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Dalamar's Return	By : pip Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 2792 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the book(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter Two
Dalamar finally reached his chamber. Transportation spells required some concentration and his peace of mind was utterly shattered, so Dalamar had walked on legs that threatened to give up at every step. Weak light filtered through the small window. No candles were lit and the room was gloomy and grey. Dalamar turned to face the guardian that had followed him, hounding his steps. It chilled the room, and he shivered, remembering the feel of their hands on him. So cold. “Why are you here?”
The two disembodied eyes regarded him impassively. “The Master of the tower has commanded me to watch you, apprentice.”
“Well, you do not need to watch my dreams – get out. Surely it is enough to wait outside the door, you will hear me if I attempt to cast any spells.” He wanted – no – he needed to be alone. He had to think.
The guardian retreated to the outside, its eyes unblinking, as Dalamar slammed the door. He crossed the room, sat on the side of his bed, and silently held his head in his hands. The shalafi intended to break him. He would be left fit for nothing but aiding Raistlin. Guarding the tower, and watching for his return like some kind of mongrel dog. His lip curled in disgust at the comparison.
Desperately he tried to think of a way around it, but he realised there would be no fooling Raistlin. When Dalamar surrendered, it would be real. He felt a small thrill of anticipation, but he determined to ignore it, now realising it for what it was, and stood up. Unconsciously he clutched his torn robes in front of him. He was still so cold. Walking to the fireplace, he sank to his knees and began trying to light a fire, but his hands shook and it was useless.
Cursing in elven, he returned to his bed and lay curled up waiting for the trembling to stop. He fell asleep waiting.
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When he awoke some hours later it was full dark. Someone had been in to light the candles and the fire. Raistlin! He must have been in there. Dalamar shivered at the sudden mental image of his shalafi standing silently, watching him sleep.
There was water in a bowl standing on the table, and Dalamar stood carefully. His body still ached where the guardians had held him, and he shuddered as he remembered it. He walked over to the table and studied his reflection in the clean water. His skin was pale, and his eyes were too dark. Dalamar looked as frightened as he felt, and it angered him. He thrust his hands in the water and brought them to his face, wanting to wash away the memory of his return.
He changed his robes, sat down on a chair, and quietly stared into the fire, seeing nothing. Finally he began to seriously consider what would happen to him. What would the shalafi do? Killing him was out of the question, so what did that leave? Maybe the shalafi would play games with him, or perhaps it would be torture. Something quickened in him and he began to breathe a little faster. No, it was unthinkable. He remembered the thought he had in the study, that Raistlin could make a person beg for death. It would not come to that, he decided eventually. He would leave Raistlin no choice but to kill him.
As if conjured by his thoughts, Raistlin appeared silently, standing behind the chair. “I see you have rested.”
Dalamar sprang up in fright and turned to face his shalafi. Without even waiting for Raistlin to speak again, Dalamar whispered words to create a magical shield. His heartbeat accelerated as he prepared himself to fight. He could not harm Raistlin, but perhaps he could anger him. That was all he needed.
Meanwhile, Raistlin was laughing silently, his normally inscrutable golden eyes filled with amusement. Shaking his head, he walked towards Dalamar, his lips moving as he spoke the words that would leave Dalamar vulnerable to him again.
As the shield spell crumbled, Dalamar began to chant. Lightening flew from his fingers towards his opponent. Fireballs burst onto Raistlin, but he countered them all, almost carelessly, with a wave his hand. Dalamar summoned elementals to attack, but they disappeared immediately at one look from his shalafi. He threw everything he had, everything he knew into the effort, but his resistance was over too soon and by the end of it Dalamar was exhausted. Nothing had touched Raistlin. It was no more than Dalamar expected, but he was dismayed when he saw that Raistlin still regarded him with amusement.
He pushed Dalamar up against the wall. Raistlin must have realised how terrified he was, must have felt the trembling of his body. “That was unwise, apprentice. You are lucky. In other circumstances, I would find any attempt to stop me very infuriating.” His words were mocking and cruel, and Dalamar felt such despair that he moaned.
With one hand Raistlin reached to hold his neck, brushing his thumb over Dalamar’s pulse. “Do not worry so, Dalamar. I did say that I had no intention of killing you… at least, not yet.”
Dalamar was stunned into immobility by the horror Raistlin inspired, and he began to believe all was lost. His heartbeat was racing and he closed his eyes, making a conscious effort to slow it before he tried the one tactic he had left. Moving his hand slightly, he prepared himself to release the dagger that he wore secreted within his robes. Raistlin would not be prepared for it; he would be surprised. The dark elf held his breath, and then released the catch.
Nothing. His heart resumed its previous frantic rhythm.
“Dalamar.” Raistlin sighed heavily. “Now you are trying my patience.” In his hand, Raistlin held the dagger. He looked at it gleaming wickedly in the candlelight, and then threw it across the room. “But,” he admitted, “I would do no less.”
