Thank you to Isabelle and ShadowValkyrie for the beta! And Elena for the lovely feedback, I love the little messages you send me :)

Alice Bekett: and it's finally over! Happy endings all round! I do have more I want to write for this, but for now I want to focus on re-writing and porting all of the series so far to Ao3. This is a good place to leave our mages for a while :)

Raven: Oh, as though Raistlin ever does the sensible thing! Reactions should be- entertaining. Thankfully both Dalamar and Raistlin are inclined to lie low for a while.

Prime

But it's so hard, my love,

To say it to you alone.

No Light No Light, Florence + the Machine

Raistlin looked up as Dalamar walked in, tried to stand, but his body was as unwilling to listen as the last time he had tried. The Dark elf looked tired and irritated, but just the sight of him unknotted something taut and gnawing inside Raistlin. "Was it a decent show?" He tried, his voice cracked.

"I have no idea." Dalamar sighed, looking at him in exasperation. "I slept through it. What are you doing down here?"

Raistlin closed his eyes and let his head roll back against the kitchen cupboards behind him. "I could not sleep." He murmured, Dalamar's boots slid dully across the stone floor. "I thought I would make breakfast for us."

"I don't think we have very much." Dalamar sat beside him. "I am not sure how it had food brought in, the Dead Ones tend to spoil everything they touch."

"I found oatmeal," Raistlin whispered. "The water defeated me, however." In fact, he hadn't even managed to make it to the well. The world had slipped out from under his feet, and everything had collapsed around him. Every inch of his body ached, and when he looked down at himself, in Dalamar's too-big spare robes, his bandages were spotted with red.

Dalamar took his hand in both of his. Raistlin smiled, rubbed a thumb over his palm. Good. "Was the funeral-" He stopped.

He didn't want to know. Caramon would have been there, Crysania. He never wanted to see them again. He never wanted to hear of them again. Even the thought of walking down to the Temple and blowing both of them to pieces made him feel nauseous. The looks on their faces, the hate and twisted vengeance on Caramon's. The righteous rage and madness on Crysania's. Better to stay here, safe, where no one could reach them. He turned his face into Dalamar's shoulder.

Dalamar must have picked up on something of this, because he curled in around Raistlin, stroked his hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Unimaginably boring," he said softly. "One endless speech after another. The chair was very uncomfortable."

"And the floor is an improvement?" Raistlin smiled.

"It has you, so yes, very much so." Another kiss.

Raistlin had nothing to say to that, and the silence was warm and welcoming. His wounds were still dully painful, the hunger was still growling in his stomach, but he felt tired again, maybe able to sleep without the nightmares chasing him from his dreams. Nightmares of Takhisis, yes, but he'd woken so many times in a panic, convinced he was back in the plains of Thorbardin that it had just felt easier to stay awake.

"I could put together the oatmeal," Dalamar said softly. "You could go back to bed, if you want."

No. "I can stay here," Raistlin murmured. "I don't think we want oatmeal in the bed-"

The fit caught him completely blindsided. One moment his throat felt good enough, dry, but functional. The next he was thrown almost prone, doubled over and coughing and coughing and coughing, as though his lungs had suddenly realised he hadn't had a bad fit for two years and were determined to make up for it.

The world blotted out in grey and black, Dalamar holding him and rubbing his back. Raistlin spat blood across the flagstones and shuddered, dragging in a ragged breath, then another, and another. Two more before he could hope the fit had passed. The kitchen was warm, but he was freezing, shivering. His chest and back were wet and mottled with hot places where he was bleeding through the bandages.

"I'll get you your tea." Dalamar said, standing up.

Raistlin blinked, tried to say something – but his throat closed and nothing came up but another clot of blood.

Dalamar was opening the upper cupboards. He glanced through the empty jars that were probably meant to hold rice or flour, and slammed them shut in frustration. Opened the next set, and banged them closed too.

Raistlin swallowed, tried to even his breathing out. "Dalamar-" His voice was a thread.

