Alice Bekett: Here it is! Hugs! Kisses! Cuddles! At long last!

Raven: Even I'm not that evil. Now you made me want to cry. Have a happy ending.

SongofFete: The white-knuckle ride is over, and we're cruising in for a happy landing.

One more chapter to go!

Fortitude

Because it's so easy

To say it to a crowd

- No Light No Light, Florence + the Machine

The pain had become such a part of him that its loss left Raistlin feeling empty. As though some vital part of himself were missing. He kept his eyes closed, tried to keep his breathing even and leaving nothing to indicate he was awake. Let him have a little more time before it started again, a few moments to just breathe, before the claws came back, and the teeth and the mocking, sickening laugher than ran through him and shook his bones to fragments.

But he was warm, the ground under him soft and – was this a bed? He moved a hand carefully, felt sheets, a blanket. His body was stiff, joints restrained and tight from the bandages around them.

What was going on? Raistlin gritted his teeth, bracing himself for it all to start again, and opened his eyes.

He was in a darkened room, the windows open and letting in the faint pre-dawn light. The room was bare, and –unlike any illusions Takhisis had tried to weave over him – it was rotting and falling apart in his eyes. The sparse furnishings were little more than a desk, a wardrobe, this bed-

And a chair. And Dalamar, sitting in it and looking at him.

Raistlin's breath shattered in his chest. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. Dalamar lifted a heavy crossbow, so enchanted it seemed to vibrate in his hand, and pointed it at Raistlin. "Is that lich," his voice was raw, ragged, "still in your head?"

Oh. Oh. The broken feeling inside him melted like icicles, flooding his raw, aching body with sheer relief. He felt his chest tighten, not in a cough, but a broken attempt to laugh. At himself, at his own despair. Tasslehoff had been able to recognise him, had he really believed Dalamar couldn't?

Dalamar's hands were trembling, his teeth bared. Raistlin swallowed, tried to speak. The words came out in a cracked whisper. "It's dead." He swallowed again, turned his head and looked at Dalamar, ravenously. The elf was a mess, hair a filthy tangle, robes torn and discoloured with blood and who knew what else, eyes sunken and hollow from lack of sleep. Raistlin could look at him forever. "I killed it."

The crossbow hit the ground with a dull thump. Dalamar closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. "Dalamar-" Raistlin started, and stopped and doubled over as his chest closed and he was coughing, harsh and broken and setting his body alight in wild, blazing pain.

"Shut up, don't try to talk." Dalamar's voice trembled. He sounded about to cry. Raistlin closed his eyes, tried to breathe through the pain, the fit was a quick one at least. "Here, I have-"

Raistlin ignored the mug of hot water placed on the bedside table, and threw himself against Dalamar. His hands latched onto his robes, his face pressing into the side of his neck. Dalamar was stiff under his hands for a moment, then- "Oh Nuitari," he choked, and grabbed Raistlin as though he would drown if he let go.

He smelled of lightning and warmth, woodsmoke and cool water. He smelled of home. Home at last, after so long and the tight grip of his hands and the tickle of hair against Raistlin's nose and mouth. He felt Dalamar shake in his hands, his ribcage jerking and shuddering in silent sobs. "You idiot," Dalamar breathed. "You utter, impossible fool – what were you thinking?"

I thought you hated me. I thought I had no choice. I thought I had to kill the Gods or become an undead monster and there was nothing else. He said nothing, not trusting his voice. Besides, Dalamar had more than enough right to say it. How long had he been swallowing those words down?

"I thought you were dead," Dalamar fingers dug painfully into Raistlin's shoulder. "I thought it had killed you-"

The words almost bled, they hurt so much. "I'm sorry," Raistlin whispered. As in his dream, the words were utterly inadequate. Unlike his dream, Dalamar half laughed; pressed a wet, trembling kiss against his temple.

"Never," Dalamar murmured against his head, "do anything like that again. Never keep anything like that from me again. You impossible, beautiful-" Another kiss.

Raistlin closed his eyes. His body still hurt, raw and battered and torn to rags by – no no, not that, not now. He was here, he was safe. It was over. It was finally, finally over.

Far too soon Dalamar released him, eased him back down to the bed and tried to turn away to draw his chair closer. Raistlin flatly refused to even consider that, and kept his fingers knotted into Dalamar's robes, he tried to pull him closer – but he might as well have been trying to move a vallenwood. His body felt as frail as his own breath.

