I has been a busy girl, oh yes I has, precious. I found lots of cool Fire Emblem pictures online, so I was in the mood and...yeeeahh.

Everybody get through the crazy "Canto One is now Canto Two, and Canto One is a load of random crap"ness? Good. Thanks for sticking with me.

I don't own Nintendo, and thus Lyon isn't mine. Surprisingly, he may not be meek enough here...if being meeker is possible.

Judecca, Canto III: Lyon

Not to be demeaning or belittling to Ken, but he didn't do a very good job. Of explaining, I mean. It's not his fault; he wasn't there for a lot of things, and nobody should expect him to be an authority. He's just a kid. And I don't mean that to be insulting either.

That being said, I was there for most of the things Ken left out. Raistlin would be the best person to go to for this information, but he took one look at us as we drafted this report together, laughed in that racking way of his, and left the room shaking his head in wonderment. So don't expect to hear from him anytime soon. You'll have to settle for me. I'm not a very good storyteller, but here goes.

The first thing Ken wasn't there for was the initial apprentice attempt. For some reason—this was before he found the encyclopedia--Raistlin had been impressed with my skills while we were fighting on the beach, and offered me an apprenticeship with him. I was touched, but also wary. My powers were what had gotten me into trouble in the first place, and I didn't want to mess up and hurt anybody again. So I said no, not remembering Raistlin isn't one of those people you want to turn down. He asked me why not; I said because I was too weak to control the power, so I was giving it up. I'd find some other way to help people. Maybe Maedhros could teach me swordplay; it didn't come to me easily, but I had an eternity to learn.

Bowing to Raistlin and apologizing again, I turned to walk away but never got the chance.

I sensed the fireball before it hit me and barely had time to teleport out of the way, but I didn't leave altogether because I wanted to ask him why he would do something like that. He smirked at me before I could even say anything. "You call yourself weak? I will prove to you how weak you are."

My stomach felt like it had been jabbed; I didn't realize what he really meant until later. Why did he have to be so mean to me? I'd acknowledged inferiority. He didn't have to defeat me to show it!

"You shouldn't try to hurt people to make a point," I told him, sounding like a whiny child but not really caring. He laughed in my face; he laughs a lot around me, I'm realizing. And that makes me angry, though not much does.

So something snapped in my chest, or my head, or somewhere, because suddenly I wasn't feeling like I'd been stabbed in the gut by his words anymore, but instead was both not thinking and thinking more clearly than ever. That's a lousy description, but it's true. Have you ever been so frustrated, so upset, so hurt and tired and angry that the rest of the world kind of fades into a smudgy stage for you and your opponent? That nothing else exists, and to fulfill some burning purpose within you all you have to do is show the hated man that you are Right and he is Wrong? It's not bloodlust, because I've felt that—or felt someone else feeling that—and that smears everything with red, like you're crying blood. This sets your blood on fire. And I felt that way about Raistlin Majere.

So I unleashed a horde of phantoms on him and they nearly tore him to pieces.

After that last paragraph I suppose it would be anticlimactic to say I didn't mean to. But I didn't. I only meant to send one, but the next thing I knew the power kept streaming out and away from me as I screamed something—I don't know what—and they kept springing to life around me, fueled by my frustration, until I had a veritable army. Of course, he held his own for a while—they don't call him Archmage, which I suppose is just another fancy word for "sage"on his world, for nothing, --and he tried to fend them off, but his magic involves a lot of gestures and spell components, and the phantoms just plain weren't giving him enough time.

I tried to help him then. I really did. Taking out my tome, I cast a spell of my own; mine involve much less preparation. And it did wipe out all the phantoms, which aren't all that resilient. Unfortunately, Raistlin also got caught in the blast, and I understood as I stood there gaping in horror what he had been trying to tell me. I wasn't a weak spellcaster. I was strong. I had power. But...I couldn't control it, and that's what I had meant. And if Raistlin couldn't stop me, then he was the wrong master to teach me how to tame my magic.

