Alice Bekett: I do! And here it is (it goes on for two more chapters, but this is where all the action happens).
Torch
And would you leave me
If I told you what I've become?
- No Light No Light, Florence + the Machine
The spell closed tight around Dalamar's hands and throat. He closed his eyes, and let it settle. That heavy, draining hollow, as though he had opened the veins in his wrists, and was bleeding out. But he had time; he could hold himself together – not forever, but for long enough.
Dalamar let out his breath, licked his lips. The second spell; his mouth was a little numb, but the words slipped out. "Battin bentuk tak'kelithatan." That spell, after the first, sent him reeling almost into a nearby wall, threatening to spoil the magic. The world blurred a little around the edges as the spell took hold, then steadied. Dalamar lifted his hands, and they were gone. He smiled. Invisible to Gods and men.
The Library was scorched, blackened along the walls where… something had happened. Something utterly irrelevant right now and, frankly, the whole place could burn down if Dalamar could just get that book.
No one paid attention to him, and Dalamar suspected he could probably have walked in with no spells and possibly no clothes, and no one would have even looked at him. The Aesthetics were scrubbing madly at the stains and trying to sort through furniture that was more wreckage than anything else. Dalamar picked his footing carefully, avoiding leaving prints in the soapy water splashed across the floor.
The door to Astinus' study was open; the Aesthetics carrying books back out into the library from where they had stashed them during the battle. Dalamar flattened himself against the wall, and edged in carefully, step by step. A particularly fat cleric barrelled through, arms piled high with books, and Dalamar had to hold his breath to keep from being barged into. He cradled his arm against his chest, checked his bandages. One drop of blood, and Astinus would see him.
Astinus did not look up. Dalamar laid his feet whisper-light on the rug. He walked around the huge desk, and stood behind the man who was the Avatar of a God. He did not look up, did not speak. Dalamar leant over his shoulder, trying to peer at the book. But Astinus turned a page, and all he saw was blank parchment. Dalamar gritted his teeth.
The Avatar dipped his quill into the ink, and began to write. On this day, as above Afterwatch rising 14, visited by-
Dalamar froze – had the spell failed? – but then the door opened. "Master-" It was the fat cleric again. "A- a kender is here to see you."
-Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Astinus finished with a single, smooth stroke. He looked up as Tasslehoff came in. The kender's arm looked a little better, but his eyes were shadowed and he was clutching a massive book. He tried to smile, but it came off a bit flat. "Tasslehoff Burrfoot. And you're Astinus of Palanthas. I've met you before, but you don't remember because it hasn't happened yet. Or, rather, come to think of it, it never will happen, will it?" he broke off, sighed.
"You are strange, even for a kender." Astinus was frowning at Tasslehoff. His quill went back in the inkpot. Dalamar held his breath – and the Avatar turned, leaning down to get a better look. "And there is something in your eyes-"
Quickly, as though a stray breeze had swept into the room with Tasslehoff, Dalamar cast a quick hand over the book, and brushed the pages back.
Raistlin Majere spoke the words to open the Portal to the Abyss-
And maybe it was seeing it written there, the final confirmation of the truth. Dalamar closed his eyes for a moment, and let the relief run over him like cool water. Raistlin. Not Fistandantilus.
Gods below, Raistlin had better have a damned good explanation for this.
The world of the Abyss reformed itself to Majere's will, carrying him through the realm to his goal, the Portal.
"There are no mysteries for me! I know everything that transpires upon the face of Krynn. I know the thoughts of every living being! I see their actions! I read the wishes of their hearts! Yet I cannot read your eyes!" Astinus got up and glowered down at Tasslehoff, who seemed to wilt under it. Dalamar leant over quickly and ran over the Avatar's crabbed, cramped handwriting.
Having seen the truth of his folly, Raistlin Majere gave the Staff of Magius to Caramon Majere, who carried it and the cleric Crysania through the Portal-
"I told you," Tasslehoff said weakly, and held up the book like a barrier between him and the furious chronicler.
"That's one of mine!" Astinus roared, and snatched it from Tasslehoff's hands. "How dare you! Where did it come from? None of my books leave without my knowledge! Bertrem-"
"You gave it to me," Tasslehoff whispered.
Astinus scowled at him, then down at the book. He opened it, and stopped, eyes locked on the front page.
