b - l - a - d - e' - s - - e - d - g - e

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It had been a week of more silent, grudging deliveries and refraining from manipulating Dalamar. This newly repetitive lifestyle had Sikeen's mind utterly numb. Within the Tower, she had no way to keep track of the days. She'd given up on her count during the bout of sleeplessness that had caused night to blend into morning and part of her feared that if she asked Dalamar what the day was, more time than she suspected may have passed. That same part of her suggested she probably didn't really want to know how long her imprisonment had lasted thus far. Keeping herself from asking, she was kept completely blind to the date.

But Raistlin was not. Rather, he kept close track of the days, taking great care to meet his personal deadlines in magical research. It was particularly cold one morning and upon consulting his calendar book, a mild surprise hit him. Marked on the page for today's date was something he was sure he did not write. It was in looping, slanted script that he could have never hoped to replicate – at least not without magic.

Yule Welcoming.

Rolling his eyes, he shut the book and coughed dryly, pulling his robe closely around him and returning the book to its drawer.

Dalamar, meanwhile, greeted the day with a tall glass of ale. Today, he was going to make a solid attempt to get back in Sikeen's good books. Lately she'd stopped harassing him to deliver tea to Shalafi, which left him without the opportunity to appease her, but today brought a new chance. He hadn't heard her moving about yet but she had to have been awake. After all, it was past dawn, and she was supposed to have delivered tea in the morning. Waiting on the landing, he listened for any disturbance in the kitchen. It was silent – she must still be in her room.

Knocking quietly, he took a step back and waited. There was no answer at first. But after a few moments he heard the telltale sound of the bed creaking. Ah, so she'd gone back to sleep. Dragging her feet, she forced herself to the door and pulled it open with a wide yawn.

"Yes, Dalamar the Discourteous?" she greeted, stressing the last word and wiping the sleep from her eyes. What time was it, anyway? His heart lurched a bit. Would she be annoyed with him for waking her?

"Morning. Do you know the date?" She stared at him, hollow. This was what he'd woken her for? She was about to shut the door in his face when he continued. "It's the Yule Welcoming." Eyes narrowed, her groggy mind attempted to make sense of what he was saying.

"Is that a holiday in Palanthas? Or did you just make it up?"

"It's was a festival and a holiday in Istar," he clarified. So he'd come to inform her of a holiday celebrated by a dead city. Lovely.

"We're in Palanthas." Realizing she was about to shut the door on him again, he reached out to slam his palm against it. "Look. I know it's not your holiday, but it's a holiday. And though you've had your revenge against me I never had another chance to really apologize, truly. I don't know what came over me, and it'll never happen again. I swear it." Now that she was more or less awake, she could see he was earnest. Sikeen, however, was not particularly interested in forgiveness. Servitude, perhaps.

"That's very good to hear," she said, hoping he would be done soon.

"Isn't it boring? Being here? Surely you can't be having a great deal of fun by yourself. I want to start again because we're both miserable by ourselves." He knew that one might be a stretch. There was a chance Sikeen was perfectly fine without him. But judging by the hollow look that too often kept her eyes bleak, he figured it was unlikely. She sighed again, fully aware that he was desperate. Along with that, he wasn't quite wrong. Of course she was bored. Apparently, so was he. Having a friend again would certainly alleviate that a bit.

"Yes, it is boring." She hesitated for a moment. "Fine. Friends," she finished with a cold smile. He hoped she wasn't just trying to get rid of him. Like a dart, her hand shot out and snatched the glass of ale from his hand. "Cards in the library in twenty minutes. I have to make tea."

"That won't be necessary," came a voice from the hallway. Raistlin had already crossed the landing and was now beginning the second flight of stairs. "Dalamar, get the bloody fire going in my quarters." Both Sikeen and Dalamar exchanged a look, wandering out onto the landing to watch the mage descend.

"Why all the energy, Shalafi?" called Sikeen, crossing her arms over her chest. He hadn't made his own tea since the incident with Dalamar. Raistlin looked over his shoulder, lips twisted into a sarcastic grin.

"It's the Yule Welcoming," he answered with a scoff. His apprentice grinned. So he'd found the note Dalamar had scrawled into his master's planner months ago. At the time, it was supposed to have been a joke, reminding Raistlin of his own days in Istar. Luckily, it made sense with his recent apology and the premise he'd given for offering it today. With all three of them thinking about the dead festival, it almost felt like a real reason to celebrate.

