Elysium

You are the night time fear

You are the morning when it's clear

-No Light No Light, Florence + the Machine

Raistlin placed the last of the books lovingly into the case. Fistandantilus' spellbooks. Blue-bound, ice-cold to the touch. Raistlin folded the tightly woven silk over the books, checked the runes of protection inside, and closed the lid. He'd copied everything he'd need in Istar, and afterwards, in Wayreth. Killing Fistandantilus shouldn't be too hard. He'd done it once already, and the lich had been half dead in his Test.

Time to stash this away, his promise to the future. He looked down at the chest, stone-grey to hide better, bound in steel. Soon, it would be safe in the cave in the Sentinel Peaks. The cave had survived the Cataclysm and Zhaman, it would be safe.

Then, the next time he would touch it would be in the future. Five years before the Dragonwar, a few months after his Test. And less than a week before—

Raistlin stopped, picked up the book from his desk, and added a note on the next blank page.

Avoid the Wayward Inn.

After a moment, he underlined it three times. Stopped again, looked at what he had written, then sighed and wiped the page clean with a cantrip. If he read that, he would be determined to investigate the Inn and find what was so dangerous about it. Hopefully he and Dalamar would be too busy celebrating finding the spellbooks to go anywhere near the Inn. Let Amberyl vent her curse on someone else.

It was strange, thinking about that time. If Raistlin's hypothesis was correct, he would cease to exist the moment he killed Fistandantilus, the moment the River forked and his tributary dried up. His awareness would flow back to his past self, all his memories, his power, devoured by himself. As he had devoured Fistandantilus.

It would mean giving up his power, for now. Of course, his raw ability would transfer to his past self, but all his knowledge, Fistandantilus' memories, everything he had worked for—

Was not worth this. Not worth two years of being trapped in his own mind, destroying everything and torturing the only person he loved. Better like this. A delay, of course, but not much of one once they found the spellbooks. They would walk into the Dragonwar prepared and ready, come out alive and together.

Raistlin closed his eyes, allowing himself to slip into that reverie again. Not for long, or else risk being drawn in and never wanting to leave. But just for a few moments, drawing up the image of Dalamar's face, the shock of seeing Raistlin after his Test followed by the sheer relief and knowing he was alive. In Raistlin's own time that had been followed by horror as he'd collapsed into a coughing fit, but that wouldn't happen. They would hold each other, kiss and settle together to read over these mysterious books Raistlin had found.

Raistlin smiled. One was a patchwork mess of everything he could think of putting in. The Dragon Orb. Where Fistandantilus' spellbooks were hidden. How to open them without going mad. The history of Darken Wood. He'd left out the Disks as irrelevant and had instead put in a small but very potent spell of suppression. Marked on a magical object, it would trap the magic inside it and render it useless.

Marked on, oh, for example, someone's eyes, it should last at least a week before any particular curses would re-emerge, and of course, it could be cast again. He had spent so little of his life being happy, he refused to begrudge himself any joy, particularly in the name of Par-Salian's deranged delusions.

The book would replace one of the spellbooks in his test. For the other two he'd picked out two spellbooks and filled them with spells he'd thought would be useful. Break into Wayreth, stash the books, corner Fistandantilus in whatever little parasitic pocket plane the lich was existing in, and slaughter him. Close his eyes and feel the two branches of Time flow back together and wash away this whole nightmare.

But first, the Sentinel Peaks.

Caramon was in his old armour, shifting uncomfortably in the shadow of the Temple. Beside him – good – was Tasslehoff, looking excited. Caramon stumbled over, and hefted the chest up. Raistlin winced at the rough handling, but then if the chest couldn't survive his brother's clumsiness, it would be unlikely to last the centuries ahead.

"We're not going far, are we?" Caramon glanced back towards the arena. "They need us back by morning or our friends will have to go in instead."

"You will be back before Dark Watch," Raistlin sighed, and beckoned them around him. "Hold still."

"Did you find out who'd bought us?" Caramon's eyes were narrowed, "You said you'd find a way to free us—"

"Be quiet," Raistlin hissed, lifted his hands, and cast.

Caramon stumbled as they hit the ground, Tasslehoff fell over. Raistlin caught himself on his staff and looked around. The cave was completely unchanged from when he had come here, hundreds of years in the future. This would never be easy to think about.

Caramon looked around, "Where are we?"

"Far from Istar," Raistlin said coolly. Assuming his plan went well, Tasslehoff and Caramon would not remember any of this. But the powers of Chaos were strong, and he wasn't taking any risks. No need for Tasslehoff to suddenly recall some fragment of this and run off with his spellbooks. "Come with me, but tread lightly. Shirak."

