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Nocturnale	By : Skullbearer Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 1934 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Nocturnale
Chapter seven- To Struggle
And yet we have nothing to show
But false words and broken dreams
-Figurehead, Kovenant
The next morning, Lorac was dead.
Awakening from a sleep filled with nightmares as terrible as those from the Dragon orb, Raistlin couldn't dredge up anything but contempt for the wretched elfking. Bad enough that he set his land in this state, to die and take the easy way out was pure cowardice. By the look on Dalamar's face, the exile felt the same, his lip curling in a sneer of disgust.
Seeing the human looking at him, the dark-robed wizard shot him a cold glance, anger and intermingled pain telling the human that his lover was still haunted with by what happened last night, and had not forgiven him. For that matter, Raistlin wasn't sure he had forgiven himself. He had woken up wondering that very thing. The way he had behaved had been despicable. Fistandantilus or not, he should have had the strength to go to Dalamar when the elf had fallen, but to leave him and then to be angry that he himself had been left afterward... The Red Robe shook his head, wondering what he had been thinking to even consider his emotions for the Dark elf a weakness. If there was a shortcoming here, it was in Fistandantilus's presence.
The lich was quiet now, his power no doubt drained from the events of the past few days, but his presence was stronger than ever, drawing energy from the younger mage's body to sustain him. Raistlin winced and held back a cough at the thought. His health was worse than usual today, and he knew exactly who was to blame.
Still, it was the way he himself had acted which shocked him. He should have had enough strength to throw off Fistandantilus's control, and the way he had treated his friend afterwards... Yes, he had been angry, but he should have tried to speak to the elf before they had settled down to rest.
Still, there was time now, and Dalamar deserved to know the truth.
Swallowing dryly against the ever-present pain, he reached out and touched the Dark elf’s arm, trying to express in a glance what his shattered health wouldn't let him express in words; that he was sorry, that he loved him, and that nothing like this would ever happen again.
The last was a hollow promise, but Raistlin was prepared to uphold it as best he could.
Clearly, their relationship had not been damaged so badly that Dalamar couldn't read his expressions. The Dark elf's face softened slightly, and he sighed and beckoned the human over to one of the windows. It was not a pleasant setting for such a talk, watching the ravaged land twist and shimmer in the faint light of the setting sun. They must have slept the whole day away.
Dalamar looked at him, frowning slightly, and jerked his head- /"Talk."/
Raistlin hesitated; he needed to tell the black-clad wizard the truth, if nothing else. The Dark elf deserved to know. He had died for him in the Nightmare, and the least the young mage could do was to explain what had happened. Unfortunately, due to Fistandantilus' influence, he didn't think he'd be able to get through half a dozen words before his torn lungs forced him to stop. A fresh stab of pain only reinforced the point and the younger mage shook his head, already imagining Dalamar's reaction.
The exile's expression grew colder, and Raistlin saw the play of muscles in his jaw as he gritted his teeth against what must have been bitter disappointment. The human mage reached out and clasped Dalamar's arm as the elf turned to go.
"If you aren't going to even-" the elven wizard started angrily, then stopped as the Red Robe held up one hand.
The human mage's fingers tightened on the Staff of Magius, leaning on it as he fought down a spasm and struggled to get the words out. Still, he had barely choked out the first word before Dalamar stopped him, touching his fingers to the human's lips. The anger in the Dark elf's face was gone, replaced by a sad smile; no doubt he'd realised the truth: that his lover simply couldn't speak.
Closing his eyes and swallowing dryly, Raistlin nodded, wishing bitterly that Caramon would hurry up with the firewood. He wanted to speak so badly, but his throat closed every time he tried.
Dalamar's fingertips trailed along his cheek, and Raistlin felt something deep inside his heart unknot, and tears prick his eyes at the gentle contact. The welcome caress that only reinforced the knowledge of why he had to speak, to trust his lover with the knowledge of what had happened, both in the Nightmare, and in his Test, long ago.
Again, the doubts resurfaced; it was the wrong time, the wrong place. Perhaps it would be better to wait until the war was over, then they could not only talk, but take action.
Raistlin shook his head. He only had to remember the way Dalamar looked at him after the Nightmare to refute that argument. Should he wait, the Dark elf might lose whatever trust he had entirely, or worse, start to view him as a threat.
By the time Caramon returned with a pile of broken furniture to serve as kindling, Raistlin had made up his mind: However much danger his admission might put them in, it would be far worse not to speak at all. He would offer the truth, and simply hope the Dark elf would learn to trust him.
