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Evermore: The Gathering	By : RosaTenebrum Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 9663 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Dragonlance series, 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 21

The water was cold.

She hunched forward, hugging her knees to her chest, and shivered as her flesh became exposed to the cool air. Her hair hung in a wet rope down her back; the water drizzled in rivulets along her skin, dripping from the tips of her lashes.

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against her knees, a still figure in the white marble tub.

Sky blue, rose red, ivy green: those she struggled to remember.

What she had tried to forget remained: the pair of large, astute eyes with a look that was keen and penetrating, yet also soft and seductive; the finely structured face framed with wavy white hair which softly brushed his shoulders; the gorgeous, slim-fingered hands that could hold both fire and ice; the smile which set off his high cheekbones in such a way that her breath was nearly stolen from her.

"Revered Daughter of Paladine. I hope I find you well?"

"I do not believe we need to exchange meaningless social amenities."

She should have known from the start. He walked into the room and turned her every assumption upside down: this was not a pitiful creature who had chosen darkness out of weakness. She had not expected to meet someone so intelligent, so self-assured, with the manners and eloquence of a perfectly bred gentleman. She had not expected to be struck by an observation as disturbing as it was thrilling: the mage had cruel good looks that made her weak in the knees. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before - except maybe once when as a young girl she had come across a drawing of a convicted murderer in one of the journals in her father's library.

That was an early sign she should have recognised.

Crysania opened her eyes and sat upright. Her hand found the sponge; she did not squeeze it dry but slid it across her shoulder, then down her arm, wincing at the icy touch.

"If you truly do not fear knowledge, then come to the Tower two nights from this night, when Lunitari makes its first appearance in the sky."

She could neither stand up nor sit down, waiting for the day of the visit. All she knew was that she checked herself in the mirror a few times too many before setting out towards the Shoikan Grove.

That too could have been a hint.

Or that the Tower was lovely, not at all scary. The crackling logs, the soft couch piled with pillows in exotic colours, the lamps creating softly glowing pools of light here and there. And books, books everywhere: books in black bindings with silver engraving, books in red bindings with gold lettering. But most of all the Tower was lovely because he was there.

He handed her a warming glass of spiced wine - what did Paladine think of clerics who took wine from black-robed mages? - and then they talked. She found it almost impossible to look him in the eye, because every time she did, she started feeling funny. She was mumbling, she could not concentrate; her arguments were weak and lame because she wasn't thinking of what she was saying, she was thinking of the fact that he was sitting so close to her.

That was when she should have known.

But she reasoned to herself that Raistlin Majere's strange loveliness was Paladine's way of testing her. Many a time, at least once an hour, she had to remind herself why she was there: not to observe the mage's face and voice, but to bring him to Paladine. But it was hard, so hard to remember, because his hair looked so very soft to the touch and when they talked he caught her meaning from half a word. His conversation was brilliant and precise, his knowledge dizzyingly vast; now it was she who ended up confused, she who had once derived such wicked pleasure from baffling her dance partners, and she did not know what to do.

But in all that learnedness and polish, there was a also a cruel streak that sometimes shone through: he openly mocked her beliefs and moral convictions, doing it so elegantly and matter-of-factly, in an unaltered tone, that it only deepened her painful confusion. All her life she had been treated with dignity and respect, all her life she had learnt to hide passion, and now, with him, she was raw. Naked. Trembling with rage and hurt. Unacceptable, her mother whispered in her ear. But she took more wine and remained where she was. For eleven hours she stayed in the Tower, allowing herself and her god to be ridiculed, hellishly torn between wanting to run and wanting to stay. Because she had never met anyone to whom she was so terrifyingly drawn, and the real world, seen through the narrow window, was far below.

"Perhaps Paladine did not send you to stop me, Lady Crysania. Perhaps He sent you to help."

Crysania scooped up handfuls of water and sloshed it over her eyes. She was shaking from the cold, but that was nothing: even ice felt warm when she remembered.

