Disclaimer: the usual
AN: Now that I'm free for the summer I'll be able to write a lot more
often and a lot more, period! the peasants rejoice Except for when
unforeseen events cause one to help paint half of a huge house, which is
what I was doing last week sighs. Thank you to everyone who's been
reviewing my work and giving me such wonderful and useful criticism. I
really appreciate you guys (and gals), one and all! Please, please, review
after you read this. I am getting a slowdown in my reviews and I don't
know whether that means that I suck and no one's reading this anymore, or
you're all too busy to review. snuffles and feels unloved
Ch 9: Pinpricked
'Bloody, egotistical, insufferable, arrogant, unendurable, prick of a mage,' he fumed. Raistlin seriously considered throwing a book at the door through which Tarrant had passed. It wouldn't do any good, though, he reasoned, and would damage a perfectly good door, which was more trouble than it was worth to magically reconstruct. He sighed and sank into the chair behind his desk. Never in his life had he felt so indecisive about matters concerning himself. He got up, studied his magic, experimented a little, instructed Dalamar when he needed it, and decided when he ate and slept. He didn't listen to anyone, because no one knew what made him tick, so to speak. He had no need for council, always knowing his mind perfectly. Except in this matter.
Tarrant's advice had been sound, he grudgingly admitted. But he rebelled against being told what to do, especially by that... that... His fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically. He should, however, go and... well, he couldn't think of a reason why he should see her again. Ah, wait, the mural. Raistlin pondered this excuse for a minute. True, it was a pitiful excuse and in a part of his mind, not too far from the surface, he knew he didn't care about his twin's pet project. But it was an excuse nonetheless and at least it hadn't come from Gerald Tarrant.
He rose to his feet, reaching for the staff that immediately appeared in his hand. He made his way to his apprentice's chambers and knocked softly at the door.
The door swung open to admit him, revealing the tall elf behind it. "Yes, Shalifi?"
"Dalamar, I'm leaving again for my brother's. I shouldn't be gone for more than a day or two. Hopefully, this will be my last visit for a very long time. If Tarrant should arrive back before I do, would you see to it that he doesn't go poking through my things? He is allowed the use of my night-blue bound books, but not my personal black ones. "
"Of course," the young elf paused for a moment, "Are you going back to see her?"
Anger flashed dangerously in his master's eyes. Was nothing in his personal life sacred from prying minds?! "Is it of your concern?"
"No, I was merely curious for the girl's sake; she was fairly certain that you hated her," replied Dalamar. "Have a safe trip, Shalifi."
Raistlin shrugged at this comment and quit the landing in a blink of the eye, leaving Dalamar to his studies again.
Back to painting. Her shoulders were beginning to ache from the long night of standing before the wall. It probably hadn't helped that she didn't go to bed after talking to Tas, but stayed up thinking. She had used a chair and then a stepladder to reach the top of the mural. Colors were beginning to touch everyone, though the details would come much later. Faces of course were last. It would be a treat to work on them, finally, a partial reason why she saved them.
Everyone knew she was back, and thanks to Tas, probably knew the particulars of why she had come back so soon. A small laugh escaped her lips—her uncle thoroughly amused her. His prattle was usually welcome and helped lighten her heart. Being part kender, herself, her heart should have lightened itself on its own, but there seemed to constantly be a shadow on it, and she knew it didn't have anything to do with a certain mage. Her work and the people around her were the problem.
The Centre was a place that was constantly a hub of negative emotions. They were a research facility that had more under the surface than an onion had layers. She knew that genetic experiments were done there, subtly hidden under the guise of research. They had implicit government connections high up and a network of people nationwide. She couldn't even guess at what all they had up their sleeve.
All she was was a diplomat that went between her company and their connections to strengthen ties and form alliances. When she had been younger, she acted as one of their Pretenders, albeit a weaker one than the others; her strengths lay in her Empath abilities, which is why she had worked her way up to Centre Diplomat. The team of Pretenders, one of which her cousin, Alysa, was joined to, was the 'think tank' of the company, generating a solution to the seemingly endless problems which the Centre posed. The company was run by a triumvirate, a group of three whose identities had always remained a secret. There were rumors that Alysa's grandfather was one of the members, but like the confused lineages within the company, the truth was bound up in a series of knots that were more trouble unknotting than it was worth. Besides, there would always be a series of new questions that arose in response to one truthful answer.
