b - l - a - d - e' - s - - e - d - g - e
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As soon as she left, Raistlin placed his quill back in its pot of ink to chuckle quietly to himself. He'd known she was desperate to escape, but she'd actually attempted coming onto him, the most powerful mortal being, Master of Past and Present, and over a decade her senior, at that. Her interest was too much of a coincidence to be anything more than an attempt to be allowed her freedom. Besides, he wasn't thick enough to be drawn to the Conclave's convict. She was truly dangerous – if not to him, then to someone else.
When Sikeen returned to the library, Dalamar was still there, reading the book he'd retrieved earlier. He looked up as she walked in, noticing the stiffness in her expression.
"Something happen?" he asked, moving back toward their game. She took a seat and smoothed her hair over her shoulders, wondering if she might have had more success with a bit of makeup or perfume.
"Nothing," she answered, picking up her cards again. "Has he got a dead wife?" she asked casually. Dalamar shot her another questioning look.
"No. He's just generally ill-tempered. Why do you ask?"
"What about a dead almost-wife?"
"I don't believe so. Why?" Sikeen made a move, gathering up another pair of cards from the board. She was absolutely going to win this round.
"Is he interested in women at all, then?" This time, Dalamar stared at her in something akin to silent disbelief.
"You tried to seduce him to win your freedom," he said, confident. She smiled at him coldly from behind her cards, refusing him any real reaction.
"It's your move."
"I mean between the two of us, you wouldn't try me first?" he asked incredulously. Despite his sarcasm, this earned a glare from Sikeen.
"You can't get me through the Grove," she hissed.
"Right, but I could try," he added, still laughing to himself as he picked up a pair from the board.
"You're not capable," she said, mockingly repeating his words from the night before.
"Sikeen, I'm sure you're a talented, cold-blooded murderer outside the Tower, but here you have no clout. I highly doubt you'll be leaving," he said matter-of-factly. She made her move in silence, fixing him with her familiar cold stare. "Besides, it's quite obvious you're ill. You should at least regain your health before attempting to escape through the Grove." She slammed her cards on the floor.
"I'm not ill! This is just what I look like, alright?" He blinked at her, surprised.
"You're an elf," he said, as if that should explain everything.
"Not all elves look like you," she said, her glare growing increasingly ruthless. It wasn't until then that Dalamar realized he'd insulted her.
"It's not that you're… I mean, you just look tired, is all. You're not unattractive," he said, attempting to salvage the situation with as much dignity as possible. "I assumed you were ill and being brave. My apologies."
"I consider myself rather attractive, actually, regardless. I didn't see much sun as a child," she said dismissively, hoping that was explanation enough. She knew she was odd-looking, but it had never bothered her. If anything, it had helped to further her career.
Dalamar let the topic drop, not wanting to insult her further. She obviously didn't want to go into much detail for now.
When their game was done, Dalamar excused himself for some obligation or other, leaving Sikeen, the victor, to go back to her dull reading.
When the time came, she delivered Raistlin's tea without incident. She repeated this process in the evening, as the sun set. However, during her nighttime delivery, he didn't respond to her knocks. Not wanting to waste the tea, she let herself in.
He was by the fire, in the sitting room attached to the bedroom. As usual, it was blazing hot, but he wore his robes anyway, looking small in a particularly large, velvet armchair.
"Raistlin?" she kicked herself, praying he didn't hear. "Shalafi?" As she approached, she realized his head was leaning gently against the side of the armchair and he was asleep, his hand spread over an open book in his lap. With his usual critical gaze nowhere in sight, she realized his slight frame and delicate features made him look even younger than his age.
In fact, while sleeping, he nearly looked like any regular human. Suddenly, his eyes began moving underneath their lids. He was dreaming.
She stood there for a while, not sure what to do. Should she leave the tea? He would find it when he woke up. But then, he might also not wake up, and he'd be even sicker in the morning after skipping a cup. Or was that not how it worked? She didn't know. But he looked defenseless, suddenly, drowning in his velvet robes and sleeping in a chair. Gingerly, she tapped his shoulder. He didn't stir. "Shalafi?"
Still, he didn't react. She shook him a bit more until he finally groaned in protest before letting out a short cough. As his eyes fluttered open, his usual scowl reappeared. "Your tea," she said, staring down at him evenly. Something reminiscent of embarrassment crossed his face before he took the cup from her, taking a long sip. A moment went by and she wondered if he even planned on saying anything to her. Or was he just going to make her stand here and watch him drink? "May I go?" she ventured. Still, he didn't reply. He only stared into the fire, perhaps lost in thought or still lingering partially in his dream. She put her hands on the chair's armrests and leaned in toward him to be sure he couldn't ignore her. "Shalafi!"
Finally, he looked up, as if just noticing she was there. He absently placed a hand on the armrest, letting his fingers brush against hers. In a disjointed, jerky motion, she drew her hands back, caught off-guard. Simultaneously, he did the same thing.
"You're dismissed," he said coldly, glaring up at her before averting his gaze back to the fire. She crossed her arms.
