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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Nocturnale

Chapter eight: To Leave
The Abraham Lincoln town cars
arrive to dispose of our king and queen
The Fall Of Adam, Marilyn Manson
Dalamar watched as Raistlin finally sank into a restless sleep, his cough plaguing him even in rest. His tea no longer seemed to stave them off, as though the mixture had lost whatever power it had to sooth the spasms that still racked the human mage.
A chill ran up the Dark elf’s spine, and he wondered, in a surge of fear, if his friend’s condition might not have been getting steadily worse. The fits had been especially violent lately, and if his tea was not enough anymore... Dalamar cut off that train of thought before it reached its conclusion, but the memory of the slave caravan crept into his mind anyway, how the human had been so ill in the cage, and paralleled it with the more recent recollections of the past day. Fizban hadn't been there to heal the young mage this time, but his recovery had been no less abrupt, only to slid into something the even Dalamar didn't want to think about.
It had occurred to the dark-robed wizard that the Red Robe might have faked the coughing fit in order not to talk, but it made no sense. Why would he have offered the information in the first place? Raistlin would have been far more likely to make another feeble excuse. Perhaps he had done it in order to diffuse the tension that trembled, wire-taut between them, but again, it didn't fit with what Dalamar knew of his friend. It was too obvious, too suspicious, and again the Dark elf's thoughts were drawn to the way the human had looked immediately after the spasm had ended so suddenly: It had been a smile he had never seen on his lover's face, even in the depths of the Nightmare, and he would count himself blessed if he never saw it again. Cold, mirthless, cruel, and mocking; a death’s head grin, over which those golden eyes glittered, as blank and lifeless as those of a corpse.
It had been as though the Raistlin of the Nightmare had followed them into the waking world. It had been all Dalamar could do to stay in the room; he'd staggered back in terror, certainly convinced that Raistlin, his dearest friend and the person he loved over all else, was about to attack him. He hadn't, but the clear malice in his eyes had been sickening. Every look, every movement recalled the creature the Red Robe had become in the Nightmare, the way he moved, the mask-like look of his face, the alien look in his eyes and his voice... That was something Dalamar didn't think he would ever forget. Even in the Nightmare, there had been some hint of familiarity in his companion’s voice, but this had been completely, horrifically different, as though a stranger was speaking through the young wizard, forcing his throat to sounds it had never pronounced. It had been frozen, shattering the cold air to icicles, and held an edge of iron that had only grown sharper as fury entered it. Then, just as the Dragon orb had vanished into the depths into the enchanted bag, the change had disappeared, and just as abruptly. The mask-look had left Raistlin's face, and his hourglass eyes flickered back to life, as thought shutters had been opened behind them. The flurry of emotions that had crossed his face in that one moment were too fast even for the elven wizard to read, then they were gone, and the human mage had crumbled under the force of a terrible coughing fit.
Dalamar didn't know why he had acted then, offering Raistlin the very cure that had failed only a few moments ago. Perhaps he had hoped that, having steeped, the mixture would be strong enough to work, and if the spasms could be controlled, then the terrible change that had come over Raistlin wouldn't happen again.
And maybe, if it worked, Raistlin would finally be able to speak and explain just what in the Abyss was going on.
It hadn't happened, and the cold clenching in his belly was as much dread for the human mage's condition as fear for a reoccurrence. The look the Red Robe had sent him when he'd approached only reinforced the feeling. It had been an expression of such desperation and pleading that it had sent a dagger of pain through Dalamar's already tattered heart, melting what anger had started to take hold there. Still, the fear remained, locked in a block of ice. Yet, even that had thawed a little at the grateful smile that had crossed the red-shrouded wizard’s face when he saw what Dalamar was offering, not so much because of the gift itself as for the gesture. Raistlin must have feared that whatever had happened would have turned the Dark elf away from him for good. At that thought, the exile felt his lips twitch and he stroked the human's white hair. Foolishness.
His smile died quickly when he considered what had happened after that. The fear inside him had only grown from then on. The tea had done nothing for Raistlin's cough, and it had grown rapidly worse, until Raistlin had sunk into an exhuasted stupor, his body occasionally shuddering as another spasm racked him.
His grip on Raistlin’s hair tightened at the thought that if his lover's health continued to deteriorate, the sleep could all too easily become one from which he would never awaken. Prompted by the sickening pain the very notion caused, Dalamar pushed himself a little closer, drawing the human’s head on his lap.