Dalamar smiled. He looked exhausted, eyes bruised from lack of sleep, face pallid and lips cracked. He nodded and toed off his boots, rolling over to lie beside Raistlin in the bed. Raistlin closed his eyes and buried his face against his chest. Fingers carded through his hair – had someone cut it? It seemed like there was less of it than before – ran light and ticklish down the back of his neck, rubbed a thumb over the outcropping of his backbone.

"Here." Dalamar pressed the mug into his hands, it was warm, steaming. Raistlin opened his eyes, and stared.

It was his mug. The old piece of crockery he had carried from Solace, to his Test, to the Sentinel Peaks and halfway over Krynn. Even through his eyes he would recognise it anywhere. It was chipped and battered and the red glaze had flaked off in places but- "How-" he tried, and his chest knotted up in protest, angrily.

Dalamar shrugged wearily, nuzzled the side of Raistlin's head. "I had so little of you left."

There was nothing he could say. His heart clenched, too hard, and his eyes prickled. He sipped the hot water; it wasn't his tea, but it eased the worst of the tension in his lungs. He turned his head, and kissed Dalamar.

His lips were rough, tasted of salt and weariness, and exhausted hope. Dalamar's hands spasmed against his body, as if it was only the desire not to upset the mug and soak them both that kept him from dragging Raistlin in and never letting go. Damned gods knew Raistlin was never, ever going to be so foolish again.

"As glad as I am to be here," Dalamar croaked, licking his lips hungrily. "I would very much like to know how in Nuitari's name we got here."

Raistlin's breath escaped in a weak laugh, he drank more of the hot water. "You seem to know some."

"I saw your Test." Dalamar's hand stroked his hair. "I know about the lich."

Raistlin nodded. Set the mug aside and huddled in close. Home. Home. He felt warm and safe and so tired. "Fistandantilus." And oh, it felt so good to finally say it, to Dalamar, after so long. "I imagine you can guess most of it."

"I thought it had killed you." A kiss on the crown of his head. "In the Blood Sea." He felt Dalamar smile, tremblingly. "I am – I am so very grateful to have been mistaken."

Raistlin nodded. "It had me trapped. Inside its mind. I couldn't see or hear, but I could feel its thoughts." He closed his eyes, his voice soft. His chest was uncertain but he owed Dalamar that much. That much and infinitely more. "I tried to trick it. To go back in time and – kill itself. I – I didn't know you were-"

"Shh." Dalamar stroked his back, gently between the myriad scars and the still open wounds.

"Why didn't you run?" Raistlin whispered. "Why didn't you stay away?"

"I made my choice." Dalamar held him close. "I thought I alone could avenge you. I am not sorry for any of it."

"I hurt you-" Dalamar's robes were torn at the chest, the bandages underneath were already bloody.

"You did not." Dalamar's voice went cold, lethal as a blade. His eyes were furious. "You had nothing to do with it. Never say that again!"

"I could have-"

"You stayed alive." Dalamar's breath was coming harder, jagged. "You killed it. Do you know what I would have done to make that happen? Do you know what I would have sacrificed-" He broke off, covered his eyes.

"Dalamar-"

"Shush." Dalamar rubbed his face. "Speak on. Why didn't you come home?"

Those words – come home. His stomach clenched. He bared his teeth helplessly. "I tried." He closed his eyes. "Dear sweet Magic, I tried, over and over. Again and again." The words torn free, coarse and bleeding. "I tried to return to my Test. Kill Fistandantilus before it could come near me. I could have unmade everything, kept this from ever happening."

He felt Dalamar tremble against him. "Nuitari." He kissed him, bright and sweet, "You brilliant, wonderful-"

"Fool." Raistlin's mouth twisted, bitterly. "I was wrong. It would never be. The gods saw to that."

"Not a fool," Dalamar whispered. "If anyone could have done it, you could."

"They-" Raistlin's throat closed, and it had nothing to do with his chest. "I killed Fistandantilus. Decades before he was in the Dwarfgate Wars. They would not allow time to be changed. I had killed him, so I would have to-"

"Take his place," Dalamar finished, his hands knotted to fists. "Gods."

Raistlin laughed, a frail, cracked and poisoned sound. Gods, indeed. "Yes. They gave me a choice, although they did not know it. I could become an undead thing, or I could finish the lich's plans and destroy them. And I – I wanted to make them suffer."

"Shh-" Dalamar held him. Raistlin closed his eyes.