She had almost learned to stop questioning and just let things be. Her family was tied to the Centre in many of these knots, which is why she had not outright left the facility. Her father was the product of the Centre, and one of the sons to the late wife of the Corporate Head, Mr. Parker, thought not his son. She groaned. Trying to go over the family tree in her mind hurt. She had attempted to map it all out with Alysa one rainy afternoon, when they hadn't anything better to do. Several crumpled sheets, a headache, and more than one dead pen later, they had come up with something unintelligible due to the crossed lines and scribbled notes written beside each person. They had given up.
The darkness that surrounded the Centre had become almost warm and fuzzy, so used to it was she. When she had told him that evil was something she could be comfortable with, she had meant it. Which didn't necessarily mean she was ready to go steal fetus and inject chemicals into them to see what pretty colors they would turn, it just meant she wasn't as pure and good as he might think she was.
She swiftly turned to put a paintbrush into the jar of water on the table behind her and came face to chest with something black and velvety. Her heart leapt into her mouth and a strangled exclamation burst forth even as she choked on the pumping muscle, forcing it back down into her chest cavity.
"Bloody--!" she ripped her earphones off, glancing up at the bemused mage. "You've got to announce yourself or something, mate! Nearly spat up my heart there." Ari took her CD player from where it was tucked in her jeans, nestled at the small of her back, disentangled herself from the wire, and landed it on the table. Then she slammed her brush into the jar, swirling it around a couple of times to clean it. "What are you doing here?"
"You look horrible," he commented, sitting down at the table where she worked. She had dark shadows under her eyes and her normally pale skin had a lack of color to rival bleached bones.
"Thanks; nice to see you, too. I haven't slept yet, so I probably do look like the living dead."
Raistlin shook his head, "My guardians look better than you do."
Ari pointedly ignored him, brushing her bangs from her eyes irritably. She continued to clean the brushes that were lined up on the table, patiently waiting for such a moment as this. The pain in her back and shoulders spread into her head. Patience, she felt, was going to be hard to dredge up. Perhaps if she ignored him, he would go away and tend to whatever he had come to do.
In a few minutes when she had everything all clean, she looked up. He was still there, staring unnervingly at her with those sharp golden eyes. She dropped her gaze and put the things in order, took up her CD player and turned to leave. To her dismay, he followed her all the way back to the house, keeping a few steps behind her.
At the door, she whirled around and hissed at him, "What do you want?"
"To talk to you," he replied, taking her by the wrist and drawing her inside before they attracted the attention of the early risers of Solace. He drug her all the way to his room, and shut the door behind her before she could protest. "Let's get a couple of things straight before we begin. I did not mean for you to leave and I do not hate you. You annoy me at times, but it does not go as deep as hatred."
Ariana was speechless at him opening up and offering information. She sat down on the rug in front of him and looked up expectantly, waiting for more information. He went over to a small table and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to her and taking the second for himself.
She looked down at the glass and sniffed it experimentally. She was only 20 and hadn't yet reached the age where drinking was permissible; her grandfather kept close tabs on her and her cousin to make sure they followed the rules. She glanced around cautiously as if he might appear out of the woodwork. Well, it smelled good, anyway. She dipped a tongue in and gave it a taste. It was slightly bitter but gave her a heady aftertaste that wasn't unpleasant; she took a large swallow. And immediately choked. She was able to catch her breath after a minute of coughing.
Ari looked up into Raistlin's odd expression. "'S good," she told him, leaving out the bit that she had never had it before, in case they had the same rules on this planet. She waived a hand, "Continue."
"Well, we obviously had a misunderstanding. Things were... more hectic than usual at my tower. The mage, Gerald Tarrant, wasn't expected, nor was the news he brought. And I had nearly forgotten about... the thing with Dalamar," he ended lamely. He sipped at his glass, watching her empty hers in another large gulp. "Would you like more wine?" At her nod, he uncorked the bottle again and poured her another glass. "It's more enjoyable if you drink it slowly," he told her.
"But it's so good," she giggled, vowing to sip it this time. Already the pains were leaving her, letting her relax and take in his words with more consideration.
"What I said to you wasn't true—about how I had wished that I had never brought you back to life. I was angry."