They sat down as Caramon dumped the pile of wood on the floor, and the red-shrouded mage took out the small kettle they used for this purpose, filling it from their waterskins because no one was trusting the water in this place. His task over, Raistlin watched his twin strike flint to steel to make the firewood catch. Flames flickered up from the kindling, and even the small amount of smoke from the damp wood was enough to break what control the younger wizard had over himself. He doubled over, coughing hard.
And this time, Dalamar was there; one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, the motions dispelling the cramps and aches that set in after each spasm. Slowly, the iron knot around his lungs loosened and Raistlin drew in a ragged breath, turning away from the flames so as not to tempt another fit.
He had his head down; concentrating on breathing and grimacing at the whistling sound of his breathing, and only came back to himself when his friend tapped his shoulder.
Raistlin turned back and gave a pained smile when the Dark elf pulled out his mug from his pack and filled it; the water must have boiled while he was fighting back the pain. Still gritting his teeth, he pulled out a handful of the herbs from his pouch and poured them in. It was more than he usually put but perhaps it would just make it more effective. Lunitari only knew he needed it. His raw throat made it an effort to swallow, and the taste was as unpleasant as ever, but almost at once, the pain abated. The human mage gave a soft sigh of relief as the steel claws gripping his chest dissolved. Still, he waited a moment, preparing the words in his mind before speaking them.
His tongue had barely tasted the syllables when his body went horribly cold. Ice crawled up his throat, freezing the words before they could leave his lips, and sinking through the muscles of his jaw and clenching his teeth tight. It was as though a cold hand had closed over his throat, a chokehold to stop him from speaking, and at the same moment a shock of pain filled his chest as icy claws tore through it.
The stranglehold loosened, and Raistlin drew in a gasp of air only to lose it again in a fit of coughing. The pain was agonising, as though he was coughing through broken ribs, the shattered bones tearing into his lungs with every spasm. The blood trickling from his lips only re-enforced the image. It hurt so badly, choking and gasping until he felt light-headed, every breath a battle. He could barely breathe, let alone drink his tea, if that could even help him now.
"Raistlin?" He could hear the puzzlement in Dalamar's voice. Of course, the elf wouldn't be too suspicious; it often took a while for his tea to work after all.
How could the Dark elf know that this was completely different? His tea had worked, either he had been fortunate or the increase of herbs had sped up the effect, but he had felt the pain unknot only to return again.
It hurt far too much. He had suffered bad fits before, and if this were any other occasion it could have been easily explained; his cough was often triggered by exposure to necromantic magic -no doubt something to do with his connection to Fistandantilus- the events in Darken Wood had proved that much.
It should be easy to explain why being in this place was so painful.
Even through the red haze of pain, the human wizard could see what was wrong with that assumption. He had not suffered until now, even when the spasms had gripped him, they had been due to his earlier exertion and not due to any adverse reaction to magic. No, Raistlin had an unpleasant suspicion as to what had caused this fit.
It was getting harder to breath, and black dots were forming before his eyes before the Red Robe managed to draw in a ragged breath. For a few moments, he was unable to do anything but sit there, drawing in gasps of air as the bloody haze finally lifted.
Dalamar was looking at him, concern having replaced puzzlement. He lay a hand on the human mage's shoulder, kneading out the cramps that always set in after a coughing fit.
With difficulty, Raistlin picked up his mug and drained it, gritting his teeth as his stomach rebelled. Clenching his jaw against the overwhelming urge to retch up the bitter liquid, he leant into the Dark elf’s touch, thankful for the comfort.
He suspected he knew what had caused his coughing fit, and also why, although the realisation brought no comfort. Still, he owed it to Dalamar to try to speak again, even if it would hurt even more. Wiping flecks of blood from his mouth, his lifted his head to speak. The exile smiled encouragingly, his hand sliding down to rub his back.
He drew in a breath, "Dalamar, I-"
This time the claw closed around his heart, and Raistlin gave a choke of pain before doubling over again. He screwed his eyes closed and forced himself to focus even as the spasms threatened to rend his body apart from inside. He pulled back inside himself, to the cold, dark place where Fistandantilus's power dwelled, reaching down to force the evil archmage to release him.
For a sudden, merciful moment, the pain stopped and he was able to draw in a tortured breath, then his control was wrenched away and his suspicions were sickeningly confirmed.
