(no subject)
Considering how long the midwife had given him at birth, twenty-six years was a lot longer than some would have expected Raistlin Majere to last. But as he lay crumpled on the floor of the Library of Panthalas, the shrunken dragon orb clutched tightly in his fist, Raistlin Majere couldn't help but think that he would be damned if it was as long as he would have. He lacked even the strength to keep his eyes open, but his mind was awake: always, his mind was awake. His breath was shallow, barely enough air entering his tired lungs to support him - but it was enough. He didn't need to sit, or stare, or move - he only needed to think. And as he held the orb fast between his fingers, all the knowledge he sought came crashing down on him. It reminded him, very vaguely, of the time he had tried to reach a book on the highest shelf of Solace's meager library by standing on a chair, extending fingertips that, even then, had been thin and willowy.
"Raist," a young Caramon had called out from his place at the table, chin in hand, already bored with all the dust and books and silence, "let me get that for you before you--"
His fingertips stretched, curled - almost, almost ... there! Only, instead of hooking one book, Raistlin found he had caught one at the bottom of the pile, and they all tumbled down upon him, knocking him from his rickety perch and onto the floor of the library. Never again, he thought, faintly, did he think he would ever find himself so buried literally and figuratively in the knowledge he sought. But there he lay, surrounded by the books he'd dislodged, the papers he'd scattered in his rage and frustration, and the clarity of his epiphany swirled around him. He didn't even hear Astinus' footfalls as the aged librarian left him there, in his fervor and his frailty - the new, bright truth he had found was far too important.
Somehow, in a manner he had yet to discover, a manner he was now certain he'd read within the pages of the books around him, he had done what he always longed to do: in bargaining with Fistandantilus, with the voice he'd heard since the Test, he had saved himself, through his own means. He was the one the librarian had spoken of: the master of both past and present, Fistandantilus himself, somehow. It seemed inexplicable now, but Raistlin knew himself - if there was knowledge in this world, or in any other, it would be his. But to find it, he needed the Key. He clutched the orb tighter, unaware that his fingernails bit into his palm to the point of drawing blood, and spoke out.
I will serve the Darkness, he pledged, the voice in his mind coming out stronger than the feeble rasp he knew truly belonged to him. I will help the Queen protect what she cherishes, if she will only give me her Key of Knowledge in return. Let me read the words written, so that I may properly walk the path set before me...
With that one silent oath, he felt his strength begin to slowly return. He opened his eyes, and the Library of Panthalas swam into slow, fuzzy focus. Details he knew should be crisper kept their muddied edges longer than they should have, and as the paper before his eyes curled and yellowed, aged and crumpled to dust, the light of the three moons of Krynn shone down through the high windows. Lunitari and Solinari's light mingled on the floor, lending a purplish hue to the room ... but as Raistlin's eyes gained their focus at last, he became conscious of another light he had not noticed before: the light-dampening presence of Nuitari, the moon of darkness. It appeared as a window in the night, a darker hole amid the velvet of the night sky, and Raistlin could only stare, transfixed, as the moonshadows wound their way down into the Library to fall upon him.
But only magi of the Black Robes can see Nuitari ... The hand curled around the dragon orb shook, slightly. It is done, then...
As the moonshadows touched the folds of his robe, Raistlin lifted his head as much as his meager strength could allow, and watched as shadow crept over the red cloth, bleeding out and dying it a black as deep as the moon itself, the gold runes ringing his sleeves and hems shifting and turning to silver. The faintest ghost of a chuckle escaped his lips, as he remembered the dream he and his companions had shared in the forests of Silvanesti, under the influence of the orb he now held. His robes had turned to black, then, and he had seen the horror rising in his brother's eyes.
If only Caramon could see me now, Raistlin thought. He wouldn't understand. He sees darkness as evil, not as a tempering force to the blinding harshness of light. He sees only the bottom of the well, not the shade of a tree in midsummer. I may have pledged the darkness, but I will not serve Takhisis herself, she of the cold, ruthless dominion over all. Instead, I will simply serve Nuitari himself - the one who rewards ambition for its own sake. ... And my first act of that dark ambition will be to prove to the Dark Queen that not even the threat of her wrath can stay me in my own course.
Lying there in the darkness, the mage let his strength return, let the threads of his plan drift in on the motes of dust that danced in the moonlight before him. One by one, he pulled them to them and knotted them together into a delicate, dangerous web - a trap for the knowledge and the power he had known would be his, for good or for evil, for twenty long years. Now that he knew he would live, he had plenty of time.