"I was a fool," he said finally, sick and caustic. "I should have-"

"You were in an impossible position." Dalamar's voice was soft. "Whatever path you chose, it was the correct one. It brought you home."

Raistlin could not answer. He rested his head against Dalamar's chest, weary to his soul. He wished he could think of something he could change. He wished there was some point in which he made a terrible mistake and could have avoided this nightmare. There wasn't. Everything had been decided long ago by cruel old men and even crueler, older gods, and Dalamar was right, any other path would have probably ended up with both of them dead.

"How did you know?" He said finally. "That I was still alive?"

Dalamar was quiet for a moment, his breath stirred Raistlin's hair. He was so warm, everything felt… too good. Raistlin felt his mouth quirk in an exhausted smile. If this was a dream, let him never wake up.

"Thank your little kender friend," Dalamar said at last, drily. "He came running in, when you and Caramon were in the Abyss, crying about how you wanted to get home, and how everything had gone wrong. Then I saw you and – I realised my mistake." He sighed, deep and weary, but happy.

Raistlin nodded. Tasslehoff. The kender was the only one of them who had stayed sane, in the end. "Did he escape?" he asked.

"I saw him in Astinus' study yesterday." Dalamar traced patterns across Raistlin's back, long, warm fingers. "Your brother made it out too."

Raistlin tensed. "Caramon."

Dalamar stopped for a moment before continuing. "Caramon," he agreed. "Kitiara is dead."

Oh. Well, that was going to happen sooner or later. "Did she hurt you?"

He was silent for a long moment. Raistlin grimaced. Dalamar was probably wishing he had stayed far away from Raistlin and his insane family. "It will heal," he said finally. "Eventually."

Raistlin's head snapped up. "And mine will not." It came out harsh, rough.

Dalamar's eyes narrowed. "Not yours," he gritted out.

"It used my hand," Raistlin growled back, and reached into himself. He felt hollowed out. The fire was nothing more than cold, defeated embers inside him, but his magic was there, timid and coiled in on itself. It took some coaxing to let it fill him again, and even then it felt as dim and transitory as a dying firefly.

Dalamar met his gaze, then sighed and reached for his robes. He'd torn off the ties on the front, and he only needed to pull the top open and Raistlin could see it. The bandages were already soaked through, five red blotches spaced evenly across his chest. Raistlin reached for him as Dalamar unwound the gauze – then stopped, ashamed and appalled. He had done this. He had hidden the truth from Dalamar, he hadn't been able to fight back against Fistandantilus, his hand did this.

Five hollows, already filling with blood. The perfect shape and pattern of his own right hand. What could he do that wouldn't just cause more pain?

"You can heal it?" Dalamar hesitated, trying not to show how badly he wanted this, in case Raistlin could not.

Now, looking on what Fistandantilus had done, Raistlin could feel it. The warm, draining heat of the spell, drinking Dalamar's own life-force and feeding it to the lich – or, now, to Raistlin. He remembered the fire, the burning rage within him that had devoured gods and mortals and had snatched up Dalamar as well. Raistlin swallowed, and held back the nausea. He exhaled slowly. "Yes – or perhaps, I can allow it to heal. It will not be easy, but at least I can do this much."

He hesitated, right hand hovering over the injuries he had done – his hand, his guilt – but too fearful to touch for fear of causing more pain. Dalamar sighed and took his wrist gently, bringing his hand down, guiding his fingers into the wounds. Raistlin shivered, Dalamar hissed in pain.

"It will hurt," Raistlin said helplessly.

"It already hurts." Dalamar closed his eyes. "Please. Make it stop."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing and-" Raistlin clenched his hand, and Dalamar's eyes went wide.

Raistlin closed his own eyes, he needed to concentrate, he couldn't allow for distractions. He fought to snatch up all the streams of magic Fistandantilus had tied into the wound, seizing them together into his hands. Dalamar choked in pain and Raistlin winced, he couldn't image what that felt like.

It was quick, at least. He tested the strength of the streams, pulled them to their full extent, and twisted his wrist. Dalamar cried out, and the streams snapped. His own body went suddenly, horribly cold; his wounds were much, much more painful. He was weaker, falling back only on the resources of his own depleted, shattered body. Good. He tried to curl up on himself, seeking some kind of warmth away from the shuddering outburst of necromantic magic.

"I have you," Dalamar whispered, pulling him close. He was wonderfully warm. Raistlin struggled with himself for a moment, then huddled in close, soaking in the heat of Dalamar's body. "It is done?"

Raistlin nodded.