/"If you will not obey, you must be made to."/
The coldly furious words echoed through the human’s mind, as did a burst of outrage as his audacity. The pain seemed to double and for a moment, he was back in his Test, Fistandantilus' skeletal fingers tearing through his chest, lacerating his lungs before closing, vice-like, over his heart.
Had he breath, Raistlin would have screamed. In that moment, his control slipped.
The pain ceased abruptly, and the world slid out of focus, the lich's consciousness rearing up through the mental connection and stifling his own. Cold icing over his body, freezing him inside and out. His muscles pulling, forcing him to his feet as a puppet master would a marionette. Through the disjointed fog of his thoughts, the mage cursed himself bitterly for reaching for Fistandantilus; it had been practically an invitation for the old lich to take control.
"Raistlin?" He faintly felt Dalamar's touch his shoulder; it was as though all his nerves had been numbed.
Fistandantilus turned his head, and the younger wizard felt his lips pull back in a ghastly smile.
He didn't have to look to see the Dark elf recoil and the fear resurface in his eyes, but the knowledge of it was enough to shock Raistlin out of his inaction. Dragging the scattered shards of his mind back together, he started to push against Fistandantilus' hold. It was as though he was railing against a wall of iron, unforgiving and unbreakable, but he kept struggling, ignoring the lich's snarl of rage. It was hard, so hard, at once trying to hold his consciousness together under the ancient, dead mage onslaught and fighting to pull the archmage out of his mind.
The world swam in and out of focus around him, and Raistlin was so intent on the struggle that he didn't realise where they were until he saw the now familiar green light.
Of course, that had been Fistandantilus' goal since they had first heard of the Dragon Orb, he had wanted it from the beginning, and had been completely prepared to do anything -including revealing his presence to the young Red Robe- in order to obtain it. But why would the lich force his control when he knew that it was entirely Raistlin's intention to gain it?
The moment's distraction was all it took; and the Raistlin’s thoughts, his whole sense of self, was scattered. Freed from the living mage's assaults, Fistandantilus reached out for the Orb, the human's fingers clenching into a claw, mimicry of the lich's own withered hand. He didn't touch the artefact, instead running his stolen hand through the air above it, murmuring softly. The orb glowed brightly, but clearly, it refused to obey the lich’s commands. A flash of alien anger shot through Raistlin, and dragging his thoughts together, he threw himself against the mental barrier the dead mage had put up to keep him out.
Whether because the lich was distracted or because he had found a weakness in the walls, the Red Robe felt the blockade give slightly.
This time, the anger was tinged with impatience. Fistandantilus knew he hadn't long before Raistlin forced him out. Instead of retaliating, the lich strengthened the walls and turned his focus outwards.
The human mage was peripherally aware of Alhana speaking to him, and his numb hand closing over what felt to be a cloth sack, although his focus was so distorted, it could have been anything. He felt the familiar drain of magic as a spell was cast, and the object in his hand warmed in response; whatever it was, it was enchanted.
"Caramon!" This time the words were clear -and they should be, after all, they had come from his own throat. His voice was distorted, although that might be simply his perception, but he thought he heard an echo of Fistandantilus's cold tone in the word.
The world was starting to become clearer when Caramon stepped forward, clear enough for Raistlin to notice Dalamar standing a little way behind his brother. The sight only made him struggle harder.
"Bring me the orb!" His voice was sharp, with a frantic edge.
"Not for all the treasure in the world!" The big warrior’s words were an echo of his expression: horror-struck.
"Bring it to me now!" Fistandantilus's voice became even more evident, as did his agitation. Raistlin felt his hand reach for his components pouch.
Caramon's eyes went wide at the blatant threat, but still he didn't move, silently shaking his head in a silent plea.
The lich's power was starting to break, and still the younger mage pushed harder. The first tendrils of his own control broke through Fistandantilus' barrier. "The Orb only snares those with intelligence." The words were forced out past gritted teeth. "So those in /this/ party will be quite safe. Bring it to me!"
The larger twin hesitated for a moment more, then stepped over to the orb and gingerly lifted it from the twisted golden stand that held it. Grunting with its weight, he stumbled over to him.
Fistandantilus' control was visibly disintegrating, and the human mage fought the lich, struggling to snap his mental hold.
"Drop it in the bag!" This time, the voice that emerged from Raistlin's mouth sounded nothing like him.
"What! Raist-"
"Do it!"
Caramon hefted the artefact, eyeing the small bag Alhana had given his brother doubtfully, but he let go of the orb.
