I, Sadina Saphrite, do not own Dragonlance or A Christmas Carol by Charles
Dickens.
Chapter One: Daly's Ghost
Dalamar was dead to begin with. As dead as a doornail. The register of his burial was signed by a cleric, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Raistlin had also signed it.
Raistlin Majere and Dalamar the Dark had been teacher and apprentice for many years. Once Dalamar had died, Raistlin was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Raistlin was not so dreadfully cut up by the event.
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Raistlin! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his features, nipped his nose, shriveled his golden skin, stiffened his gait; and spoke out shrewdly in his voice.
Once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve -- old Raistlin sat busy in his library. The door of Raistlin's library was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters.
``A merry Christmas, Raistlin! God save you!'' cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, Tanis. (A.N. I considered making Caramon Raist's nephew, as they're blood relatives, but I decided character-wise it works better this way.)
``Bah!'' said Raistlin, ``Humbug!'' He coughed.
``Christmas a humbug, uncle!'' said Tanis. ``You don't mean that, I am sure.''
``I do,'' said Raistlin. ``Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reasons have you to be merry? You're weak enough.''
``Come, then,'' returned the nephew happily. ``What right have you to be dismal? What reasons have you to be morose? You're powerful enough.''
Raistlin, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, ``Bah!'' again; and followed it up with ``Humbug.''
``Don't be cross, uncle. Come! Leave your spells for a night and dine with us tomorrow.''
"Leave my spells? Have you taken leave of your senses? I'd rather retire to Kendermore. And you know I cannot eat that slop you call a feast."
"No, of course not," Tanis sighed. "You'd rather be in your tower, drinking that revolting tea."
"Go away."
``I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!''
"Go away." The mage repeated.
``And A Happy New Year!''
"Get out!"
Tanis left the room without an angry word, pausing only to wish the clerk a Merry Christmas, who returned it. As the half-elf left, two more people entered.
One was a beautiful woman with shining hair, and the other a muscular man. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to respectfully to Raistlin.
``Raistlin and Dalamar's, I believe,'' said the man, referring to his list. ``Have I the pleasure of addressing Raistlin, or Dalamar?''
``Dalamar has been dead these seven years,'' Raistlin replied sourly. ``He died seven years ago, this very night.''
"Oh." The man said awkwardly.
The woman spoke up. "Well.I am Goldmoon, and this is my partner Riverwind, and we are collecting donations for the poor and the gully dwarves."
``Are there no prisons?'' asked Raistlin.
``Plenty of prisons,'' said Goldmoon.
``And the mines?'' demanded Raistlin. ``Are they still in operation?''
"Yes."
``Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,'' said Raistlin. ``I'm very glad to hear it.''
``Many can't go there; and many would rather die.''
``If they would rather die,'' cried Raistlin, ``they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."
The pair of barbarians gasped. Riverwind glared at him, and the duo left to seek luck elsewhere. At length the hour of closing the library arrived. With an ill-will Raistlin dismounted from his stool, and admitted the fact to the expectant clerk, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.
``You'll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?'' Raistlin inquired bitterly.
"Yes." The clerk said tentatively. "But I promise to be here all the earlier the next day."
"You'd better." The mage muttered darkly. "Close up. I'm leaving."
And with a swish of his black robes, Raistlin was gone.
The library was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk raced home, joyfully.
Raistlin took his melancholy dinner (which was naught more than his herbal tea) in his usual melancholy tavern, and left for the tower he called his home.
"Shirek." Raistlin murmured under his breath. The Staff of the Magus illuminated, casting shadows on the dismal little houses beside his grand, dark, tower. He approached the door, leaning on his staff, and in a very sour mood. He fitted the key into the lock and gasped.
The knocker on his door had transformed. Raistlin found himself looking at not a large, steel, rune-covered knocker, but Dalamar's face.
Raistlin blinked, and the apparition vanished. Raistlin shook his head.
"Bothersome illusion spells." He hissed.
He hobbled up the stairs to his sleeping quarters, pausing only for a coughing fit.
He locked himself in, which was not his custom, and changed into his midnight black sleeping robes.
But Raistlin couldn't forget the image of Dalamar's elvin face.
He sat down in a thin, under-stuffed chair. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, which hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the tower. It was with great astonishment, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.
This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant's cellar.
The chains grew closer, dragging their way up the stairs, and as Raistlin watched, a ghostly Dalamar phased through the door. He was covered in chains, and attached to those (for Raistlin noted them clearly) were Spellbooks, wands, scrolls, and all manner of magical artifacts.
