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Rosepetals	By : Lykomancer Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 1991 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the book(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Rosepetals
- 1
Toki ni warai shugoshi naite
Kyou mo mada aruki tsuzukete iku
(We go through the nighttime laughing,
Both of us are mourning, yet we walk on.)
-- Boa, “Every Heart”

“Majere!”
The figure cringed, a low groan of disappointment and impatience escaping. He had been hoping to avoid just this kind of confrontation. “Ye-es?”
Paladine stepped closer and laid his hand upon the other god’s shoulder. “Majere… you think no one notices you?” After a long, stiff silence, the elder god sighed and continued. “You are only hurting yourself… why, you haven’t even taken interest in the new world! That’s not like you!”
Majere cringed again under the weight of truth in the accusations, and shifted nervously, tugging at his ebon braid fitfully. He licked his lips, then turned to face the elder god, his shoulders slumped. “I…” he started.
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Paladine took mortal form to help guide the wayward; Tahkisis only when she absolutely needed to; Reorx sporadically when he needed a break from the neverending heat of his forge to drink and gamble. Majere, however, was much different, finding mortals and their world an endlessly fascinating study, and he never left the face of Krynn unless forced by outside circumstance. Drawn to the organic children of the gods and their delightfully complex behavior, he descended from the heavens not long after Creation to walk among the unknowing mortals; he was mindful of his behavior, though, and endeavored to remain hidden to their eyes and to have as little impact on their history as possible. Ages tumbled over each other, Huma rose and fell, dragons flew then slept, the fiery mountain obliterated Istar… and Majere wandered the world, watching wide-eyed through his swiftly changing forms. While the other gods chose one form to represent thlveslves on Krynn, Majere did not, but chose rather to assume many shapes and types. He was elf, human, dwarf, kender, gnome, , ma, male, female, warrior, mage… sampling each with the fervor of the starved.
Only once in all of the history of Krynn was his true nature discovered, but he did not regret that. He had known his anonymity could not last forever, and thus it was with a smile he blessed the small boy who stared, trembling, into the face of a god with awe though he could see nng eng else. Majere had placed a gentle kiss upon the blind orphan’s forehead and bid him go out into the world proudly, for he was god-touched. And so the boy did, bearing proudly the name of the wayward god as his standard…
And thus in the Age of Dreams was born the line of Majere.
*****
Piqued by the courage and strange power of that blind war orphan and a sense of propriety over the child and his life, Majere watched him grow and become a warrior; fall in love, marry, and bring forth children of his own; age and die; then the god turned his eye to that boy’s descendants and watched them tumble through the circle of life. Never again did he interfere with the humans who claimed his name; he was proud of what they did without needing any assistance, and he loved how full of life and vigor they were, fighting for their lives and souls, struggling bitterly against the cruelty of life.
He traced the line with the meticulousness rivaling that of Gilean’s recordings, tracking every second cousin, bastard child, and disowned miscast on sheets of vellum bound into a thick leather book. Sometimes he would merely sit, tracing his finger over the dark lines connecting past ancestor to present child, wondering if this newborn would grow to warrior, farmer, merchant, mage, nobleman.
Some of the lesser gods later wondered if Majere had known what “his” human line would produce; they whispered that he had deliberately shaped the growth of the family so that blossom, thorn, and fruit would be produced at the crux of Krynnish history and witch sch strengths and weaknesses as could make or break the world. Majere shook his own head, denying such rumors, but… sometimes, in his heart, he doubted himself.
Doubt and wonder both filled him upon his single glance of Fistandantilus’s Army and the black-robed mage himself as they headed southward for Zhaman. He did not look long, for his heart was troubled by such a sight, troubled and shaken to the core by a sense of overwhelming familiarity and déjà vu, as though he’d walked beside these people before. Though only Zivilyn was capable of looking completely into the future and seeing every possible outcome, all the gods had flashes of insight occasionally, and the glimpse of time-to-come that came to Majere then brought tears springing to his eyes. No, he couldn’t bear to watch the army’s attack on the dwarven kingdoms… he would not get involved with the Portal.
Years tumbled over one another frantically, blurring images like rainwater smearing the view of a glass window, and he found himseltchitching with profound interest a small town on the continent of Ansalon… a town with the sweet name of Solace.
*****
Majere could smell the restlessness in the air, could taste the rapidly changing season, for the first time since the Cataclysm. He could not keep this from his mind as he walked for the first time into Solace, disguised at a wanderlusting kender, to meet again the children bearing his name.
One a warrior-born, hale of limb and body, strong and active; the other weak, frail, prone to sickness and fainting spells, though already with the aura that marks those who excel at mage-craft and possessing wit keener than his brother’s sword. Something about the pair of them shivered even the god’s skin, and he did not linger long.
Paladine had more contact with them, shaped their lives more than the one from whom they took their surname, but Majere never really left them, no more than he had left their ancestors. He kept his mind and inner eye bent toward them, wondering if they would prove themselves in this dangerous time of noble heroes and terrible evil. He knew of Par-Salian’s difficult choice, and its outcome. He sensed Paladine taking earthbound form to form the band that would later be known as The Heroes of the Lance.
