Originally written:
03.06.2006

Revised:
06.17.2012

Reviews/comments/feedback are always loved and adored!

You're so pretty, could I get the nerve
You said, "I love you, pretty"
What do I deserve
I wonder if pretty's gonna waste
My monster has all the time in the day

- Kidneythieves - Pretty


"I..." the thief yawned hugely, straightening up, "I dozed off?"

"Yes." Raistlin's voice startled her, close, from right behind and above the thief. Akara jumped where she was sitting, and then blushed to realize she'd been slumped against his leg. The side of her face felt a bit odd from having used a very bony knee as a pillow.

This, the cat-burglar decided, was an awkward moment. Not that those weren't standard fare around Majere. Moons, but she still wasn't used to dealing with people at all. Even if she wasn't quite as easy to mess with as before - or so she hoped, anyway - Akara knew that she was still easy prey to the manipulative black-robe.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" she sat perfectly still, not in a hurry to stand up. Standing up meant turning around. Turning around meant having to see if he was toying with her or not, if those lips would be quirked just ever so slightly...

"You appeared to be in need of rest."

"Oh." Akara blinked, "I did?" she never slept well in this house, there was no real way she could, with the ghosts of an unpleasant past drifting after her at all times. Unpleasant enough that she'd preferred the streets and sewers of Krontis, and unpleasant enough that she had wiped out her own official existence. A ghost; a slip of shadow from the top of the mortuary, watching the funeral of a red-robe woman.

That same woman who would have, if alive, looked straight past her as though she were made of fog. Not a Krinir, not anyone, not even real, not even aliveas far as anyone would say.

Ah, yes, they would say, they remembered Akara Krinir. A little girl in a dress with mud on the palms of her hands. A tomboy with no magical ability, best to be married off as soon as she was old enough, to anyone who would have her. Which would have been very few with her lack of manners. Strange, how she died. No body found, no...

"You are trembling..." Raistlin said, his voice tugging her back out of her dark thoughts. A hand settled on her shoulder, strangely hesitant. "Akara?"

She realized that he was right. The thief had tensed up so much that she was shaking, and when a second hand joined the first, radiating that odd heat, she actually jumped. Strong fingers moved, working at the muscle between shoulders and neck. Akara gulped. "What are you doing?" she choked out, trying to shrug off his hands. He simply kneaded harder until it almost hurt, and she slumped in defeat, head bowed.

"Attempting to help. I am allowed to do this as, after all, I amyour suitor, am I not?"

"Are not." Akara growled, lifting her head slightly to stare at the fire again, "You're just faking it."

"Ah, but a good liar never drops the act," Raistlin said, tone smug as he found and unraveled another knot in the firm muscle beneath his fingers, "You can never can tell who may be watching."

"It's just you and me in here, Majere," the thief grumbled, aware finally that she really wasquite tired. It was no real wonder that she'd dozed off against his leg, with the fire going full-tilt in front of her and - yes - Raistlin doing his thing to her scalp. He had to be up to something, she reasoned, he was being far too nice.

"As I said," replied the archmage. But he didn't allow her time to question his logic before he continued, "Now, what has you so upset, my dear thief?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Akara said, stiffly, "I don't even want to think about it," but Raistlin gave her only silence for a reply, and so she found herself continuing despite herself, "I thought that I'd perfected the art of not thinking about it over the years, but, I guess that wasn't true. Over the last few days I've realized I never perfected anything at all except not being here."

"Ah, your past life."

She tensed up again, summarily undoing his work on her shoulders. Raistlin didn't comment, he simply kept going as though completely unsurprised. But then, she reasoned, most things either came back to him, or came back to this house. So, it really wouldn't be much of a surprise at all if he knew it wasn't about him this time, would it?

"They told everyone that I was murdered," Akara explained after many long, uncounted minutes had gone by in silence. "After enough time went by that they gave up. So I found your choice of words to be... ironic."

"A change of subject, then," Raistlin sounded... nervous? Just faintly, barely there at all, but the thief was gradually learning to read him like a particularly tricky lock. And really, the image wasn't all that far off, was it? Regardless, she noticed. The mage shifted on the stool, his hands pausing for a moment as though he were choosing his next words very carefully.

"I have been told that there is a... formal event, to take place in one month's time," the mage cleared his throat, "One that I would be hard pressed to successfully bow my way out of, being that I am courting a Krinir daughter."

"Pretending to," Akara corrected automatically, uncomfortable with just letting it go as assumed when they were alone. She mentally rummaged through her memories, knowing that if it was something political enough to force a guest to attend, then it had to be a holiday. The thief hadn't paid any thought to Krontis holidays when living in Palanthas... "Oh, Farethire's Day," she blinked, remembering now with an almost audible snap. "It marks the start of a week that the servants all have off. It's when construction of Krontis was completed... anyway, the nobles throw all sorts of stupid parties on Farethire's Day because it's the last night for a full week that they have servants to boss around."