Dalamar ignored them. The Dark Queen, sensing the opening of the Gate, followed to pass through in their wake-
"It is the future I see in your eyes," Astinus murmured, glancing between the book and the kender.
Tasslehoff looked up. He tried to smile, tried to sound cheerful. "We were there! Would you like to hear about it? It's a wonderful story – or, I guess it would have been wonderful. Maybe not actually. We went to Solace – me and Caramon, only it wasn't Solace and – I guess Caramon wasn't Caramon." His head drooped. "Like Tanis wasn't Tanis, and Crysania wasn't Crysania, and Raistlin wasn't Raistlin." He started at his feet. "Do people often just… go wrong like that?"
Astinus flicked through the book, started to turn back to his desk. Dalamar glanced down, read as fast as he could-
The staff called out to its previous owner, drawing on Raistlin Majere's power to close the Portal, to remain closed until the key was used again.
The key! The Staff of Magius was the key. Dalamar jumped back just in time as Astinus dropped the book Tasslehoff had given him, and impatiently flicked back through the pages to find his place. This day, as above-
"I'll get going then," Tasslehoff whispered. "I won't be staying. I think – I don't know anyone here anymore."
Astinus just waved his hand and the dejected Tasslehoff was hustled out by the Aesthetics.
Dalamar had seen enough. He had the key, and the spell worked. He bypassed the acolytes trying to piece the Library back together and hurried back to the Tower. Dropped both spells and drew in a full breath. The world swung unsteadily under his feet. Gods, no, he couldn't stop now. He needed to get to the Portal, he needed to get Raistlin-
But even the spell to take him back to his quarters in the Tower was like a punch to the stomach, a punch that pulled out half his entrails and scattered them all over the floor. Dalamar wavered, slumped against the wall. He needed to- he had to-
If he went through the Portal now, he would kill himself and Raistlin too. He needed to study the spell again, make sure it was perfect, and right now, everything was starting to blur. He slid down the wall, looked vaguely towards his bed, across the huge space of his study. Then he closed his eyes, and curled up on the floor. At least there was a rug, this time.
Some blank time later, he opened his eyes. Got up to his desk and grabbed his spellbook. He had left the two potions and the second half of the bread there. Dalamar drank one of the potions, and the deep, grinding ache in his arm from passing out on the floor faded a little. He ate, and the world settled around him. Almost there. Just a few more hours, and this would all be over.
The laboratory was still in pieces. Fistandantilus' spellbooks were cracked open across the floor, the component jars half-melted into puddles of molten glass, and although Kitiara's body was gone, the ground around was soaked in blood.
Dalamar walked over, through a black stain that had belonged to him. He rubbed his aching arm, stretched it carefully. It moved, flashes of sharp searing pain, and he could feel the blood soaking sluggishly through his bandages. But it moved. He flexed his fingers, and they obeyed. Dalamar took a deep breath, bent down, and picked up the Staff.
It was not the first time he had touched it. Before, it had felt cold in his hands, slick and uneven, and he could sense it was as eager as he was to get his hands off it as quickly as possible.
But this time, it was warm. It fitted into his hands as easily as though it was born to sit there. It radiated heat and Dalamar closed his eyes for a moment, letting it soak into him. He hadn't realised how cold he was.
Dalamar looked at the Portal. He tried not to think about what he was about to do. Boiling it down to the bare essentials. He needed to save Raistlin. Looked at like that, it was suddenly familiar. This was hardly the first time Raistlin had gotten himself tangled up in something he couldn't get out of. Dalamar had done this before. He could do it now.
Somewhere, under the blind focus and dazed exhaustion, Dalamar was vaguely aware he was terrified. It wasn't intrusive, just a sort of… bedrock to everything. He knelt down, and looked up at the grinning, hungry teeth of the dragons, then out, at the window and the nightsky beyond. Nuitari, he murmured inside his head. Nuitari. Night's Son, Hungering Dark. You have walked with me for so long, walk with me in this. Guide my hands and my magic. I am yours to guide and your will to serve.He let out a breath. "You hate Her; let this be a knife in Her heart, power on our side."
It might be his imagination, but the bared teeth of the dragons seemed angrier now, less mocking. Dalamar stood, whispering the words of the spell of disappearing. They spiralled from his lips, and with every syllable he spoke, he felt the hook tighten around his soul, drawing out magical power to fuel the illusion. Hidden from the eyes of the Gods. Dalamar closed his eyes, and let his awareness run into the Staff. You were his, he told it silently. You are mine now. Show me.
