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Engraven
By : Skullbearer
Category: A through F > Dragonlance
Views: 1949 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: 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
A strange little interlude.
Engraven.
Night Dreams Redux
Your city lies in dust
Ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend.
Siouxsie and the Banshees, Cities in Dust
It was always the same, like walking down the same old road. The rain pouring down out of a gray, broken sky, the icy southern wind whipping at the iron clouds, the cold sinking into his bones.
He leant back against the wall, in his usual place beside one of the few buildings in the slum built of stone rather than the wood of stranded ships, if not the ships themselves.
The familiar numbness froze him inside. He didn't feel anything, not the rain running down his face nor the damp fabric of his robes clinging to his thin frame.
As always, he heard the familiar footsteps coming down the mud choked street.
He knew what would come next, it had happened so often. He'd seen this, felt this so many times that he couldn't muster enough energy to care. As always, the hand on his shoulder, the slurred proposition by a man so filthy he barely seemed human.
He didn't want this, he'd never wanted this, but when you were so hungry you could barely stand then what choice was there?
He would nod, as always, agree. Step into a back alley because while some may service their customers in broad sight, his tattered pride refused to do so. He would fight down the twisting revulsion he felt as he serviced this stranger, and try to ignore the sickening taste of the man's release. And he would be left, coughing and retching in the alley with only a few grubby coppers for his pains. As always.
The footsteps were closer now, and as usual he continued to stare off into the distance, crushing down his emotions under a wall of ice.
A filthy, mud stained hand on his shoulder, "How much for a good time?" a sticking breath reeking of dwarf spirits.
He knew what he would say, what he always said; 'Three coppers,' a nod, a few steps, kneeling down in an alley, another violation.
"I am not for sale."
"Oh really?" A hand brushing down his side, a prod in the ribs. "Big talk for someone dying on his feet, whore, now how much?"
"No." He started to turn away.
"You-" The man caught hold of his shoulder.
"I suggest you take your vile hands off him unless you wish to lose them." A soft, deadly voice came from behind them.
His lips twitched in a smile and he looked back, past the stranger to the furious mage behind. Magic crackled from those slender golden hands.
"All right, all right." The man took his hand off his shoulder and lifted both in the air, "I'm going, I'm going. Didn't know he was taken." Hands still raised, he shuffled away down the street.
He watched him go, feeling strange, then hands slid around his thin waist and warm lips were pressed against the back of his neck-
-And then Dalamar woke up, disorientated. What was Raistlin doing in Tarsis? No wait...
The ground was hard beneath him and a bunch of blankets lay in a tangled heap around his waist. Slowly he came back to himself; he was not in Tarsis, had not been in Tarsis for years. He was in the Sentinel peaks, wrapped up in his bedroll with Raistlin lying warm against his back, an arm still thrown over him.
Fragments of the dream returned to him, and Dalamar bit the corner of his blanket to keep from smiling. What a strange twist in this oft-dreamed nightmare, it was very surprising, and Dalamar dare to hope that perhaps now it, at least, would no longer haunt his nights.
There was a soft sigh from beside him, and Raistlin opened his eyes, his white hair was mussed, and he still looked half-asleep. He rubbed his golden eyes and nuzzled closer to Dalamar, pulling the blankets back over them both, "Bad dream?" he murmured.
"No," Dalamar said, leaning over and kissing him, "Not anymore."
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