*gulp* So this is where Legends comes in, right? *sits shivering*
I love Dalamar so incedibly much here.
He had never believed he would fail, never. He had never failed before, the world had fought against him, and he had lost so much, but he had always won in the end. He had thought this would be the same. He had believed, deep within his heart, that this was something he could fight his way through, it would hurt him, he would come out a little more damaged, but it would be worth it, and in the end Raistlin would be there again. Himself again. He knew Raistlin would die in the end. That was the endless, tragic cliche of human and elven love. But not yet, not nearly yet. He had thought. He had assumed, damn him. He had let himself believe they would have the time, pushing away those fears. They had been in the middle of a war, risking their lives every day, but he had believed they would live forever.
These lines hurt so terribly. (And I think I love your writing more with each chapter, especially for passages like this one.)
Raistlin should be there, and Dalamar should be with him, lying in the Tower, surrounded by more magic than they could dream of and laughing at the rest of the world.
Please stop breaking my heart. (No, wait, don't, because that would mean not writing and that's the opposite of what I want.)
They had not called him in for his skill with the magic, for his knowledge or anything but the fact that he had been Raistlin Majere's lover. Ever the whore.
no subject
I love Dalamar so incedibly much here.
He had never believed he would fail, never. He had never failed before, the world had fought against him, and he had lost so much, but he had always won in the end. He had thought this would be the same. He had believed, deep within his heart, that this was something he could fight his way through, it would hurt him, he would come out a little more damaged, but it would be worth it, and in the end Raistlin would be there again. Himself again.
He knew Raistlin would die in the end. That was the endless, tragic cliche of human and elven love. But not yet, not nearly yet. He had thought. He had assumed, damn him. He had let himself believe they would have the time, pushing away those fears. They had been in the middle of a war, risking their lives every day, but he had believed they would live forever.
These lines hurt so terribly. (And I think I love your writing more with each chapter, especially for passages like this one.)
Raistlin should be there, and Dalamar should be with him, lying in the Tower, surrounded by more magic than they could dream of and laughing at the rest of the world.
Please stop breaking my heart. (No, wait, don't, because that would mean not writing and that's the opposite of what I want.)
They had not called him in for his skill with the magic, for his knowledge or anything but the fact that he had been Raistlin Majere's lover. Ever the whore.
Outch there, too.
And Par-Salian? DIE HORRIBLY ALREADY.