Roltan sat still next to the fountain in the courtyard of Dragon's Lair, watching the glittering curtain of the aurora with the same childlike wonder he always did, no matter how many times he saw it. The universe was such a lovely place, he thought, admiring the colors. He remembered a time before the aurora, before this particular planet had cooled and the atmosphere had formed, but he greatly favored the finished product over that gloomy void. He always preferred light and color and beauty to the endless depth of nothingness...unlike his brother, who thrived in such secretive places. Though the two brothers looked identical in body, their spirits were literally eons apart. Zellfiend liked to conquer and kill while Roltan preferred to study and learn. One dark, the other light. Both more powerful and indestructible than any other creature save the gods themselves.

But only one of them, Roltan thought with a small smile, knew how to appreciate the beauty in something so simple as the aurora.

With a sigh of contentment, he stood up, preparing to go inside.

"Are you Roltan Mettamoon, Grand Master Necromancer of Aeshalon?" a voice suddenly asked from the shadows. It was a whispery voice; the speaker sounded exhausted and weak. Roltan, curious, walked over to the wall and looked for the individual, wondering who could be searching for him at such an hour.

It was an Elvish mage, dressed all in black robes. Tattered, bloody black robes. In his arms he held another mage, one that seemed to be very ill or wounded. The burden was too much for him...he knelt down and laid his companion on the cobblestones, pillowing the man's head in his lap. Mercy was second nature to Roltan, and he eagerly moved forward to kneel beside them.

"I am Roltan." he said pleasantly enough. "Why do you seek me?"

"We wish to learn from you, wise one. We have…" the Elf began, but the man on the ground began coughing slightly, his entire body shaking with the strain of it. When he turned his face to the light Roltan was alarmed to see that the man's thin lips were stained with blood.

'He's dying.' The vampire realized, watching the Elf meticulously wipe his master's lips with a ragged gray shred of cloth.

"Are you all right, young man?" Roltan asked, concerned. The gold-skinned stranger on the ground did not answer. His caretaker instead spoke softly.

"His malady is incurable. This is Raistlin Majere, and I am his apprentice Dalamar, and we have come a long, long way to seek you. If the rumors that we have heard are true, than you are the oldest and most powerful being alive. That's why we're here."

"I don't use those powers you speak of very often. It's dangerous to be talking like this outside. Come with me and we can discuss such matters further." Roltan replied. He held out his arm to the mage, intending to offer assistance, but was rebuffed with a sharp glance. Dalamar instead helped him to his feet, then stepped respectfully back.

Sighing, Roltan gave up on trying to help and instead walked with the men over to a large flat stone in the courtyard. They stepped onto it in silence together.

"Close your eyes, this particular magic causes a bit of nausea. It's a transport stone, it can take us anywhere in the castle." Roltan explained. Raistlin nodded once and closed his strange eyes, Dalamar following suit. A moment later they stood in Roltan's private chambers. Dalamar collapsed into a chair by the window, burying his head in his hands.

They'd made it.

In the glow from the firelight the vampire finally got a good look at the mages, in particular the gold-fleshed one. The black robes he wore were stained with travel and torn in many places, showing bare flesh on a skeletal frame beneath. His feet were bare and covered in sores, his hands torn and caked with dirt as though he had been clawing his way through dark places. The silky white hair was matted and filthy. His eyes, staring out from a gaunt face, were as large and luminous and haunting as a trapped doe's. He coughed, shivering with the cold even as he burned with fever. Roltan's heart wrenched at the sight of this pitiful being. Laying a friendly hand on Raistlin's shoulder he drew him closer to the fire, helping him to sit down.

"You, my friend, look like you've been through a war." He said gently. To his surprise, Raistlin laughed weakly.

"I suppose so. I have been searching for a portal here for quite some time. It is a great relief to me that I have finally found you, Master Mettamoon. You can't possibly understand what it means-" he coughed again, blood frothing from his lips.

"By the Law, Majere, you're falling apart. Let me help you, then we'll talk." Roltan said softly. Raistlin nodded wearily, his eyes mistrustful. Dalamar watched carefully from his chair, ready to spring to his Master's defense in a heartbeat if need be.

