How long has it been since I've updated? A month? Two? How long ago did I say this would be ready? Three weeks? Two? Something has to have a two in it…

Anyway, here's chapter 4, it's pretty long, so I'll just dive on in, first pausing to remark on how very little (read: none) of this is actually mine…

All I Want, Chapter Four: Raistlin Nearly Dies Of Asphyxiation; Maedhros Nearly Dies Of Decapitation; Ken Nearly Dies Of Revelation

They had been fighting for ten minutes, and things were not looking good for Roger of Conte. He had disdainfully left his sword in its scabbard, figuring he'd humiliate his opponent before killing him by using magic; but that had backfired. His freakish foe—Raistlin? Yes, that was it, Raistlin Majere—somehow managed to guess and block every spell Roger sent his way. What was even worse, fumed the Conte Duke, was that he had the infuriating feeling that, offensively, Raistlin was just playing around, and eventually he'd casually incinerate Roger and walk away calmly, perhaps coughing a bit, as he seemed to do that often. Indeed, it was his only weakness as a magical opponent. This was no time to show off. It was time to play dirty.

Roger waited, tense, his sword loose in its sheath as it hung by his side. He could not fight this strange man, not when his opponent seemed to know every spell he would cast before he even fully formed it in his mind. He could not best him in magic…but one quick sword thrust through that miserable hacking body would do the job just as well.

Flexing his fingers in preparation, he began to mutter the incantation that would send his blade, self-crafted and bound by his own blood, flying into his waiting grasp. All he had to do was lure the mage closer…

Raistlin stepped forward, lowered his staff, began an incantation of his own. Roger licked lips that were suddenly parched. "With silver and stone I made thee…"

The black-robed man moved closer still.

"With Gift and blood I bound thee…"

Golden eyes narrowed; golden hands clenched the staff more tightly.

"With my name I call thee!"

Shrieking, the sword flew into Roger's hand and he lunged, a feral cry escaping his mouth in triumph.

With a surprisingly quick sweeping motion, Raistlin parried the thrust with his staff, knocking the blow awry. How did he know? wondered Roger wildly. How did he know what I was about to do?

Raistlin smiled sagely and spoke for the first time in minutes that had seemed like hours to the Duke of Conte. "Don't look so surprised. If I glowed orange every time I was about to cast a spell, I wouldn't get cocky." He swung the staff at Roger's head.

He can see my Gift! Roger swung his sword in a wide arc that should have not only blocked the staff but also sheared it cleanly in two.

Instead it was the sword that shattered.

Pain exploded in Roger's arm and he dropped to his knees, his right arm bleeding and cradled to his chest while his left scrabbled frantically for his wizard's rod. A Gate of Idramm! He would draw a Gate of Idramm in the sand, and then… as his hand closed over the magical instrument, a booted foot pinned both hand and rod to the ground.

"Tell me, wizard," Raistlin said, sneering the word and sounding both amused and disgusted. "Have the arcane arts really sunk so low on your plane, or are you in reality a novice?"

"I am among the greatest of my era!" Roger replied defiantly, then realized he had played right into his opponent's mental trap. Well, he would teach this upstart to fear the Gift! If he could just get the chance to construct a Gate, even a shoddy one…his opponent was already bleeding…

Roger's chance came. Raistlin's throat constricted and he began to cough viciously. Although he felt Roger scramble out of his reach, he could do nothing to stop him. He couldn't even breathe!

His vision, cursed to teach him a lesson yet a strange asset in this fight, as it showed him the aura of the Conte Duke's magic, swam as tears sprung up in his hourglass eyes from coughing so hard. His tea! He needed his tea, but his canteen was dry…

Yet he still had the dry herbs. Fumbling clumsily for the pouch, Raistlin grabbed a handful of the brew's ingredients, braced himself, and stuffed them into his mouth. He bit down hard.

It was even worse than he had imagined. The herbs in their natural state tasted even more bitter, more foul and disgusting. Forcing himself to chew, he stumbled backwards as his windpipe slowly cleared and wondered why he wasn't being attacked.

As his vision flared orange, he had his answer. He froze in his tracks, not by his own free will but because orange fire bound him in place, surrounded him, sought to sap him of the power in his veins, the gift of the three moons within him. He had stumbled into a very roughly drawn symbol in the sand, so slipshoddily constructed it was a miracle the thing even worked. Raistlin cursed, but he did not curse Roger's ability or ingenuity. He cursed his own idiocy and weakness.

Raistlin was not the only one surprised the Gate worked. Roger had had to work quickly and roughly, sketching frantically the loops and whorls he otherwise would have mapped out carefully, almost lovingly. He had come up with this variation of the Gate of Idramm himself. How fitting, therefore, that he use it to drain the man who had insulted his talents. Smiling grimly, half-grimacing because of the pain in his sword-arm, Roger waited to receive the power he felt emanating from his strange opponent.