His staff flared, Raistlin lifted it, and started inside. The last time he had been here, it had been cracked and broken, the wards long burnt out, any treasure kept here long gone but for a little cantrip left carved into the wall. A useful little spell, but part of Raistlin was pulling hungrily to find what had really been hidden here. Surely, this far back in time, whoever had raided this place would not have come yet—

Yes. Raistlin held up a hand to hold the other two back. The wards were scrawled all over the triangular walls, faint and deadly. Before, they had been burnt black and oily, long broken. Now, they were fresh as the moment they had been cast, hidden and deadly.

"What is it?" Caramon started forwards and Raistlin waved him back furiously. He crouched down beside them, traced out their edge, across the floor, up the floor, and back down again. They were flawless, unbroken. And explosive.

"If you set this off," Raistlin said softly. "The tunnel will collapse with us in it."

Caramon backed up quickly, grabbing Tasslehoff to keep the kender away. "Can you break it?"

"Of course." He wondered if anyone else could. Fistandantilus, perhaps. But if anyone else came here, the runes would go off, and the treasure within would be lost forever.

He wondered who had broken them, in his time. He drew the raw magic of the runes into his hands, held it for a moment, looking over, feeling the texture of the magic, the slippery, barely-there feel of it. A quick twist, to render the runes inert for a few hours, and a hand brushed quickly through the strands of magic, weaving in a nullification. Should he and Dalamar ever come to this place, the runes would become inert. Nothing but a smear of black oil on the walls.

Caramon fidgeted as Raistlin paused, over and over, to suspend each ward. "We're going to be late," he grumbled.

"You have hours." Raistlin bit back annoyance, what he wouldn't give to leave the oaf behind, but Tasslehoff would not come without Caramon, and the kender's presence would force the River of Time into its new course, render it unable to self-correct.

"We'll be too damned tired to fight tomorrow," Caramon whined. "We have a big fight to prepare for—"

"There," Raistlin interrupted, standing. "We are through. Not far now, brother."

Tasslehoff hurried ahead, ignoring Caramon's growl, Raistlin let him go. He remembered the door. Black iron, massive and hulking even in his own time – long after it had been destroyed. No doubt now it would be impassable even to a light-fingered kender—

But by the time they reached the door, Tasslehoff was through. The door was little better than the last time Raistlin had seen it – rusted, cracked and already sagging. Although the hinges still held, the gap was already wide enough for Raistlin and even Caramon to sidle in.

Caramon shifted the weight of the chest, and shuffled through. Raistlin paused, looking up at the massive, triangular doors. He had been here once, and Gods but he wanted to be there again.

"If you can't trust me with yourself, at least trust me with myself."

And Dalamar had been wise to trust him with neither. Raistlin sighed, and went through the opened door.

Raistlin lifted his staff, looked around. With the addition of Tasslehoff, and the removal of perhaps some of the damage in the walls, the room was identical. Raistlin looked around, frowning. "Did you take anything?" He glanced at Tasslehoff.

"What, me?" the kender looked as outraged as only a wrongly accused thief can be. "There's nothing in here! Or maybe it's hidden—" Suddenly excited, he began digging around the corners.

"Stop!" Raistlin snapped, the spell might be nothing but a cantrip, but it had saved his and Dalamar's lives on more than one occasion. "It's empty. That is why we're leaving this here."

"Are you sure?" Tasslehoff glanced back. "It seems like an awful lot of protection for nothing."

"Who do you think cast the wards?" Raistlin lied through his teeth, waving Caramon over to put down the chest in the middle of the room. "There," he glanced at Tasslehoff. "Test the lock; I'd like to know it's secure."

The kender's eyes lit up, and he hurried over to the chest. Perhaps it was Raistlin's imagination, but it seemed to… settle, after Tasslehoff had touched it. It seemed more real, more a true part of the room rather than a transitory object, soon gone.

He let Tasslehoff fiddle with the lock – it was warded several times over as well as employing a cruelly fiendish lock, so good luck to him – and walked over to check on the little stone tablet in the wall.

It was, again, exactly the same. Three hundred and fifty years, and the same cracks, the same wear and ancient damage. How long had this thing been here, that so much time would make no impression?

"I can't get in." Tasslehoff pouted. "Did you use magic? That's not fair. Really not sporting."

"It will serve." Raistlin got up.

Caramon was shifting impatiently. Tasslehoff looked up at him, worried. "I think we should go," he continued, "Kiiri and Pheregas need us to—"

"Of course," Raistlin sighed. Not much longer. Just a few more weeks of preparation, and they would be done. And he would never have to see either of these idiots again.