"Good," Dalamar breathed. "Thank you for your apology," he said, with wry amusement. "This time, it was most certainly warranted."

Raistlin nodded again. He was so tired, and for once in the last few months, not dreading what would be waiting for him when he woke up. "Will you stay?" He murmured.

"Of course-" Dalamar started, then stopped. "What is it?!" he snarled, sitting up. Raistlin opened his eyes, startled. Dalamar wasn't looking at him, however, but at a rather worried looking Dead One hovering at the door. It wavered uncertainly, and pointed at the window. The sun was just rising now. "What about it?" Dalamar sat up, scowling.

The Dead One shrugged helplessly, and turned to go. It had passed on this message, whatever it was; the rest was up to them. Raistlin looked up at Dalamar; he was staring out of the window, frowning. Then he groaned, beating his head against his knees. "Gods of the Abyss, Elistan's funeral, I had forgotten-"

"Elistan?" Raistlin rolled over to face him.

"That idiot cleric from Verminaad's mines." Dalamar rubbed his face and threw his legs over the side of the bed. "He died a few days ago – gods, they will want me to be there, it will be suspicious if I'm not-"

Raistlin's first urge was to reach out and grab him, pull him close and not let him out of bed. Dalamar glanced back and smiled, as though suspecting Raistlin's plans. "I have to go," he said softly. "All of Palanthas will be there, as will Astinus, Half-Elven and your-" He paused. "Caramon."

Caramon. It sent cold, chill sickness through Raistlin. He lay back down, reaching out his awareness into the Tower. No one could come in, they were safe.

"If I am not there, they may suspect." Dalamar got up, wavering uncertainly and leaning against the wall as he put his boots back on. "No one knows about you and – I would rather not be burnt at the stake by the Conclave just yet." He gave a weak smile, and walked over to where his cloak was lying on the floor. "You will be well, on your own?"

No. Raistlin was entirely on board with marching into Palanthas and maybe setting it on fire if it meant Dalamar would remain here. He forced a smile. "Of course."

"Please stay." Dalamar touched his head gently. "Do not go anywhere."

"I cannot walk," Raistlin said dryly, "so that will not be a problem. Leave me some hot water. I will sleep." His smile turned more genuine. "Sleep for months."

He received a kiss, light as moth's wings, as falling rose petals. "Good." Dalamar straightened, and started to fasten his cloak. "Hopefully they will be too preoccupied with their speeches and I will be able to sleep as well-"

Raistlin stared, sick horror clawing up his throat. "Dalamar-" he managed, hand reaching out towards the Dark elf.

Dalamar frowned, and looked down at the cloak he was holding in his hands.

Half of it was gone, the remains barely hanging on through three huge rents in the oiled fabric, torn by massive claws.

All colour drained from Dalamar's face and he staggered backwards into the wardrobe with a bang that made both of them jump. Dalamar jerked back to himself, and dropped the cloak. "Ver- very well." He choked, groping along the wall to steady himself. "I will – not wear that."

Raistlin shuddered, huddling in the bedclothes. The haze of the last – what had it been? Weeks? Months? – in the Abyss blew away like kindly mist, and the Dark Queen laughed at him from the shadows in his mind. Her claws. Her teeth. His body incandescent with pain. Forever, to die over and over and be healed again and again, to scream and bleed and writhe and die under her claws, forever.

And Dalamar had almost-

The same realisation seemed to have struck Dalamar. He was slumped against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Raistlin looked at him, about to say something – pointless and futile, no doubt-

Dalamar opened his eyes. "No," he said, and his voice was firm, strong. His eyes bright as flint on steel. "You would have done the same. I would have done ten times as much. I thought I would die here, and be cursed undead forever. That," he kicked the cloak, "is nothing."

All the same, he pointedly did not look at it as he turned to go. "Stay here," he whispered. "Please, stay." It was a plea, desperate, weeping somewhere deep.

Raistlin nodded, he could not speak.

Dalamar paused on the doorstep, and glanced at Rannoch. "Fetch me if anything happens." The Dead One nodded. He still looked lost. Dalamar smiled and turned to him. "Fistandantilus is dead. The young mage upstairs killed it, the lich made an incredible mistake when it decided to steal his body."

Rannoch blinked, looked back at the Tower. He couldn't believe it. That was fair; Dalamar could barely believe it himself. "It is gone," Dalamar repeated. "Gone forever, and rotting in the Abyss."

