The Things That Bind Us- Damirae

Chapter Eight

The laws governing magical practice were much to the frequent dismay of the empath. One such was that one couldn't heal themselves...well, they could but the physical and spiritual draining effect of using magic would counteract most of the healing effect. Luckily for Raven, she'd brought a little magical first-aid kit in her bag: sludgy bottles of salves, glimmering elixirs, assorted crystals, and some plasters and aspirin.

Raven found the room that she'd been given sparse, but not wanting. It's simplicity was rejuvenating: Gotham was a hubbub of noise and mess that almost demanded chaos within its buildings; this retreat, these hills, had breathed a freshness in to her aura that she hadn't anticipated.

Alas, lovely as the room was in it's plain poetry, it lacked a mirror.

Raven pulled one out of her bag- it may have been on the back of a hairbrush, but it was a mirror all the same-  and dipped her finger in to one of the bottles of salve. Lifting her chin, Raven turned her head about to see her neck. She smirked privately, dabbing at the bruised spots and feeling ghost lips against them.

Azar, how he'd just...she sank in to wistful remembrance. Share a slice of heaven, as silently as they could manage it, and be gone before morning; Raven admired the professionalism.

Tender streams of gold broke through her window as the sun rose above an obstructing tree. She smiled at the warmth, taking in the stillness of morning and draining the vivid passion of last night's events.  The sex had been good. It had satiated her lust and now she could move past him...so Raven convinced herself in the purity of dawn.

Her stomach rumbled. Raven unrolled a pair of socks, considered the customs of the court, and threw them in to her bag. She stared unimpressed at the leggings and knitted jumper that she'd brought with her; they would do, she supposed.

Breakfast was taken communally, Lady Shiva had informed her, at seven o'clock, sharp. Raven took out her phone and her eyes turned to saucers.

"Holy Azar- shit shit shit!" she chucked the clothes on and dragged a seasoned warrior of a brush through her knotted hair- of course it was hot as hell tangling your hands in someone's hair in the throes of passion, but why did nobody think of the painful fallout having to brush the damn knots out?

She grumbled her way out of the room, massaging a particularly pained ear that the hairbrush had whacked, and half the way to the communal eating space inside, until encountering the formation of Shiva's trainees. Each of them moved with uniform grace, at a crossroads between daintily gliding and predatorily stalking, through the central hallway. Some clad in their ironed uniforms, passed an eye over her, but little more. Smug assholes, Raven scrunched her nose. She could glide- actually glide- and a lot better than these trainees too.

All in all, the first fifteen minutes of breakfast was an awkward, mundane affair. 

Raven had first been affronted, at the mouth of the hall, that she was stopped from entering. That is, until all of the trainee assassins had come in and she was finally allowed through, only to be met with standing bows from them. Raven took the gesture as a sign of respect for their guest (aka Raven Roth, witch) and thought the only thing appropriate to do was to bow back. That seemed to be taken well and she faced no objections to plonking herself down in the first free space she found. Breakfast was served by two assassins.

Rice porridge. Tea. Cross-legged on the floor. Pristine silence. 

Then Damian Al Ghul Wayne walked through the door, bowed before the trainees could raise themselves, caught Raven's eye, and beelined for her. He sat down besides the empath, the highest points of his caramel cheeks showing a little pink, and accepted a bowl of porridge. 

Raven, who had frozen for a moment, resumed eating. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at him; he was already looking. Years of training to subdue her emotions were well in use, smothering a beaming grin and triumphant laugh in a spoon of porridge and a sip of tea.

Just look at that aura, she smiled in to another mouthful of porridge, I call that a success.

***

Damian slid the door closed, wincing at the clicking sound- the sleeping world made squeaks sound like roars. Leaning against the door, he closed his eyes and exhaled. And then bit his lip to stop a smile- unsuccessfully. That had been...something...Damian covered his face with both hands. His face was hot. Apprehensively, he touched his lips and they (rather unsurprisingly) bore all the signs of having been snogged to heaven and back.

"Ughhhh," He pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he remembered those violet lips, and being pushed between a demoness and a hard place, and gnawed on his knuckles. Now Raven Roth, Pride, daughter of Trigon, was something else entirely. When he thought of her again, Damian despaired that he liked her, and liked her a bit more than lustfully; 'more' in the sense that he wanted to sit in a coffee shop with Raven and let her speak for hours, soaking everything in about her as much as he wanted to walk back to her room and kiss her senseless. He huffed and stared tragically at his bedroll. A few hours yet  remained between himself and morning.

With the sun, Damian rose. Years of habit were impossible to shake; early-rising was a habit that would be appreciated in Shiva's court. And with his awaking, a fresh mentality set upon the man: he didn't want something 'casual' or 'one-off' with Raven, and it would do him no good pretending otherwise. So he resolved to be amicable, to take down the barriers of suspicion that he'd help up before and be...well...nice.

He sat next to her at breakfast and Raven looked pleasantly surprised.  When Damian had finished his porridge, he saw that Raven's bowl too was empty. The only sound to break the disciplined silence was his voice.

"We must be leaving soon, as arranged."

She hadn't heard a thing for nearing on fifteen minutes. It was as though someone had dropped a pen in an exam hall- all eyes turned to the man. He stood and raised an eyebrow. Raven glanced about the room, taking in the stricken assassins as they balanced both outrage and deference to Damian's authority. 

"Of course-I'll gather my things." Raven followed him out of the hall and broke away from him, a little sadly, to gather the essentials in her bag. They'd return to the court once this task was done.

The cambion and the assassin reconvened in the courtyard, with a black-clad Lady Shiva awaiting them. She expected their return and nodded to both before they stepped through a portal of Raven's construction...

..and in to a heavy downpour. The rain stung his skin immediately, shooting down like bullets from the heavens. Damian's boots squelched on to a field that felt more mud than grass. Looming above them, behind a thick, cold, wet curtain, was an elegant creature of a house. It seemed to breathe in the rain, remaining still but wearing all the illusion of moving. If Damian had the magical sensibilities of Raven, he would have recognised that the feeling of movement came from the energy radiating from the isolate building.

The steps of the soaked veranda beckoned them. Raven looked to the man and said, "The House will let us in by intention. It knows me and should detect that our motives aren't malicious. So if you're plotting something..."

Damian answered her by walking up the stairs and to the doorstep. After a silent prayer to the MotherSpirit of the Netherealm, Raven reached past him to turn the doorknob. 

Of it's own accord, the door swung open. 

And an unexpected face greeted them.

"Klarion?" Raven's mouth fell agape.

The Witchboy grinned at her, "Oh hello-" he caught sight of Damian, rain-soaked and severe, "and hello to you too gorgeous. What can I do you for?"

A.N:

Okayyy we'll stop there!

I hope you enjoyed that chapter folks! I've not got much to say besides thank you and stay tuned!

-Bats