Fistandantilus' reputation was useful for one thing, at least. No one dared to protest anything he did, or where he went. He could have walked into the Kingpriest's chamber and had acrobatic sex with a high-ranking cleric on the altar, and everyone would have just started talking pointedly about the weather.

Raistlin snapped off three branches from the Balakan grove. Even this far into winter, the branches were heavy with olives. The Tower of Istar reared, only a few paces away, empty, silent and sorrowful. It shimmered in the late evening light, red flared on the crystal facets. An ivory hand with fingers bloody, Raistlin had never imaged he could live to see it.

Wayreth had the sense of a crouched predator, still and waiting and silently powerful. Palanthas – from what he remembered from Fistandantilus – had the breathless, undying hate of the undead. This Tower, however, simply felt sad. A frozen, silent weeping lodged deep within the stones. It could feel the end coming, and mourned not only its own destruction, but the necessity of the coming Cataclysm.

"I am sorry you had to see all this," Raistlin breathed, resting fingertips on the stone's surface – then felt stupid. He did not need to start talking to buildings. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking – or at least noticeably ignoring him – he stepped inside.

The magical items had long since been removed from Tower, but that was irrelevant. Raistlin walked through the dusty depths, resting hands on tables, chairs, shelves – testing for what he wanted.

The Tower was not empty, to his surprise. Instead, it was quite full. A mass of strange statues filled the halls. Statues of Gods: Gods of Evil, Gods of Neutrality, even Gods of Good. Raistlin glanced over a smashed figurine of a mirrored serpent – Paladine, in another incarnation. Gods of the Abyss, what was wrong with this place—

Raistlin paused. Walked over to a table. Picked up the artifact.

After the dazzling crystal of the mirror-snake, the statues carved from solid amber and delicate engravings, this was plain in comparison. A simple circle of obsidian, broken into shards. Raistlin picked up the two largest pieces, fitted them back together until the broken seam was almost invisible. Nuitari.

It was a jab into an old wound, deep and angry and still bleeding. For a moment, he could see Dalamar's hands, reassembling his patron's symbol. He would love it. Raistlin closed his eyes, and pushed the memory away savagely, he wanted to throw the obsidian down, turn on his heel and leave at once—

But it was what he was looking for and it felt right. This had not been made here, but in Wayreth. It would serve as a key, to transport him into back to his own time – and to the right place.

I don't worship you, Dark Son. Raistlin spoke inside his own head. But I wear your robes, and I stand in this Tower. You see what I intend, you know what I want.

Raistlin slid the shards of obsidian into his robe. In a few hours, they would be shaped and set into the Balakan branches, and into the circle of power.

Don't get in my way.

Someone was waiting for him outside. Raistlin barely noticed – just another cleric not-so-innocuously loitering outside in case Fistandantilus did something unholy in the Tower—

Then the cleric grabbed him.

Raistlin turned, hand jerking up in readiness to cast—

"It is you!" The cleric pulled back their hood.

Oh, by the Abyss.

"Revered Daughter." Raistlin snapped.

He tried to pull away, but her grip was strong. Panic flared in his throat and suddenly he was in another time, another place. Held in place with a soft, feminine hand, and unable to pull away then either. Crysania must have seen something of it on Raistlin's face, because she let go, backed up a step.

"Raistlin." She brushed down her robes, straightened formally. "It is… good to see you well."

Her eyes dragged over him, piercing, suspicious. She was looking in him for some sign of the man she had met before – some sign of Fistandantilus. Raistlin shifted uncomfortably. He tried to set his face in the lich's sneer, hook his fingers to emulate his claws—

He was horribly aware that he was failing completely.

"I thought I saw you at eveningsong." She continued. "But… they called you something else. You have… another name here."

"Fistandantilus." Raistlin said flatly.

"I heard that name." Her eyes were narrowed. "A mage of great evil, rumoured to steal the bodies of those who studied under him."

"Rumoured," Raistlin said, in a low voice. His heart picked up, hammering hard against his ribs.

"And you, who came here, to study under him." Crysania's hands clenched.

Oh – Abyss! Dead, god-broken pieces of the Abyss, burning damnation—

Raistlin glanced around, but there were dozens of people within earshot – probably hundreds, if Crysania managed to reach the marketplace – Raistlin thought gloomily. There would be no way to dispose of the cleric quietly, and he wouldn't get any cooperation from his brother or the kender if they heard about this.

But he wouldn't get anywhere at all if she went running to Caramon screaming that Raistlin was Fistandantilus.