The staff began to glow, softly. Dalamar lifted it, and the light fell on the Portal. The dragon's heads flared, the magic dragged out of them. They snarled, spat silently at him. Yes, Dalamar said, nodding. Yes.
Perhaps it was just the Staff, having been in Raistlin's hands for so long. Perhaps it was something more. Because Dalamar felt warm, slender hands on his; the soft, whispering breath against his ear. Just a shadow and even that felt so good, Dalamar almost fell. From darkness to darkness, my voice echoes in the emptiness. Raistlin's voice, soft as cats' paws in the darkness.
That gentle voice, the light touch of fingertips. Dalamar trembled, struggled to keep a grip on the staff. His eyes burned. Not yet, not yet. Gods, he couldn't afford to cry, anything left behind in the Abyss would alert the Dark Queen; blood, tears, anything.
From this world to the next, my voice cries with life. Raistlin's whisper, stirring his hair. From darkness to darkness, I shout.
Dalamar's throat was so tight. "I missed you." He choked.
The hand on his arm shifted, ran a finger gently over his wrist. Beneath my feet, all is made firm. Time that flows, hold in your course.
Dalamar nodded, mouthed the words silently, in unison. The ghost of his lover, so close, so alive against him. "Because by fate even the gods are cast down, weep ye all with me."
The dragon heads screamed, high and furious. He felt Raistlin's hand leave his wrist, raised up to the Portal. The heads fell silent, and Dalamar was again shatteringly alone. His breath came out harsh, ragged. He blinked hard and raised his head. The Portal gaped open before him, hungry and devouring. Dalamar gave a fractured smile. Gods, for this, anything. He lifted the Staff, and stepped through.
The air of the Abyss was flat and dead. Not a breath of wind, no light but what came from the land. Dalamar caught his breath, looked around. There was nothing for miles, stretching from horizon to horizon. He was alone.
No. Not for miles. There was something wrong about the landscape. Dalamar blinked, then blinked again. It was like the Portal had been, the sudden change from picture to window. This was all a picture, and Dalamar wondered if he could just reach out and tear down the world as though it was an actor's backdrop, and see whatever lay beyond.
The words from Astinus' book came back to him. The world of the Abyss reformed itself to Majere's will, carrying him through the realm to his goal, the Portal.
His goal. Dalamar closed his hand tight on the Staff, and drew Raistlin in his mind.
He hadn't thought of him in years. Not really. It had hurt too much. He had thought around him, of him, in ellipses, never coming too close, never touching memories for fear that, like ancient parchment, they would flake apart and fade to nothing.
And now, they were as raw and vivid as the moment they had been made. Flashes, so fast it took his breath away. Raistlin smiling. The dart and dance of his hands when he spoke, when he cast, when he touched Dalamar. The arch of his neck and curve of his shoulderblades. The sharp, dazzling look in his eyes he got at the sight of magic, hungry and fierce, and lighting a blazing fire inside Dalamar in return. Mine, mine, this one is mine. The way his hair hung around his face and curled behind his ears. The hollow at his throat, the thin, sleek angles of his body under his robes, and the scent of his hair, and the touch of his hands and lips, and that tiny, almost disbelieving smile he got sometimes when he looked at Dalamar, and oh Raistlin-
It felt like a knife, deep inside his heart. Or maybe it had been there for years, and it had just been pulled out. Dalamar opened his eyes.
And saw Raistlin.
He was slumped face-down on the ground, half drowned in a black pool that might have been blood, but snaked around him, hungry and devouring. Raistlin's hands were knotted in the crumbling ground, as though he had passed out while trying to drag himself out of the morass.
His robes were in tatters, and he was covered in blood. Cuts and scratches and gouges over almost every part of his skin until Dalamar was suddenly seized by the maddened, hideous certainty that he was too late. That after all of this time, everything he had done – he had failed.
No. He was breathing. Ragged and unsteady, half-choking even unconscious, but breathing. Dalamar shook himself and started forward. He grabbed Raistlin's arms and oh Gods, he was so thin – it had barely been three days out there, how much time had-
The black pool flowed out around Raistlin's body, dragging at him, snaking up over his back and sinking sharp, ravenous fangs into his ragged skin. Dalamar gritted his teeth, and pulled.
