Grey Waste

No light,

Tell me what you want me to say.

No Light, No Light, Florence + the Machine

The army swelled, day by day. Men, women, children, all of them starved and hollow-eyed, clutching hoes and broken-down swords. Raistlin expected every day that it would collapse, that it must be impossible to sustain so many – the army would break away, turn to the hills to forage and leave Caramon's dreams of an army in the dust.

But then they reached the Straits of Scallsea, and Caramon started to commandeer ships. Watching the hoard clamber on board the ships, cheering and boasting of their bravery in the coming war, Raistlin felt unreal. He wasn't really here. He was a ghost in someone else' skin. He had left Fistandantilus dead in Istar, but somehow the lich felt a lot more alive than he did, right now.

A ghost in his own head. Helpless but to watch as the world fell apart around him. He opened his hands, closed them. He could still do that at least. For what good that would do. Raistlin looked down into the swirling water under the ship's prow. He wasn't fighting the River of Time, he was going under, dragged down and drowned and every bit as dead as Fistandantilus.

A shout, above his head. Tasslehoff had climbed up the mast and was hooting at the seagulls. His hope. The closer they came to Thorbardin, the closer they came to his spellbooks. He would get free of this nightmare. He would wake up, and find a better morning.

Caramon was on the leading boat. Raistlin could see his back, the patchwork glint of his armour. They had barely spoken a word in weeks. No one came near him – or Crysania, for that matter. And that was good, of course, he had no interest in listening to anything anyone had to say, but-

It was like there was a wall between him and the rest of the world. Another wall he was trapped behind. Unable to move, unable to speak. Dragged along helplessly.

He'd had the dream again.

Again, and again, and again. Dragged to the scaffold. Head on the block. Fistandantilus, laughing, Fistandantilus' dead hands on the axe, readying to bring it down on his neck-

He had never had dreams like this. The same dream night after night. Every time, Raistlin told himself he would break out of it, wake up before the blade touched his neck – and every night, it happened all over again.

Was it the Dark Queen, invading his dreams as she had in Istar? Dredging up Fistandantilus' rotten soul to torment him all over again? He closed his eyes and fell into a nightmare, opened his eyes and woke into another one.

The raw cliffs of Abanasinia gleamed as they approached, new and barely weathered in the few decades since they had been made. Tiny clusters of villages lined them, struggling to cope with the new sea that had devoured their fields.

He had been here before, Raistlin thought bleakly. Two years ago, he and Dalamar had taken a ship to Crossing, planning to head back to Solace for the first time in five years, and see if the others had found anything about the old gods. They had been laughing on that journey, Raistlin recalled. He'd felt good, the sea air strong in his chest and Dalamar had joked they should take to the seas and try their hands at being pirates.

Would that have made any difference? Probably not. But gods, even another year – another six months-

They would have six months, he thought fiercely. They would have more than a year. They would have as long as they wanted, stretching on and on, as wide and clear as the ocean. No more narrow Rivers of Time, no more suffocating fate. They would make their own path. They would be free. They would be happy.

The ship bumped up in the little cove they'd chosen to land in. Raistlin hurried down for the stony beach, glanced up to make sure Tasslehoff was following. The kender hopped out and paddled to shore, and the ship pushed off to make space for the next ones.

Abanasinia. Just thinking the name made the world a little brighter. They were so close. All those miles between Palanthas and the Sentinel Peaks shrunk to nothing. Nothing more than a few hundred left now between him and his spellbooks. The ritual would take a few more weeks to prepare, and the war would come soon but-

He would do it. Raistlin thought firmly. He would leave these fools to their war, and stay out of the way. Tasslehoff would be harder to convince, but after a little taste of war, the kender would be begging him to make all of this stop happening.

Almost there.