Now you know why he was all beat up on Ken's doorstep. On to the next missing bit.

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Once again, I was with Raistlin, though I couldn't look him in the eyes for shame. He was all right now, but you don't forget beating someone up by accident, you know? Thankfully, he wasn't berating me or anything, but I think he knew he didn't need to. I was doing that all by myself.

"Bring more wood for the fire," he commanded from where he sat, a hunched-up bundle of black velvet with his ever-present staff on the forest floor beside him. All around us the pines loomed, dark and prickly-smooth; the stars stabbed the night sky above, but they were nearly lost to us for the overgrowth of the woods. Why Raistlin had invited me on a woodland expedition I wasn't sure, but after what had happened I didn't feel like I could refuse him anything. Maybe he knew that too, as he was certainly giving out his fair share of orders.

Dumping the dead branches I'd found on the ground into the crackling flames, I settled down next to Raistlin. "What are we looking for?" I asked, drawing my cloak closer to myself. It was a cold night for spring, though the fire was warm and inviting. I didn't even know what world we were on. When Raistlin Majere tells you to do something, asking questions isn't always the best response. He'll tell you what he's doing on his own time. I'd learned that the hard way, too.

Raistlin coughed once, more to clear his throat than to herald a fit, thankfully. "We, my dear compatriot, are not looking for anything. We seek someone, to be certain. But we are not looking for him. He will come to us."

How could he be so certain? I shivered and moved a little closer to the fire. "Look, about...um...what happened earlier. I really am sor--"

"Save your breath. Will words heal wounds? Will apologies make your discipline increase? I think not. If you want to prove your penitence, I suggest you work on controlling your powers."

"I don't know why they—"

"You've changed states, fool. You are a dead man inhabiting a temporary shell. A dead necromancer. Should it surprise you that, being one with the source of your strength—the land of the dead— you find that strength multiplied?" He coughed again, but it sounded like he was laughing at me again. I was starting to really hate that laugh—or rather, the way it made me feel, so low and stupid and unworthy.

It made perfect sense. "I'm sorry. I should've realized--"

"Never apologize to me again! Show me, you blubbering idiot. Show me your strength, if you seek to gain it. If you constantly acknowledge weakness, you will never gain its opposite." He broke off abruptly and gazed at something I couldn't see deep within the flames, his face a shield of dancing shadows against a dull golden mask.

"I understand. Thank you," I told him, though I wasn't even certain if he could hear me; he seemed entranced by the fire. Even his eyes were half-lidded, the light filtering through and off his pale eyelashes. I'd never noticed that he even had eyelashes before. All of a sudden he seemed very human, though what I'd regarded him as before I couldn't be certain.

"He's coming," Raistlin murmured, and I stood to see if I could see anyone approaching. Nothing. What if this person—whoever he was—missed us completely? It was a big forest. Maybe I should go looking for him...but then I might not find Raistlin again either.

Or I could send a phantom to find him. I could help Raistlin and prove to him—and myself—that I was capable of controlling my powers.

So, calling on the magic within me, I tried to conjure a specter to me.

Thirty of the blasted things leered back at me when I was done before gliding off in all directions. If I were the swearing kind, I would have cursed, but instead I just sat back down, my face bright red. "I...um...overdid it. Again."

"So I saw," Raistlin replied distractedly, almost listlessly. "Yet that may work in our favor. Here he comes."

A figure came into view in the distance, moving surely and quickly for all the darkness, even if its steps seemed a bit haphazard. Raistlin coughed and hung his teakettle on the spit over the fire, catching his sleeve on fire by accident in the process.

As I leaped up again to help him and the two of us beat the flames out, a boy no more than twenty or so years of age entered the ring of light and watched us apprehensively, yet scornfully. "Who are you?" he practically demanded. "What are you doing out here? This is royal property. Have you got a permit?"