Now Raistlin wasn't as surprised as one might think, having a great manner of undead creatures roaming his tower at all times of the day, the only surprise was that it was the spirit of Dalamar gliding toward him.
"Yes?" Raistlin inquired, when the specter did not at first speak.
"Shalafi." Dalamar whispered in a voice as translucent as he.
"Yes?"
"My old shalafi."
"Yes?"
"My former shalafi."
"Spit it out, former apprentice."
Dalamar smiled. "You're screwed." (A.N. Heh, Daly's still a little miffed over his burns.)
This was not what Raistlin expected to hear from his apprentice.
"Why, my dear Dalamar, am I 'screwed?'"
Dalamar held up his chains. "See this? Yours will be worse."
"Lovely." Raistlin said dryly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Dalamar, I have had a trying day, and would like to get some sleep. If you'll excuse me..."
"I will not." Dalamar growled.
"You won't? Tough. Goodnight." He stood up and moved toward his bed.
Dalamar's eyes narrowed. He flared up and glowed as menacing as any ghost could.
"RAISTLIN MAJERE!!! DO NOT TAKE ME LIGHTLY!!! IT TO MY OWN EXPENSE THAT I VISIT YOU TONIGHT!!!"
Raistlin took a step backwards with alarm at the sight of an infuriated phantom. (A.N. We had to tone down Raist's power a lot for this story to work. Normally he wouldn't fear someone like this.)
"I wear the chain I forged in life,'' cried the Ghost. ``I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?'' Raistlin trembled.
"Your chain will be heavier than mine! You have no kindness, no compassion, and no joy!"
"D-Dalamar," Raistlin stammered. "Surely you do not ask me to change my robes from black to white?"
"No." Dalamar replied, solemn. "I only ask that you show kindness to those who show you kindness, and that you honor Christmas in your heart. You will be haunted by three spirits."
"I'd rather not."
"With out them, you cannot hope to escape this fate. Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one, and the next when the bell tolls two, and then the third-"
"I get it, Dalamar."
Dalamar frowned at being interrupted, but did not speak. He spread his arms. "Farewell!"
And with a flash of supernatural light, the specter of Dalamar the Dark vanished.
Chapter One: Daly's Ghost
Dalamar was dead to begin with. As dead as a doornail. The register of his burial was signed by a cleric, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Raistlin had also signed it.
Raistlin Majere and Dalamar the Dark had been teacher and apprentice for many years. Once Dalamar had died, Raistlin was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Raistlin was not so dreadfully cut up by the event.
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Raistlin! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his features, nipped his nose, shriveled his golden skin, stiffened his gait; and spoke out shrewdly in his voice.
Once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve -- old Raistlin sat busy in his library. The door of Raistlin's library was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters.
``A merry Christmas, Raistlin! God save you!'' cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, Tanis. (A.N. I considered making Caramon Raist's nephew, as they're blood relatives, but I decided character-wise it works better this way.)
``Bah!'' said Raistlin, ``Humbug!'' He coughed.
``Christmas a humbug, uncle!'' said Tanis. ``You don't mean that, I am sure.''
``I do,'' said Raistlin. ``Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reasons have you to be merry? You're weak enough.''
``Come, then,'' returned the nephew happily. ``What right have you to be dismal? What reasons have you to be morose? You're powerful enough.''
Raistlin, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, ``Bah!'' again; and followed it up with ``Humbug.''
``Don't be cross, uncle. Come! Leave your spells for a night and dine with us tomorrow.''
"Leave my spells? Have you taken leave of your senses? I'd rather retire to Kendermore. And you know I cannot eat that slop you call a feast."
"No, of course not," Tanis sighed. "You'd rather be in your tower, drinking that revolting tea."
"Go away."
``I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!''
"Go away." The mage repeated.
``And A Happy New Year!''
"Get out!"
Tanis left the room without an angry word, pausing only to wish the clerk a Merry Christmas, who returned it. As the half-elf left, two more people entered.
One was a beautiful woman with shining hair, and the other a muscular man. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to respectfully to Raistlin.
``Raistlin and Dalamar's, I believe,'' said the man, referring to his list. ``Have I the pleasure of addressing Raistlin, or Dalamar?''
``Dalamar has been dead these seven years,'' Raistlin replied sourly. ``He died seven years ago, this very night.''
"Oh." The man said awkwardly.