And yet... beyond the pain was the memory of those cold, dead eyes, and thought that perhaps... just perhaps... an end might not be a bad thing. Dalamar dug his fingernails into his forehead as though to tear physically the thought from his mind, closing his eyes to shut it out.
As if prompted by those thoughts, Raistlin's body shook with a coughing fit. Gently, the elven mage tipped his head to one side so the human wouldn't choke on the blood filling his mouth. The red liquid trickled from his lips, staining robes a darker shade of black. A bitter smile dragging as his lips, Dalamar wiped the blood away with his sleeve, remembering how he had sat like this in the slave caravans, patiently caring for his ailing lover until every bone in his body screamed and his legs were numb from the human's weight.
Raistlin's skin burnt to the touch, indicating that the Red Robe was running a fever along with everything. Wonderful.
And things were not likely to improve, Dalamar mused sarcastically, hearing footsteps behind him. The only mercy was that they were not the hammer-thumps of Caramon's tread, coming to check on his brother for the hundredth time. The Dark elf hadn't believed it possible to draw so much noise from a marble floor, but the big man had proved him wrong.
"We're leaving." Tanis' voice stated flatly.
Dalamar didn't turn around, simply nodding. If this were any other place, he would have insisted they stay, that Raistlin was in no fit state to travel. But in this place, not even Caramon would argue, for none of them wanted to spend another night in Silvanesti.
A sudden stab of guilt flew through him at the thought that he would desert his homeland, leave it like this. The exile forced the guilt away, ignoring the echo of the screams that still resonated through his connection with the land.
The Silvanesti had stripped the land bare before leaving, and Raistlin had the Dragon orb, so they had nothing to carry but what they had brought with them. Which was just as well; the human mage was in no state to walk, and even now, Dalamar was not about to hand him over to the 'care' of his twin. He threw all their supplies and blankets into his pack, putting their spellbooks and various magical implements in Raistlin's, strapping the Staff of Magius to his back. Tossing his pack to the big twin to carry -surely even that ox would be unable to break anything- he threw his friend’s much lighter one over his shoulders, then knelt down to pick up the sleeping wizard.
One arm under Raistlin's shoulders, the other beneath his legs, and Dalamar pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a little as he tried to balance the extra weight, for once glad that his lover was so thin. The human felt so light, and frighteningly warm, burning up with fever and trembling from the spasms. He stirred then, half-waking, hands closing on the black robes, as though afraid the Dark elf would leave him.
Slowly, carefully bracing the thin mage against his chest, the exile followed the others as they led the way down the long corridor that took to the doors. It had been different in the Nightmare, an endless tunnel of green-stained water cumulating in the dream-memory of agonising pain. The Dark elf's shoulder ached in sympathy, and he looked down at Raistlin.
He had left him to die there. There had been nothing the Red Robe could have done to save him, but he should have been there, like Dalamar would have been there had their positions been reversed. It would have been easier to understand had it not been so clearly the human wizard who had stood there. There had been no echo of the alien voice, no sign of the dead look in his eyes, no unknown factor, just Raistlin, his lover. And that same, dear lover had left him to die.
Whatever reasons Raistlin had, they had better be good ones.
Dalamar glanced back at the room they had just left. Whatever fell effect had come over his friend, it had started when they had entered this place. Hopefully, once they left it, the memories of the human's terrifying actions would join those of the Nightmare, to be forgotten and never to surface again. He clung to that thought as they walked, the hope that once this was over, once they had left this place behind, whatever had come over his lover would be left behind also, and once they were out, he would be able to speak again.
Tanis pushed the rotting doors open, letting in a stream of sickly sunlight. The sight of his ravaged homeland made the Dark elf wince and turn away, sickened with the irrational guilt that he should stay. That there must be /something/ he could do to heal the tortured land. The silent cries of the trees echoed in his soul, and still he turned away, crushing down the pain as he had always done and forcing it away, leaving his mind clear.
Alhana followed them as far as the door, exchanging a few terse words with the half-elf before leaving them, closing the crumbling door of the once proud Tower of the Stars behind her.