Raistlin came free surprisingly easily. The pool lashed and scattered, reaching out and trying to find what was stealing its prey – but it was dead, or born of the Gods, and Dalamar backed away quickly. He jammed the staff under one arm, and hoisted Raistlin into his arms. His heart stuttered in his chest at the familiar weight, the edges of elbows and hips and shoulderblades, Raistlin's head resting in the crook of his neck.
The pool fell quiet and still at once, shrank back into the ground. Raistlin suddenly thrashed in his arms, turning, pulling, trying to get free. "Hold still!" Dalamar snarled under his breath, then choked off a cry as Raistlin's arm hit his bad shoulder. A flare of blind agony, and the Abyss blinked out for a moment under a haze of pain. Dalamar gritted his teeth and tightened his grip, keeping Raistlin from fighting his way free.
The wound had reopened; his bandages felt wet, slick, quickly getting soaked through. Gods no, not here. Dalamar turned quickly. The pool was gone, there was nothing anywhere. Focus. The Portal, the open gate-
But he wasn't the only one thinking now, and Raistlin was half out of his mind. Dalamar struggled to keep the Portal in his thoughts, in his sight – but for every step he took towards the Portal, it seemed to fall further and further back. Dalamar leant down, whispered. "We are leaving. We are getting out. Think about that." Raistlin's head slumped against his left arm, and Dalamar gritted his teeth as the skin pulled tight on his injury, blood running hot down his chest, soaking through his robes. "The Portal," he continued, breathing heavily. "Think about that. Get us out."
It was working – or maybe Raistlin had just lost consciousness completely. He could see the Portal, glowing, close. His boots slipped on the loose, sand-like soil. The staff came free and nearly fell. Dalamar cursed under his breath, and stopped for a moment to settle it and Raistlin more securely, and froze.
His shoulder was drenched, cold with lost blood. He could feel a rivulet run down along his inner arm. No. No, Nuitari please nearly there-
Raistlin twisted in his arms, his hands seizing reflexively in his robes, snatching them tight and pulling his sleeves up a little.
The blood ran down to his wrist.
Dalamar threw his head down and ran, as fast as he could and heedless of anything but the glowing gate in front of him. Faster, faster. The blood dripping down to his hand. Nearly there, the mouth of the Portal opening wide and only a few steps away-
He wasn't going to make it in time.
The blood slipped free, dropped down to the ground.
Everything seemed to happen at once. There was a roar like the world being split in half, and Raistlin tensed, face torn up with terror. Dalamar threw himself blindly at the Portal, and his cloak snatched tight around his throat, biting into his flesh and almost throttling him. The Staff blazed white, so burning and bright Dalamar couldn't look at it. There was a howl of agony and the cloak came loose. Raistlin screamed and Dalamar screamed, and the two of them were falling out of the Portal, into the blessed cold and stone and dark of the laboratory.
Dalamar hit the ground on his bad side, and the world went black for a moment. Raistlin rolled out of his hands and the Staff struck the stone floor with a sound like a chandelier smashing, scattering light across the floor for one more blinding instant before going dark.
Dalamar curled into a ball and threw his arms over his face, fully expecting razor-sharp teeth to snap around his body at any moment. His breathing came hard, harsh. One breath, two, three. Dalamar opened his eyes.
The Portal was still glowing, dimmer now and going out slowly, but there. Beyond, everything was black, a deep hole of darkness, lined in white jutting growths like stalactites. Dalamar blinked, and the hole seemed smaller, further away. Blinked again, and the open jaws were replaced with the furious, blood-red of a dragon's eye, slit pupil larger than a man, glaring balefully at Dalamar.
Then the Portal finally went out, and darkened to void. Dalamar slumped back, the world swimming around him, darkness threatening to devour him. No. No. Dalamar rolled over, pushed himself up on his good arm. Not yet.
He pushed himself up. Outside, the moons had barely moved. It had felt like hours in there. The water clock showed barely five minutes. Gods. Gods.
Raistlin was curled up on his side, unconscious and shivering. Dalamar stumbled over, and dropped down beside him. For a moment, all he could do was brush the matted knots of Raistlin's hair out of his face. His eyes were closed, a dried rivulet of blood running from the corner of his mouth, but his face was untouched. He could have been asleep, or resting after a coughing fit. Dalamar doubled over, feeling as though a mailed fist had clenched around his heart, grief and pain and relief, and more he could not recognise.
