A/N: Hmmm. Not sure I like this chapter as much as I like the others makes
face. I hope it's not too melodramatic. I've been playing with it for a
while and finally decided, what the hell, I'd toss it up here. A
Raistlin/Dalamar, one of two Dalamar POV pieces I have planned (to the
extent I plan this thing anyway ;) Wow! Such great reviews. Thanks to
everyone who has given me input - you guys keep me going. Special thanks to
"Ebony Moonlight" who has added me to her favorites list (I have no clue
how I made it on ;) - I really appreciate the gesture and hope I continue
to deserve the honor.
Special thanks to: Inka Lakhala, my darling beta.
Interlude "chapter" 3: Dark Elf I - The Art in Him
I think I am the first of my kind to be bested by a human at an art. My race is known for its skill with all things creative. We have the sweetest voices, the purest fabrics, the most delicately constructed and carefully painted canvasses. We live in great glorious statues that pay homage to nature and the earth, and humans envy us, as they should.
At least, most of us live in such places. I did once, and its memory still haunts me; I still long for the beauty that my people created. So you would think that no human could match me, that if I put my mind to creating something great, something beautiful, no human could hope to ever match my talents.
But he does. He matches me, matches me and so much more. His art is greater than any other's, greater than my own. He creates darkness and secrets with far more skill than any artist I've known could create color or beauty. He bends his darkness into a twisted swirling poetry that no wordsmith could hope to achieve, not even given eternity, for his creations are greater than any words, any picture. He creates a beauty that transcends that which can be captured or described. He has such exquisiteness in him, such pure sculpture in his own frame, that the curve of an arm, or the fold of black upon black that shrouds his form, become art, and from his form, his magic, his talent, pours forth to become things so pure, so perfect in their cruelty and their kindness, that they transcend art, and they defy my understanding. When I watch him work I find myself lost to any comprehension, marvelling, not at what I know, but simply at what is.
Sometimes I become so jealous of him that it chokes me. Why him; why could it not be me who understood and created such great beauty? I have given up everything I have held dear for my magic, yet I fall short, second best, to him.
Why is he so favored?
Sometimes I want so badly for him to take me and weave me into one of his creations. Under his hands I know I could become something great and beautiful, something more than I am now. Maybe if he used me I would understand all that he is and all that he does. If I cannot create art in magic the way he does then maybe I could be it.
And sometimes, sometimes all I want is for him to look away from the beautiful abyss he creates, and look at me.
And of all things I might wish, I know that this will be the least likely to happen.
And sometimes this makes me cry.
Special thanks to: Inka Lakhala, my darling beta.
Interlude "chapter" 3: Dark Elf I - The Art in Him
I think I am the first of my kind to be bested by a human at an art. My race is known for its skill with all things creative. We have the sweetest voices, the purest fabrics, the most delicately constructed and carefully painted canvasses. We live in great glorious statues that pay homage to nature and the earth, and humans envy us, as they should.
At least, most of us live in such places. I did once, and its memory still haunts me; I still long for the beauty that my people created. So you would think that no human could match me, that if I put my mind to creating something great, something beautiful, no human could hope to ever match my talents.
But he does. He matches me, matches me and so much more. His art is greater than any other's, greater than my own. He creates darkness and secrets with far more skill than any artist I've known could create color or beauty. He bends his darkness into a twisted swirling poetry that no wordsmith could hope to achieve, not even given eternity, for his creations are greater than any words, any picture. He creates a beauty that transcends that which can be captured or described. He has such exquisiteness in him, such pure sculpture in his own frame, that the curve of an arm, or the fold of black upon black that shrouds his form, become art, and from his form, his magic, his talent, pours forth to become things so pure, so perfect in their cruelty and their kindness, that they transcend art, and they defy my understanding. When I watch him work I find myself lost to any comprehension, marvelling, not at what I know, but simply at what is.
Sometimes I become so jealous of him that it chokes me. Why him; why could it not be me who understood and created such great beauty? I have given up everything I have held dear for my magic, yet I fall short, second best, to him.
Why is he so favored?
Sometimes I want so badly for him to take me and weave me into one of his creations. Under his hands I know I could become something great and beautiful, something more than I am now. Maybe if he used me I would understand all that he is and all that he does. If I cannot create art in magic the way he does then maybe I could be it.
And sometimes, sometimes all I want is for him to look away from the beautiful abyss he creates, and look at me.
And of all things I might wish, I know that this will be the least likely to happen.
And sometimes this makes me cry.