Done for a fic exchange. Forewarning that this story contains slight incestuousness themes. You know- your favorite! (Sorry).
Whether Raistlin truly did miss Solace was up to question.
Few places could boast of old, but powerful vallenwoods that made up the landscape, where a leaf's decay in the autumn could paint the town in beautiful arrays of gold and dusk. Even fewer could speak of such unique construction; of inns, homes and workshops that were built among the sturdy branches, where swinging bridges connected from one section to the next. The threat of strong winds rarely made the tree trunks bend an inch, and even when thunderstorms threatened his old home, the trees would remain standing, and a home bearing the brunt of a lightning strike could be easily rebuilt.
It was not as rich or diverse as Palanthas (as he had read about), as secretive as Qualinesti (as he had heard from Tanis), or as ancient as the dwarves' Thorbardin, (as Flint would bitterly relate to him) but it was as much a part of his identity than he liked to admit.
"We could spend the night at the Inn," Caramon had said on their return from the Tower. It had been a thought made in passing- before their time as mercenaries, before his thick-headed brother could properly wield a sword, before he knew beyond the scope of three war spells. He himself had been musing of how the common room would be full as always, the ale spilling from the mugs, the scent of spiced potatoes intoxicating the air. He could even reminisce if he wanted to- of Antimodes' arrival, speaking to him of his potential.
"We would never leave," he had told his brother.
After five years, his cough hadn't lessened, and neither had his brother's protectiveness. But Caramon's steel was sharp, made much more useful with his strong arm so that he could now knock around the training dummies with deft skill. There would be little left but hacked off bark and loose straw, allowing itself to be conflagrated by Raistlin's fire. They trained every day, usually when other men of their chosen military company had left the grounds. Raistlin could remain in the same party for five more years, and still the looks of distrust would not fade.
"You can stay for the winter," their commander had said. "We have enough stores to feed ten of you." Caramon had laughed at the remark, slapping his broad belly, rock hard from hours of marching. But Raistlin had shook his head, the staff of Magius lighting up the night around them. He knew how it made his skin shine, how it reflected off his eyes.
"I apologize," he said, meeting the commander's face despite his shorter stature, gripping the staff tighter. "But we kept a promise."
They had left an hour later, packing up their horses with spare clothes; two more of Raistlin's home spun red robes, for many a time had his been drenched with mud, along with skillets and pots, for Caramon demanded a feast wherever he went.
"We could've stayed for supper, Raist," said Caramon. "They were having chicken stew, with mashed cranberries. We could've even had some apple cider for you!"
Never mind that the acidic substance would've irritated his throat, but Raistlin held off that observation. "Do you not wish to go home?"
"What? Of course I do, Raist, I-"
"And you would've stuffed yourself to breaking if we had remained, making us stay the night. No, the roads will be busy with returning soldiers and traveling merchants- along with bandits. Leaving now will be best, and I will not have a day wasted."
The Sly One could be counted on his word, his former companions at least thought that much of him. And the road toward Solace was long, leading on the way to Haven, curling around the expansive Crystalmir Lake. The village where his mother had perished, where he had been spurned by first love, was just a destination.
They made camp later that night, off ways to the side of the dirt road. It was dark, too much so to hunt for game or to fish at the nearby stream But Caramon had prepared in advance, packing as much rations as he could, even saving the best of table scraps that the chef had left especially for him (for few others showed such appreciation for a well-cooked meal). He was gorging on still freshly made bread and garnished boar after he set up their campfire. Raistlin couldn't help but watch in fascination as his brother engulfed his share.
Seeing his stare, Caramon held out a hunk of boar meat, smashed together between two loaves. "Aren't you hungry?"
"My appetite has vanished," he replied dryly. "Just tea is enough for me."
"You really should eat more though."
"It would only go to waste." His dinners usually consisted of a nibble on a crust, or a few apple slices. Today had been even less than usual- having had only the bitter, brewed stuff his brother had made. Foul tasting, but it flitted away the cobwebs in his lungs nonetheless.
