Dreams
Chapter 3: Reinteration
Caramon Majere, Hero of the Lance, toddled into his bedroom by himself for the first time in a month. The room was quaint, homey, and located in a small, sad little house near the family business, the Inn of the Last Home. Tika, his saucy barmaid wife, had turned down his bed sheets and fluffed his pillows, but was nowhere in sight. Drunkenly, the big man figured she must be mad at him again. She didn't understand him, Caramon decided. Life was hard, he had a right to drink. How else could he get through the day? And she had no right to be nagging him all the time. Women! Looking around for his night clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass near the bed. His brown, curly hair was tangled around his shoulders, his face ruddy, and rolls of fat hung off of him. He patted his massive girth and smiled woozily. He saw himself as he used to look during the days of the war, fit and formidable. Still grinning to himself, he set his flask of the potent alcohol dwarf spirits on the night table (in case he got thirsty in the night), sprawled out on the bed, his limbs akimbo, and began to snore loudly. A woman dressed in a plain white nightgown padded softly into the room. The yellow flame of the single candle that illuminated the room shone on her fiery, red curls, shone on the traces of tears that had fallen down her face. Tika looked over to her husband's snoring form and, sniveling softly, strode over to blow out the candle.
Caramon looked down into the bowl of water with dry, crumbled leaves floating on the surface, planning on just humoring the old mage. He gasped quietly and peered down at his brother, broken and weak from magical battles.
"Raist," he murmured concernedly. "What have they done to you?" The warrior glanced up at the mage sitting opposite him, his fists clenching in pure fury and hatred. "What have you done to him?!"
Par-Salian sighed and put a soothing hand on Caramon's arm. "It is nothing but an illusion, Caramon. Your brother is fine." The wizard in white stretched a gnarled finger to point at the surface of the water. "Watch closer,"
Caramon looked into the bowl and, to his astonishment, saw himself. "Me?" he asked dazedly. "I don't understand,"
The ice blue eyes of the Master of the Tower of Wayreth caught Caramon's and held them fast. "Watch," he whispered forebodingly.
"Get out of my way, Caramon!" Raistlin choked to the Caramon inside the bowl.
Caramon did not respond. He walked toward Fistandantilus, shielding his brother. He dropped his weapons. Now, in their place he held a rod of amber and a bit of fur. He rubbed them together and spoke the magic.
"What?!" the real Caramon yelled indignantly, staring in disbelief at the bowl. "I can't do magic! What's going on?!"
Lightening streaked from the amber, sizzled down the corridor, struck the head of Fistandantilus. The old man's head exploded in blue fire. "Now we can get out of here," Caramon heard himself say. "The door is just ahead."
"How-how did you do that?" Raistlin gasped, sagging against the wall.
Caramon stopped, alarmed by his brother's wild, frenzied stared. "Do what, Raist?"
"The magic," he cried in fury. "The magic!"
"Oh that." Caramon shrugged, gave a shy, deprecating smile. "I've always been able to." Caramon watched himself grow solemn and stern. "Most of the time I on't need the magic, what with my sword and all, but you're hurt really bad, and I didn't want to take the time fighting that lich. Don't worry about it, Raist. Magic can still be your little specialty. Like I said, most of the time I don't need it."
"No, Raist!" Caramon cried from his view above. "I don't know how to do magic! It's a trick! It's not me! It's not me!" Stroking his long beard of silver, Par-Salian grew grim. He looked over at the warrior who was still screaming into the bowl.
"All I ever had was my magic," Raistlin said, speaking clearly, thinking clearly for the first time in his life. "And now you have that, too." Using the wall for support, Raistlin raised both his hands and put his thumbs together. He began speaking the words that would summon the magic.
"NOOO! Raist!!" Caramon sobbed uncontrollably. "RAIST!!"
"Raist!" Caramon started to back away. "Raist, what are you doing? C'mon! You need me! I'll take care of you-just like always, Raist! I'm your brother!"
"I have no brother!" Red and yellow fire flared and billowed from Raistlin's hands, engulfing Caramon.
"NOOOOOO! NOOOO! Damn you mages! You did this to him! Damn you!!" Caramon, in his grief and fury knocked the bowl to the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces, sopping water and soggy leaves all over everything. He overturned the table and seemed like he was about to throttle the mage, who was watching with a look of pity, but fell to his knees sobbing.
"Raist…"
Caramon awoke, blubbering at the memory, his brother's name on his lips. He wiped his eyes with his pillow and wondered vaguely where Tika was. Even in the dark of night, Caramon reached over to the flask he left by his bed. Chugging the entire flask in one gulp, he threw the flask to the other side of the room and rolled over to fall asleep once more.