**A note: I have no idea whether Raistlin's army ever traveled around in autumn; even if it did make it to autumn, I don't know whether it ever got particularly cold. Also, I realize that Raistlin wasn't golden during this timeframe. I honestly don't care. For the sake of this story, they did, it was cold, and he was gold.
Moving right along...
"Raistlin," she said softly. Solinari was almost full, the silvery light radiating off her white robes. If anyone were to pass by the mage's tent and see her, she would stand out like a glowing ghost in the darkness - the last thing she needed. Half the army was already calling her a witch; if they saw her now, she'd be dubbed a whore, too.
She shivered - only half from the late autumn cold - as she lifted one delicate hand to the tent flap. She closed her eyes, inhaling a deep breath of the chill air. Her hand didn't shake as she lifted the flap aside, coming to stand in the doorway to the mage's tent.
Darkness inside. Strange; she'd expected to find the archmage in study by the light of a flickering candle, as she'd seen walking by so many other nights. The scent of rose petals, spice, and something else - something darker - drifted around her, an invisible haze.
"Yes, Revered Daughter...?" The voice came suddenly from somewhere in the darkness. His voice. Softly he spoke, but always mocking and almost dangerous, as always. She heard a rustle, perhaps of robes - was he sitting or standing now?
A glint of gold flashed from within the depths - a stray beam of moonlight reflecting from the eyes of an archmage.
"Come inside," he said after a moment. "I would speak with you this night."
...
A flashing, dazzling gleam.
Any simple light turns lightning
when reflected from those eyes:
eyes gold and bright enough to blind the blind.
Moons rise, silver and blood interlaced,
singing silent of magic and danger.
This night, he speaks of himself.
She listens, rapt, to the tale of a family
Drawn down into a darkness
deep enough to break a child's soul...
And always he speaks gently,
so gently, the words flowing quickly,
from a bleeding soul -
so many tears from the heart.
...
"I never knew," she said softly into the silence.
A rustling of black robes, a slow closing of the golden eyes that seemed almost luminescent - he shrugged, or perhaps he bowed his head.
"Not many people do," he said. "She was... neither I nor my brother find it easy to speak of her." His voice was still soft, but the venom was gone. Silence fell over the tent - still dark - as the wind blew outside, almost as though it were singing a sad song... Perhaps a song for Rosamun.
Crysania shifted, her perch on the edge of the cot grown suddenly uncomfortable with the ending of the story. He sat coolly on a chest, one knee bent casually. His white hair, ghostly in the darkness, hung loose across his shoulders and face. As he'd told his story he'd slowly moved closer. Now he was near enough that she could hear him breathe; could reach out and brush the hair from his eyes... Her hand twitched; she dropped her eyes, grateful for the shadows that would hide the blush that had colored her cheeks. When she looked back up, it seemed as though he had been smiling, but had stopped as she raised her head.
She was hit by the sudden realization that he was waiting for her to speak. Awkwardly: "Your mother... I'm so sorry. You... you must have missed her." The words sounded inadequate, hollow, even before she said them. She opened her mouth, searching for something to add.
"I did," he said quietly before she could continue. "Very much." A catch in his voice at this.
Could his past still torment him? she wondered, shivering unconsciously. How horrible must his youth have been - to bring him now, as an evil archmage, such pain? Pain and regret; guilt and remorse... But if he could tell her this painful story, she thought in a sudden flash of inspiration, perhaps she could yet change him! Perhaps there was still time...
Her thoughts shattered suddenly as she felt him looking at her, felt the piercing stare of his strange eyes. She bowed her head. Once, she knew, she would have met his gaze... She wondered at the change. Why did the telling of a piece of his life's story so alter the way she reacted to him...?
It seemed to her that he smiled, irony twisting his lips and lighting his eyes just as though he had heard her thoughts. Uncanny, the way those golden eyes seemed to gaze through her. She would never get used to it.
...
Golden eyes, mirrored and scorching -
a stare to melt and freeze the soul.
She wonders, sometimes,
at half-remembered dreams,
dreams of black velvet, and golden eyes.
She wonders what burns
beneath the golden skin
to light the eyes and heat the body.
What keeps the man ablaze...?
...
She jumped when he touched her.