"You must think me very weak and foolish to fall into that trap, Revered Daughter." Raistlin managed to keep his voice steady. "Do you believe I had not heard the rumours? Do you believe I was not prepared—" He stopped. He couldn't continue. This was… repellent. The darkest, most desperate time of his life, twisted and served up to this idiot priestess. Memories he would not share but with any but one, and him never.

"Do you mean to say you killed him?" Crysania crossed her arms – bare to the shoulder, decorated with bangles and bracelets like a dancing girl. "The most powerful mage in the world?"

Her eyes bored into him, demanding and – oh gods, he was about to be sick. That demand, that hand, reaching inside him to all those darkest, most intimate parts of him, dragging them out, forcing him to share those things that only lived between himself and Dalamar.

He'd been here before.

"I killed him." And just that felt like she was pulling his guts out through his throat.

Crysania frowned, still searching through him with her eyes – and her powers. Digging through the surface of his mind, trying to see who he really was.

He had had someone take his mind without permission. He had someone take his body without permission too. Right now, Crysania seemed like an unholy amalgamation of both. Damn it to the Abyss, he refused to go through any of this again—

But no – because she was not looking for him. She was looking for someone else. Someone Raistlin had no issue in giving up.

"You know my plans." The words came easier, the fluid relief of lies. "I opened my heart to you, Revered Daughter. I trusted you to understand the necessity of my actions. We spoke all night, you and I—" He met her eyes; Crysania coloured, and looked away. "You showed me the truth of your path, and I showed you – I hope – the truth of mine—"

"The truth of my path?" She was smiling, good. Raistlin relaxed a little; it was working. "Did my poor words touch some part of you then? That you may see the danger of your path and turn away—" she broke off, "You… remember this, then? You know of our meeting?"

"Would I know this, if I were not truly who I am?" Yes actually, but this woman knew less about magic than would fill an eggcup.

"But… you seem so different!" Her voice comes suddenly, too loud, a burst of furious emotion she must have swallowed down for weeks. "You were… so warm, that night. You listened to my words and showed me—" She turned away. "Now you have avoided me for weeks. You saw me at eveningsong – I thought you would seek me out, but—"

"I have had much to do, Revered Daughter." Raistlin crossed his arms – defensive, but it was an added barrier between them. "Speak to my brother; he has been aiding me in my work—"

"And you are cold now!" Her voice rose, passionate, and she lunged forward. Raistlin didn't get out of the way in time, and her hand snapped around his wrist. "Where is the man I saw in the Tower? In the library?"

Dead on the laboratory floor, I assume, I never cleaned it up.

"You opened your heart to me, as you said – are you afraid of doing so again?" Her cold, austere face creased into a smile of triumph. "You spoke of such things to me, this great work you plan. Your words affected me, as I hope mine did you— "

Thank you. "Your words… affected me, you are right." Raistlin tried to shift his arm out of her grip, but she held on, keeping him pinned in place. "I need to focus on my work, but your distractions – it was a danger."

Her hands, pinning his wrists to the mattress.

No. No, not that. Push it away. Get out, get out, get out—

"They are not distractions!" She stepped closer. She smelled of the cloying incense in the temple, the reek of the Kingpriest's madness. "They are the words of Paladine, showing you the truth of your path! My light, to help you find your way! You had your plans, and you asked for my aid. Perhaps you were right, and Paladine sent me to aid you— "

Her eyes were grey. In her excitement, the pupils expanded until the black all but swallowed the grey.

Black eyes, swimming with tears. Every blink, and they ran down her face, dripped down to his chest.

No. Please not that – I spent five years trying not to think of it- make it stop—

"Do you believe I need distractions here?" Raistlin tried to step back. She came with him, closer. The faint hint of sweat under the smoke of her robes. "Do you believe there are any here who would not jump at the chance to destroy me?"

Sweat, tears, sex. He'd marched out into the morning snow and washed in a freezing stream to get the reek of it off, with Dalamar shouting and trying to pull him out. He had nearly died of hypothermia and it had been worth it.

Crysania hesitated. "This place—"

"Is hostile to those of my kind." Raistlin said smoothly, he twisted his wrist and finally – finally – she lets go.

"To the forces of darkness." Crysania straightened, pulling her robes back around her. Distance. Raistlin could breathe again. "Only to those opposed to the light."

Raistlin wondered what she would say if she saw inside the Tower behind them. "You have seen this place. Look again." Preferably far from me. "The true clerics have gone, the Cataclysm approaches. Do you believe the Gods sent the burning mountain on the behalf of those like myself?"

She looked around idiotically, as though expecting the Gods to turn up and put in their opinions. The moment her back was turned, Raistlin snatched up his magic and vanished.

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