attention as he lectured about proper gospel.
But in her view his eyes were glazed over. Paint cracked and faded as her looked down at her from his great archway. Like something insignificant at best. Or at least unworthy. Like the grace of God was unable to truly reach her no matter how much she tried to do good.
A dry chuckle escaped her lips, the sound echoing through the empty space. Slithering through the hallow ground as if she was a serpent in a stone garden of enlightenment.
“Is something troubling you, child?”
Startled from her seat, Raven heard one of the standing candlesticks clattering to the ground. No doubt from her powers. She turned to face the voice only to find a feeble-looking man looking at her in gentle concern.
Wearing a brown cloak that reminded her of monks at an abbey, he truly looked like a man of the cloth. Complete with an aged face with endless wrinkles and a head of grey hair. He shuffled his way over to her, sandals clip-clopping on the empty floor.
It was only when he came closer to her that Raven got a closer look at his eyes. They were yellow at the edges, almost as if he was sick. And his cloak wasn’t just brown. It was torn and tattered, looking more like an overrated rag than a formal uniform of the clergy. He even smelled bad. Like he hasn’t had a shower in Azar knows how many years.
She openly looked down. His sandals were just as worn down, and she was pretty sure one even had a hole in it. “I am fine, father. But can the same be said about you?”
He smiled, his lips stubbornly sticking together and making his face looking like it was sporting a great seam. “Oh, I am no father. Not really. Just a man from Eustania coming out of St. Paul’s crypt. But it is good that you care.”
She raised an eyebrow. Her empathy told her that his concern was genuine, and it would be rude to point out his less-than-stellar hygiene. “You say that, but something tells you me you believe in the Almighty like the rest of the priests.”
He shook his head. “I am no priest either. Although I still consider myself a man of faith.” His voice sounded worn, like his throat was sandpaper. “I also consider it proper for a man like myself to offer conversation to someone like you. Someone who is sitting on a chair looking despondent and sad.”
Raven sighed a little, patting the chair beside her as she silently bade the old man to rest. He looked like he needed it. “I have my own demons to deal with. But I doubt it is something you can help with.”
“I can try, can I not?” The chair gave a slight creak as he situated himself. “If Christ has taught us anything, it is to help thy neighbor.”
Raven chuckled. “I am no neighbor of yours, old man. Not even in spirit. I do not believe in Jesus as you do.”
The ancient-looking man gave a noncommittal hum in response. “Even so, you are one of his children, and deserve to be treated as such. Besides...” He croaked. “The lord works in mysterious ways. He could have led me to you, just as he could be leading you to me.”
She gave a wry smile. “I can’t really say anything about that. But I doubt you can solve my problems or answer my questions.”
“Can you not let me try?” He pressed, situating a surprisingly firm hand on her shoulder. “Tell me what ails you.”
A breath escaped her lips, magic running through her system in a wound coil. She wasn’t sure if it was due to the cathedral’s tranquil ambiance, or just the natural result of her previous line of thoughts, but she decided to be honest with him. “I’m wondering why I am so...cursed.” The word came out with acidic bile, and she even heard a light bulb shatter somewhere. Screw it. She already knocked over something. “About why I can’t feel without something blowing something up or someone getting hurt. I can’t afford to feel happiness, pain, anger...what is that if not a curse? I endure it as much as I can but—it's hard. Really hard.”
A broken chuckle escaped her lips, unbidden. “I don’t even know if one day these efforts will result in anything significant for my soul. Am I damned no matter how hard I try to be good? Just because of my heritage?”. The silence of the church rang through her head when she shut her mouth, practically demanding that she confess just a bit more, but all Raven could do was lean her head and stare mindlessly at the ceiling. “Isn’t there a saying about that? About how insanity is defined by doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result? Perhaps I am just mad.”
She spared a glance over to her silent companion, his hands laced in thought as he took in her words with seemingly no judgement. She felt nothing but contemplation from him, and his eyes were looking at her with clear intent. “I do not think you are mad. I think you are very strong to maintain your quest for spiritual purity. For forgiveness for a birth which you had no control over.”
Raven couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Of course, you would say that.” She muttered. After all, no one outside of the Titans was aware that she was literal demon spawn. Some TV personas may have guessed as much, and even nicknamed her as such, but they had no idea how right they were. Or how much weight the name of “demon” held.