Dalamar looked away, scanning over the twisted trees and dying land. He could feel Tanis' eyes burning into his back, knew without looking what the half-elf was thinking: With the princess staying here, he was the only one who could show them the quickest way out. And as much as the others didn't trust him, they knew that he hated to be here and that with Raistlin's ailing health, he wouldn't lead them astray.
He heard Half-elven draw in the breath to speak an interrupted before he got the words out, "Yes."
A moment's silence. "Yes what?"
"What you were about to ask, yes. The very air you breathe is wasted on you, Half-human. Don't waste any more on useless words."
Even taking out his pain on the half-elf seemed pointless and contrived, the very satisfaction muted and crushed, no gratification for the energy spent speaking. He felt weary, his very soul ached with tiredness, and even Raistlin's slight weight made his arms ache. Without waiting for the others to retort, he started off north, towards the district of House Gardener and out into the forest beyond.
Looking down the intended road, Dalamar found it hard to distinguish if this was real or just another facet of the Nightmare. The sunlight offered no respite from the memories, only highlighting everything that the empty night had covered. If it were still the dream, it would be easier to overlook the twisted remains of this district, the trees and plants the House had held so dear warped and defaced, their once-beautiful gardens now a place of horror. Here and there, there were some of the deformed animals, now thrashing in the last stages of slow death as the magic that had kept them alive faded.
Bad enough in the Nightmare, far worse in the light of day. And beyond the city would be the forest, and all the terrors they had left there. Though the animals were dying and the spectres were destroyed, to travel across those woods would be enough to daunt even the most fearless kender. It would take days to leave the twisted land behind, long days and longer nights, and the memories would follow them for much longer.
Dalamar would never have thought he would be glad to leave Silvanesti, but his connection with the land, so long lost, was filled with nothing but the pain of it and the guilt of leaving. However, as terrible as the journey would be, he realised that staying would be far worse, and in that moment, his mind cleared, brushing aside all his fears and guilt, focusing only of the need to get out, that anything else could wait until they were out.
The buildings were no longer shifting and warping. Instead, they had been frozen in their last forms, twisted drunkenly, some leaning against each other, and other having collapsed completely. The road they were on twisted between them, broken and overgrown in places as though it had been years and not months since it had been abandoned. And on either side, the houses and trees passed in a long parade of decay.
Had he been able to walk with his eyes closed, Dalamar would have done so. As it was, he clutched Raistlin tightly and kept his eyes on the half-melted cobbles in front of him, not looking to the left or right. He knew this place, knew every inch of the city. To see it like this was terrible.
The gates were open when they reached them, the brambles that made them blackened and rotted. The gates that, at another time, could only be opened by house Woodshaper hung open, great rifts torn through the winding branches, some big enough for a dragon to crawl through.
For a moment the others stopped, starting first at the ruined gates, then at the wood behind, then at Dalamar.
The Dark elf didn't react to the attention, staring at the trees. They were no longer screaming, though the sound echoed in his soul, but the whisper of wind in the branches seemed like the soft moans of the dying. They looked like the trees of Darken Wood, yet at the same time they were horribly familiar, the same trees he had walked through on countless errands, the same trees he had skulked through when he had sneaked out to study magic, and as hard as his life had been, nothing deserved what had been wrought on this place.
And none deserved to come back here. Alhana had mentioned that her people would return here, to try to heal the land, and again something inside the Dark elf screamed to join them, to help restore this place, and again he shoved it away. He would never be allowed to stay, and even if he was, what could he do? Not to mention that to do so would mean leaving his friend, and even now, that was something he would never do
For once, Dalamar was grateful to have been exiled, to have the freedom to leave this place forever. Better to leave and suffer the pain of exile than stay and deal with what was left. Though Lorac's death had seemed like cowardice, who was he to condemn him? True, he hadn't caused the Nightmare that still gripped the land. There was nothing he could have done, the Dark elf repeated to himself, nothing he could have done if he had not been exiled, and nothing he could do if he stayed.
It seemed ironic that the very thing he dreaded on arriving here was what he would feel when forced to leave, the fear that it would reopen wounds long closed. And now, he wanted nothing more than to leave this place, his very bond with the land screaming at him to leave, with only a begging guilt to urge him back. No, he would leave, and let those who exiled him experience what he had suffered.

He didn't speak to the others, simply ducking through on of the smaller holes in the tangled gate and started to walk.