He sank further into his robes, the bark of the tree scratching against his back. The staff was cradled in his arms, the cup of his tea held in thin hands. He waited in exceeding patience as Caramon finished off what was left of his portion. The horses, tied near the stream, whickered in the stillness.
It will take a month, he thought, watching the patterns the wind made across the surface of his drink, the leaves that had now fully settled on the bottom of his cup. We will be there early.
"I wonder if Otik's potatoes are the same," Caramon said, breaking Raistlin from his musings. "I don't think any other meal we've had has been as good as that."
"Is that what you are most looking forward too?"
Caramon grinned, wiping away the bread crumbs from his hands on a blanket. He had shifted closer to his brother, keeping his eyes on their fading campfire. "It's one of them."
Raistlin took a sip, kept from grimacing. Much could happen in five years, but much in Solace had always remained the same, hadn't it?
"Sturm must be a knight now," Caramon continued, settling the blanket over his legs. He still wore his armor, sans his helmet. A necessity that many mercenaries had to grow accustomed to. "I doubt Tas has changed at all."
"Assuming no one has wringed his neck all this time."
"Aw, don't be like that, Raist. You can't tell me you're not wondering how he's been."
I could, actually. He kept the thought silent however. "I am wondering about all of our dear friends."
It must have been something he said, for Caramon turned away, looking past the fire.
"Do you think Kit will be there?"
No. "Perhaps."
They said little else, content with watching the flames, and making themselves more comfortable for sleep. His twin fussed over his makeshift bed, afraid that somehow Raistlin would twist his neck in slumber. But sometimes, the nightmares were that intense and worrying.
Throwing a final twig into the fire, for the warmth was pleasant, Caramon smiled and said, "I'm glad to be going back home."
Raistlin could see it in Caramon's face then, the longing for the trees and the autumn leaves. For familiarity. But it is always second to what his brother wants. If Raistlin had decided to turn his horse down the road to Silvanesti earlier that day, his twin would have protested, would have expressed concern. But still he would follow, touting his understanding.
He could still change their course. The roads ahead turned a path toward New Coast. They could board a ship, make their way toward the other lands of Ansalon, such as Palanthas and their famous Library. They could even journey towards the uncharted lands of Taladas if he wished it. Caramon would go along, for who would be there to hold onto his poor brother when his coughing spasms grew too much to control, when his sleep was infested with shadows and fears?
He had not responded. Caramon laid a hand on his shoulder, worrying. "Raist?"
He did not like it when his brother was this close. It forced him to look at his face, to see what he knew he would see when they reached Solace, of autumn leaves that would not stay. They would whither before his eyes, and he would watch corpses walk over rotting bridges, upheld by boughs that were always in danger of splintering off.
Raistlin kept his eyes shut, clinging to his staff. "I am tired, brother."
"Oh, sorry…" He heard Caramon shift back, pictured the large hands that were clumsily wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. "I can just stay watch for a little bit."
Still, he felt his twin hovering over, waiting until he would settle on his back and turn away, until he laid his staff on the ground, his fingers still resting on its handle, but no longer gripping it so tightly. The staff, to his eyes, had never broken, never dwindled into dust. It was the only thing constant, and its presence grew to be reassuring to him. It was no surprise though, for magic never faded, never died. It was not flesh.
He reached out, grabbed Caramon's wrist, felt him flinch.
"Are… are you okay?" His twin's voice had a slight tremble to it, one he recognized whenever he finally awoke from a black dream. "Do you need more of your tea?"
He let go of his hand. Placing the end of his staff on the ground, he pulled himself up on his feet, ignoring the frantic pleadings of his brother. "Shirak," he whispered, then opened his eyes.
Caramon remained seated on the ground, blinking heavily at the bright light that shone from the globe atop his staff. For that moment, he saw his brother as he was. Healthy, fit, and alive. The armor he wore had been polished, crafted from fine metal, customly molded to fit over his arms and legs. The dragon helmet he always wore, designed with outstretched wings on its sides, was near his hand, the light from Magius highlighting its gold sheen. His brown hair, recently washed, curled down his head, reaching his shoulders.