Now, he needed a chance to get away from Caramon and Crysania. Caramon had been keeping an uncomfortably close eye on him, and Raistlin had often seen several of his knight friends loitering around his tent. He knew Raistlin was planning to go, they wouldn't be able to stop him, but he would need to come back, and didn't want another shouting match about who he might or might not be.

But it would come. He would have his chance. Soon.

Raistlin sat outside his tent. The night had brought only more nightmares, and he felt dull and tired. It was a childish hope that sleeping in the sun would banish his fears, but it was a little warmer. This far South, the wind already carried the first bite of winter.

"Where are you going?" Caramon's voice cut in harshly. Raistlin opened one eye wearily – but his brother wasn't talking to him. His arms were crossed, he was scowling at Crysania.

"I'm moving out." Crysania said calmly. Raistlin closed his eyes and tried to block their voices out.

"I am well aware of your arguments," Crysania continued. "And I don't concede them. Oh,"—she stopped him as he drew a breath to speak—"I've heard your stories of witch-burning. More than once! I do not doubt their validity, but that was in a day and age far removed from this one."

"Whose tent are you moving to, then?" Caramon snarled. "Fistandantilus'?"

Raistlin got up. He wasn't sitting through this. Hopefully he could find somewhere a little quieter. Crysania was quiet for a moment; the two of them watching him go.

He found a small stream, tucked away some way from the camp. The children gathered water from further up, closer to the spring. This little grove was hushed and still. Beautiful.

Raistlin wondered if it was still there, in his time. Perhaps he could come back here, with Dalamar; suppress the curse in his eyes and spend a few hours somewhere pleasant. Dalamar would like it. He loved such places and maybe, even though he wouldn't remember it, he might feel the need of being around nature after so long in the Tower.

Raistlin sighed and settled with his back against a tree, closed his eyes.

The footprints, pressed in the sand. His feet, stepping into them perfectly. The scaffold, rearing up in front of him.

Raistlin looked up. A dream, a filthy trick of a dream. He closed his eyes and tried to force himself awake, as he had in Istar, as he had so many times, from so many dreams.

Opened his eyes and looked up at the hooded figure. Fistandantilus' wispy grey beard hung from the shadow of his face, the long, yellow teeth bared.

Raistlin took in a breath. "You're dead. You can kill me over and over, and you will still be dead."

Fistandantilus chuckled, a hollow, dead sound like worms coughing. He reached down, and picked up a head from his basket.

"You're still dead," Raistlin informed him, struggling not to react. "And not that inventive either." He forced himself not to look at Dalamar's severed head.

Fistandantilus lifted his free hand, and pushed his hood back.

Raistlin stared. "No." That monstrous, mocking smile. He was pushed down, the block wet and reeking under his head. "No. You're not. No-"

The axe blade rushed down, Raistlin screamed awake. Lashed out into thin air. "No." He stumbled to his feet. "No!" The cry rang out across the grove. "That is not me! That will not be me!" He looked around, helplessly. A bee buzzed by, fat and lazy from a long summer. "The Master of Past and Present," he said, voice cracking, he fell to his knees beside the stream, looked down at his own reflection. "I will not become him. I might walk his path for now- because I have no choice, but I am not him. I will go home." He closed his eyes. "I will go home. Let this timeline resolve itself as it will. I will not be there to see it-"

"But you will." Raistlin jumped. Crysania was standing behind him, arms crossed. Her head was raised, her tattered robes wrapped around her like a queen's cloak. For a moment, they turned black in Raistlin's sight, for a moment, he wasn't talking to her at all.

"I will not," Raistlin breathed. Then he blinked, and he was looking at the cleric again.

She lifted her chin proudly. "You will. You said it yourself, you have no choice." She walked up to Raistlin, no attempt to get close to him now – her belief that he was Fistandantilus had one benefit, at least. "You killed Raistlin Majere." Raistlin gritted his teeth. "You do not deny it, good, we all know the truth now. You killed him and took his place, and now, you are fated to carry out his work."