The bitter grace of hindsight. She had been so proud of her vision, the spectacular vision she had waited for over two years, determined to put everyone in the wrong about her, to prove to Paladine that a young aristocratic lady could become one of His Revered Daughters. Platinum Father, give me a Test of Faith extremely difficult, give me a real challenge.

She had wanted something complicated, and that's what she got. A howling wind, a burning name in the darkness, surrounded by red roses. And out of that darkness, horrid images of death and destruction; dancing flames, the sickening smell of a smoke coiling off burnt flesh. He will destroy the world. He will call back the Dark Goddess, and everyone will suffer. You will stop him, my daughter. You will bring him back to light. Alone.

But in the Tower he told her that he wasn't going to bring back the evil; he was going to drive it away. It was Paladine's word against Raistlin's, and she chose to believe Raistlin, the fool that she was.

Crysania put her right hand up and ran a wet finger along the scar on the inside of the wrist, tracing its jagged edges and curves. When she came to the end she did it again, this time with her numb middle finger; when you used that finger, it was as if the scar did not even exist. But she knew it was there, forever jeering, forever blaming.

Shuddering, she crossed her arms and took her breasts in hand.

She should have known after the Tower.

She should have known from the way she would kiss the silver triangle above her cot, rather more passionately than usual. Or from the way she would sit on the edge of the bed, distraught, unable to eat or sleep, not knowing where to look or what to do with herself. How was it even possible to know a man for a few hours and feel this emptiness when he was gone? Often she would climb the stairs to the temple roof to look at the Tower lost in the mists, so small that it fit between her thumb and forefinger. She tried but she could not speak his name, not even to herself.

She should have known from how he made her pray. During the day she was fine, but at night he was with her more vividly than she could quite handle. She dreamt of him doing nasty things to her, things she'd never experienced, things she had always considered unnecessary and unwanted, and she let him; from those dreams she would awake with a moan to a wild pulse beating between her thighs.

Crysania gave a little trembling sigh. Her nipples stood hard against her palms; sensitive, almost painful, as she moved her fingers. Shame pressed down on her: she'd had one of those dreams again last night, not detailed or clear, but she had felt his presence in ways that terrified her. Disgusted with herself, she dropped her hands to her ankles, plunging them underwater, even as her mind plunged deeper into memory.

Istarian moonlight, red wine. It is well past midnight, and it feels like they are the only two people left in the world, the only two people who matter.

"My parents wanted me to get married, of course. They wanted me to have lots and lots of children to carry on the family name." She sips the wine, still indignant at the demand. "But I knew there was something in me, something different. You know that feeling so well, don't you?"

He is listening to her with a smile; leaning his elbow on the table, his jaw on his fist. "Didn't I tell you we're so alike? Only you didn't believe me."

"I never said that!" She is a little bit flushed; the wine, him.

"You didn't have to. I saw it on your face. You were appalled." There is a playful look in his eyes; he takes her hand on the table, his thumb making little circles on her skin, between the maps and the notes and the candles.

"I was not." She looks at his hand clasping hers: please don't stop doing what you're doing.

"You were. I saw that face." A grin plays on his lips. He gives her fingers what she thinks is an affectionate squeeze and lets go.

"Well. Can you blame me? I didn't know if I should trust a man who can shoot fire, turn people to stone and create hurricanes."

"And earthquakes. Don't forget earthquakes."

"Oh. You can cause earthquakes?"

He raises a hand and touches her cheek with its back, gently, and says in a feverish whisper, "Believe me, I can make the whole world tremble."

With a touch of shame Crysania recalled her flimsy dress, her painted face; he had twisted her into something she had never thought she would be. She had wanted so desperately to measure up to him, to please his eye as well as his brain. For the first time in her life, she wanted to be small and vulnerable in a man's arms and not know everything.

That, at the latest, was when a brave woman would have admitted the truth which had been staring her in the face for a long time.

Love? But the thought terrified her and she covered it with an explanation close enough yet much easier to bear: we must show Paladine's exemplary love in our actions, it must extend to everyone, no matter which colour your robe.

The camp in Dergoth, oil lamps burning; the tent hot and heavy in the summer night.