But no magic came. Raistlin fought the enchantment with all his might, fought for the use of the skills to which he had dedicated his entire being. If he let himself be drained of the magic—if his arrogance wiped away forever that for which he had sacrificed everything—his entire existence in the world would have been meaningless. The magic was parent, lover, child, he had said once; so now he clung to it as a father holds close his son, a man reaches for his wife, a child runs to his mother in a blind panic. Supporting his entire weight on the Staff of Magius, his legs gave out and he fell. The force of his fall sent the Staff's tip shooting out in the opposite direction, dragging across the ground and marring the Gate.

Roger saw his enemy fall, but did not gloat or even rush in to finish the job. Instead he stared, filled with horror and wonder and awe. "Who are you?" he breathed, knowing he had met at least his equal at last.

Raistlin rolled over, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his expression dazed but his eyes still very focused. "Even if you knew…you still wouldn't be able to understand," he responded in a choking whisper, then passed out cold, physically exhausted but still master of his magic.

Roger remained standing and staring. "Whoever you are," he remarked to the air grudgingly, "there's no denying you've got style."

His gaze lingered on the mage's bloody mouth. "If you can call it that."

"You do realize that this will likely count as an act of evil and you'll have to reset your day counter again, do you not?" Maedhros swung his sword.

Anakin blocked it. "I don't care. I've had too much trouble with your blasted system already. It's no one's business but my own how often I do things I shouldn't." He lunged.

The elf sidestepped nimbly. "Nice attempt, but a bit obvious. Still, I must admit you're a far cry better swordsman than even some of my own brothers—well, it's true, Father, Amras never did get the knack of dueling!"

The stupid elf had been doing that a lot lately—breaking off his banter to snap at some unseen entity he called "Father." But it never broke his stride. He was subtle, he was swift, and he was obviously used to battling opponents that lacked the physical capabilities of his kind. Well, Anakin had a few advantages on his side as well. Dropping back, he took a deep breath and called on the Force.

Sand whirled up in a sudden tornado, blinding Maedhros. He stumbled back into the surf but did not fall. Anakin called a wave, yanking the ocean along the currents of the Force, and sent it crashing down over his blinded foe. Maedhros was knocked to his knees; again his sword tumbled from his hand. Anakin called it to himself, strode up to where his opponent kneeled, vulnerable and sodden, and crossed the blades over his neck.

This was the position he'd assumed to commit his first cold-blooded murder. He could almost see Dooku's eyes, wide and staring as realization hit; he could hear Palpatine—Sidious—telling him what must be done…

Yet Dooku's fear was not in Maedhros's eyes, Sidious's words of seduction were not on his lips. "Anakin—I hope I may call you Anakin—I won't tell you you're not a killer. I know you are. You've killed better and worse people than me before, I'm sure of it, and I know if you chose you could send my spirit speeding back to Mandos a failure. So I shan't try to tell you you can't kill me, or won't. I just want you to think. What does killing me accomplish? It will not bring the peace you seek. It will not buy you freedom, or even prove a point. You made a choice, long ago, then regretted it and saved everything. You died saving your own soul. Kill me here, and you will have died in vain, as I myself died. Do you want that?"

He does believe he died in vain, Anakin realized, staring into grey eyes that burned and stormed at the same time. That's why he's doing all this, so his afterlife can redeem what his life and death could not.

So what? It's no concern of mine. He's my opponent, and I outsmarted him. I beat him. I knew I would; I've been peerless too long to have forseen anything else.

But…do I want to have that look in my eyes?

It's a trick! Any minute now, he's going to make a grab for his weapon, and I'll be the headless fool, lying dead for the second time.

Anakin tried to harden his heart and resolve, yet his muscles seemed frozen in time and would not move. The monster he'd fought his whole life—fear—was alive again and chewing on him, resurrected at the thought of having that wretched look of despair on his own face, in his own eyes, even in eyes hidden behind a black helmet. Suddenly he knew that he, who had made a life out of achieving the impossible, simply could not do what he planned on doing. He could not kill this elf. It would be like killing his soul, and now that he was dead, his soul was all he had left.

Slowly, very slowly, he lowered the hand clutching his own lightsaber and fastened the deactivated weapon to his belt. Then, pointing at the unmoving Maedhros, he again called upon the Force and lifted the elf off the ground. An involuntary cry escaped his captive's lips, then Maedhros regained his composure.

"Feanor," Anakin said shakily. "He snuck into your party. Where is he?"

"Right here," was the reply, cold and hard. "When you captured my gullible fool of a son, you also apprehended me. I suppose you are just the next in a long line of weak-minded followers the Valar have arrayed against me? I must say, your first impression left quite a different mark. I almost respected you then." Maedhros's eyebrows furrowed. "But no, you are like all the rest, even down to my own sons. Weak."

Fury filled Anakin and, with a snarl, he jerked his hand, flipping Maedhros upside down, then clenched a fist. The elf's cheeks, already flushed by the rush of blood to his head, reddened still more as invisible fingers choked him.