"Go away." Raistlin got up. "I have nothing to say to you."

"But you will!" She moved in front of him, eyes wide and furious. "You will need me to open the gate to the Dark Queen, and you will face Her. You will defeat Her and fulfil Raistlin's dream – the destruction of a great evil-"

"Get out!" Raistlin tried to get around her, but she moved, blocked his path.

"You killed good man," she continued, harshly. "Misguided, in need of Paladine's light, but he was a good man at heart. I read the letters he wrote to Caramon. A man who fought against his own darkness and that around him, who loved his brother, who had great dreams-"

"Get out of my way!" Raistlin shoved her, tried to leave – but a cold, hard hand as stiff as marble clamped down on his wrist.

"You killed him – for your own greed and ambition-" Her hair was loose, hanging around her face and the panic was back in Raistlin's stomach. "But the Gods are good, and you will be punished for your crime. You will live long enough to finish his work-"

Her hand tightened, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood, and Raistlin snapped. He forgot his spells, the dagger at his wrist, his whole being consumed in nothing but the overwhelming urge to get away- as though a black fire had suddenly kindled in his stomach.

His fist flew almost without thinking about it.

It was a poor blow. He wasn't strong and Crysania was hardened after weeks of riding. It still threw her head back, and her grip loosened on his wrist-

Then snarled tight, she tried to grab Raistlin's other hand and he punched her again. She tried to grab her medallion of Paladine and Raistlin got his trapped hand up and bit her. She yelled and finally let go. Her eyes flared, the marble mask was gone and she hated him, utterly and completely. He had killed Fistandantilus, he had lied to her and played her for a fool.

Her blow hit him in the stomach, made him double over. The fire reared up, screaming and wild and driving. Raistlin got his head down and charged, knocking her over and into the mud beside the stream. For a moment, there was nothing but this. Nothing but mud and fists and her skin bruising under his hands, even as she hit him hard enough to knock the wind out of him. It was brutish and pointless and idiotic and it was the best thing to have happened to Raistlin all month.

She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled. Raistlin kicked out blindly and one got her in the stomach. She gasped, released him. Raistlin tried to push himself away from her, but his foot was tangled in her robes and he fell down, face-first in the mud.

Crysania was on top of him in the next moment, her hands clenched at his throat. "You will complete this task!" Her eyes were wild, hair hanging in tatters "You will honour his memory-"

Raistlin's mind finally seemed to catch up with the chaos. He threw up his hands, Crysania sneered, she knew she was stronger-

"Kair tangus miopiar," Raistlin hissed.

She had Paladine's blessing, was strong in her power and lost in her madness, but the fire that had been building inside Raistlin burst from his hands and knocked her back. She cried out in pain, rolling over and pushing herself up. Raistlin got up. His knuckles were raw; his lower lip and left eye were swelling from where he'd been hit.

Crysania got up slowly. Her robes were scorched, smouldering where he had hit her. The skin beneath was clean, clear, but whether Paladine had protected her or she had already healed herself, Raistlin didn't know or care.

"Your lover is dead, Revered Daughter," Raistlin gasped, catching his breath. "His body rots in the Abyss, where you are welcome to join him. I, however, will not be accompanying you."

He backed away, ducked under a tree branch, and headed back to the camp. He wasn't stupid enough to turn his back on her.

He made his way back to his little tent. Caramon was somewhere else, thank the damned gods. Raistlin stripped off his robes and sent an idling child to carry them down to be washed. He had the spare pair he'd taken from Istar, but that was about it. He cleaned himself off as best he could, and rubbed a mixture of aloe and willow bark on his cuts and bruises.

The world seemed calm now. The crazed fire had burnt itself out, driven away by the throbbing in his hands, the ache around his eye. It hadn't helped anything, of course. Raistlin put the kettle on the embers of last night's fire outside, and waited for the water to warm. Crysania would go running to his brother, and the two of them would share a delightful lunch discussing how awful Raistlin was and how much they were looking forward to killing him.