Dalamar ignored him. His hands were shaking on the next closet, his teeth bared. "It isn't here," Raistlin said weakly. Dalamar hurled the doors closed, spun around on Raistlin, eyes blazing and suddenly, incandescently furious. The sort of rage Raistlin had only ever seen him turn on Fistandantilus, had only felt himself in the Abyss. It was not directed at him, but Raistlin suddenly found himself pressed flat against the cupboards, very, very still. Dalamar stormed past him and opened the closet on the far end of the kitchen. Raistlin said nothing. Dalamar no doubt knew perfectly well that it held nothing but pots and pans.

The skillet struck the far wall so hard it knocked out a shard of whitewash the size of Raistlin's arm. It was followed by a massive iron pan Dalamar hurled as easily as if it had been a pillow. "Dalamar," he tried again.

Dalamar didn't seem to hear. The casserole, half a dozen pots and three smaller pans followed it, smashing against the wall and hacking it down to bare brick before Dalamar finally ran out of missiles. Raistlin tried to sit up, but Dalamar marched back to the cupboards, and started throwing down the glass jars. They smashed to shrapnel on the floor.

Raistlin gave up, because this wasn't something he could do anything for. He hadn't been there. Two years. Two years he had been gone, blind and swallowed up by Fistandantilus and as hideous as that had been, Raistlin wondered if he had been the lucky one. Dalamar's face was torn up into a rictus of helpless rage and utter, blind despair.

Finally, he grabbed for a jar and found the cupboard empty, turned and there was nothing left to throw. Dalamar stamped two steps over to the fireplace, stopped, and just fell. Buckled down as though he had suddenly lost all the strength in his body. Feet to knees to hips to shoulders and down to a crumpled heap on the floor; his face twisted for a desperate, heart-wrenching moment, then gone behind his hands.

Raistlin tried to stand, but his chest coiled up tight and furious and cold and his legs trembled, the slick trickle of blood reminding him just how weak he was. He caught a fragile breath and crawled his way slowly, painfully, hand over hand, to Dalamar.

Dalamar's shoulders were tight, shaking, lips drawn back in anything but a smile. He tried to turn away as Raistlin pulled in close, but Raistlin caught his hands, pulled them away.

He was trying not to cry, was fighting it with everything he had and he couldn't stop. His tears raw, sobs racking his body. Hands opening and closing as though he wanted to snatch up and hang onto something. Something so ephemeral and fractured he could not grasp it. Helpless, hopeless, trying and failing again and again. "Dalamar."

Dalamar's hands fell numbly to the floor, two forlorn little thumps. Raistlin hesitated for a moment, then came closer, cupped Dalamar's face, and pulled him close.

And Dalamar just went. Fell into his arms as though he had wanted nothing but that for two years and was fully intending to stay there for the next five. Raistlin kissed him, forehead, cheek, the tip of his ear.

"I'm sorry," Dalamar whispered. Raistlin blinked. "I am so sorry," he repeated. "I- Nuitari- I am sorry."

"For what?" Raistlin's hands wandered up Dalamar's back, his neck, into his hair. "You did everything you could," He continued, voice a thin whisper. "You went to the Abyss to save me." Dalamar let out a wet snort. "I hope for both our sakes no one ever finds out. We would be the subjects of every romantic ballad from here to Balifor." Dalamar's shoulders shook, but not from tears. Good.

He held on for a few more moments, before Dalamar finally sat up, wiping his eyes. "You blame yourself." His voice was rough.

Raistlin blinked. "It was my-"

"It was Par-Salian and Justarius," Dalamar said flatly. "And Fistandantilus. And perhaps you could have told me and we could have found some way to help you. Or perhaps that lich would have just taken you that much sooner." Dalamar was quiet for a moment, a few strands of black hair hung in front of his face. Raistlin reached out and tucked them behind his ear. Dalamar smiled. "There was nothing you could have done. There was nothing I could have done."

It was true, but it still knotted Raistlin's insides. The shame of it, crawling in his bones and crushing him. They had failed, something had gotten the better of them and forced them into this place. The control, the hands on them, pulling like puppets.

"Yes." Dalamar rested his head on his shoulder, closed his eyes. "Like that. That's what it feels like. We did everything, and we still got hurt."

"It will never happen again." Raistlin sighed. "I will never let it happen again."