“Now I?” The old man continued. “I am a madman. A madman who has lived a life of perpetual night. Eternally hoping for an end to my service so that I may finally be laid to rest—true rest—only to be overcome by a strange compulsion to sire a child. Metaphorically, of course.” He looked serenely at the grand depiction of Christ, situated in the dome wearing a crown and hands outstretched. Like he was completely at peace with his plight, regardless of how haggard and tired he has become.
“Perpetual night? Where exactly have they been hiding you?” Raven resituated her proper posture, looking upon the old man in sympathy. She had a soft spot for well-intentioned elders. Call it a remnant from her days on Azarath, but she was always taught to treat elders who have fulfilled their duties with respect.
Her guess? This poor man was left to tend at some dank archive at some sort of distant nation, only being recalled to St. Paul’s now that his age was starting to seriously catch up to him. She hoped they treated him well. “I can’t say you answered my questions. But thank you for helping.” She showed him a small smile. “You did help, though. I find that I feel a lot better now that I have been able to vent a little.”
She rose from her seat, almost immediately teleporting away before she thought better of it. She looked at the old man, still staring yellow-eyed at the depiction of Christ in thought, and Raven wondered if he even heard her. She extended her arm. “Do you need help getting somewhere? I have some time before Cyborg arrives to pick me up.”
He turned toward her, showing her that withered leathery smile that reminded Raven cruelty of time. But she as glad that it was wider this time around. He seemed genuinely touched—and that he treasured her response more than the gold that lined this building. “You really are a kind girl, aren’t you? Not even being compelled and you want to help this insufferably old madman who smells like he came from an ass’s behind.”
An inappropriate chuckle almost escaped her throat, but she was able to catch it by the time a gut-wrenching sound met her ears.
An almost-smile still frozen on her face, her eyes looked downward to identify the source of the sound....and of her blinding pain.
Wrinkled, freckled, and even sporting a few nasty scars, Raven looked disbelievingly as her brain finally registered that a hand had forced its way into her chest, grasping her heart. Smile instinctively falling, she opened her mouth to scream. Only for a slicing pain to erupt on her throat as her vocal cords were slit in one smooth motion.
The sandpapery voice of the old man came out in his attempt f a soothing whisper. “Shh...It would not bode well if we were found here.” The grip on her heart tightened. Not enough to crush it into pulp, but more than enough to put it under extreme strain. “Worry not, child. This pain will only be temporary. All of this damage shall be undone, in time.”
The smell of copper and iron filled her nose as she watched her blood pool on the floor. The white marble of the floor was becoming stained with a thick red liquid, and Raven saw the wood of the chair getting tarnished with her blood.
There was a part of her that was thankful, however. If the smell of her own blood hadn’t reached her senses, then she would doubt the validity of her own blinding pain. This was all real. No matter how much she wanted to deny reality.
“Even the daughter of a devil has a purpose in this world.” The ancient man reasoned, now looking to Raven like an inhuman creature despite the lack of a changed appearance. HIs last statement had what was left of her mind racing. He knew? How could he know?
' Of course he would kill me.’ Raven concluded. 'What better fate for a demon’s child?’
She opened her mouth again to attempt another scream, to voice her growing feeling of fear and misery. But nothing came out other than more blood. How did she have so much of it? Her powers rushed through her system the moment she caught up with reality, practically begging to be released so that she can at least express her dying moments through destruction and flying debris. Maybe even take out her murderer along with her. But her iron will bade them to be still.
“Poor, sweet child.” The voice cooed. “You still try to restrain your powers, even in your final moments before rebirth.”
His firm grip unrelenting, black finally started to cloud the edges of her vision, strength bleeding from her just as surely as her crimson blood.
“Sleep now.” The man said, cradling her frail form as she finally began to slump toward the ground. He laid her out with all the reverence of a corpse, taking care to situate her body as if she were to be buried.
When the last vestiges of her life finally left her body, his eyes found their way back to the painting of Christ as he whispered a prayer of forgiveness. For he had sinned and he needed to repent for it. For centuries, if he must.
Then he looked at the girl he had slain, her pale face looking almost angelic in death, and raised his right hand as if in communion. Slitting his wrist open just as easily as he slit her throat, the sick-looking man watched with solemn reverence as his blood began to leak from the wound.
He brought it down to the fallen Titan, situating his wounded wrist just above her mouth.
“Sanguinis meus vere est potus.”