"I take it this is your doing?" asked Sikeen, raising a brow at Dalamar. He only shrugged, grinning. "You'd better have the fire ready by the time he gets back upstairs." With that, she left to bathe.

In reality, Raistlin had only gone to make the tea himself because Sikeen was late, and it was even colder in his room than usual. The Yule Welcoming also indicated to him that it was now the coldest part of the winter, and Dalamar was going to have to start maintaining the fire constantly. Though he could have done it himself, his health having been slightly better recently, he'd grown used to having the elves tend to his needs. When he'd grown tired of waiting for Sikeen and heard the two of them talking on the landing, it had piqued his interest, too. So they were on good terms again. Something about that filled Raistlin with an irrational distaste.

The fire in the kitchen kept the room far warmer than his own, so he enjoyed his tea at the table, velvet robes wrapped closely around him. Sikeen came down after her bath. Whether or not the holiday was buried with Istar, there certainly was something special about today. Perhaps it was the absence of the sound of wind whipping around the tower. Though it had been quiet for a few days now, the silence was especially noticeable this afternoon. Or perhaps it was seeing Raistlin make his own tea for once – this time without the stress of the Dalamar incident. Seeing him move around was refreshing today. Reaching for her usual slice of plain bread, she leaned against the counter and watched him scanning the pages of another old tome while he drank his tea.

"Feeling well today?" she asked, taking a bite.

"You were late," he replied, refusing to look up at her. She raised a brow.

"I'm always late."

"It was cold, too," he hissed. For someone still shy of thirty-five, he did a fine job of acting like an old man sometimes.

"Ah, so it wasn't just holiday cheer. Pity," she drawled, flipping her hair over her shoulder and turning to look through the fruit basket. Finally, he glanced up. Sikeen's hair was still wet from her bath, clinging to Dalamar's old shirt. Idly, he wondered what she wore before she came here. Skirts, probably. But what colors? What about when she killed? Would men's clothing allow for greater movement? His mind wandered further. She always wore Dalamar's clothes. What would she look like in his? The long black robes would hang off her shoulders like a blanket. Shaking his head, he tried to push the thought from his mind. She didn't even practice magic. The robes were for him and him alone.

She turned around abruptly, biting into an apple. Gods, he'd been staring at her when her back was turned.

"What're you looking at?" she asked, fiercely resisting a blush.

"Do you practice magic, Sikeen?" he asked, curious. "You are Silvanesti, are you not?" Well, that was unexpected.

"I've never bothered," she said quickly. The truth was, she had no respect for magic or mages, or any of their business. Raistlin stared at her, eyes narrowed. It was likely that she did have some magical ability, wasn't it? It was in her origins.

"When did you leave Silvanesti?"

"I was sixteen," she answered, hating that he was asking. She knew what was coming next.

"And how old are you now, exactly? In elven years?" She gritted her teeth before replying.

"Twenty-three," she said quietly, crossing her arms over her chest.

He stared at her. Here he was, hoping that perhaps she was older than she looked by elven count. Dalamar, after all, was far older than he looked. But Sikeen was still a child by her race's standards. Still, she was older than he'd assumed in human years. In fact, he'd thought she looked closer to seventeen. At least that was some consolation for his attraction to her, in a way. "Younger than you thought?" she continued, wishing she were older. He took a slow sip, staring at her still over the edge of his cup.

"I'd assumed you were even younger by human count," he said evenly. "You look younger than twenty-three."

"Why does it matter how old I am by human count?" Why was he trying to define her by his own race's standards? Despite hating her homeland, she'd always been a bit proud that she was elf-kind.

"You could be magi, Sikeen," he added abruptly, changing the subject to what he really wanted to discuss. At her scoff, his heart sank just a bit.

"Please. I'll never practice magic. I have other skills that serve me well enough," she insisted, taking another bite of her apple.

"You're trapped in a tower with two mages for the rest of your life. Perhaps you mean your skills served you well enough in the outside world? Or are you still planning to murder us?" She chewed slowly, thinking this over.

"Raistlin." She paused. "Shalafi. I'm an elf. I'll outlive you. If I don't escape, I can simply wait until you die. And when there is no master of this tower, I'll bid my leave." The thought had been stewing in the back of her mind for some time. Raistlin would die far sooner than her or Dalamar. As long as Dalamar wasn't the official master of the tower, perhaps she could pass through the Grove without his permission. Raistlin sneered, realizing he probably shouldn't have been surprised at her idea.