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Unlike the Nightmare, which remained engraved in all their minds, Dalamar never remembered much of the long trek out of Silvanesti. The only thing he knew for certain was that it took two days of hard walking before they reached the edge of the trees. The Dark elf could never remember more than a few moments, and even those were vague and indistinct.
Mercifully so.
He remembered coming across the two-headed wolf that had savaged Caramon in the dream, its dead body putrefying at a horrible rate, its dead eyes swarming with maggots, the air thick with the stench and the flies.
Raistlin had awakened at one point, he recalled, and tried to walk, but was unable to get far before another coughing fit shook him. Again, Dalamar had picked him up and carried him, and had seen how the trees closest to them seemed to twist away, like tortured beings crawling from their tormentor, bending and buckling away from the Dragon orb.
The exile didn't have any memories of the nights, and again, he was thankful. Or perhaps he had simply been so exhausted by the endless walking that he just collapsed where he was and slept despite the horrific surroundings.
The days blurred into an endless stream of death until he didn't even react to it, until the most dreadful horror couldn't drag out any emotion from him and he was left in a pool of dull numbness.
But slowly, as they moved further away from Silvanost, the land became less and less deformed. They were leaving the area of the Dragon orb's desolation behind. And quite suddenly, on the morning of the third day, they stepped out of the trees into a bare expanse of scorched earth and blackened trees.
Dalamar blinked, wondering if exhaustion and stress had him hallucinating. He knew the edge of the forest was still a good ten miles away. Then he realised what had happened: Alhana Starbreeze had told them when they met that Silvanesti was under attack, and this was what she must have meant. Burning thousands of acres was all too easy if one had red dragons.
A few scattered weapons and camp remains reinforced the theory, and for once the Dark elf was grateful to the Dragonarmies for the predations. Even if the forest was less affected here than it had been further south, it was still terrible, and even the desolate landscape before him made a welcome respite.
It was colder now. The thick trees had stopped the chill wind that now cut them to the bone. Here and there, drifts of snow piled up against the charred trunks of trees. Beside him, able to walk for once, Raistlin coughed, leaning heavily on his staff. At another time, Dalamar would have gone to him, perhaps offering him his cloak. However, the elf couldn't allow himself to feel for his lover, had to lock his emotions up behind the same wall of ice his kept every other source of pain. To allow it out would be to invite more pain than he could currently deal with. It would have to wait, because only when he had time, could he take the feelings out and deal with them.
Still, he couldn't help but wonder if friend would make it that far, and no amount of ice could hold back the stab of pain that tore through him at that thought. The human mage could barely walk, and even now, on the edge of the elven wood, he was wracked with coughing, finally collapsing as the spasms threatened to tear him apart.
Wordlessly, Dalamar slid an arm around the Red Robe's shoulders to help him up. When we're out, he told himself endlessly, despite the fact that they were out. Just a little further, and he'll be better. Then we can rest. Hanging on to the hope that when they had crossed the boundaries of Silvanesti, the shadow that had fallen on the human wizard would also vanish.
Yet... it seemed as though this might be the case. Since they had left Silvanost, Raistlin's condition had seemed to improve. He had been barely able to stand when they left, yet he was able to walk now. Not far, it was true, but perhaps -Dalamar clung to the hope- perhaps the further they went from heart of the Nightmare, the faster his friend would recover.
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Now out of the forest, the companions were able to cover more ground, leaving Silvanesti behind and travelling further and further north. Hopefully, if they followed the coast, they would reach a port city. Although where they would go from there was anyone's guess.
The desolation of the Dragonarmies lasted for several miles, making Dalamar wonder how many dragons the generals had at their command. More than had been used to raze Tarsis, that was certain. It was a dispiriting thought, and one not helped by the scarred, broken landscape.
Eventually they passed beyond where the boundaries of Silvanesti had once been, though the hedge that marked the territory and kept intruders out had long since been reduced to cinders. The land beyond was little more than savannah, bare land stretching up to the Bay of Balifor.
The only encouragement Dalamar had in the entire situation was that it appeared he had been right: Whatever had happened to Raistlin had been tied to the Nightmare, because the human mage was getting steadily better the further they went from Silvanesti. His recovery was slow, and several times in the last few days he had been forced to stop and accept the Dark elf's assistance, but at least he no longer had to be carried, which was just as well since the terrain was getting rougher.