"And the Krinir house?" Raistlin prompted, going back to working on her shoulders.

"The biggest party, second only to the Palace. This place will be stuffed full of mages, probably all day long before the actual event even occurs," she sighed, unhappy memories of sneering faces and swirling robes filtering through her mind from event after event. "Everyone in the Krinir house above the age of six knows how to dance, remember? And that's typical to all of Krontis, so I'm sure that will be most of it."

"I see. I had assumed as much, but had hoped that would not be the case," the mage sighed, and Akara shrugged. But then he continued, in an oddly small voice, and suddenly she knew why he seemed nervous, "I... I do not know how to dance, Akara... I haven't a clue..."

The thief blinked, stunned for a moment. She then tipped her head back until she was peering at him from an odd angle. Raistlin looked distinctly uncomfortable, if resolute, and his hands hadn't stopped. Akara blinked again.

"There's something you don'tknow how to do?" the words tumbled out before she could rethink them. "I, uh, I mean, um, Majere... that's kind of... well... eheheh... not that I think you're perfect or anything-" she carefully ignored his snort, "-but, well... wow. I might expect you to not know how to knit or something, but dancing? You're an archmage, don't you end up going to stuff? Like, you know, Conclave... stuff?"

"I do not attend their..." a corner of his mouth twitched with amusement, "...stuff."

"Oh," the thief straightened, looking once more into the fire, eyes wide. "Oh... that might complicate things, then."

"Indeed. I was hoping that I may be taught enough on the subject to not make a fool of myself," Raistlin let that statement hang in the air as he shifted his hands to the sides, gripping the muscles above her biceps. Akara wasn't very strong; she was built for pure speed and agility over brute strength. So the cat-burglar wasn't bulky as, say, a warrior - by any stretch of the imagination - but what was there was in very good condition.

Much like Raistlin himself, only he wasn't even built for speed and agility... simply survival. He was much better off on horseback than on foot, where as Akara could jog along side for nearly a full day's travel. A thief who periodically taunted her targets knew how to pace herself for long bouts of running. Though generally it involved much less open road and a lot more alley-ways and ditches.

"Um, so you're hoping that I can help find you a teacher?" she ventured when she realized he was waiting for some kind of reply.

"I was hoping that you would teach me yourself," Raistlin replied. Akara was silent, stunned, and so he continued, "I... I could teach you something in return, if you wish, card tricks; sleight-of-hand perhaps..." his voice trailed off, and he shifted on the stool again. He was obviously very, very uncomfortable with asking her to do this at all.

"Why me?" the thief finally asked, "I mean, we could get someone who actually knows howto teach dancing to do it, and then I bet that you'd get a lot more out of it in time for Farethire's Day."

"If anyone must see me not knowing what I am doing," Raistlin sighed, "I would much prefer that it be you, rather than a stranger."

"I, uh, wow," Akara blinked, realizing that she seemed to be doing that a lot today. Both the stammering and the blinking in surprise. She glanced down at the faintly metallic fingers, which had shifted to her biceps. Raistlin was leaning down to accomplish this, she could feel his breath on the top of her head. "Oh, so that'swhy you're doing this?"

"Doing what?" he asked, all innocence.

"Giving me a freaking massage, Majere. What else?" the thief groused, but it was hard to actually be annoyed at the moment. How did his hands get that strong? She mused that his brother probably couldn't hold a sword as tightly as Raistlin could hold a wrist, just to drive a point home.

"Ah, that. I suppose it may have something to do with it, yes."


"She has agreed to practice dancing with me," Raistlin said idly, compelled beyond reason to verbally prod at the dark-haired doctor. The woman in question had barely looked up when he had knocked, had simply barked a sharp 'enter!'. Upon finding out who he was with barely an upwards flicker of her odd eyes, she had impatiently told him to leave the 'sharp, pointy object on the desk by the door - yes, that one - and then kindly get out'.

Something about this made the generally quiet and, yes, likewise impatient and snappish Raistlin Majere, feel as though he'd been challenged.

"As fascinated as I truly am by your budding romance with Akara, Majere," there was sarcasm dripping from that oddly-monotone voice, somehow, he just knew it. "I do believe that I told you to get out," and still she did not look up from the dead man on her work-table, carefully separating a lung from the tissue around it with the steady - gloved - hands of a professional.

Raistlin leaned against the doorframe, watching. Megan Dorothy Jones was a doctor, a surgeon, and one of the very few truecoroners he knew of in existence. She didn't have any family in Krontis, no one really knew where she'd come from or where she'd learned her trade. Rumor had it that the Abyss had coughed her up after getting sick of her less than charming personality. For some reason, Raistlin doubted the rumor, although he could see where it was coming from.

He'd found all of this out by means of listening to servant gossip and by flatly asking several people, including Akara and Weaponsmaster Alley. The only thing everyone seemed to agree on was that Jones was incredibly good at medicine; good enough at it that she could get away with saying what others were too polite to, or too polite to even think of.