But he felt good, good for the first time in months. The burn of adrenaline of course, the high of his own furious emotions and the heat of that bright fire, but it was more than that. Raistlin poured himself a cup of willow-bark tea, breathed it in, and drank. It didn't do much for the bruise coming up just below his chest, but it was soothing.

For the first time since Fistandantilus, Raistlin had been able to do something. He had seen a threat – no matter how laughable – and dealt with it. And if nothing else, the Revered Daughter had learnt her lesson about touching him, and that would be worth any number of bruised knuckles.

He got his spellbook from the tent, and flicked through it. Every time, he paused on the spell of time travel. Reading through it, letting it burn into his mind. Useless of course, but it felt good to have it with him.

In case he happened upon a perfectly prepared circle of power, Raistlin thought bitterly. It was an absurd affectation, but he found himself unable to give it up quite yet-

"What did you do?"

Oh well, Raistlin sighed and stood, leaving the mug on the ground. All good things must end. He looked up at Caramon.

Once, that stare might have checked his brother, but now Caramon just ground his teeth. "I don't know why I expected anything better from you. But this-"

"I don't know why fighting in the dirt like urchins disturbs you so, brother," Raistlin sneered. "You certainly did plenty of that, back in your time, and on my behalf." He was baiting him, and he didn't care.

"Not on yours," Caramon gritted out. His eyes glittered. His hand was tight on his sword. "Never yours, you bastard."

"I believe our parents were married," Raistlin sniped.

"You attacked her!" Caramon roared. "You beat her into the mud you piece of-"

"She gave as good as she got! Though where she learnt to fight like a Palanthas beggar-girl-"

"Crysania is a lady," Caramon stormed up, too close. Raistlin had to fight to stand his ground. The spell was ready in his mind, tight within his hands as he drew out the components. "And what are you- you- undead, you unnatural-"

"And you have no mind at all!" Raistlin snarled back. "The horses could run this army better than you! This toy army of yours-"

"This toy army would cut you to pieces if I gave the word!" Caramon's hands flexed, close to his sword. "Are you powerful enough to kill all of them? Fistandantilus? If I gave the word? You'd kill me, I bet you want to, but could you kill them all before they cut you down?"

"Then try it!" Raistlin let the lightning branch between his fingers, and Caramon stepped back, drawing his sword. "Try it, then, if you dare!" Could he? Or would the gods step in to protect him, like a prize hog to be saved for Yuletide eve? He didn't care. The fire was back in his throat, in his veins. Let them fight, let them kill; let them smash this time, this fate. Let him attack and attack and attack until the fire consumed him, until the world burnt black and blotted out the sky-

"Then so be it!" Gods, he was actually going to do it. "You killed my brother, you monster-"

"Stop it!"

The high, desperate scream cut through the blood rage. A small figure raced between them, hands up – one between Raistlin's hands, the other before Caramon's sword. "Stop it! Just stop it! You're both being awful!"

Tasslehoff's eyes were shining, he looked about to cry. Lightning threatened to jump from the rod in Raistlin's hands, and he lowered it, let the spell slip away, little by little, watching Caramon warily. Caramon slowly sheathed his sword. "You'd better go Tas," he said gruffly. "This isn't anything to do with you-"

"You were going to kill each other," Tasslehoff wailed. "What would Tanis say, or Flint? I wish he was here, he'd bash both your heads together."

"They'd see him for what he is." Caramon scowled at Raistlin. Raistlin crossed his arms and glared back. "They knew Raistlin."

"But that is Raistlin!" Tasslehoff glanced back, Raistlin shrugged helplessly. He'd tried, but Caramon seemed beyond reason.

Beyond reason – but what if it was more than that? Raistlin looked into Caramon's scarlet face, his wild, furious eyes.

"It's not," Caramon spat. "He's got you enchanted Tas, can't you see?"