His slender, fevered fingers closed over her own delicate hand, a brush of velvet falling over her arm... almost a fiery caress. She gasped, dropping her eyes. She meant to pull her hand away from his, but when she looked back up, it seemed he trapped her with his smoldering, golden eyes. Always his eyes... She suddenly felt as though she couldn't breathe - like she was drowning in amber and rose petals; still the scent of rose petals.
His other hand came up gracefully with a rustle of the black robes. He brushed his fingertips lightly over her cheek, tracing her jaw, running across her lips. She gasped again, and this time before she could cast her eyes away he was on her.
His lips found hers, searing into her with a passion born of something nearer magic than lust. The drowning sensation enveloped her and, breathless, she fell into him, buried in black velvet. She closed her eyes, her hands clutching at his shoulders, finally clasping behind his neck. He pulled her against him, his hands tangled in her hair, burning, burning...
And as suddenly as it had begun, he pulled away. She shuddered, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, clutching the edge of the cot as though she was afraid she would fall off. When she looked at him, he was sitting again on the chest. As quickly as it had come and gone, she almost wondered if it had ever really happened, if she hadn't simply nodded off and dreamed the whole thing... But no, his robes were pulled crooked, his hair disheveled, his breathing ragged. Now that she really looked, she saw that he clenched his hand tightly, as though he were fighting something within himself.
She closed her eyes, trying to slow her pulse, control her breathing. When she raised her head again, he sat collected, watching her coolly. His voice, when he spoke, revealed nothing of whatever had tormented him.
"It is late, Revered Daughter," he said. Was he smiling, laughing at her silently? She couldn't tell. "Perhaps you should return to your own tent." Not a question.
She stood quickly, her robes wrinkled, her raven hair fallen carelessly across her eyes. Her knees ever so slightly shaky under her, she lifted the tent flap and stepped outside, back into the night. The moons were almost setting; she hadn't realized how late it had grown. She took a breath of the cold air, mastering herself. She turned to leave, but before she did, she paused, looking back at his tent.
"Good night, Raistlin," she said softly. She walked alone into the darkness, the shadowed glint of his ironic smile following her into the night.
...
And beneath the fire,
a consuming, flickering darkness -
mocking, evil always;
but something more than dark transcends,
shown by the cracks in a whispering voice
or the pain behind a pair
of mirrored, golden eyes.
Already she knows:
"I love him..." ...enough
to want to melt into the deep velvet of his robes.
Enough to face death.
Her own thin blankets wrapped around her,
the Revered Daughter falls into sleep.
Moving right along...
"Raistlin," she said softly. Solinari was almost full, the silvery light radiating off her white robes. If anyone were to pass by the mage's tent and see her, she would stand out like a glowing ghost in the darkness - the last thing she needed. Half the army was already calling her a witch; if they saw her now, she'd be dubbed a whore, too.
She shivered - only half from the late autumn cold - as she lifted one delicate hand to the tent flap. She closed her eyes, inhaling a deep breath of the chill air. Her hand didn't shake as she lifted the flap aside, coming to stand in the doorway to the mage's tent.
Darkness inside. Strange; she'd expected to find the archmage in study by the light of a flickering candle, as she'd seen walking by so many other nights. The scent of rose petals, spice, and something else - something darker - drifted around her, an invisible haze.
"Yes, Revered Daughter...?" The voice came suddenly from somewhere in the darkness. His voice. Softly he spoke, but always mocking and almost dangerous, as always. She heard a rustle, perhaps of robes - was he sitting or standing now?
A glint of gold flashed from within the depths - a stray beam of moonlight reflecting from the eyes of an archmage.
"Come inside," he said after a moment. "I would speak with you this night."
...
A flashing, dazzling gleam.
Any simple light turns lightning
when reflected from those eyes:
eyes gold and bright enough to blind the blind.
Moons rise, silver and blood interlaced,
singing silent of magic and danger.
This night, he speaks of himself.
She listens, rapt, to the tale of a family
Drawn down into a darkness
deep enough to break a child's soul...
And always he speaks gently,
so gently, the words flowing quickly,
from a bleeding soul -
so many tears from the heart.
...
"I never knew," she said softly into the silence.
A rustling of black robes, a slow closing of the golden eyes that seemed almost luminescent - he shrugged, or perhaps he bowed his head.
"Not many people do," he said. "She was... neither I nor my brother find it easy to speak of her." His voice was still soft, but the venom was gone. Silence fell over the tent - still dark - as the wind blew outside, almost as though it were singing a sad song... Perhaps a song for Rosamun.