"Thank you, Shalafi," she said, exasperated.
Back in her room, she sat on her bed, horrified. There was no way she could convince Raistlin to let her leave. He was truly made of steel, and she couldn't resort to physical violence, which was generally her answer to these types of situations.
That night, she found herself unable to even come close to sleep. For hours, she thought in circles, coming to the same conclusion again and again: she was stuck here. When the light of day began peeking in through the curtain, she sat up hollowly, like a corpse rising from the dead. Still running on no rest at all, she trudged into the kitchen in the same clothes she wore the day before and began brewing tea. This is my life now, she thought, glum. She stood by the stove, watching the water boil. It wasn't until she heard a voice behind her that she realized she was awake, and not lost in some repetitive nightmare.
"Sleep well?" asked Dalamar, who had somehow silently began his own breakfast at the table.
"No," she said, refusing to turn around. She probably looked horrendous, and she didn't need that cocky, one-brow-raised expression from the apprentice right now.
"Neither did I, actually," he said, ignoring how deadbeat and weak she sounded. "Wind was making too much noise, I think."
"Hm." She began pouring the water into a mug but her hand shook from exhaustion. Though just a little bit spilled into the flame, it was enough to cause it to flare out and catch her tunic. Immediately, she shrieked, but it seemed the flame was out moments after it reached the cloth. Underneath remained a gaping hole, exposing the pale skin of her midriff. She stared at the fabric, horrified. This was not how she wanted to begin her day.
"You're welcome," said Dalamar pointedly. She frowned, realizing it was he who had put the flame out so fast.
"Sorry, didn't realize that was you," she said, sighing. "…Thanks." She continued pouring, more carefully this time. Finally, she couldn't avoid keeping her back to Dalamar anymore. Trying to abandon her insecurities, she took a seat opposite him at the table as the tea brewed. He'd been reading the same book from the night before, which he put down now to converse with her.
"Your shirt's ruined," he said, his gaze falling to the scorched hole. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to smooth it down slightly.
"I suppose," she said, re-assessing the damage. She didn't have anything else to wear, and all this physical damage was really not doing anything for her self-esteem. Sighing, she put her arms on the table and dropped her head on top of them, as if she just couldn't hold herself up any longer. To Dalamar, she looked utterly defeated, which struck a chord with him. She looked pitiful.
"You haven't eaten anything since you arrived," he said, spooning more oatmeal into his mouth.
"Not hungry."
"Are you attempting suicide?" he asked. This demanded a dry laugh on her part.
"No, but there's an idea..." Dalamar ignored her morbidity.
"There's plenty of breakfast, you know. I've insisted that Shalafi at least keep basic things around here."
"Does he eat?"
"Do you?" She sat up, staring at him. Maybe it was just the dark circles under her eyes, but she suddenly looked even more exhausted than when she'd first arrived.
"I only eat the flesh of my victims," she said evenly, standing up to retrieve the tea. Dalamar, not quite as intuitive as his master, wasn't sure how to take this.
"Is that why you look like a creature from the crypt?"
"Excuse me?!" she whipped around, glaring ruthlessly. "It was a joke, half-wit." She abandoned the tea and sighed, opening up cabinets at random. "Is ale considered a basic thing? Because I could use a drink if I'm going to deal with you and Raistlin for the rest of my life."
"I have some," he said, laughing as he stood. "Here: a peace offering," he said, demanding her attention. She turned around, crossing her arms over her chest, and watched silently as he pulled his tunic over his head. Blinking, she backed instinctively into the counter behind her and shot him a suspicious look. "Because yours is ruined," he said, handing it to her.
"Ah." She quickly turned her back to him, slipping her burned shirt off and quickly pulling Dalamar's on. In between the switch, he couldn't help but glance at her back, which was just as pale and fragile-looking as the rest of her. He could see nearly every knob of her spine. She turned around almost immediately, catching him looking at her. "Thank you," she said, with a pointed look.
"I imagine you haven't brought much, but there should be some of my old things in your room," he said, turning back to his book. She frowned at him, suspicious once again.
"You're being a bit… kind, all of a sudden," she said tentatively.
"You're really in no position to question kindness," he replied, eyes scanning his book still. Figuring he was right, she bit her tongue and turned back to the tea and finished sifting out the leaves. On her way out the door, she grabbed a slice of bread from the bread basket to munch on her way up the stairs. As she left, she heard Dalamar over her shoulder. "Ale's in my quarters if you want it." She decided to make a mental note of that and began the long march up to her Shalafi's room.
He shut his book, internally shaking his head. Did she expect him to watch as she caught fire and burned to a crisp? Or, for that matter, to treat her like a prisoner for the rest of her life? He'd be gone long before her, probably, and for the time being he might as well make a friend. Life with Shalafi was often dull at best, anyway.
But above all that, this morning she'd successfully won his pity. She obviously hadn't slept at all the night before, and was clearly bored, frustrated, and lacking in the most basic of necessities. And even if she wasn't the most beautiful elf in the world, she was intelligent, and she certainly met his derisiveness well. And that was more than he could say for a lot of girls.