Roltan stood up and walked to his work table, pulling down several herbs from the shelf and tossing various bandages and ointments into a large basin. He grabbed a cup and a small brown bottle from the edge of the table and turned back to his new friend, laying the packages on the sideboard and kneeling down to pull the last few shreds of woolen hose away from the mage's horribly maimed feet.

"What happened to your boots?" Roltan asked, pouring water into the emptied basin. Raistlin shook his head, coughing.

"Lost them…Abyss…no time to look…"

"Here," Roltan said gently, handing him the cup. He poured a generous measure of the contents of the little bottle into the cup, then added water. "Drink this, it will help. Later, when we have more time, I will concoct a draught to heal your ailment. I know that you believe it to be incurable –"

"It is the price I paid for power."

"Whatever you choose to call it, I can heal you. There has never been an illness that I was unable to remove. Please trust me. Now do drink up, it will ease your pain in the short term."

Raistlin brought the cup to his lips, sighing in relief as the fragrant mixture soothed his throat. The pain in his chest abated…vanished, in fact. Wonder and gratefulness crossed his features, and he sat back, feeling stronger. He watched the pale-skinned necromancer as he slid first one foot, then the other into the steaming water and tossed in a handful of withered herbs.

"That stings."

"I know. I'm terribly sorry, but I must to clean the wounds before I bandage them. The herbs will draw out any debris and infection and remove the scabs. Here, put this over your hands." He handed the mage a soft cloth soaked in the medicinal solution. Raistlin complied, grimacing with the pain.

They were silent for a few minutes, Roltan intent on his ministrations.

"I don't have an apprentice right now because I don't like them." The vampire said quietly. Raistlin put one moist hand on his shoulder.

"You can't turn me away. Not after what I've gone through to get here."

Roltan chewed his lip speculatively, meeting Raistlin's feverish golden eyes with his cool gray ones.

Something passed between them then, an understanding of sorts. Though Roltan knew less than nothing about this person before him, he could tell that the mage had great ambition. No one without it would have gone through such obvious torment to reach a being of questionable existence, not even knowing if he would be well received when he found him. Roltan knew what it was to have such ambition, he knew the burning need for ever greater power. He understood.

Raistlin, likewise, had the oddest feeling that he had come home. He'd never been well liked before, and it was rather pleasant to finally meet what he perceived to be an equal. The necromancer's touch was gentle, his eyes held no malice or dislike or fear. Raistlin was actually starting to like him. The lines of cunning and bitterness around his eyes and mouth soothed, and he smiled.

"I don't need an apprentice, Majere." Roltan repeated, then he smiled as well, "But I could use an assistant."

"I believe that I could fill that position admirably, Master Mettamoon."

"Call me Roltan, my friend."

"All right, Roltan. You may use my first name as well. Now, if you don't mind, I believe that I am going…to… pass…out."

His head lolled forward onto his thin chest, eyes closing. Roltan dried the mage's feet on a fold of his own robe.

He had the feeling that this was the beginning of a long and glorious friendship.

"Will he live?" Dalamar asked softly. Roltan stood up and moved to empty the basin, refilling it with warm water to retrace the cleansing process with Dalamar's feet, which were even more damaged.

"I believe he will, in fact. As I have said, there is nothing I have not been able to cure yet."

"Even death?"

Roltan gently began washing Dalamar's maimed feet, grimacing with sympathetic pain as he pulled a three-inch shard of stone from one of the Elf's ankles.

"Death, young man, is simply another illness to a necromancer."

The thought suddenly, irrationally set Dalamar's teeth on edge. The thought of a necromancer laying his hands upon his or Raistlin's corpse made him want to attack something. But it was extremely hard to find fault with this strange, pale mage with the oddly arresting gray eyes. He was kind and friendly, not haughty and aloof the way that arch-mages on Krynn tended to be. The room was warm and well-furnished, including a healthy amount of purely artistic touches that lent a homey and refined air to what was otherwise a very advanced laboratory. Fistandantilus had never taken such pains to decorate his living spaces, nor had any of the other unsavory characters that Raistlin had sought for guidance and learning in the past. Dalamar began to relax in spite of himself.