They are sitting side by side on the long bench and they are laughing, because they have just finished a brief conversation in a dead language both had thought no one else read.

His hand is behind her, almost resting on her lower back; sometimes he reaches for something on the table, and their bodies touch, as if by accident.

"And we will go through here..." He points at the map, drawing a route with his finger through the mountain pass, all the way to the fortress standing on top of a rock.

"Is that where the portal is?" His robe is soft against her bare arm; she leans closer, on the pretense of getting a better view, inhaling the faint scent of roses surrounding him.

"Yes." He studies her face: whenever he looks her in the eye, time and space seem to fade. "Are you afraid?"

She shakes her head. Not if you're there to hold me. But Paladine is watching, and she does not say it aloud.

He smiles; those cheekbones. "Good. Opening the portal will be the hardest part. We need perfect harmony, perfect trust."

She nods. I'd trust you with my life. "And then?"

He gazes deep into her eyes. "And then, then we'll drive Her away forever from the world, you and I."

Lies. All lies.

Or, desperate acts of a lonely man.

With a deep, forlorn sigh Crysania leaned her elbow on the side of the tub and covered her eyes with her hand, every corner of her soul resonating with awful guilt. He'd wanted to be saved. He didn't have the strength to do it on his own. He had wanted to be loved, and loving him would have made all the difference in the world. But she had failed, and her failure sat like a stone inside her which wouldn't move: her failure to make him love her, her failure to express her own love. All she had to do was open her mouth and say it, instead of expecting him to read her mind, and the different man inside him would have got out.

The scene that played through her mind was painful, almost too painful to watch, but she was powerless to stop the images. She saw herself taking his hand and looking him in the eye, bravely speaking the truth: I'm in love with you, I have never known anyone like you. His eyes would have smiled then, he would have drawn her into his arms in relief and love: no more guessing, no more confusion. They would have left and gone back home. Together. She would still see.

Crysania covered her mouth with her hand, alarmed at her thoughts. She was questioning Paladine's will, and that was wrong.

Second chances: that was also Paladine's will.

Raistlin had once been a red-robe. It made perfect sense: no one was born evil and deep inside everyone wanted to be good, did they not? I have thought about things, he'd said to her yesterday. Had he really gone to the altar in the Gardens, like he said he would?

Crysania no longer noticed the cold. She continued to sit in the water, and out of the turmoil of her mind one thought emerged bright and clear: it could be different this time. She held that thought, dazzled by it, but then a sudden feeling of dread rushed over her body. Just what was she thinking? She bolted upright and rubbed her face violently with both hands, trying to banish the dreadful visions by sheer force, making herself remember the things she had, for a moment, conveniently shut out of her head. Such as the fact that he delighted in winding her up, like yesterday, so that she was upset and uncomfortable all the time. You needed to be quick to keep up with him in conversation, and she was constantly afraid of letting him down, feeling terribly fatigued and drained afterwards. And his words, good god, how mean he could be.

"Please stay, Raistlin. I want you to stay."

She catches hold of his hand with both of hers, resting her cheek in his palm, and in a sudden flash of movement he draws her into his arms and starts caressing her fiercely, almost desperately, his haste born from months of frustration and longing building up between them; still, she is taken by complete surprise, she is a little shocked at his eagerness and thus slow to respond, but isn't this something she too has been vaguely hoping for for a long time? Now he pins her down on the ground, and she can feel, under the layer of his robe, how hard he is against her hip; now he puts his hand on her breast, panting, now turns her over to lie on top of him. Things are moving so fast she can't quite keep up with him; he starts to unbuckle his belt with his other hand and she thinks, No, no, this can't be happening. My vows... But she knows she couldn't say no to him....

And then, all of a sudden: "You almost got me tricked, didn't you?" The tiny flicker of warmth in his eyes is gone. He shoves her to the ground, he takes hold of her dress and rips it, he grabs a handful of her hair and pulls her head backwards so that she has to face him. "Is this what you want, Revered Daughter?" he says, spitting the words out with contempt. "What would your god say if He saw you now, spreading your legs like a whore? Is this what you've been praying for, that I would fall victim to your charms? Why don't you wait for my brother - he'll entertain you! He'll fuck you senseless, if that's what you want, and maybe when your head's clear again we can continue discussing our plan."