She nodded; in her chest a little tight clasp undid itself and she felt that she could breathe for the first time in a few days. "Yeah, that whole scene was... soap-opera-like. I can't believe you said half the things you did. I think I acted something like that out with my Barbies when I was seven." At his strange look, she quickly explained. "Soap operas are these shows where people act all melodramatic and... well... like what happened the other night. Though there should be at least one murder thrown in there and one of you should have been pregnant with someone else's child. It's all acting. Housewives eat those things up. And Barbies, well, I think the person who they were modeled after was a German whore, but they don't tell you that. They're just dolls now. Every little girl in America has at least one; they're what everyone wants to grow up to be. Not a whore. Pretty and thin," she nodded conclusively, thinking that she probably confused him more than explained what she had meant. Oh, well. "But thank you for telling me that. I was worried. It's worse than someone wishing you dead, because at least that way they feel bad afterward and you usually don't die. But if you're dead, and someone goes to the trouble of bringing you back, then they decide it wasn't worth the energy put into it, then you really feel bad—because they made the effort. Does that make sense? Because, after what I just said, I don't know if it makes sense—"
Raistlin's mouth drew itself into a thin line, as he leaned forward and laid her fingers over her mouth, "Yes." When he sat back up, he reached into his robes and pulled something out. It was a black rose that he handed to her. "From my garden. I was clearing them out—I just had too many."
"One too many?" she teased, taking it to her nose and inhaling. "Mm, so this is what you always smell of. Thank you." A thought popped into her head, "So did you find out what you were wondering? About the magic and the gods leaving and everything. That is why Tarrant's here isn't it? And did you apologize to Dalamar?"
"Of course. What do you take me to be?" He was once again on his guard. "How did you know about Tarrant?"
"Well, it's not like you kept it a secret. If you're going to talk that close to a door that I'm behind you should do it more quietly and in a place that doesn't echo as much. I'm surprised Dalamar didn't know what was going on. I had to fill him in for you. And I had to ask if you were civil to him, because you seem like someone who never says 'sorry' or 'thank you' or anything else polite. He deserves some respect."
His eyebrows knit together. "What? Why? Just because he brought you back here?"
"No, because he's a person and he adores you—not in a sexual way, but as an apprentice completely consumed by your knowledge. You should see the way he looks when he talks about you—he cannot wait to learn all that there is. That's why he sought to become physically closer to you—in hopes that he would gain more knowledge. You don't keep him very well informed. I had to tell him what you two were talking about. He seemed very interested. He really is a very nice man, you should be nicer to him," she gave him a pointed stare, lifting her glass for another refill. He did so, topping off his own glass.
Raistlin shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You shouldn't talk to him."
"Why not?"
"He's a spy for my enemies," he shot back, filling his glass again, satisfied by her shocked expression.
Her ears visibly perked up. "A real life spy? Like 007?" then she leaned forward and whispered, "Who're your enemies?"
A grin almost touched his lips. He also leaned forward, a serious expression on his face, playing her game, "Everyone."
She sat back up incredulously, "Not everyone can be your enemy. What are you, paranoid?"
"No. The other mages fear my power. Dalamar is their way of keeping track of my growing abilities and goals."
"What can you do? Make bigger fireballs?" Her eyes were wide as she regarded the mage with wonder.
He snickered softly, "I could take over the world, if I so wished."
"Wow... my cousin and I always joke about taking over the world. We say: 'When I take over the world...' and conclude with some obscure random wish, like 'there will be no such thing as lima beans'. So, why don't you take over the world and just be done with it?"
"I've greater goals."
Her eyebrows raised, "Oh. Well, then." She blinked several times at him, trying to put two and two together from what Dalamar had said and done and the images she had gotten off of him. He was extremely nosy about what was going on with his Shalifi and had said that Raistlin didn't really tell him anything. The motivation for learning was there, though obviously self- imposed goal could also be translated into gathering information for a supposedly secret source. One image that stood out in her mind was a half- circle of what she took to be mages all of affiliations and a feeling of pride mixed with fear for what was being spoken of. It made sense what Raistlin was saying, and, if Dal was anything like his sister, Bridgette, then he was definitely capable of it. At the Centre, Bridgette was fairly certainly a spy for the triumvirate and definitely a sworn enemy of hers and Alysa's. A seed of doubt began to quickly sprout in her heart against Dalamar that would soon grow into hatred to match that for his sister.