The Dead One closed his eyes, and followed Dalamar to the front gates. He stayed there, beside the tattered remains of his own body. They really should bury him, Dalamar decided; the thought flitted in and out of his weary mind without leaving much of a mark. He would think about it later. Leaving Rannoch to contemplate his own undeath, he walked out into the bright sunlight of the morning.

The sun slanted down through the haze of smoke and early morning fog across the city, and turned the world to frosted glass. He looked at the Temple of Paladine doubtfully, if he cast anything, he wouldn't have the strength to get home. But he did not think any of the gods were particularly happy with him right now.

"If you do anything to me," Dalamar growled under his breath. "He will tear you all to pieces and nothing you can do will stop him."

The serene peace of the Temple suddenly felt rather dented and sullen. Dalamar took a breath, and stepped over the boundary.

The light pounded down, blaring like war-horns in his head. Burning and freezing and furious. Dalamar made his way heavily to where half the city seemed to be sitting on the grass or in chairs on the blackened lawn. He vaguely picked out Half-Elven and a completely drunk Caramon on the edge of the crowd, he thought he saw Tanis starting towards him, but then the crowd closed in between them, and Dalamar lost sight of them.

He found a chair no one seemed to have claimed and sat down uncomfortably, hunched over his arm. The adrenaline from the last few days eked out of him, and his wounds ached as he lost the ability to block out the pain. The gash on his shoulder was starting to knit together, but the exertions today had aggravated it. Raistlin was right, though; the pain in his chest had changed. It still hurt a great deal, but it was the dull, sick ache of an irritated wound trying to heal, rather than the cold, draining hunger of the lich's curse.

People were starting to settle for the ceremony. A cleric wandered over to him, possibly to offer healing, but Dalamar glared balefully at him until he went away. He didn't want to imagine what Paladine would do if Dalamar opened himself up to His power. Watching wearily as Reverend Daughter Crysania climbed to the podium to speak, her face an anonymous mass of flesh and scar-tissue, it occurred to Dalamar that, excluding the Gods of Magic, he and Raistlin were now sworn enemies of the entire pantheon.

We went looking for you. Dalamar grumbled in his own head. We found your writings. We helped with your return. Thank you for revealing what your gratitude is worth. Too much pain, too much torment. They should have thrown Goldmoon off that vallenwood and used the Blue Crystal Staff for target practice.

The speeches were starting. Dalamar's eyes drifted closed. Despite the pain in his arm, despite the alien discomfort of the Temple, he let himself slump against the rickety wood of the chair, and his head roll back against his good shoulder.

It was okay. Everything would be well. When he woke up, it would be in this world again, a world that had suddenly bloomed into something good, something welcoming and full of possibilities-

The cleric gave Dalamar a scandalised look, but he didn't notice, already fast asleep.

It felt as though he had only just closed his eyes, that he was being woken by cries. Dalamar blinked awake blearily, looking around in confusion. The Revered Daughter had passed the stage to some other, even more long winded elder, who didn't seem to notice the commotion and was wheezing out some eulogy no one could hear. People were running away from the edge of the temple grounds. He could see Half-Elven lurching to his feet, sword in hand, and Caramon behind him. The big man was bellowing like a bull but seemed to have forgotten his blade, waving a half-empty bottle of dwarf spirits. Dalamar followed their charge with his eyes, still half-asleep, and groaned.

Rannoch was as close to the Temple as he could manage, but being undead, could not set foot in the grounds. He had a stone in his hand, possibly in the hope of throwing it at Dalamar to get his attention. After the chaos of Lord Soth's knights, the sighting of another undead creature was not going down well.

"Gods below," Dalamar groaned, and got up. He should have stayed at home. He should have found some way of dragging Raistlin here. "He is here for me." He called, which didn't really calm the crowd, but slowed Half-Elven, who glanced back at Dalamar before sheathing his sword. Caramon ignored him, stumbling past the undead and out into the street, looking around drunkenly for his foe.

Rannoch appeared very glad to see him. After four hundred years in the quiet Tower, this was rather too much excitement for the Dead One. "What did he do?" Dalamar hissed, glancing quickly at Half-Elven to make sure he couldn't overhear.

Rannoch waved his hands at the Tower. "Is he at least staying out of the laboratory?" Rannoch nodded. Good, he could deal with this.

"I must leave." He tried to shout, but his voice was wavering, uncertain. "I have a… spell I have to attend to." No one was listening. Dalamar shrugged. He'd done his best; the ceremony was mostly finished anyway. He beckoned Rannoch, who followed gratefully.