Despite the improvement, Raistlin was clearly still having problems speaking. His voice was hoarse and rasping, the very sound making Dalamar wince in sympathy. The human wizard avoided speech, as even a few words could be enough to trigger another coughing fit. Yet, this was something that seemed to bother the Red Robe far less than it bothered the elf. If his throat hadn't healed by now, who was to say it ever would? And if speaking was hard, voicing a spell would be impossible. Had the Dark elf been in Raistlin's place, he wouldn't be nearly as composed. But perhaps he was wrong, and the exile certainly hoped he was. Only his lover really understood what had happened to him, and possibly, he knew that whatever was affecting his voice would pass.
The thought that his lover might have faked his fit had been discarded long ago; not even Raistlin could put on such an act and for so long. There was, of course, the possibility that the trouble with his voice was the pretence, that he was playing it up to avoid admitting whatever truth he had promised to tell Dalamar, but again, this seemed unrealistic. If the Red Robe was acting, then what would he do if they were attacked? Not to mention that such a pretence couldn't be carried on forever.
He would give Raistlin until they reached the coast to speak, and he would demand answers himself.
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In fact, Dalamar didn't have to wait that long. On their seventh day out of Silvanost, Raistlin broached the topic himself.
It was evening, and they were setting up camp for the night.
Tanis had called on them to decide where they were going from here. "We're going to try and reach the coast, and hopefully find a port from where we can catch a ship across the bay to Balifor. But where do we go from there?"
Silence greeted these words, and the Dark elf’s lip curled. What did Half-human expect? They'd go where he told them to, like good little dogs. It was useless to ask them where to go when he'd always made the decisions for them. As for himself and Raistlin, as far as he knew they would just tag along, seeing as there wasn't anywhere else to go.
For once, he'd guessed right. The red-robed wizard didn't speak, though whether he'd wanted to conserve his voice or because he really didn't have an opinion was debatable.
Finally Goldmoon spoke, "How can we decide? We have no idea what might be happening there. But there might be those in Balifor that would know. I say we decide once we've arrived."
Tanis nodded. "Agreed, but I still think we should head north. By all accounts, that's where the Dragonarmies are massing, and where opposition to them will be strongest. If we could reach Solamnia..."
The bearded warrior trailed off, lost in thought, and Dalamar turned away. Solamnia, lovely. The only Solamnic he had ever met was Sturm Brightblade, and that was quite enough, thank you.
Finally, the half-elf shook himself. "But you're right, Goldmoon, let's find out what's happening there before we decide. For all we know the whole north could be overrun."
"How are we doing for money?" Caramon asked, looking troubled. "Would we have enough to pay for passage?"
"If we can even find a port," Riverwind put in. "The dragons have been here, there might be nothing left." The memory of his ruined village clearly still plagued him.
Raistlin shook his head. "They would not do that," he whispered, his voice surprisingly smooth. "They would need the ports to send supplies, they would not burn them." The human broke off, his voice cracking, and took another sip of tea.
Tanis didn't speak for a moment, the truth of the human mage’s words warring with hid distrust, then he nodded. "But if this is true, the ports will be under their command. We might find it hard to buy passage, and the fares will be steep."
There was another pause, their finances were meagre, it would be barely enough at the best of times, and now it would probably only cover one or two fares.
With a sigh, every instinct warring against it but knowing that if he didn't he and Raistlin would most likely end up marooned on this side of the sea, Dalamar reached into a pocket of his robes and drew out a small sapphire, one of the few remaining jewels he had taken from the black dragon's hoard in Xak Tsaroth so long ago. With a second, longer sigh, he tossed it at Tanis. "This should cover the fares," he growled.
Half-elven blinked. No doubt he'd been about to ask where he had found the gem, but one look at the Dark elf's expression changed his mind.
There was no more to say, and the group dispersed, turning back to their various activities. Dalamar was debating turning in early -he was tired and perhaps tomorrow would be a better day- when Raistlin's hand closed on his shoulder, urging him away from the firelight.
Heart beating faster, wondering if his lover would at last fulfil the promise to explain what was going on, Dalamar followed eagerly.
Once they were far enough away that they couldn't be overheard, Raistlin sat down on the scrubby winter grass and motioned for his friend to do the same. Sitting there, staring at the human’s shadowed face, lit by the barest golden gleam from the distant fire, Dalamar felt the wall of ice around his emotions crack the slightest amount, and he nodded at his lover, prompting him to start.