"You seem to misunderstand the nature of the Shoiken Grove. When I am dead, there will be no way for you to travel through it. Only my magic can help you do that. So, when I die, you'll be even more trapped than you are now. And should Dalamar become the next master of the Tower, you'll remain trapped for all of his long life as well." He paused, placing his cup on the table. "At least you have your youth," he added sarcastically.

Sikeen burned, loathing him and his reasoning. So she either depended on Raistlin entirely to let her leave, or she was to convince Dalamar that she deserved freedom so that he could eventually go against his dead Shalafi's wishes and allow her to escape. Perhaps she could win over Dalamar. But that plan involved staying in the Tower for far longer than she wanted to. She hated to think of it, but that idea also involved another pivotal point she didn't particularly want to be a part of: watching Raistlin die.

And wouldn't she have to do that anyway? Since Raistlin seemed so opposed to allowing her to leave? Eventually, he would die, and she would still be here. What would it be like, watching the most powerful mortal being waste away? Would he simply fail to wake one morning? Or would he cough violently, choking on his own blood? For the first time, Sikeen had to admit it – Raistlin may have been her keeper, but he had earned her respect. He was supremely powerful. And watching someone like that surrender to death would be painful. Especially, she realized, since it was him. Despite all the bitterness associated with her entrapment, she was forced to recall numerous occasions on which he'd showed her his kindness. Letting her sleep in his room, reprimanding Dalamar for what he'd done to her, healing her on multiple occasions… He really wasn't as monstrous as she'd thought.

A faraway look had overtaken her eyes. Curious, Raistlin watched as she seemed to progress from challenging him to pondering something else.

"What is it?" he asked. She dragged her gaze back to him from where it had settled, on the fire.

"I want to tell you my story," she started. He didn't reply, overcome with shock. Now? Suddenly? Why? When he said nothing, she continued. "I grew up in a prison." There was a heavy stillness in the room, and she knew that it was safe to tell him. Here, in the kitchen, on the day of the Yule Welcoming. At least, it felt safe, and that was good enough for her. "I was born of wedlock, my father going behind his wife's back to fool around with elves of little status. I heard he was part of the Court. I would have been royalty if I'd been his wife's. A duchess, maybe," she paused, frowning, as if deciding this was not a part she wished to discuss. "The prison was underground, each cell separated from the outside world. Sometimes, if you listened carefully, you could hear people moving about above ground. They stuck me in there right away, right after my mother was done nursing me. My father had given the order to lock me up, probably in an attempt to keep his wife or anyone else in the Court finding out about me. I stayed there for nearly thirteen years. My mother never came."

Raistlin, stunned, listened carefully, soaking in every word. When he'd asked her about all this earlier she'd panicked, insisting that he leave. Afterward, she'd been unable to remember him asking, her mind blocking out the very memory of his invasion. So what was allowing her to tell him now? She had to have trusted him. Either way, it was a horrific tale, and he knew better than to ask for her reasons behind telling it. Perhaps she'd never told anyone before.

Or perhaps he was the first to listen.

"There was a man who visited me twice a day to bring food. I don't know who he was, but he did unspeakable things. I was only a child, yet he treated me like a grown woman. Trapped in that cell, I suppose I had no choice but to comply. I feared he would stop bringing food, or kill me with his bare hands. When I was fifteen, I killed him first. It was with a fork." She paused again, as if recounting the memory. "He had the key to the latch on the ceiling, but I was too afraid to leave for three days. For three days, I stayed of my own account in that tiny cell with that stinking body." Raistlin bit back a cough, not wanting to interrupt her in any way. What she'd told him was grotesque, and he thought for a moment he might actually gag at the thought of a fifteen-year-old girl trapped in a pitch-black cell with the body of her abuser. He resisted the urge to vomit and she continued. "It was nighttime when I finally worked up my courage. Since then, I've never been completely tolerant of bright light. The sun makes me tired and it makes my skin burn if I feel it for too long. This is what happens to an elf who grows in darkness. I never became beautiful like the others, who were nourished by the sun's light. I never grew close to the wood, and so I never grew close to Silvanesti.