"I need nothing of the sort," whispered Raistlin, his voice raspy and chilling. "And what of you? Why do you wander these woods, royal or no, after your companions are so long abed?"

"Someone has to keep watch in these dangerous parts."

"So you deserted your caravan?"

The boy eyed Raistlin warily. "I never said anything about traveling with a--"

"Silence, child!" The boy bristled at the term. "Do you think I am so isolated from the times that I would not recognize a member of the Greil Mercenaries on sight? Indeed, my friend and I are intruding on these admittedly protected grounds for the express purpose of meeting with them."

"We've got a client right now. You'll have to go on the waiting list like everyone else," the boy replied, his tone now definitely hostile. "And you better be gone by the time we pass this way tomorrow, or we'll turn you in." He pivoted on his heel to leave, then stopped, glanced around and cocked his head.

"Ah, so you're hearing them too?" Raistlin asked. The teakettle whistled; he gestured for me to prepare it, so I took it off the spit, but the pouch he handed me did not have the usual herbs in it. When I dumped them into a mug with the water, the aroma spiraling up was not overwhelming and bitter, but warm and spicy.

I glanced at him. What was he planning?

"Hearing what?" the boy asked bluntly. I'd say this for him: he didn't mince words.

"The specters that haunt these woods late at night. The presence of a fire is the only thing that will ward them off." Specters? We didn't encounter any...Oh. Oh. Oh, he was sly. Using my mistake as part of his trap. For that was what this situation was beginning to resemble, at least to me: a web with Raistlin at the center, pulling the boy towards him with all the sympathy that a spider has for its fly. Poor fly. For all his apparent spirit, I bet he didn't stand a chance. Suddenly I felt much more friendly towards the boy.

"There aren't any specters in these woods..." the boy began. "Otherwise..."

"Do you trust reports and hearsay more than your own senses?" Raistlin asked. "Stop gaping and pour the boy a drink!" This was directed at me, so I handed the mug to the boy, who accepted it warily. I could feel his red eyes sizing me up, judging me. I wondered what he saw, and what he thought about it. I didn't wonder about what he thought of Raistlin. Raistlin makes the same first impression on everybody: he scares them half to death, then annoys them the rest of the way.

Apparently he could deal with what he saw, because the boy sat down across from me, drawn to the fire in the chill of the night. "So who are you, if you know all these things?"

"I am called Raistlin. Raistlin Majere. This is Lyon, my associate. We are archmagi—I believe you call them "sages" in your country, and we are seeking promising practicers of the occult."

"I'm not leaving the company," the boy replied flatly.

Raistlin raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Did I say anything about you specifically?"

The boy snorted and tossed his head slightly in an exact impression of one of Raistlin's own habits. I stared despite myself. "Don't play stupid. It doesn't become you. You knew me to be of the Mercenaries on sight, and that we would be passing this way. You've done your research. So why wouldn't you know who I am, 'specifically'? Besides, I'm not carrying a weapon and am wearing robes. I'm well aware that everything about me screams 'magic-user.' But you're wasting your time, if you want power. The mark on my forehead is a birthmark only. I'm no spirit channeler." I hadn't noticed that mark at first in the reddish light of the flames, but there it was—a tattoo-like red rune directly on the center of his forehead, below the part of his long black hair.

"Don't lie. It doesn't become you," Raistlin semi-mimicked spitefully, and the web shook. The spider was getting fed up with its prey and jeopardizing the meal, in my opinion—not that I was sorry of it. "If I have, as you say, 'done my research,' do you not think I would know what that mark signifies?"

The boy recoiled as if hit, and I saw fear flicker in his ruby eyes. "Get out of here," he said in a low voice. "Or phantoms or no phantoms, I am rousing the company and running you out of the country."

"You won't make it twenty yards. You'll come right back." Raistlin stretched lazily, lay down still curled in his robes. "So make the best of it--and drink that before it gets cold; don't be rude."

The boy dashed the drink on the ground and stood. "I'll not have you drugging me," he snapped. "I'm leaving."

