The sky is calm, silent, unmoving.
We have yet to hear their answer.
-Weis & Hickman
Why can't you hear me?
Raistlin knew this question had gone beyond rhetorical, but he continued to ask. More bull-headed than a Minotaur, Caramon never heard him pushing away, never responded to words he shaped to cut like daggers. He pushed and pushed and pushed, but it was never enough.
Caramon had curled protectively behind and around him, one arm curved over his elbow. He was shielded and trapped all at once. How many times had he said don't touch me? How many times had those tea-stained eyes stared at him, misunderstanding, hurt, though he didn't care, and touched him anyway? Helped him up, helped him down, held him, trapped him, large hands a reminder of so many things, too many things.
He slid away; too awake to sleep and too rattled to relax. The fire had faded away and it wasn't yet morning. He pulled his cloak tight, huddled into the thickness that held Caramon's remaining warmth and stared at the figure across from him.
Caramon, oblivious, slept on.
When the birds ventured forth at dawn, Raistlin still didn't have an answer.