But Raistlin had been right.

The medicated water did sting.

He was suddenly very weary, his entire body aching, his feet and hands and the place across his stomach where the wound had only partially closed stinging fiercely. He wondered if the vampire could smell his blood.

And whether that was a bad thing...

As though reading his mind, Roltan looked up at him and flashed a toothy grin.

"You seem to have cut yourself, mage." he said sympathetically.

"Are you planning to make a meal of me?" Dalamar blurted out, then blushed slightly as the necromancer laughed.

"Certainly not! I drink very rarely, and even then only a few pints from a willing victim or two. I deal with reanimation...why in the name of Holy Law would I make added work for myself?"

"That's the second time you've sworn by the law. Is it so important here?"

"Not law, Elf. Law. The god of Law, Nova himself. It is the being that created me, and the one to whom my pledge has been given. I live with the chosen creatures of Chaos, but my soul belongs to Law. And that in itself is chaotic. An amusing irony, don't you think?"

"Quite." Dalamar grimaced as Roltan carefully dried his feet and began to apply a thick ointment to the wounds. It was all too wonderful to believe. They had arrived, Raistlin would live, this creature was uncommonly kind, and all of the pain they had endured on the journey would become a mere memory.

Roltan finished dressing his wounds, pulling a pair of clean white linen socks over the maimed feet to protect them. He carried the basin away again, then returned with a flask of wine and a plate of fresh bread. These he set on the small table beside Dalamar, then turned away again to rummage through one of the many cupboards.

"I think you'll need a stitch or two, if my sense of smell is not deceiving me. How did you come by those wounds?"

"Some demon-beast," Dalamar said, pausing to take a grateful gulp of the wine, which proved to be exceptional, "It had us quite trapped in a cave before Raistlin cast a spell to repel it. I half expected us to be dead by now."

Roltan sat down across from him, glancing over to where Raistlin slept peacefully in the firelight.

"I will have the servants prepare rooms for you here in the Tower. You'll have to make do for now with my quarters, which are just there beyond that statue. I shall make your friend comfortable in the bed, and prepare the sofa for you. It is most relaxing, I assure you. And you'll be near the fire."

"You would give us your room?" Dalamar asked, surprised and touched, "But we are strangers to you. Why would you do this?'

Roltan blinked, seemingly startled by the question.

"Because he's gravely ill, and you desperately need rest. I shall be quite happy out here with a bedroll. Do you come from such a barbaric and selfish world that kindness is foreign to you? Great gods, what a sorry life you must have had, Dalamar. Take my room and be welcome. Bathe in my bathtub, change into my clothes, eat from my stores, read my books," he waved an elegant hand vaguely toward the laboratory, "play with my spell components, pet my cat. Just don't try to drive a stake through my heart or stab me with a silver dagger or set me on fire or any of the other tiresome things I sometimes have to deal with from my guests. It will do you absolutely no good and may make me a bit irritated. Not much, mind you, but enough to disrupt my work and put me in a foul mood for a day or two."

Dalamar stared at him.

"You are the oddest being I have ever met." he said without malice.

Roltan smiled again and leaned back in his chair.

"When you have been around since the dawn of creation, you tend to develop a few eccentricities." he said by way of an answer, "Now, please tell me of your adventures. The name of Majere is known to me, and I should very much like to hear of the Tower of Wayreth and the passage of the Wars. Not to mention, of course, your plan for concealing yourselves from the dark gods of your world."

Dalamar paused, his glass halfway to his lips, and looked over at Roltan.

"What did you say?"

"Your gods, Dalamar." Roltan repeated gently, "The dark gods of your realm. The ones who will never forgive that man over there - or you for that matter - and will never rest until you are both destroyed. Crossing a few dimensional boundaries may shake off some of the mortal mages, but do you really think the greater beings will forget about your existence?"

"I highly doubt that, Master Roltan. They're all dead…"