Raistlin leaned back and smiled cynically. He could practically hear the wheels grinding over this new bit of information, and much as he had hoped, it looked like she soon wouldn't trust Dalamar. Just let his apprentice try to wheedle information out of her now.
They sat in silence, each regarding their glass of wine, swirling it around and sipping it lightly. The sky outside the window was becoming touched with pink and an occasional bird lifted its voice in morning song. Already slight warmth was creeping into the world with the sun. Ariana glanced up at this and blinked at it sleepily.
"I can't seem to get warm," she murmured, rubbing at her arms absently. "Ever since Tarrant... I'm always cold."
"Why do you care about things?" Raistlin asked, at the same time, looking up from his glass to find that she was an ashen color.
"Because to not care would be to not live at all. Apathy, not only is draining, but it doesn't give anything back, while caring for things... is like investing in something. I am emotionally driven. To not be so would be betraying myself. How can you not care for things?"
"Most things are not worth caring about. I have my goals, what drives me, and anything beyond that doesn't really matter."
"I see," she stood to her feet, wobbling slightly as she plinked down the glass and clutched the rose to her chest, unmindful of the thorns that dug into her hand, leaving wells of blood. The tight feeling was back in her chest again. "I don't 'fit' into your goals, do I?"
"That's what I'm here to find out," he told her calmly, rising to steady her. "Do you still need to talk to me about who I am, or have you figured out how heartless I am all by yourself?"
She shook her head, nearly losing her balance, and grasping to his arms, "Silly dear, you've got a heart as golden as your eyes—it just needs a lot of polish. Don't you know," she told him, "that love forgives everything."
Raistlin nearly dropped her in his surprise. After all he had said and done it amazed him that she could see any good in him. He had thought that he had driven her away sufficiently enough so that she would never talk to him again. A small raft of hope subconsciously appeared within him and he clung to it desperately.
Another fun note: The whole CD player fiasco is quite true to me. I always go about the house, doing my thing, and listening to music. People will come up behind me or come into the room and I won't notice them until I turn around. Then I scream and if anything is in my hand, I usually reflexively throw it at them. Figured, tho, if Ari threw the paintbrush at Raist he wouldn't be too happy and our protagonist would be fried to a crisp. .
Ch 9: Pinpricked
'Bloody, egotistical, insufferable, arrogant, unendurable, prick of a mage,' he fumed. Raistlin seriously considered throwing a book at the door through which Tarrant had passed. It wouldn't do any good, though, he reasoned, and would damage a perfectly good door, which was more trouble than it was worth to magically reconstruct. He sighed and sank into the chair behind his desk. Never in his life had he felt so indecisive about matters concerning himself. He got up, studied his magic, experimented a little, instructed Dalamar when he needed it, and decided when he ate and slept. He didn't listen to anyone, because no one knew what made him tick, so to speak. He had no need for council, always knowing his mind perfectly. Except in this matter.
Tarrant's advice had been sound, he grudgingly admitted. But he rebelled against being told what to do, especially by that... that... His fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically. He should, however, go and... well, he couldn't think of a reason why he should see her again. Ah, wait, the mural. Raistlin pondered this excuse for a minute. True, it was a pitiful excuse and in a part of his mind, not too far from the surface, he knew he didn't care about his twin's pet project. But it was an excuse nonetheless and at least it hadn't come from Gerald Tarrant.
He rose to his feet, reaching for the staff that immediately appeared in his hand. He made his way to his apprentice's chambers and knocked softly at the door.
The door swung open to admit him, revealing the tall elf behind it. "Yes, Shalifi?"
"Dalamar, I'm leaving again for my brother's. I shouldn't be gone for more than a day or two. Hopefully, this will be my last visit for a very long time. If Tarrant should arrive back before I do, would you see to it that he doesn't go poking through my things? He is allowed the use of my night-blue bound books, but not my personal black ones. "
"Of course," the young elf paused for a moment, "Are you going back to see her?"
Anger flashed dangerously in his master's eyes. Was nothing in his personal life sacred from prying minds?! "Is it of your concern?"