"You'll pay for that, you lying, sneering—"

A humongous wave broke over Anakin, shattering his concentration. Maedhros dropped to the ground in a heap but was soon on his feet—and at Anakin's throat, steel-tipped fingers glistening as drops of sweat and salt water from Anakin's cheeks dripped down onto them.

"My son wouldn't kill you," hissed Maedhros—or something that had taken over Maedhros—"but I will. I, unlike others I could mention, have the sense to remove obstacles in my way so they don't come back to haunt me later. Move a muscle, and all the powers in the world won't be able to save you. Now. My son will never let me hear the end of it if I don't give you one more chance. So let's talk."

I've got a bad feeling about this, thought Anakin. To move would mean death—probably Maedhros's death; Anakin still had one activated lightsaber, one deactivated lightsaber, and the Force at his disposal, plus he could change back into Darth Vader, whose armor would render the claws useless. But Anakin was sick of death, sick of contemplating it, and sick of dealing it out. So he did the only thing he could think of.

He said, "All right."

Ken sat down on a rock and put his head in his hands. He'd been helpless in a life-or-death situation. Again. He should have reacted faster, should have conjured a weapon despite his fear, anything to keep Raistlin from fighting two-on-one when the mage wasn't even at full strength. Ken didn't know why, but he found himself liking Raistlin despite the mage's obvious arrogance and provocative nature. There was a certainty Raistlin wore like a cloak over his black robes, a confidence and self-assurance Ken wished he himself possessed. Plus Raistlin was smarter than Ken, and for all of the boy's life he had admired intelligence perhaps even above character.

Now he owed Raistlin his life, and perhaps Raistlin now owed Ken's uselessness his death. Strapping the goggles over his eyes, Ken clambered up onto the rock on which he'd been sitting, stretched his arm out, and called into being the one weapon he could handle like an extension of his body. When he was done, a long whip lay coiled in his hand. If they came looking for him, he'd give them a few lashes to remember him by, for the world to see so that his death, alone on an alien world without partner, friends, or parents nearby, would still be commemorated somehow. Maybe someday Wormmon would be sent to this beach, would find his body lying there…what would he think if he saw the goggles, saw the whip? But Ken could not do without those, not when they came for him, fresh from their victory over poor Raistlin. As his light had saved him before, so now he called on his darkness. It didn't matter. He was going to die anyway.

It was strange. Ken had long harbored a secret belief that for his crimes he deserved no less than death. He had stayed living for the sakes of those who loved him only, yet now as a faint many-winged silhouette appeared on the horizon, Ken realized he honestly wanted to live. He wanted to see his parents, to hold Wormmon, to come to terms with the strange feeling in his chest when he looked at Yolei. He wanted to find Maedhros's brother, wanted to give the elf a chance for a fraternal reunion he himself could never have.

The goggles sharpened his vision, focused the figure approaching. Ken counted the wings: it had to be Lucemon. That was quick. He must have left the stranger to fight Raistlin alone. Ken allowed himself a little smile. Those odds were more in the mage's favor.

Nonetheless, this did not help his own position; standing on the rock Ken stuck out like a rose in a daisy patch. Jumping down and crouching low, his first thought was to hide among the rocks and hope Lucemon didn't see him, fighting only if necessary. As he glanced around, however, he saw a better hiding place and scrambled into a small cave half-hidden by the rocks.

It was steep, sloping sharply downward, and cramped, but not inhabitable; plus the further down Ken went the wider the cave became. Soon he could stand upright, and the cave floor flattened out, the opening a mere pinprick of light far above Ken's head.

Hoping Lucemon's usual reluctance to do anything that wasn't the angel's own idea meant his search pattern would be cursory only, Ken held his breath as he heard his pursuer's voice.

"…but the guy vanished, so there's no guarantee, for all Reject knows that explosion disintegrated him and Reject's just getting me out of the way so he can get the treasure, but who needs treasure when you can have utopia…"

Treasure? The jewel! That's why Lucemon had turned against us! That man wanted the…Silmaril? Was that the term? He was going to be disappointed; we've found nothing that could lead us to Maglor. Not a single thing.

Lucemon's voice grew louder: he was close. To give himself room in which to wield his whip, Ken stepped backwards a couple of paces, eyes fixed on the speck of light that was the opening. His heel connected with something, and to his surprise that something fell over with a discordant, musical crash.

"Watch where you step!" came a voice, annoyed, from the darkness behind Ken as Lucemon's winged form filled the opening. "You just knocked over my harp!"

A/N: Gee, wonder who that could be?...

The angsty, melodramatic, cheesy writing style is back! Hooray!

Due to a rumor circulating that review replies are no longer allowed, I strongly urge anyone who reviewed my last chapter to visit my Xanga (just click "homepage" on my profile page) and read the entry marked Sept. 6, 2005. You'll find a little something there for you!

One more chapter, then this story is done…and Book Two of the Phase Three Trilogy can begin…