The moment the artefact hit the bottom of the sack, the Red Robe tore Fistandantilus from his mind and hurled the lich back into the furthest reaches of his spirit.
With shocking suddenness, the world flicked back into focus, as though he had lit his staff in a previously dark room. His senses reeled with the sudden influx of sensations; the coarse weave of the bag in his hands, the rub and rustle of his red robes, the dying light shining through the windows, and most welcome of all, the senses and responses of his body, his once again.
Raistlin dragged in a cautious breath, and looked down into the bag he held. The orb was there, nestled in the depths of a bag too small to possibly hold it. Or perhaps not. For a moment, it was as though the bag had grown to the size of a pavilion, and the mage was a giant. Slightly disturbed and more than a little curious, he reached into the bag. The moment his fingertips approached the artefact, they stopped; it was though he had reached an invisible barrier that wouldn't let him proceed any further. Confused, he looked up at Caramon, wondering if only the one who put it in who could remove it. Then he realised the truth.
It was the only explanation, and he realised why Fistandantilus had been so desperate to be in control when the Dragon orb was placed inside the bag. Only the one who held the bag when something was put in could take it out again. The old lich knew that Raistlin's longing for the artefact was second only to his own, and was forcing the human mage to call on him again. A flash of cruel satisfaction was all the proof he needed.
A burning, incoherent rage filled him as he closed the bag and slid it into a pocket; it blazed from the core of his being to the dark place where the dead parasite resided. In response, he received a blast of withering hatred, a wordless declaration of eternal loathing, and felt the iron claw lock around his lungs again. Raistlin had just enough time steel himself for another mental battle before the coughing fit racked him, driving him to his knees. Doubled over, blood trickling from his mouth and tears from his eyes, the human mage threw back the creeping tendrils of Fistandantilus's control as they sought weak points to exploit. They would find none; he would make sure of that.
The spasm was every bit as bad as the one that had racked him only a little while ago, and like that one, this fit showed no signs of abating, fuelled as it was by the lich's rage.
And this time, unlike last time and the time before, no one was coming to offer comfort.
Raistlin gritted his bloodstained teeth, tearing the thought from his mind and hurling it back where it came from. He recognised it for what it was, another of Fistandantilus's cruel taunts. The lich could only control him if he let him, as in the Nightmare, or if he himself was too mentally weak to defend himself. The dead resident in his head had caught him off his guard once, but not again. No, never again, and no amount of pain was going to change that.
He didn't know how long he knelt there, conscious of nothing but the pain tearing through his chest and throat, not registering anything else, not the cold flagstone floor, nor the footsteps that made their reluctant way towards him. A hand shook his shoulder, not the gentle touch he knew so well, this was much rougher, but Raistlin knew the author of it was the same.
He forced his eyes open and looked up at Dalamar's forcibly impassive face. The façade was a thin one, and Raistlin could see the emotions flickering just below the surface. Fear, dread, anger; each one sparking a mirror reaction in the human. But not at the Dark elf, no. He knew where blame truly lay. His lover had been fearful enough before this and his recent behaviour, the sudden change from one state to the other, must have only made this worse.
It was with a sickening lurch that the Red Robe realised that whatever trust he had managed to glean from the exile had been lost, and with an even worse one, he realised why. This was your plan all along, he screamed at Fistandantilus. His actions during the Nightmare, and even before then, the soft whispers warning against telling the Dark elf anything, even to leave him behind. And above all, his strange behaviour when coming out of the Nightmare, how slanted and unreal his perceptions had been, because the dead wizard had wanted them to be. The lich could only control him if he his mental control was weakened, and how better to do that than removing his greatest source of strength? His thoughts faded into a wave of fury and hate, accusation and guilt. He should have guessed this, stopped this before it had gone too far. It had taken him almost seven years to build up what trust he could with Dalamar, and that might well now be destroyed.
Raistlin forced back the crippling wave of despair that swept through him. This was exactly what Fistandantilus wanted, an opening to slip through again, and if the living mage let him, things would only get worse. Choking dryly, he looked up into the elf’s steel-grey eyes, trying, once again, to tell him what his shattered body could not put into words.
Then, despite the pain in his lungs and the spasms still shaking him, Raistlin smiled. He smiled because perhaps Fistandantilus had underestimated the Dark elf, and because not everything might be lost.
Clasped in Dalamar's hands, held out in offering, was a newly warmed mug of tea.

Skull Bearer.
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Nocturnale