Raistlin took a sip of his tea, clearly hoping that the mixture would help him through his words. Even so, by the look on his face, the human was finding it hard to find the words. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than it had been by the fire. "I can't tell you what you want to know," he said finally, raising a hand to stave off the elf’s immediate angry retort. "I want to tell you." His voice broke and he swallowed hard, fighting back a coughing fit. "And I know you find this hard to believe, but I do want to-" He broke off, coughing. He forced down a mouthful of tea and continued. "I'm under... a curse of sorts, which means I can't tell you what is going on." He looked at his companion, and the Dark elf saw in his face the same, desperate look he had seen in the Tower of the Stars, and felt the ice around his heart crumble a little more. It had been easy to force his emotions aside when there had been something to focus on, but now he couldn't keep them away. He never could when Raistlin was the one they concerned.
He could see how badly the Red Robe wanted him to believe, and he did want to. He wanted to reassure his lover that yes, he did believe him, that he was here and wouldn't leave. He wanted to say wherever was necessary for Raistlin's face to lose the pained, desperate look it had now. But he couldn't, for the same reason it always was: That despite everything, despite his love for the human mage, he could not trust him. Especially after what had happened in the Nightmare. It was too dangerous. Therefore, he was silent.
Raistlin closed his eyes, as if pained. "I understand, but believe me, I want to speak. It's just I’m not-" Again he broke off, coughing. "-not allowed," he finished, croaking. He drew in a ragged breath. "I will be able to soon," he added, his voice easing a little. "Or at least, I think I will. I've fought it this far." Seeing the Dark elf about to interrupt, Raistlin shook his head. "Dalamar, I want to tell you the truth. I've wanted to since Silvanesti so much that I've almost forgotten what it was I was trying to say." He gave a forced smile, which the elven wizard didn't return.
It was hard, so hard, his love for the human battering through the walls of ice he had built to keep it out. It was too dangerous to think with his heart, especially now. Raistlin had left him to die once. The next time he might have a hand in it. but... no. Not Raistlin, never. He could never believe that, any more than he could believe the sun would rise in the west. The barrier broke, and suddenly he was struggling back tears, gritting his teeth against everything that had happened in the last few days. Returning to Silvanesti, the Nightmare, Raistlin's betrayal, the destruction of his once-homeland, everything.
When he spoke, his voice broke just as his lover's had. "Raistlin," he whispered, not caring how he sounded. "Please tell me." Something, anything. Enough so that he could reconcile trusting the human just a little longer. Whatever was affecting the Red Robe was no spell; Dalamar knew that. "Tell me," he whispered insistently. "I need to know. What happened to you, why can't you speak?"
He stopped. Words were inadequate. Instead, he stared at Raistlin, silently imploring him to speak.
And his companion tried. He swallowed the last of his tea and started speaking quickly, as though desperate to get the words out. "I have to fight. He-"
He didn't cough, it was worse than that. It was as though a noose had been tightened around Raistlin's throat, and Dalamar wondered if the shadows themselves were strangling him. His face contorted, as though struggling against something unseen, and the Dark elf’s mind recalled that moment in the Nightmare when the human spoke to something that only he could see.
Finally, it vanished, and Raistlin gasped in air before coughing again.
Dalamar didn't move, only watching as his lover slowly regained control of himself. "Who is 'he'?" he asked through numb lips.
The Red Robe shook his head, one hand still covering his mouth, for a moment the night was silent save for his rough gasps. "I can't say," he croaked. "But I will." Grim determination glimmered in his golden eyes. "I can't yet, but I will. Please believe me."
Nuitari forgive me, Dalamar thought, but I do. It was impossible not to. He had seen the look on Raistlin's face, seen how desperate he was for the elf to believe him, to risk even more pain for the sake of a few words. It was absurdly ridiculous, his mind screamed, he couldn't risk trusting, he had been left to die once already, but he was unable to believe that Raistlin had been lying.
Finally, Dalamar reached out and touched his lover’s hand, fingers closing around his fist.
The human mage wiped the blood from his lips with his free hand before lying it against the elf’s, a weak smile on his face.
Somehow, Dalamar had thought that when he would finally succeed in trusting Raistlin, he would feel safer. Nevertheless, right now, he felt more vulnerable than ever, and just as frightened.

Skull Bearer.
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