"No, I was merely curious for the girl's sake; she was fairly certain that you hated her," replied Dalamar. "Have a safe trip, Shalifi."
Raistlin shrugged at this comment and quit the landing in a blink of the eye, leaving Dalamar to his studies again.
Back to painting. Her shoulders were beginning to ache from the long night of standing before the wall. It probably hadn't helped that she didn't go to bed after talking to Tas, but stayed up thinking. She had used a chair and then a stepladder to reach the top of the mural. Colors were beginning to touch everyone, though the details would come much later. Faces of course were last. It would be a treat to work on them, finally, a partial reason why she saved them.
Everyone knew she was back, and thanks to Tas, probably knew the particulars of why she had come back so soon. A small laugh escaped her lips—her uncle thoroughly amused her. His prattle was usually welcome and helped lighten her heart. Being part kender, herself, her heart should have lightened itself on its own, but there seemed to constantly be a shadow on it, and she knew it didn't have anything to do with a certain mage. Her work and the people around her were the problem.
The Centre was a place that was constantly a hub of negative emotions. They were a research facility that had more under the surface than an onion had layers. She knew that genetic experiments were done there, subtly hidden under the guise of research. They had implicit government connections high up and a network of people nationwide. She couldn't even guess at what all they had up their sleeve.
All she was was a diplomat that went between her company and their connections to strengthen ties and form alliances. When she had been younger, she acted as one of their Pretenders, albeit a weaker one than the others; her strengths lay in her Empath abilities, which is why she had worked her way up to Centre Diplomat. The team of Pretenders, one of which her cousin, Alysa, was joined to, was the 'think tank' of the company, generating a solution to the seemingly endless problems which the Centre posed. The company was run by a triumvirate, a group of three whose identities had always remained a secret. There were rumors that Alysa's grandfather was one of the members, but like the confused lineages within the company, the truth was bound up in a series of knots that were more trouble unknotting than it was worth. Besides, there would always be a series of new questions that arose in response to one truthful answer.
She had almost learned to stop questioning and just let things be. Her family was tied to the Centre in many of these knots, which is why she had not outright left the facility. Her father was the product of the Centre, and one of the sons to the late wife of the Corporate Head, Mr. Parker, thought not his son. She groaned. Trying to go over the family tree in her mind hurt. She had attempted to map it all out with Alysa one rainy afternoon, when they hadn't anything better to do. Several crumpled sheets, a headache, and more than one dead pen later, they had come up with something unintelligible due to the crossed lines and scribbled notes written beside each person. They had given up.
The darkness that surrounded the Centre had become almost warm and fuzzy, so used to it was she. When she had told him that evil was something she could be comfortable with, she had meant it. Which didn't necessarily mean she was ready to go steal fetus and inject chemicals into them to see what pretty colors they would turn, it just meant she wasn't as pure and good as he might think she was.
She swiftly turned to put a paintbrush into the jar of water on the table behind her and came face to chest with something black and velvety. Her heart leapt into her mouth and a strangled exclamation burst forth even as she choked on the pumping muscle, forcing it back down into her chest cavity.
"Bloody--!" she ripped her earphones off, glancing up at the bemused mage. "You've got to announce yourself or something, mate! Nearly spat up my heart there." Ari took her CD player from where it was tucked in her jeans, nestled at the small of her back, disentangled herself from the wire, and landed it on the table. Then she slammed her brush into the jar, swirling it around a couple of times to clean it. "What are you doing here?"
"You look horrible," he commented, sitting down at the table where she worked. She had dark shadows under her eyes and her normally pale skin had a lack of color to rival bleached bones.
"Thanks; nice to see you, too. I haven't slept yet, so I probably do look like the living dead."
Raistlin shook his head, "My guardians look better than you do."
Ari pointedly ignored him, brushing her bangs from her eyes irritably. She continued to clean the brushes that were lined up on the table, patiently waiting for such a moment as this. The pain in her back and shoulders spread into her head. Patience, she felt, was going to be hard to dredge up. Perhaps if she ignored him, he would go away and tend to whatever he had come to do.
In a few minutes when she had everything all clean, she looked up. He was still there, staring unnervingly at her with those sharp golden eyes. She dropped her gaze and put the things in order, took up her CD player and turned to leave. To her dismay, he followed her all the way back to the house, keeping a few steps behind her.