"I was simply making conversation while in the process of returning a borrowed item of some importance," he said, tone artfully lofty.

"Consider the conversation made," Megan said, sharply, as she deposited the lung in a metal tray. She then finally looked up. "You don't appear to be ill."

"One of my few friends in Solace allowed me to assist her in dissecting things," Raistlin said, "in order to learn from them. Death has never bothered me."

"I see," yellowish eyes narrowed slightly, and Jones set the tray aside before stripping off her gore-coated gloves. "Sit down," she snapped, pointing briefly at a nearby, uncomfortable looking wooden chair. The doctor then turned to a shelf, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves and taking down a small wooden case.

"Excuse me?" the archmage raised an eyebrow.

"Either sit down or get out. If you do not pick one of the two, I will stab you with a scalpel. And if you resist, I will poison you," came Megan's flat voice. "I am very good with poisons, Majere. Having dealt with their end results and worked against their progress many, many more times than you would care to believe."

"I believe you," Raistlin said, sitting down. Leaving was giving up. This, was just continuing the game. And he had something to attain, if he could get the doctor to actually talk. Akara spoke fondly of her despite her disposition, and he suspected that the thief and the coroner knew one another quite well. If Akara could befriend Raistlin himself, he reasoned, then this doctor wasn't such a far shot.

"Do you smoke?" Megan asked, turning back towards him and apparently not at all surprised to see him sitting. She approached with the case, opening it and setting it on a table next to him. This room, large and well-lit, was strangely full of tables of various types.

"No, I do not," the mage blinked, pulling back when she reached for his face with one gloved hand. Jones paused, frowning lightly.

"I am checking you over, Majere. Being as that I am somewhat qualified to do so, you may as well stop flinching," this time she succeeded in capturing his head, as he held perfectly still out of sheer stubbornness. The mage narrowed his eyes at her, watching her wither and decay, but was interrupted by the shock of having the lids of his right eye pulled widely apart from one another. Raistlin blinked his other eye, the captured one held firmly open as the doctor peered at it.

"You want information on Akara, that much is obvious," Megan said, releasing his eye after a long moment of examining it. "You have deduced, correctly, that I knew her as a child and was present during the entire ordeal surrounding her life as a Krinir. Rather than ask her, and risk having her tense up into a ball of misery, you have come here in the pretense of returning my scalpel, to try and win me to your side."

"All of this from looking at my eye?" Raistlin drawled automatically.

"Of course, Majere," she said, doing the same to his left eye as she had to the right. This time she shined a small crystal at it, as though seeing how fast it adjusted. "You cannot tell the present from an eye, only the past and the future. Ironic, I would say, considering the shape of yours."

"And so?" he asked once she'd released him again. It was probably not a good idea to bait her when she had his eyes pried open, he figured. He could easily hurt her with a spell before she could do any damage, but when it came to his future ability to see what he was doing, he preferred not to take any risks. It would be difficult to run his experiments and read his books without his vision left intact. Funny how that worked.

"By your eyes, I can tell that you did not sleep well last night, nor the night before it." Jones replied curtly.

"The future, then, doctor?"

"That you will not sleep well tonight, either," she said, rummaging about in the case. "The eyes are linked to sleeping behaviors, archmage. Yours may be oddly colored and have strangely-shaped pupils, but the veins and the reactions are the same nonetheless."

"Observant," Raistlin noted.

"Competent, Majere. I realize that it is a terribly rare thing out there in Krynn, but do try and keep up," the doctor closed the case and went to retrieve another, clearly not finding what she wanted in this one. Raistlin wondered how many live patients she had 'checked over' as of late. Did every case in this room have three scalpels strapped to the inside of the lid?

"And what does this have to do with anything medical, doctor, besides whether or not I may be up at night?" asked the archmage, eyebrows raising.

"Sleep is when the body repairs itself," Megan spoke as though to a child, "I myself may skip it on a regular basis, but then Ido not have lungs that are trying to quit on me, either," she turned back to him, holding a vaguely Y-shaped device in hand, the bottom some sort of rope with a disk at the end. "Open your robe."

"Pardon?" Raistlin nearly started in surprise at the matter-of-fact order from the unpleasant woman. Instead, he glared.

"Mister Majere," Jones frowned lightly, "I have had countless mages, warriors, and assassins on my operating table. Both alive and meant to stay that way, and alive and meant to be killed for information. Many people try to intimidate me, whether by size or by attitude, but I know too much about what makes them tick to be very impressed. Now," she narrowed her own eyes in a glare, "do at least attemptto cooperate. I am hardly doing this for the pleasant scenery."

"Very well," the mage snapped, undoing the hidden bows with sharp movements. "Do whatever it is that you think you are doing, so that I may leave, having said that I 'made an attempt'..."