And then Raistlin saw the decay. His skin, tanned from hours in the bright summer sun, started to sag. Brown turned to silver, his hair falling away from his head in wisps. Even the armor he wore started to rust.
He had seen this on plenty of other occasions before. Each time, he resolved that the sight would grow easier to bear. And each time, it didn't.
Stooping down, relying on his staff to keep his balance, he took hold of Caramon's chin. It's only bone now, with bits of skin hanging onto it.
His brother was quiet, watching. Caramon was noting the strange shape of his eyes, knowing their purpose. His twin had never trusted the mages at their tower. It was their fault they had made him this way, he would argue. His skin had changed to this strange color, his hair now an old man's, with blood dripping from his throat. It was through their fault that they had made Raistlin do such a horrible-
"Raist, you don't-" Caramon started, only to be ignored.
Raistlin closed his eyes one more time, shutting out death again. He leaned forward with a kiss that was hard, hurting. Caramon made a high-pitched sound, scrambling back, but the tree was right behind him, leaving him nowhere to go. Teeth grazed against his twin's lips, not enough to draw blood, but enough to make his presence known.
Even with his vision gone, Raistlin felt the effects. The mouth that he knew was warm, pulsing with vibrant life, grew tepid against his own. He flicked out a tongue, trying to grasp the heat that he knew was there, searching through the crevices. Caramon kept making sounds of protest and confusion, but his brother's needs outweighed him. It wasn't long before lips, bruised from the unusual force, pressed against his in uncertain reciprocation. Even so, it was a mouth with more experience, that could trace along nerves as deftly as a sword cutting through kindling, helping him remember days before the march.
Still, it was cold.
Raistlin pulled back, releasing Caramon's chin. His twin shook more visibly, his eyes wide. He knew what he would say, for his thick-headed, well-meaning brother, honest to a fault, knowing only devotion, was always so painfully predictable.
"I don't understand…"
The grass was brown underneath his feet. The tree was bent and crooked, bowed down by snow.
"It doesn't matter," Raistlin said. He quickly turned away, back to the blanket that had been thrown off from his movement. "I doubt any robbers will be near us. You should sleep as well."
To give Caramon any moment more would have allowed his brother to question, allowed him to mull over what had happened. So he hefted small twigs into the fire, watching them snap and burn, leaving his hands near enough for the flames to heat his skin to near scorching.
Caramon stumbled forward, gently nudged him away so that he could control the flames. "Let… let me…"
Solace was a month away. There were long days of horseback riding to prepare for, of bustling cities to march through, of pickpockets to avoid. The Inn of the Last Home, with its large common room, lay at the end of the road. Raistlin could look back and remember its woodwork, its steps that extended all the way to the ground, and the flush from the effects of drunken ale that Otik had consumed, blooming on his cheeks. But once he wandered underneath the vallenwoods, he knew there would be nothing left for him but winter. His friends, if he could call them that, would be the same, shadows trailing across he ground. Could he look forward to see the proud Sturm turn to dust before him, or watch Tasslehoff's hands fall at the seams? If his vision had taught him one thing, it was that everything was the same in death, regardless of what came before.
After they had both prepared for the night, routine slowly blotting out the previous occurrence, Raistlin decided finally to rest. He curled up on the ground, heard Caramon shift behind him. An awkward cough broke the night air. He could feel the grind work of his brother's mind in his bones, trying to form up something suitable, still attempting to puzzle out what had happened.
Apparently, he had given up, for he simply said, "Goodnight, Raist." His voice was still shaking.
Raistlin had tried to rely on memories with him, of hours traveling down the road with Caramon when he would pick him up from his school. Or when his twin would return back home from a hard day of manual labor, gladly hearing on Raistlin's studies as they sat at the dining table, despite his lack of knowledge.
But when he kissed him, all he could recall was Caramon's body twitching from the fatal spell he had cast on him, of his skin melting away in the fire's heat, of his screams as he lay dying. The magic was all I had, all that I was. And you took it away from me, dear brother of mine.
"Goodnight," he answered curtly. His grip on his staff didn't relent, even in sleep.