Dalamar smiled. "Neither will I. But it still happened."

He was quiet, for a long moment. Raistlin felt his breath catch in his throat again, tried to breathe through it, slow, even-

Dalamar sat up. "I think we could put your tea together from spare components."

They found everything eventually, although the burdock was dried to nothing but tiny effigies of itself. Raistlin managed to get himself on one of the kitchen chairs as Dalamar threw together the oatmeal, poured the tea into Raistlin's ancient, cracked mug. The water steamed, Raistlin took a deep breath, and felt the knots in his lungs slowly loosen. He sipped the hot liquid and – this was so familiar. The acrid smell and taste that breached two years and in a moment, he was back in Flotsam. He smiled bitterly, after all his struggles to go back, with the gods stopping him at every turn, all he needed was a cup of tea and the River of Time unwound for him.

They sat in silence. There was nothing to put in the oatmeal, and it crumbled to ashes before his eyes, but Raistlin closed his eyes and ate and, Lunitari, it felt like this was the first time in months he could taste something. Old, rough oatmeal and it tasted rich and warm and better than anything he'd had for years. It soaked heat through his stomach and eased the worst of the pain, made him feel as though he might be able to manage a few steps.

"Do you need your Staff?" Dalamar mumbled. He'd pushed his empty bowl away, and slumped over the table, long strands of black hair coiling like lost rivers across the notched wood.

By the Magic, he was beautiful. Raistlin wound his fingers through his hair, and Dalamar made a sleepy, happy sound. "Is it here?" He'd half assumed Dalamar had lost it in the Abyss. He could remember it- just a little. The blur of being caught up in Dalamar's arms and carried out, the staff digging into his ribcage as they ran for the Portal.

"Hmm." Dalamar hummed assent. "In the laboratory. Rannoch can fetch it if you need it."

Raistlin opened his mouth, and closed it. Because the answer was no. He didn't need it. He didn't want it. After five years of the Staff of Magius being a part of him, he felt almost repelled by the thought of it. Like a beloved childish food he couldn't face as an adult, and he had the sudden, strange thought that the feeling was mutual. The Staff and he had come this far together, but now it was time to part.

"It can stay in the laboratory," he said at last.

Dalamar turned his face a little, looking curiously at Raistlin. Then he nodded, and lay his head down on his crossed hands, watching him with a weary, fond smile. Raistlin finished his tea, and pushed the mug away, resting his head on the table. Something pulled painfully at the back of his head, and he snatched his hand back, touching the shorn remains of his hair, the bandages and stitches beneath.

"I think that one was my fault," Dalamar murmured. "I dropped you in the laboratory. Sorry."

"I daresay I can forgive you." Raistlin shifted a little closer, rested his fingers on Dalamar's arm. "The hair is another matter, however. I must look ridiculous."

"I like it." Dalamar was rapidly falling asleep. "It suits you. I hope you keep it."

Raistlin tried to snort, but it fell on deaf ears. Dalamar's breathing evened out, his eyes drifted closed and his hands relaxed on the tabletop. For long moments, Raistlin didn't move. He didn't want to. This was perfection. This was every dream made true. He could just stay here, and watch Dalamar for as long as he wanted. Let the Tower crumble to dust around them as it did in his eyes, he would gladly remain here and never move again.

Finally, the ache of his wounds started to grow again, from the simple strain of sitting at the table. Dalamar shifted and his injuries must be paining him too. Raistlin closed his eyes, exhaled, and got his protesting, bloody body out of the chair. A step to rest his hands on Dalamar's back, and he reached down into the magic inside him.

It was a little restored, a flicker of weak power in his hands, but it was enough to draw them both back up to Dalamar's chambers. He even managed to get them both on the bed. Dalamar didn't wake up, just rolled over to get the weight off his bad arm, and Raistlin was the one to pull the blankets over them, and settle themselves close and warm and oh so familiar. This was home. He had finally, finally come home. Raistlin smiled, and closed his eyes.

This time, sleep was black and heavy and thick as velvet, dreamless.