At the door, she whirled around and hissed at him, "What do you want?"
"To talk to you," he replied, taking her by the wrist and drawing her inside before they attracted the attention of the early risers of Solace. He drug her all the way to his room, and shut the door behind her before she could protest. "Let's get a couple of things straight before we begin. I did not mean for you to leave and I do not hate you. You annoy me at times, but it does not go as deep as hatred."
Ariana was speechless at him opening up and offering information. She sat down on the rug in front of him and looked up expectantly, waiting for more information. He went over to a small table and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to her and taking the second for himself.
She looked down at the glass and sniffed it experimentally. She was only 20 and hadn't yet reached the age where drinking was permissible; her grandfather kept close tabs on her and her cousin to make sure they followed the rules. She glanced around cautiously as if he might appear out of the woodwork. Well, it smelled good, anyway. She dipped a tongue in and gave it a taste. It was slightly bitter but gave her a heady aftertaste that wasn't unpleasant; she took a large swallow. And immediately choked. She was able to catch her breath after a minute of coughing.
Ari looked up into Raistlin's odd expression. "'S good," she told him, leaving out the bit that she had never had it before, in case they had the same rules on this planet. She waived a hand, "Continue."
"Well, we obviously had a misunderstanding. Things were... more hectic than usual at my tower. The mage, Gerald Tarrant, wasn't expected, nor was the news he brought. And I had nearly forgotten about... the thing with Dalamar," he ended lamely. He sipped at his glass, watching her empty hers in another large gulp. "Would you like more wine?" At her nod, he uncorked the bottle again and poured her another glass. "It's more enjoyable if you drink it slowly," he told her.
"But it's so good," she giggled, vowing to sip it this time. Already the pains were leaving her, letting her relax and take in his words with more consideration.
"What I said to you wasn't true—about how I had wished that I had never brought you back to life. I was angry."
She nodded; in her chest a little tight clasp undid itself and she felt that she could breathe for the first time in a few days. "Yeah, that whole scene was... soap-opera-like. I can't believe you said half the things you did. I think I acted something like that out with my Barbies when I was seven." At his strange look, she quickly explained. "Soap operas are these shows where people act all melodramatic and... well... like what happened the other night. Though there should be at least one murder thrown in there and one of you should have been pregnant with someone else's child. It's all acting. Housewives eat those things up. And Barbies, well, I think the person who they were modeled after was a German whore, but they don't tell you that. They're just dolls now. Every little girl in America has at least one; they're what everyone wants to grow up to be. Not a whore. Pretty and thin," she nodded conclusively, thinking that she probably confused him more than explained what she had meant. Oh, well. "But thank you for telling me that. I was worried. It's worse than someone wishing you dead, because at least that way they feel bad afterward and you usually don't die. But if you're dead, and someone goes to the trouble of bringing you back, then they decide it wasn't worth the energy put into it, then you really feel bad—because they made the effort. Does that make sense? Because, after what I just said, I don't know if it makes sense—"
Raistlin's mouth drew itself into a thin line, as he leaned forward and laid her fingers over her mouth, "Yes." When he sat back up, he reached into his robes and pulled something out. It was a black rose that he handed to her. "From my garden. I was clearing them out—I just had too many."
"One too many?" she teased, taking it to her nose and inhaling. "Mm, so this is what you always smell of. Thank you." A thought popped into her head, "So did you find out what you were wondering? About the magic and the gods leaving and everything. That is why Tarrant's here isn't it? And did you apologize to Dalamar?"
"Of course. What do you take me to be?" He was once again on his guard. "How did you know about Tarrant?"
"Well, it's not like you kept it a secret. If you're going to talk that close to a door that I'm behind you should do it more quietly and in a place that doesn't echo as much. I'm surprised Dalamar didn't know what was going on. I had to fill him in for you. And I had to ask if you were civil to him, because you seem like someone who never says 'sorry' or 'thank you' or anything else polite. He deserves some respect."
His eyebrows knit together. "What? Why? Just because he brought you back here?"
