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Raistlin's Return	By : pip Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 2380 -:- 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 Three
And so he was here, sat at the desk ready to follow instructions once more. Ruled by his Shalafi as if no time had passed at all. He despised himself for his reactions even as he realised the reason for them. The torture had made him into a slave, and Raistlin was a cruel God. He glanced down at the book that was placed in front of him. Although he knew of the spell, he had never learnt it. He had certainly never used it. He was an elf though, perhaps it would not take too many years from him. It would take enough, he realised, as he read the description.
“…recommended that this spell only be used as a last resort, due to the penalty it incurs on the spellcaster. Dependent on many external factors, this spell will generally take a percentage of life equal to the amount given. The spellcaster must remain aware that their natural abilities will also be transferred, including magical ones…”
A part of him wondered if Fistandantilus himself had forced others to do this. Since Raistlin’s attempt to challenge Takhisis he had spent a lot of time studying in Palanthas, reading through the Chronicles, and he was certain he was right. Now he shared their fear, those students of so long ago. Cold hands clutched at his heart, and he knew he did not have the concentration required for this. He looked up at his Shalafi, pleading in his gaze, but Raistlin looked down on him without pity, demanding that he begin.
The spell was complicated, and for long hours he studied by the candlelight. His Shalafi hovered constantly, pacing back and forth before the window behind him. It seemed eerily like earlier times, when they were truly teacher and student. But now, every word he learnt made him feel a little older, every line he learnt he died a little. If learning the spell felt like this, how would the casting of it be? Dalamar was soon trembling in his place at the desk.
The spell took far longer to memorise than it should have, but Raistlin would not allow Dalamar to rest until he was ready to cast it. He deliberately took longer than necessary, wanting to delay the inevitable. But eventually it was done, and Dalamar only hoped that he would cast it incorrectly, or that the Gods would not allow the magic to work for this dark purpose.
He sat back and rubbed his eyes wearily. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so tired. He gave a startled cry when he felt those burning hands cover his, taking them away from his face, and pulling him from the chair.
And suddenly he knew it was too much to ask. He couldn’t do this. He opened his mouth to refuse Raistlin, and then caught his breath instead. His Shalafi had raised the hands he still held to his lips and kissed them. Sudden electricity raced through Dalamar, and the tiredness vanished. Raistlin looked at him and smiled, seeming to know all of his most intimate thoughts. He does know, Dalamar reminded himself bitterly, and he cursed himself for his earlier stupidity.
“You have everything you need, apprentice?” The words sounded almost solicitous, but there was an unmistakable hunger in Raistlin’s eyes that made Dalamar shiver.
“Yes, Shalafi, but – ” he stopped his protest at the warning look he was given. Raistlin shook his head and held a finger to Dalamar’s lips.
“Dalamar, I can force you to do this. But it will be far more pleasant, for both of us, if I do not have to.”
Dalamar stared at his Shalafi in horror. The enormity of what lay before him and the certain truth that he would do it one way or another made him feel light-headed, and it took an effort of will to stay on his feet. He really had become as Caramon or Crysania to Raistlin, and the knowledge ate away at his self-esteem and identity. Surely he was more than this?
Raistlin’s threat still hung between them, and Dalamar knew that being forced would destroy what little of himself he had left. He closed his eyes and blocked out all other thoughts, concentrating on recalling the words of the spell. Keeping his eyes closed – Raistlin himself was a distraction – he started to speak the spidery language of magic.
The spell was long, and mercifully he didn’t feel the magic taking anything from him as he cast it. He took care to inflect the words properly, and the ecstasy of the magic when it began told him he was speaking the words correctly. There was no room in his head for fear, even as he neared the end of the spell. His entire mind was filled with the magic, and it no longer mattered what the spell was for.
As he spoke the last word, the effects rushed in upon him. The sound of his voice was still in the air as he fell to the floor. Exhaustion was something he had become used to, but this was something different. The magic had left him, and taken a part of his essence with it. He was so weary; every part of him felt the same leaden tiredness, even his bones. Like old age, he thought suddenly; but there was no fear, or pain, just the unbearable fatigue. His elven vision dimmed, and he could not feel anything, not the cold floor beneath him, not the pain of the fall. He became certain it was the end as he lost consciousness, and he didn’t care.
Then thin arms were trying to get him to his feet. His eyes opened just barely. Shalafi. He closed his eyes again, but the insistent arms would not let him slip back into the deep sleep, and he awoke a little more. When he pulled himself to his feet Raistlin guided him to the chair and he sank down into it thankfully. He cared for nothing but being left to himself again.
He still couldn’t see properly, but he watched tiredly, his head resting on his arms, as Raistlin set up an unlit candle on the desk. Dalamar wondered for a moment how he would explain to the Conclave that he had given magic back to Raistlin Majere, and had to stifle an uncharacteristic giggle. He couldn’t really care about that either though, and the thought slipped from his mind.
Suddenly the candle was lit! Dalamar started in shock, even in his tiredness. The spell had worked! But then the candle flame began to dance wildly, and in the space of a couple of seconds the only sign that the candle had been lit was a long column of smoke that drifted lazily from the wick.
Raistlin swept the candle from the desk with one hand in anger. He turned to face Dalamar and grabbed hold of the dark elf’s robes. “You will try again,” he demanded.
His heart jumped in terror, and he shook his head instantly, his eyes wide. “Please! I cannot! I am so tired, Shalafi.” He had a startlingly clear vision of being kept awake all night, forced to relearn the spell at Raistlin’s command. It would kill him without a doubt.
Raistlin paused to consider this for a moment, he raised his hands and his thumbs brushed over the unnaturally dark shadows beneath Dalamar’s eyes. He finally seemed to see the sense of waiting. “You will try again tomorrow, apprentice, when you are fully rested.”
Then Raistlin began to laugh softly. Dalamar grew uneasy at that bizarre reaction, and he wondered what Raistlin could possibly find amusing. He was on the verge of asking when Raistlin spoke again. “You have aged, apprentice.”
The words intruded into his consciousness like hammer blows. Horrified, he looked into Raistlin’s eyes – hourglass eyes – and he knew that Raistlin must see the change in him. “Now, get out of my sight,” he said derisively, looking away from the dark elf.
Dalamar struggled to his feet and stumbled unsteadily to the door. He no longer cared about the offhand way he was treated. His body and mind cried out for sleep. He left the study defeated, as he had once so long ago, with Raistlin standing, staring blankly out of the window.
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Raistlin's Return