Crysania shifted, her perch on the edge of the cot grown suddenly uncomfortable with the ending of the story. He sat coolly on a chest, one knee bent casually. His white hair, ghostly in the darkness, hung loose across his shoulders and face. As he'd told his story he'd slowly moved closer. Now he was near enough that she could hear him breathe; could reach out and brush the hair from his eyes... Her hand twitched; she dropped her eyes, grateful for the shadows that would hide the blush that had colored her cheeks. When she looked back up, it seemed as though he had been smiling, but had stopped as she raised her head.
She was hit by the sudden realization that he was waiting for her to speak. Awkwardly: "Your mother... I'm so sorry. You... you must have missed her." The words sounded inadequate, hollow, even before she said them. She opened her mouth, searching for something to add.
"I did," he said quietly before she could continue. "Very much." A catch in his voice at this.
Could his past still torment him? she wondered, shivering unconsciously. How horrible must his youth have been - to bring him now, as an evil archmage, such pain? Pain and regret; guilt and remorse... But if he could tell her this painful story, she thought in a sudden flash of inspiration, perhaps she could yet change him! Perhaps there was still time...
Her thoughts shattered suddenly as she felt him looking at her, felt the piercing stare of his strange eyes. She bowed her head. Once, she knew, she would have met his gaze... She wondered at the change. Why did the telling of a piece of his life's story so alter the way she reacted to him...?
It seemed to her that he smiled, irony twisting his lips and lighting his eyes just as though he had heard her thoughts. Uncanny, the way those golden eyes seemed to gaze through her. She would never get used to it.
...
Golden eyes, mirrored and scorching -
a stare to melt and freeze the soul.
She wonders, sometimes,
at half-remembered dreams,
dreams of black velvet, and golden eyes.
She wonders what burns
beneath the golden skin
to light the eyes and heat the body.
What keeps the man ablaze...?
...
She jumped when he touched her.
His slender, fevered fingers closed over her own delicate hand, a brush of velvet falling over her arm... almost a fiery caress. She gasped, dropping her eyes. She meant to pull her hand away from his, but when she looked back up, it seemed he trapped her with his smoldering, golden eyes. Always his eyes... She suddenly felt as though she couldn't breathe - like she was drowning in amber and rose petals; still the scent of rose petals.
His other hand came up gracefully with a rustle of the black robes. He brushed his fingertips lightly over her cheek, tracing her jaw, running across her lips. She gasped again, and this time before she could cast her eyes away he was on her.
His lips found hers, searing into her with a passion born of something nearer magic than lust. The drowning sensation enveloped her and, breathless, she fell into him, buried in black velvet. She closed her eyes, her hands clutching at his shoulders, finally clasping behind his neck. He pulled her against him, his hands tangled in her hair, burning, burning...
And as suddenly as it had begun, he pulled away. She shuddered, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, clutching the edge of the cot as though she was afraid she would fall off. When she looked at him, he was sitting again on the chest. As quickly as it had come and gone, she almost wondered if it had ever really happened, if she hadn't simply nodded off and dreamed the whole thing... But no, his robes were pulled crooked, his hair disheveled, his breathing ragged. Now that she really looked, she saw that he clenched his hand tightly, as though he were fighting something within himself.
She closed her eyes, trying to slow her pulse, control her breathing. When she raised her head again, he sat collected, watching her coolly. His voice, when he spoke, revealed nothing of whatever had tormented him.
"It is late, Revered Daughter," he said. Was he smiling, laughing at her silently? She couldn't tell. "Perhaps you should return to your own tent." Not a question.
She stood quickly, her robes wrinkled, her raven hair fallen carelessly across her eyes. Her knees ever so slightly shaky under her, she lifted the tent flap and stepped outside, back into the night. The moons were almost setting; she hadn't realized how late it had grown. She took a breath of the cold air, mastering herself. She turned to leave, but before she did, she paused, looking back at his tent.
"Good night, Raistlin," she said softly. She walked alone into the darkness, the shadowed glint of his ironic smile following her into the night.
...
And beneath the fire,
a consuming, flickering darkness -
mocking, evil always;
but something more than dark transcends,
shown by the cracks in a whispering voice
or the pain behind a pair
of mirrored, golden eyes.
Already she knows:
"I love him..." ...enough
to want to melt into the deep velvet of his robes.
Enough to face death.
Her own thin blankets wrapped around her,
the Revered Daughter falls into sleep.