"No, because he's a person and he adores you—not in a sexual way, but as an apprentice completely consumed by your knowledge. You should see the way he looks when he talks about you—he cannot wait to learn all that there is. That's why he sought to become physically closer to you—in hopes that he would gain more knowledge. You don't keep him very well informed. I had to tell him what you two were talking about. He seemed very interested. He really is a very nice man, you should be nicer to him," she gave him a pointed stare, lifting her glass for another refill. He did so, topping off his own glass.
Raistlin shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You shouldn't talk to him."
"Why not?"
"He's a spy for my enemies," he shot back, filling his glass again, satisfied by her shocked expression.
Her ears visibly perked up. "A real life spy? Like 007?" then she leaned forward and whispered, "Who're your enemies?"
A grin almost touched his lips. He also leaned forward, a serious expression on his face, playing her game, "Everyone."
She sat back up incredulously, "Not everyone can be your enemy. What are you, paranoid?"
"No. The other mages fear my power. Dalamar is their way of keeping track of my growing abilities and goals."
"What can you do? Make bigger fireballs?" Her eyes were wide as she regarded the mage with wonder.
He snickered softly, "I could take over the world, if I so wished."
"Wow... my cousin and I always joke about taking over the world. We say: 'When I take over the world...' and conclude with some obscure random wish, like 'there will be no such thing as lima beans'. So, why don't you take over the world and just be done with it?"
"I've greater goals."
Her eyebrows raised, "Oh. Well, then." She blinked several times at him, trying to put two and two together from what Dalamar had said and done and the images she had gotten off of him. He was extremely nosy about what was going on with his Shalifi and had said that Raistlin didn't really tell him anything. The motivation for learning was there, though obviously self- imposed goal could also be translated into gathering information for a supposedly secret source. One image that stood out in her mind was a half- circle of what she took to be mages all of affiliations and a feeling of pride mixed with fear for what was being spoken of. It made sense what Raistlin was saying, and, if Dal was anything like his sister, Bridgette, then he was definitely capable of it. At the Centre, Bridgette was fairly certainly a spy for the triumvirate and definitely a sworn enemy of hers and Alysa's. A seed of doubt began to quickly sprout in her heart against Dalamar that would soon grow into hatred to match that for his sister.
Raistlin leaned back and smiled cynically. He could practically hear the wheels grinding over this new bit of information, and much as he had hoped, it looked like she soon wouldn't trust Dalamar. Just let his apprentice try to wheedle information out of her now.
They sat in silence, each regarding their glass of wine, swirling it around and sipping it lightly. The sky outside the window was becoming touched with pink and an occasional bird lifted its voice in morning song. Already slight warmth was creeping into the world with the sun. Ariana glanced up at this and blinked at it sleepily.
"I can't seem to get warm," she murmured, rubbing at her arms absently. "Ever since Tarrant... I'm always cold."
"Why do you care about things?" Raistlin asked, at the same time, looking up from his glass to find that she was an ashen color.
"Because to not care would be to not live at all. Apathy, not only is draining, but it doesn't give anything back, while caring for things... is like investing in something. I am emotionally driven. To not be so would be betraying myself. How can you not care for things?"
"Most things are not worth caring about. I have my goals, what drives me, and anything beyond that doesn't really matter."
"I see," she stood to her feet, wobbling slightly as she plinked down the glass and clutched the rose to her chest, unmindful of the thorns that dug into her hand, leaving wells of blood. The tight feeling was back in her chest again. "I don't 'fit' into your goals, do I?"
"That's what I'm here to find out," he told her calmly, rising to steady her. "Do you still need to talk to me about who I am, or have you figured out how heartless I am all by yourself?"
She shook her head, nearly losing her balance, and grasping to his arms, "Silly dear, you've got a heart as golden as your eyes—it just needs a lot of polish. Don't you know," she told him, "that love forgives everything."
Raistlin nearly dropped her in his surprise. After all he had said and done it amazed him that she could see any good in him. He had thought that he had driven her away sufficiently enough so that she would never talk to him again. A small raft of hope subconsciously appeared within him and he clung to it desperately.
Another fun note: The whole CD player fiasco is quite true to me. I always go about the house, doing my thing, and listening to music. People will come up behind me or come into the room and I won't notice them until I turn around. Then I scream and if anything is in my hand, I usually reflexively throw it at them. Figured, tho, if Ari threw the paintbrush at Raist he wouldn't be too happy and our protagonist would be fried to a crisp. .