Dragonlance – Unwritten / The Dagger’s Tale

Title: Unwritten / The Dagger’s Tale
Author: Atra Materia
Fandom/Characters: Dragonlance – Dalamar/Kitiara
Rating/Warnings: Mature – Post-coitus, with allusions to the act itself; cutting/knifeplay.
Summary: Sometimes, details get left out.
Disclaimer: All content relating directly to Dragonlance, including but not limited to its characters, events, and places, is the property of its original creators.

It is said that even the most complete of histories is woefully not so; for in general, only the events thought to have affected an eventual outcome are recorded. There are two main reasons for this. The first is that authors tend to want as wide an audience for their works as possible, and tomes filled with tedious detail and little life find little market – no one, for example, is interested in the fact that on the morning he set out for Solace, Tanis Half-Elven broke his fast with half a loaf of bread, the gravy from last night’s stew, and a draught of stale wine. The second is that in the wake of excitement, such details are often lost – had he been asked after the flight from the vallenwoods what he had feasted on that morn, Tanis would have proven incapable of recalling.

The exception to this is widely thought to be the scrolls of Astinus – Astinus, who records from morning to night and on to the next dawn the events that make up the world around him. How he accomplishes this feat is a matter of speculation and rumour – but he is no clairvoyant, and does not see the future. Each entry is made as it occurs; be it a skirmish in Solanthus at Afterwatch Falling Six or a secret meeting near Neraka during the Restful Hour. Many are those who long to peruse the aging pages kept since time began, but it would do them no good – the books show only what has been, not what will be.

Because he has not the power of foresight and thus no way of knowing what events will prove to be contributing factors in the great tales written by others, he has no choice but to scribe them all. Even for Astinus, it is a challenging feat; and often, the connecting threads of fate come as much a surprise to him as anyone. “Ah,” he might say; “so that is why Curlan the Shopkeep chose to spare that thief his hands.” And then he will turn to a fresh page and continue his work.

Though he would be loathe to admit it, even Astinus cannot provide a map to every twist and turn of time’s flow. Sometimes, he finds that his has recorded the beginning and the end but not the middle; other times, the facts are all there, but not the graphic details. When the topic is an object rather than a person or an act, the possibility that its tale will fall into one of those categories increases exponentially – who, after all, would be any more concerned with the journey of, say, a spoon than with the journey of Tanis’ breakfast?

And yet, the journey of that object may be of more interest to common folk, who eagerly seize the graphic and gritty, than the outcome to which it leads. The Chronicles of Astinus clearly note the attempted murder of Dalamar the Dark by Kitiara uth Matar, via a knife picked up some months before. What is not mentioned is that, held for a time in elven hands, the knife in question had tasted her blood as well.

Once Kitiara had set her eye on a lover, it was rare that it took her long to acquire him – few were the men who attempted to resist her, and fewer still were those who succeeded. Will, holy oath, or marriage vow, she’d caused them all to be broken.

A fisher of men, the reasons behind the partners she chose were as varied as they were themselves. Some, tawny and muscled, were lured in for looks; trophies to ornament her hall. Some, bedecked with jewels and weighted down by steel, were kept on the line until their pockets ran dry. Some, naive and unspoiled, were little more than a challenge – a game – a victory to be flaunted; and still others, with their skilled hands and nimble tongues, were mounted purely for pleasure. Though there were those she returned to from time to time, never was there one who could lay claim to her in kind – and when she could not find one to sate all her desires, she would have two, or three, or even four.

The dark elf, her brother’s apprentice, had proven admirably capable of meeting a number of her needs – he was attractive; he was intelligent; he knew his way around a bed as well as he did a book. He had been less a conquest than a – treaty, perhaps; sizing her up just as she had him, considering his options. In the end, they had each been amenable to invasion; he inviting her between his sheets, she inviting him between her legs.

The fragrance of the tower – of dust, of mold, of petal and spice – had been tainted with the scent of sex; of sweat and fluids, of half-shed perfume. She lay on her stomach; her arms crossed beneath her head, her face turned into the crook of an elbow. Above her, Dalamar straddled her hips; his fingers tracing the latticework of scars on her back.

“I suppose each of them has a story,” he commented dryly. She had flinched away from him on seeing the wounds revealed by the opening of his robes; only to insist on being told the gory details of their origin once assured they posed no threat of contagion.

Kitiara chuckled, shifting slightly beneath him. “If that was the case, my dear mage, I would be a book.”

“What do you perceive yourself as, then?” He lofted a brow. “A scroll of war, perhaps? A map, to be explored? A bawdy note tacked to the wall of a tavern?”

“Or are you simply distressed by the notion that I might not be a fresh canvas for you to work with – that I’ve been written on before?” she countered. Half-hidden against her arm, her lips twisted into that crooked smile.

“Hardly.” Dalamar smirked; lowering the top half of his body to rest atop her own. “Besides, even an old vellum can be restored for new use.” A hand dropped off the side of the bed, fishing about for something on the floor.

“Oh?” It was Kitiara’s turn to arch – both brow and back; one rising while the other twisted. With his weight holding her down, though, she couldn’t get far enough up to get a look at what he was reaching for; and eventually, she settled back into the sheets.

“Mm.” He nodded; the pressure of his body lessening as he sat up once more. “It can be…scraped clean.”

Something thin and chill pressed to the back of her neck, and the tiny hairs there prickled. Her gear, as well as his, had been abandoned beside the bed; he must have plucked the knife from where it had fallen. She stiffened, gritting her teeth. “And do you intend to ‘scrape me clean’, dark elf?” If she sat up, she’d send the blade into her own throat – but if she could get an arm free, she might be able to aim an elbow for his ribs…

Again, he smirked; continuing on as if he hadn’t heard the question – or as if it didn’t matter. “Some scraps, on the other hand, need no such preparation. Their lettering faded, they can be…inscribed on directly.” The edge of the blade retreated, only to be replaced by its point – trailing along her shoulderblade; tracing the shape of muscle and bone.

Was he merely toying with her?

A startled gasp rushed through Kitiara’s lips as the blade abruptly turned, penetrated, parted her flesh. It was a shallow cut – or, at least – it felt like one – but it surprised her nonetheless. She hadn’t been sure if the Black Robe – this Black Robe – truly had it in him or not. Raistlin’s apprentice, indeed.

“What are you writing back there?” she demanded; curiosity manifesting in warring urges – to thrust upright, to twist around and see for herself; or to wait and watch how the game would play out if allowed.

“Does it matter?” The scratching of the steely pen ceased. Dark locks swept through the welling droplets as he bent to touch his lips to her shoulder; a gesture that was at once both tender and cold. “You have no interest in the story, after all.” With a rustle of the robes swept from the floor, he withdrew; leaving only the weight of the dagger in the hollow of her spine.

Author’s Notes: Written for kneazles’ request in Fic on Demand – wanted a fic in any fandom, using the prompt of ‘blood’.