What was it that she had said or done wrong? A movement she made? A sound? She hadn't expected it. Had she expected it? Did she do anything to provoke him?

Crysania's hand rose to her lip, instinctively, feeling the tender flesh. Raistlin had left her in the woods, and only then did she taste the blood where pain had flashed: one of her own fingernails had cut her. An accident, an unfortunate collision: if she hadn't been on her knees on the ground and he standing, if she hadn't seized his hand at the wrong moment, trying to calm him down, if he hadn't snatched his hand away... Closing her eyes, Crysania saw Caramon Majere's stern, pitying gaze and heard his voice like it was yesterday: "I guess your dress tore itself, too?"

She had learnt. She never tried to touch Raistlin again.

And then the end, abrupt and brutal. You did what I wanted. Farewell.

Crysania raked her hands through her damp hair, still raw with the memory, and another thing that Caramon had once said to her came rushing back: He's using you, just like he used me. And he'll throw you away when he's finished. Poor, kind Caramon who, irony of ironies, had confessed his love to her with his heart in his eyes. He had known what was going on from day one, he had known where she would end up with his brother, but had she for a second believed him? It had been so easy to accept Raistlin's view of Caramon, when he said his twin was a witless fool, belittling him at every opportunity and calling him mean names. How long had it been going on, and for what reason? She had pitied - no, despised - Caramon's weakness for drink, but now that she looked at it she was starting to see the situation in a different light. Was it possible that the human wreck she had met in Solace, all self-esteem taken from him, was the result of years of being exposed to Raistlin?

It had taken her far less than that to crash and burn. Within just a year she had descended into the deepest pits of hell and made a sorry spectacle of herself - just like her mother had said when she'd cut her hair at the age of sixteen in a childish rebellion. Crysania Tarinius, you have made a sorry spectacle of yourself.

After the Abyss, after Raistlin, her entire sense of self had been unfastened. She had spent hours wondering what she could have done to make herself less discardable, feeling incredibly stupid and absolutely worthless. And she'd had terrible, angry thoughts towards Paladine: I dedicated my life to you, so how dare you take it all away from me? It had taken a long time to accept the simple truth: the ones Paladine loved the most He also tested the most. She could have become bitter and turn her back to the Platinum Father, but little by little she had understood that this too, this harsh punishment, was part of her Test of Faith, and in the end, when she had been able to think of Raistlin again, not very often and then only briefly, she had even managed to pray for Paladine's forgiveness for him.

She did not think anyone had ever loved him like she did, not even his brother who adored him.

How could it be wrong to love?

She could have reversed all those cold words.

She could.

"The darkness parted, didn't it? The darkness parted, and you came in."

The water kept getting colder even as her shaking was getting worse. How long had she been sitting there? Two hours, at least. Araminta would soon start to worry. Everyone was constantly worried for her, like she was a helpless child, and suddenly that thought irritated her greatly, almost as greatly as the thought of the Evensong service she would have to attend soon; once again she would have to put on the mask of the perfect cleric and stand there like a statue for everyone to gawk at. She had hardly got through today's audiences, her concentration going astray every other minute, and with a growing sense of dismay she thought ahead to the grand service in two days' time, the one she would have to lead and which would draw people in their hundreds to see the next head of the church in action. The elder clerics would be there too, in the front row, and just like always she would sense their suspicion and distrust in her abilities.

She covered her face with her hands. She seemed to herself erased, featureless. Like she was sitting on the brink of an endless void.

When had she last felt alive? Yes. With him.

Trying not to get any more of these scary, involuntary thoughts, Crysania grabbed the sides of the tub and started to rise.

She was halfway out of the water when she suddenly paused.

Soft as a sigh, she bent her knees and sank back into her cold, wet shelter.
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Evermore: The Gathering