Dalamar opened his eyes when he heard the dagger striking the wall across the room, and instantly remembered everything he had heard the shalafi say about his youth. He remembered Raistlin telling him about learning sleight-of-hand from a street illusionist, and his legs went weak. This was it then. He let out the breath he had been holding and was horrified to hear himself sobbing.
Raistlin continued to press into Dalamar, even though the need for closeness had passed. He seemed to be enjoying his terror. He twisted his hand in Dalamar’s hair and pulled hard, hurting him. Tears filled Dalamar’s eyes in response to the pain, and as they fell Raistlin leaned in to taste them, his lips and tongue like burning fire on Dalamar’s cheek.
Even in his fear Dalamar could not help feeling a thrill at the gesture. He wanted to belong to this man. The one who was so assured of his subservience. With anyone else it was the other way around. They caught their breath when they first saw him. Dark elf! And already they were at a disadvantage; he could taste their submission before they spoke a word. He wondered if that was the reason for this fascination with his shalafi, this strange addiction. It was enthralling and exhilarating to be controlled and dominated. He sighed, almost with desire, as the thought crossed his mind that he had lost to Raistlin.
Suddenly Raistlin jerked Dalamar to him, and his arms involuntarily clutched at his shalafi. But he couldn’t save himself, he realised, he really had lost. And he heard Raistlin mumbling as he began to lose consciousness. He had endured enough…
The clicking of fingers brought him back. He was still standing but he had moved. Raistlin disentangled himself immediately and walked away. Dalamar swayed, and nearly fell, before he realised that they were in the laboratory. Why, he wondered, looking around. He sucked in a sudden deep breath when he saw the table cleared, ready for him. Strange and horrifying instruments were laid out, pots containing foul substances and living things, and there were chains.
Dalamar fell to his knees in terror. He had expected this, but to know that it would be him. He looked over at Raistlin, who stood near the fireplace, staring silently into the flames.
“Shalafi, please. You don’t need to do this.” The words were said in desperation, on his knees, in cold bright fear that pierced Dalamar as easily as any sword.
Raistlin looked over at him, and a sudden fleeting hunger gleamed in his eyes at the sight of his student kneeling before him, begging. Raistlin walked to the table, and beckoned. Dalamar could no more refuse to move than he could disappear. He was hypnotised. He stood and walked towards the table, towards inevitability.
By the time Raistlin had him on the table, Dalamar was shaking uncontrollably. Sweat beaded his brow and fell into his eyes. The pure horror of his situation held Dalamar still for the moment, but Raistlin chained him to the table despite this.
He closed his eyes as Raistlin picked up a knife. He was angry that he was still conscious, but he suspected Raistlin had ways to keep a person from fainting, and at the thought his heart missed a beat. He cried out when he felt Raistlin take hold of his robes, but there was no pain. And then he knew. Raistlin was cutting through the material, exposing him entirely. Dalamar looked up at his shalafi, pleading with his eyes again to be spared.
Raistlin finished with the knife and looked at the body laid before him. He ran his hand over Dalamar slowly, a deliberate reminder of the anatomy lesson. Dalamar forgot to breathe when he remembered the things his shalafi had said, remembered how much this man knew about pain. Raistlin laid his hand over the wounds on Dalamar’s chest when he saw the look his apprentice gave him, and let his nails dig in. “Part of you wants this; I have seen it in your eyes. You knew there was a price to pay when you returned.”
Dalamar writhed under Raistlin’s cruel hand, and he closed his eyes in agony. “Please, shalafi, I don’t know what you mean!” He called out the words, and shouted, “I never wanted this! Never!”
Raistlin removed his hand, and sighed irritably. “Look at me. I want you to understand yourself.” He took up the knife again and held it to Dalamar’s shoulder.
Dalamar opened his eyes again and felt the familiar drowning sensation as he stared up at Raistlin. He felt the same awful, paralysing terror. It was a fear that began in his toes and ended in his fingertips. Blood raced through his veins like lightening, making his skin all too sensitive, while ancient instincts kept him still and quiet. The pressure mounted, and it was a torment that lasted far too long. But then Raistlin began to cut into his flesh with the knife, and the spilling of his warm blood was secondary to the sudden freedom he felt when he could cry out, and move again. He needed more.
Raistlin’s words were heard as if from far away, “This must hurt you. All I require is that you look into my eyes, and ask me to stop.” No, Dalamar realised in distress; he did not want Raistlin to stop. The danger and excitement flowed within his blood like a drug, and he could not end it. A part of him realised the significance of this and he groaned wretchedly.
“Yes… Now you understand. Now you see your weakness. You know, perhaps more than any other, the tortures I am capable of inflicting, and yet you say nothing. Like a fool you give yourself to me, and I despise you for it,” he said, pressing the knife deeper into Dalamar’s flesh. Then his voice became cold.
“Now that you know yourself a little better apprentice, we can proceed.” Raistlin put down the knife, and looked away, selecting another tool. Dalamar watched his shalafi, the spell in those golden eyes broken for a second or two, and he did not know whether he felt relief, or loss. Soon it didn’t matter.
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Dalamar's Return