Dalamar had little recollection of the next few days. Perhaps they had both pushed their bodies too far at last, and this was the reckoning. He had never felt so tired in his whole life; he woke from a night's sleep and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep away the day too. Relax into their bed, hold Raistlin against him, and close his eyes and just stay. Forever. Until the last two years turned into a bad dream and they woke up wondering what all that had been about.

And Raistlin seemed entirely of the same mind, curling up against Dalamar in a catlike tangle of arms and legs. Smiling sleepily when Dalamar shifted, only half awake, to trap him in a cage of limbs. Stay here. Don't leave me again. Ragged white hair in his face, curling against his mouth as he smiled. It felt more like a dream than anything he saw when asleep. Too good.

Unfortunately, they couldn't sleep all day. They had to eat, had to drink and clean themselves. Raistlin was nodding, still waking up at the kitchen table while Dalamar worked on removing his bandages, cutting through the last of the stitches, the fire burning in the hearth where they had washed. "Drink," he ordered. Raistlin assented wearily, and drank down the potion in front of him. The remaining red marks criss-crossing his skin soothed, paled to healing scar tissue. The bruises wan yellow against his golden skin, curdled green and fading purple.

The wounds were closing, slowly, but by Nuitari how had Raistlin ever lived through this? There was barely an inch of him apart from hands and face that hadn't been hacked to ribbons. Even now, with the worst of the wounds fading, Raistlin would carry those marks for the rest of his life, his body mottled to beaten white gold under his robes.

"My turn," Raistlin sighed as Dalamar cleaned and dressed the last of his injuries.

Dalamar nodded, and sat back heavily in his chair. He started to fumble with his robes. "Let me." Raistlin kissed him, quick and darting and sweet. Dalamar smiled.

"Always," he sighed, let his hands fall and his eyes close, and Raistlin's own neat, clever fingers flicked open the catches to his robes. They hesitated a moment, on the warm, unmarred skin there. It was sensual, the whispered promise of something more. Dalamar leant forward, ran his fingers along the tendons and thin muscles of Raistlin's arms, to the sensitive crook of his elbows. Raistlin's breath caught hungrily.

But his hands didn't stray, were gentle on the puffed, puckered scar on his shoulder, but Dalamar growled at the touch. The healing bone was still tender and any undue pressure on it shot primal, raw pain through him. Raistlin was quick there, a few checks to make sure infection hadn't set in, and he was cleaning the cut with willow bark and goldenseal, and replacing the bandages with new ones.

Dalamar opened his eyes as Raistlin moved on to his chest. Those wounds were not healing so cleanly. Probably they never would, unless he chose to give up the magic entirely. They no longer bled, but were hot and inflamed, smelled sick and festering. Dalamar took one look at Raistlin's face, then raised a hand to cover his chest. "I can take care of them-"

Raistlin's hand caught his arm tight and determined. "No."

Dalamar met his eyes for another moment, then sat back. It was a relief. They hurt, they were hard to reach, and his herbcraft couldn't compare to Raistlin's. He still hissed when Raistlin drained the wounds and soaked them in something so hot and astringent that felt like it was burning him open all over again.

"I wanted to kill it again," Raistlin said finally. "I could kill it again and again, for a thousand years, and it still wouldn't be enough."

Dalamar smiled and took Raistlin's hand. It was warm, still wet with whatever he'd spread over Dalamar's chest. "I only wish I could have had the chance."

Raistlin's chair ground over the stone floor as he dragged it closer. "That would have been good." He murmured, resting his head on Dalamar's good shoulder. "I- would not inflict it on anyone, but I wish you'd been there with me."

"I don't think I could have changed anything." Raistlin had little trouble in telling him about the period leading up to his victory over Fistandantilus, could even sum up his time in the Abyss – although the whole period had been such an overwhelming wave of pain, it left no space for any detail – but anything in between, his time in Istar and in the past, seemed to be more than he could speak of. Dalamar didn't push him. "We would still have been trapped."

"We could have gone to Zhaman," Raistlin whispered, "thrown the Portal out of a window and barred the doors. Let those fools beat each other to pieces outside and stayed, warm and safe and-" His voice broke, Raistlin pressed his face further in Dalamar's bare shoulder, and Dalamar stroked his back.