"I knew as soon as I escaped I had to get as far away from that place as I could, and fast. I was resolute and terrified, and I guess a little feral from such little contact with others. The only person I'd truly known was the man who brought food. And so, in my suspicion, I killed the few who attempted to come close to me. I kept running to the West, following the sunset. My reputation as a killer was already developing before I learned the ways of the world. It was months before I finally met someone who could help me make use of my skills. It was a man who went by Farragin at the time who offered me a room in his inn and a chance to build a life for myself. He was the first person I couldn't kill. As it turned out, Farragin wasn't just an inn-keeper. He ran a sly business, going by many names, killing for extra income. No one knew him well, and so no one knew me well. It was he who taught me how to kill stealthily, without getting caught. I made a great deal of money, but I finally met my match in a mage." At this, she stared pointedly at Raistlin, who was expecting her to go on. When she didn't, he coughed.

"And who might that be?" he asked, horribly intrigued. Her story was gruesome, and it was with grim curiosity that he implored her to continue.

"I did not know their names. But he was the first to catch me before I could take his life, and he was the one to report me to the Conclave. They wanted to send me back to the Silvanesti, since that's where I'd told them I came from. They wanted the Court to execute me. They would have."

"And what prevented them from doing so?" asked Raistlin. What could control the decisions of the Conclave? On behalf of Sikeen? Surely nothing short of a god. She hesitated before answering, unsure if Raistlin would even believe her answer.

"Er, Paladine."

Of course. So he'd been right. Nodding slowly, he sipped the tea once more. Paladine, the same god who had granted him reprieve after he sacrificed his health. So Paladine himself was responsible for sending Sikeen to him. He thought idly of Crysania, who had been a cleric of the same god.

"Tell me, Sikeen, who was responsible for sending you to Palanthas? Was it the Conclave's decision?" he asked. If it was the god again… She recalled the conversation she'd overheard the night of her sentencing, chained to her cage.

"Yes, it was the Conclave's decision. Paladine prevented my execution. He didn't decide to send me here." Raistlin nodded again, staring into the fire. So their meeting was chance, after all. Unless Paladine had known the Conclave would send her to him, it was most certainly chance. But then again, he could have known. Gods worked in mysterious, unpredictable ways sometimes.

And he could have intended for her to be sent to Dalamar, rather than him. Sikeen had been right about her outliving him. Raistlin would die, and then Dalamar would likely have Sikeen to himself. There was no way to decide what Paladine had been thinking when he'd saved a killer from her punishment. She could have simply been given another chance at life, and it could have had nothing at all to do with Raistlin or Dalamar. Or Paladine may have decided that death was too quick a punishment for someone who had committed so many grievous crimes. But whatever his reasons for saving Sikeen were, they were right. Paladine stood only for what was lawful.

And regardless of any of that, she'd shared her story with him. As they both stared into the low flames, a peculiar calm flowed between them. She'd been right – it was safe to tell him. In fact, she was happy to have told him. Now she could safely say that he truly did know her better than anyone else did. There was something reassuring about someone knowing her secrets.

The calm was so pervasive that as she gazed into the fire that she didn't even notice when he stood up, the black velvet of his robes trailing after him as he moved toward her. Slowly, with the slightest shake in his hands, he brushed his fingers against her cheek. Immediately, she knew what he intended to do. She should have shrank away. She should have pushed him and stormed up the stairs.

But instead, she leaned up toward him to meet his lips, letting her fingers tangle themselves in velvet. Her heart swelled and as she pressed herself against him, he, too, wrapped his arms around her to pull her nearer. Never had she been so thrilled to feel closeness with another – he made her want to kiss him again and again so the overwhelming sensation of security and wanting would never fade. He refused to consider the implications of what he was doing. It felt too good to connect with her, both physically and mentally. Despite his ego, he couldn't help but feel honored that she'd finally shared her story with him, and this felt like a way to keep their bonding over secrets living on. Their connection was too precious to let go, and he realized now that he would covet it like a gemstone, if only for the moment.

"Sikeen, are we still—" Instantly, Dalamar's voice jolted them, sending them flying away from each other. The light of the Staff of Magius, still standing by the table, flickered violently for a moment. Stunned, Dalamar stood in the doorway, his mouth left slightly open after his voice abandoned him.

No one uttered a word.

AN: Whoo, cliffhanger! I hope this chapter brought a little bit of DL-themed cheer to your holiday season. I don't celebrate Christmas, but for those of you who do – I hope you've had a wonderful holiday! And for those of you who celebrate Hanukkah or the Yule, I hope you're having a wonderful holiday season as well. Write me reviews!