Crysania had deluded herself, but – surely it was more than just letters? To convince Caramon this thoroughly? Raistlin was aware he was grasping at straws, but gods, he had little left but straws now.

"But I'm not!" Tasslehoff looked lost. "I don't think you did, did you Raistlin?"

Raistlin shrugged again. What in the Abyss was he supposed to say? Caramon snorted. "Get out of the way, Tas."

Thankfully, anything more was interrupted by one of the lapsed Knights of Solamnia, running up to say Crysania had gone off on a horse.

Caramon hesitated, glanced between the knight, Tasslehoff, and Raistlin. "Fine," he growled, and stormed off.

Tasslehoff looked after him. "What's wrong with you two?"

Raistlin looked back, steadily. This could be useful. "Would you like to help me find out?"

Tasslehoff blinked, his eyes lit up. "Sure! What do we do? I think it started after a minotaur hit him over the head – in the arena, you know – there was this big fight and the minotaur had this big hammer-" he noticed Raistlin's expression, and quickly hurried on, "A-anyway, Caramon had to lie down for a day, and since then he's been- a bit funny. Do you think we should hit him again? I can get one of the knight's hammers-"

"I doubt that will work." Raistlin tried not to smile at the image of Tasslehoff wielding a war hammer to crack Caramon on his thick skull. "But tell me, have you seen if Caramon has any letters in his pack? Letters he might have brought from Solace, perhaps?"

Tasslehoff blinked. "Actually, yes. He's been looking through them a lot lately but, um-"

Raistlin frowned.

"Hemademepromisenottolookatthem-" Tasslehoff rushed out.

"And you didn't take a look?"

"I- well, yes, a bit, but they were just letters, nothing interesting."

"I think those letters might be why Caramon is acting strange." And even if he wasn't, he needed to see what Fistandantilus had said to the idiot. "I need you to get them for me."

Tasslehoff beamed. "Be right back!"

He was gone only a few minutes, and came back a little disappointed. "He wasn't even inside!" He put a small satchel on the table. "This was too easy."

Raistlin pulled the bag towards him, opened it.

Inside were dozens of letters. Letters packed so tight they filled every crease of the bag. Raistlin pulled one out and looked at it. Inn of the Last Home, was scrawled in a hand that didn't even look like his. The seal was cracked, showed a skull in black wax. Gods, it hadn't cared enough to hide.

Raistlin flicked through it, and the next, and the next. He wondered if Fistandantilus had bothered to write them all, or had left one of the Dead Ones to do it.

I have missed your words, my brother-

I am pleased that you continue this correspondence, given my behaviour to you in the past-

The Conclave has sent the Dark elf whore to my Tower-

The elf tried to get into my spellbooks again, you will be delighted to hear how I punished him-

Raistlin clenched his fist, and the letter crumpled easily. There were no spells on them, because why would the lich bother? All those letters. All those hungry, honeyed words. The perfect bait, the perfect dream. Caramon had devoured it lineand hook, and could not let go.

"Who wrote this?" Tasslehoff was flicking through the letters, curiously.

"Caramon thinks I did." Raistlin looked at the miserable pile.

"I- don't think you did." Tasslehoff frowned. "It said some very nasty things about Dalamar in this one."

"Yes." Raistlin rubbed his face. Gods, he was tired. "I'm sure it did." The desperate, furious look in Dalamar's eyes. All those indignities, the scorn, the torture. And Fistandantilus had happily gloated all about it to Caramon. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Tasslehoff hopped up. "To find Crysania?"

"No." Raistlin picked up the letters. He hadn't been able to stop Caramon or Crysania from reading them, but for Dalamar's sake, he would make sure no one else ever could. "We are burning these-" he wanted to spit. "Caramon will be gone for a while. We will find my spellbooks, and I will cast my spell anew to take us home."

I would really love feedback on this, it's been so long. Please leave a comment!