Raistlin was still for a moment, then turned his face, and Dalamar arched up as his teeth pressed against the curve of his collarbone. He felt Raistlin's chest stretch in a deep breath, as he shivered hungrily, and licked the bitemark he had left. "Stay," he breathed. Shifted a little until he was straddling Dalamar's lap. "I want you."

Dalamar groaned, Raistlin turned his head and latched onto his throat, sharp white teeth pressing into the tender skin under his jaw. Dalamar ran his hands slowly down Raistlin's back, feeling the strange new ridges and grooves in his skin. Raistlin's breath caught, and Dalamar took his time, closing his eyes and letting his hands wander. Learning his lover all over again. Which places that made Raistlin shiver and pant, which made him flinch away, and which – and Dalamar's heart ached – he didn't react at all to, the damage too deep for sensation to remain.

Raistlin lifted his head, and nipped at the lobe of Dalamar's ear, a sweet stab of pain that made Dalamar hiss in pleasure. His own hand skated lightly over Dalamar's chest and he was learning too. He too was discovering the new places of Dalamar's body, the new scars, the bones standing stark from his skin. Raistlin lowered his head and pressed kisses, light as butterfly wings, along the knitting scar over his shoulder.

It didn't quite hurt. The touch, flickering over his tender skin, half threatened pain, half promised pleasure. Dalamar's breath stuttered, his hands mapped over Raistlin's narrow hips. There was a broad, ragged scar over the curve of the bone, as though it had torn through the skin. Raistlin went still for a moment, and Dalamar hesitated, not sure if he should pull away, then Raistlin relaxed, eased back into the cradle of his hands, pressed his growing erection against Dalamar's bare thigh.

Yes. Yes yes yes yes and it had been so long that it took Dalamar's body a moment to catch up with what was happening. Then it remembered and the slow, delicious heat of arousal wove through him, his cock twitching hungrily and pressing against Raistlin's stomach. Raistlin hummed happily against the raw skin of Dalamar's shoulder, reaching down to take him in hand. "I dreamed about this," he breathed. "So often. It was so good I couldn't- I couldn't bear-"

"Shh." Dalamar kissed him. "I didn't dream." He shifted, braced Raistlin against him. "I couldn't." He stood, Raistlin's weight warm and promising in his arms. "Nothing could be this good."

He pressed Raistlin back on the kitchen table, pulled himself up and straddled him. Raistlin lifted his legs and wound them against Dalamar's, pulling them closer, tighter, wanting more. Dalamar shifted down to his elbows, hissed as his shoulder ached from this new motion. Raistlin's hands wandered down his back, dug his nails into the skin as their bodies pressed together, erections grinding close and hot and wet and yes yes yes-

Dalamar lowered his head and sucked the soft hollow under Raistlin's ear. A scar ran from his hairline, down his throat, still pink and new. Raistlin gasped, panted and licked his lips as Dalamar ran his tongue over the healing flesh, his teeth catching on the jut between shoulder and neck and biting down. The taste of his skin, sweat and warmth and magic and home. Nipping and licking and sucking ravenously until Raistlin groaned and scratched his back in need and panting desire. One nail caught the edge of his bad shoulder and even that pain just stoked his hunger and ardour for more.

"I want you," Raistlin gasped. "Gods-" he laughed. "Please-"

Dalamar slid down further, licked the hollow above his collarbones, the edge of his ribcage, the tips of his nipples while Raistlin whined and shivered under him, shifting and arching up to grind against him. He sucked hard against the tender skin, nipped with the edge of his teeth and soothed with his tongue. Raistlin was laughing, low and sweet and so, so happy.

Dalamar felt something hot prickle in the corners of his eyes. Two years. Two years dear Nuitari. How many times had he sat in this room and struggled not to be overcome by despair. He wished he could somehow reach back in time and tell himself all would be well. That he would be here, with Raistlin under him, in his arms, laughing and naked and alight in pleasure and so very alive.

Raistlin reached down, slid a hand between their bodies and caught both their erections, pressing them together, tight and rough. His fingers tight and sweet and clever and stroking close and hungry and yes yes more please- Dalamar rested his head on Raistlin's forearm, tried to catch his breath, Raistlin had lapsed into short, gasping half-laughs, mouth drawn up in a broad, delighted smile.