There was movement at the door, and Dalamar shot up, hands going to his spell pouches- who-
But it was just Rannoch, looking at Dalamar in complete disbelief. Dalamar felt his mouth pull into an exhausted smile, realizing how this must look to the Dead One. After everything, he had dragged what looked to be Fistandantilus out of the Abyss. "Does that look like it?" His voice crackled in his throat. He was incredibly thirsty.
Rannoch drifted over, and looked down, then back up at Dalamar. He shook his head.
Dalamar closed his eyes. "Good." Finally. Someone who saw the truth.
He picked up Raistlin's thin, brittle body again, and nearly fell over. Whatever frantic energy had driven him over the last three days was running out fast, and his shoulder was once again a draining cold knot of pain. He took in an unsteady breath. The spell to his quarters would rob him of yet more, but walking down was simply out of the question. "Bring more potions, and water." He turned to Rannoch. The undead indicated the crossbow, lying discarded outside the door.
Dalamar exhaled. "Yes, that too, if you can." And cast.
He managed to get them most of the way to the bed. Raistlin landed on it, but Dalamar fell down, nearly striking his head on the nearby table. He got to his feet, and drank straight from the water jug, and the spare potion. He stripped off his cloak and dug out his stash of bandages from the bedside drawer to replace the sodden ones on his chest and shoulder.
Rannoch came in with an armful of potions and the water, and the crossbow hanging from its strap as far away from the undead as he could manage. Dalamar gave a faint smile, and got the fire going to heat the water. As it warmed, he poured two of the potions in there, he wouldn't be able to get Raistlin to drink any until he woke up, but this would help.
Raistlin still hadn't moved, curled up with his back to them, and Dalamar was alarmed to see the pillow already stained red. He turned Raistlin's head gently. Somewhere under the clotted mass of hair, he felt hot blood, and an ugly gash cut deep into his scalp. Something re-opened by their escape; or caused by hitting the floor in the laboratory. Dalamar tried to pull the mats apart, but his hair was so filthy and choked together he just swore, and pulled out his dagger.
He'd cut Raistlin's hair before, on the road, far from any village when they'd both gotten so sick of having to blow or brush hair out of their faces that sorting it out themselves seemed preferable. They had actually gotten good at keeping it reasonably neat, after practice.
This was not one of those moments. Dalamar had to hack through blood-choked knots of hair so thick it blunted the blade. Finally, he had it down to a ragged, bloody fringe and he was able to reach the wound. It was wide, but not as deep as he had feared. Dalamar reached into the drawer and found a needle and thread to stitch it back together.
Then it became automatic. Simple and so blessedly, blessedly familiar. They had been here before. An adventure gone wrong, a fight they had underestimated. Cuts and wounds that needed cleaning and stitching. Bruises purple and red and jaundiced yellow that made him again wonder how long Raistlin had been lost in the Abyss. Dalamar soaked cloths in the warm water and sponged off the worst of the blood, the shreds of robe that had gotten stuck inside open cuts and needed to be cut away before they could be dampened and pulled free. Stitches for the worst of the wounds, and the bandages, across Raistlin's body and arms and legs – covering dozens of ragged injuries cut by teeth, claws, and other things Dalamar refused to let himself think about.
Throughout it all, Raistlin barely moved. He sometimes made weak, lost sounds when Dalamar pulled at somewhere particularly tender, or his fingers twitched and grabbed at the bed as though trying instinctively to pull himself away from what was hurting him. Dalamar lowered his head and hushed him, murmuring nonsense in his ear until Raistlin quieted and lay still again.
Finally, he was finished. He pulled the old blankets over Raistlin's shoulders and looked down at him. He could be asleep, injuries covered and hidden under gauze and wool. His hair was still discoloured, curling around his ears and the back of his neck, the short cut made him look a lot younger but – Gods. Dear beloved Nuitari. Dalamar stepped back and collapsed into his chair. He – he had done it? It was finally, finally over? Somehow, despite everything, they were still alive. They were safe. No one could come in here. Fistandantilus was dead, or locked up to the point where even Astinus could not sense it.
All the same, Dalamar drew up his crossbow and held it to his lap. Raistlin was going to wake up soon, and Dalamar would be ready, no matter who it was who opened Raistlin's eyes.