"Sit." He sat, plopping to the ground jerkily—and, apparently, completely unintentionally. Furious, he glared at Raistlin. "How did you--"

Raistlin smirked. "Come now. Your resistance is high, but no match for me...Soren."

About time someone told me his name. Now feeling truly sorry for the boy, I moved a little closer to him and tried to smile. "Don't be scared," I said—practically pleaded, which of course was an entirely stupid choice of both words and tone on my part. "He just wants to talk to you. He doesn't want to hurt you."

"Get away!" The boy Soren raised his hand, and I could feel power building, so I backed off. I didn't want to try to block something and mess it up again.

"If you use that spell here, you'll blow the fire out," Raistlin said sleepily from where he lay. "And Lyon, though spineless-sounding at times, is correct. For once." How was I supposed to prove my strength to him when he said things like that to my face? I didn't need to hear that, even if I was thinking the same thing. "I don't want you dead. I want you by my side. I want you to be my apprentice."

"But you don't think I'm strong."

"I never said that. I said I was stronger." Raistlin propped himself up on one arm. "As it should be for a master and his student." He shot me a look, and I found the fire very interesting all of a sudden. That way maybe no one would notice I was blushing again. "I know of your strength, of your loyalty—and of your healthy regard for the plain and simple truth. I tire of those who hide behind masks always. I seek a cunning mind, a quick wit, and a perceptive view—yet unhampered by layers of euphemisms." He spat the last like it was a curse word; did he really feel that way, or was he trying to mend the web? I was fascinated and disgusted. My mind doesn't work like Raistlin's; I'm not good at judging motives. I take people at face value...or used to, until I met him and had to adapt or fall victim to one verbal trap after another. Yet when he spoke to Soren, he seemed sincere. "I seek crystal purity. And that is you."

"How can you say that?" Soren was still angry and scared—no one could blame him for that—yet now he also marveled while he shook and simmered. "You know who I am—what I am—the filth of my—and yet you call me..." He trailed off.

"Look at me. Am I in a position to judge on appearances and bloodlines?" The hourglass eyes seemed larger, weirder, wilder as he stared levelly at the boy, who backed down, gulping. "You see what I mean, then." He nodded, and Raistlin lay back down, his back to us. "You don't have to give me your answer immediately. Tell me in the morning, before you return to your companions. If you agree, I shall accompany you. If not...you shall never hear from me again."

"I can give you my answer now. I need to get back to Ike and the others. And my answer is..." He yawned, then tried again. "I say..." His eyelids fluttered, and he yawned again. "I..." Laying down on the ground, his eyes closed and his sentence—doubtless a declination—remained hanging in the air.

He wasn't nearly as prickly asleep, seemed almost gentle-looking. I smoothed back his dark hair, thinking something along the lines of You poor thing; I'm sorry I didn't help you, then turned to Raistlin, inert by the fire. "You put a spell on him, didn't you?"

I tried not to make it an accusation, but as it turned out I didn't need to bother: Raistlin was fast asleep. That appeared to rule out spellcasting, but Soren's fatigue had seemed very sudden...it was all quite...quite strange, really...

Looking at him and Raistlin sleeping softly on the ground, I felt my head grow heavy. That looked like a really good idea...and nothing could get us as long as my phantoms were out there...poor Soren; I needed to be well-rested to help him reject Raistlin tomorrow...no harm in just sleeping a bit, after all...just a little bit...

I lay down on bed of pine needles and somehow woke up on eiderdown. Like I said before, I'm not a swearer, but as I sat blinking in the sunlight wondering what I was doing indoors, the door opened and I said the first thing that came into my head.

"Damn it, Raistlin! What did you do!"

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a/n: Poor Lyon. Poor Soren...who, by the way, is the hero of both the newest summary on my blog and our next chapter, in which he too wakes up somewhere else, has to make a very important decision, and gains a valid reason for trying to murder Ken in his sleep.