The woman spoke up. "Well.I am Goldmoon, and this is my partner Riverwind, and we are collecting donations for the poor and the gully dwarves."
``Are there no prisons?'' asked Raistlin.
``Plenty of prisons,'' said Goldmoon.
``And the mines?'' demanded Raistlin. ``Are they still in operation?''
"Yes."
``Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,'' said Raistlin. ``I'm very glad to hear it.''
``Many can't go there; and many would rather die.''
``If they would rather die,'' cried Raistlin, ``they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."
The pair of barbarians gasped. Riverwind glared at him, and the duo left to seek luck elsewhere. At length the hour of closing the library arrived. With an ill-will Raistlin dismounted from his stool, and admitted the fact to the expectant clerk, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.
``You'll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?'' Raistlin inquired bitterly.
"Yes." The clerk said tentatively. "But I promise to be here all the earlier the next day."
"You'd better." The mage muttered darkly. "Close up. I'm leaving."
And with a swish of his black robes, Raistlin was gone.
The library was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk raced home, joyfully.
Raistlin took his melancholy dinner (which was naught more than his herbal tea) in his usual melancholy tavern, and left for the tower he called his home.
"Shirek." Raistlin murmured under his breath. The Staff of the Magus illuminated, casting shadows on the dismal little houses beside his grand, dark, tower. He approached the door, leaning on his staff, and in a very sour mood. He fitted the key into the lock and gasped.
The knocker on his door had transformed. Raistlin found himself looking at not a large, steel, rune-covered knocker, but Dalamar's face.
Raistlin blinked, and the apparition vanished. Raistlin shook his head.
"Bothersome illusion spells." He hissed.
He hobbled up the stairs to his sleeping quarters, pausing only for a coughing fit.
He locked himself in, which was not his custom, and changed into his midnight black sleeping robes.
But Raistlin couldn't forget the image of Dalamar's elvin face.
He sat down in a thin, under-stuffed chair. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, which hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the tower. It was with great astonishment, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.
This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant's cellar.
The chains grew closer, dragging their way up the stairs, and as Raistlin watched, a ghostly Dalamar phased through the door. He was covered in chains, and attached to those (for Raistlin noted them clearly) were Spellbooks, wands, scrolls, and all manner of magical artifacts.
Now Raistlin wasn't as surprised as one might think, having a great manner of undead creatures roaming his tower at all times of the day, the only surprise was that it was the spirit of Dalamar gliding toward him.
"Yes?" Raistlin inquired, when the specter did not at first speak.
"Shalafi." Dalamar whispered in a voice as translucent as he.
"Yes?"
"My old shalafi."
"Yes?"
"My former shalafi."
"Spit it out, former apprentice."
Dalamar smiled. "You're screwed." (A.N. Heh, Daly's still a little miffed over his burns.)
This was not what Raistlin expected to hear from his apprentice.
"Why, my dear Dalamar, am I 'screwed?'"
Dalamar held up his chains. "See this? Yours will be worse."
"Lovely." Raistlin said dryly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Dalamar, I have had a trying day, and would like to get some sleep. If you'll excuse me..."
"I will not." Dalamar growled.
"You won't? Tough. Goodnight." He stood up and moved toward his bed.
Dalamar's eyes narrowed. He flared up and glowed as menacing as any ghost could.
"RAISTLIN MAJERE!!! DO NOT TAKE ME LIGHTLY!!! IT TO MY OWN EXPENSE THAT I VISIT YOU TONIGHT!!!"
Raistlin took a step backwards with alarm at the sight of an infuriated phantom. (A.N. We had to tone down Raist's power a lot for this story to work. Normally he wouldn't fear someone like this.)
"I wear the chain I forged in life,'' cried the Ghost. ``I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?'' Raistlin trembled.
"Your chain will be heavier than mine! You have no kindness, no compassion, and no joy!"
"D-Dalamar," Raistlin stammered. "Surely you do not ask me to change my robes from black to white?"
"No." Dalamar replied, solemn. "I only ask that you show kindness to those who show you kindness, and that you honor Christmas in your heart. You will be haunted by three spirits."
"I'd rather not."
"With out them, you cannot hope to escape this fate. Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one, and the next when the bell tolls two, and then the third-"
"I get it, Dalamar."
Dalamar frowned at being interrupted, but did not speak. He spread his arms. "Farewell!"
And with a flash of supernatural light, the specter of Dalamar the Dark vanished.