It was too much of a temptation; Dalamar shifted up a little, and pressed their lips together in a deep, devouring kiss. He reached down and his hand joined Raistlin's around their cocks. Panting against Raistlin's mouth as the slow sweet tension of orgasm starting coiling inside him. Yes yes yes. "I love you," Dalamar whispered. "I love you."

"Yes," Raistlin's eyes were closed, head thrown back. He was close, hourglass eyes dilated and half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen and slick. Dalamar leant down and kissed him again, and again, licked inside his mouth, bright and delicious as water after a long thirst. His cock twitched, his body trembling and drawing tight. Oh, he was ready now, so very, wonderfully close. Yes.

Raistlin arched up against him, his lean, fragile body shaking and snapping taut. He moaned, eyes flashing closed, and came in their joined hands. Dalamar closed his eyes, rested his head on Raistlin's chest, and followed him over the edge. The sweet, perfect burst of orgasm, the roar of triumphant pleasure engulfing them both and sending them down in flames.

Dalamar collapsed against the table, curling up on his side so as not to rest his weight on Raistlin's chest. Raistlin turned happily, and curled both legs around Dalamar's waist, drawing him close. He kissed Dalamar's lips, cheek, the tip of his nose, each eye. Dalamar grinned, and joined in, speckling small kisses along Raistlin's cheeks and ears and forehead.

They were both giggling shamelessly when the door banged, Dalamar broke off and sat up, frowning. Rannoch dropped what he was carrying unceremoniously on the floor, and left. Apparently even he had limits. The mess across the flagstones reeked, and Dalamar covered his nose and mouth, sliding off the table to examine the pile. It turned out to be the remains of the lich's last food order, already half rotten from being left wherever the spell had dropped it. Whatever hadn't decayed naturally had been blackened from its proximity to Dead One.

Dalamar picked through the remains gingerly, they were almost out of food and he wasn't sure what to do to get more- or even where the money was. Raistlin rolled over and lay on his stomach on the table, watching Dalamar. The flour was fine, there was some cheese that was only a little fuzzier than normal, and a sack of potatoes that had sprouted eyes but looked otherwise edible. All the meat had rotted and stank, however, and the eggs were almost uniformly black, save for one which rolled free to the ground, shook and hatched a tiny skeleton chick.

Raistlin chuckled, low and amused, and Dalamar laughed. The undead chick glared balefully at them through one glowing eye socket, and tried to peck his hand. "I want a spell to turn all undead into that." Dalamar waved a hand and sent the dead chick out to wander around the Shoikan Grove. "As soon as you can manage. Imagine Lord Soth."

Raistlin was laughing almost soundlessly. "With or without the armour?"

The image of the chick in Lord Soth's armour was so ridiculous that Dalamar couldn't stop laughing. Or maybe it wasn't the image, really, but just the fact that he hadn't had a decent laugh in so long and it felt so very good. Raistlin was sprawled out on the table, snickering helplessly.

Dalamar wiped his streaming eyes and felt awake. His body was sweat-streaked and still trembling from their tryst, his magic a worn-out stub of itself, but he felt awake as he hadn't been for two years. As though the nightmare had been just that, a nightmare, and they had finally woken up. His stomach hurt from the unaccustomed laughter and he rubbed it absently.

"Dalamar?" Raistlin's voice came softly. He was lying flat on the table. His arms hung over the edge, his long, delicate hands trailing over Dalamar's shoulder. Dalamar pressed his cheek against them and smiled. "I have no idea what to do now," Raistlin murmured.

Dalamar shook his head. Maybe it hadn't been a nightmare at all, but a waking. His whole life a series of waking to new realities. From Silvanesti to exile. From Tarsis to Solace. From Solace to the road. From the road to the last two years and now from those years to – what?

The world stretched out before them, wide and strange and probably very angry, once it discovered what they had done. Nothing that had come before could provide a map, they would have to make one themselves.

"I have no idea myself." Dalamar kept smiling, he couldn't stop. He took Raistlin's hands in his. "Shall we find out?"