Though he wished not to influence the course of history, he made sure that a few of his wanderings took him strategically through places he know the brothers would be. A glance, a glimpse, a breath, a heartbeat… an eternity to hear a whispering voice, a booming laugh, smell rosepetals and marjoram, hear the claf stf steel… a moment to study a well-built form running to save someone, the golden gleam of eyes under the white light shed by the Staff of Magius.
It was easier for him to find the mage, as the aura and smell of magic tends to linger, and so he tended to track the party through the mage, Raistlin.
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“Raistlin…” Forgetting where he was, he paused to run the name around his mouth, savoring its flavor and bouquet.
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After Astinus inadvertently gave Raistlin the Key, and the bitter young mage finished his deal-making with Fistandantilus, and moved on to the Dark Queens army, Majere erred.
Following the mage curiously, wearing the guise of a human female warrior—just another servant to one of the Highlords—Majere entered the camp of Tahkisis, seaching for the golden-skinned mage for another of these glimpses before the war roared to its uneasy finish. Wandering casually through the camp under the nonexistent light of Nuitari and hoping not to run into the Queen herself, Majere had been expecting to find Raistlin sleeping in his tent… but no, the mage stood in the middle of the sleeping camp with hands folded into his sleeves, the light of a moon few could see gleaming on the black velvet he wore, as though he had been expecting the god.
There was a glitter of something dangerous in those golden, misshapen eyes hidden in shadow of his cowl, but Majere found he could not speak, as he was badly startled.
Though god in being, his endless years wearing the clothing form of the mortals and walking among them had taken a toll on him, and his mind. No other god in the heavens above Kyrnn could have had his breath taken away so easily, been so surprised so easily. Majere felt as though he had been on the receiving end of a swordhilt to his belly.
“I…”
“You do not age.”
The mage’s soft hiss cut through Majere’s hastily-constructed excuse. He licked his lips. “No,” he answered in his current body’s light, lilting female voice.
He sensed then, rather than saw, the thin lips twist up in a cynical smile, the gold eyes harden coldly, and felt his heart freeze into a solid block in his chest, his breath lock in his lungs. He struggled to draw air in with which to speak.
“And you are beautiful.” The voice was pitched low and even, confident, with a slight sneering twist to it; and Majere found to his amazment that he had somehow spoken those words that the vocal chords that ached from some internal pressure had somehow let loose those sounds so calmly.
Raistlin stiffened, shifting enough that the dark light of the black moon did illuminate his eyes; the reflective metallic surface shattered, showing for a moment confusion, then anger. “What do you want?” he asked abruptly.
Majere shrugged, feeling a little more in control of his own actions. “Nothing, now. I have already gotten what I came here for… Raistlin.” Not awaiting an answer, he stepped back into the shadows and left the camp of the Dark Queen.
*****
It was not much longer before the Master of Past and Present launched his most ambitious plan, and left to challenge Tahkisis in a bid for godhood. Majere’s stomach clenched at the thought, and he grew dizzy and disoriented. Mortals were never meant to bear the sudden strain of godhood and its power; they could not fully comprehend the delicate balance that must be maintained in the world, but he did not want to see the young mage die, and… and yet…
Majere, the god that forsook the heavens in ages long since past to walk the mortal world, knew that he would leave the face of Krynn if Raistlin but won the battle. After thousands of years of wandering, of keeping quiet and merely watching, Majere could not any longer, drawn to the strange charisma of the black-robed human mage, Raistlin. That charm was deadly, a swirling vortex that would very nearly destroy both the cleric he took with him and his brother, and Majere was swept along in its current almost before he even realized.
And still, his heart grew heavy in his breast, remembering the Army of Fistandantilus and its futile march on Zhaman, and he wept hot, useless tears. He would know if Raistlin succeeded… and he would know if he failed.
*****
Paladine sought him out within a few months, and told the younger, wayward god what had happened and comforted the distraught deity as best he could. Paladine wanted him to return to the heavens, and fir the first time since the creation of the world, Majere agreed to stay there, though he was listless and apathetic, pacing the vault of the sky in search of something he conot not find.
*****
The war against Chaos came and the eldar gods hid from him Raistlin’s escape to wander the face of the world, fearing that it might distract him from the battle that must be fought—and must be won. Majere spent the battle fighting suicidally, throwing himself headlong into the fray behind Kiri-Jolith. He fought to die…
*****
He lived, he breathed.
*****
He came to, and saw the stern, proud face of Paladine looking down at him. “I’m…”
The elder nodded, then pointed off to the distance. “We have had to abandon our creation, else He would have destroyed it. We will create again. A good world, a clean world.” Paladine smiled, but Majere turned his face away with a soft sigh.
“Yes, I will help.” Though that was the right response, Paladine frowned.
“Why doest thou love the thorn more than the flower, Majere?” he asked in something closer to irritation. “Go yonder and thou will find a man, sleeping in peace well-earned. Go, and be at peace yourself.” He waved a silver gauntleted hand to indicate a plane of existence.
Majere went, and his spirits were revived as a plant tasting end-drought’s first rain.
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“Majere!” Paladine’s voice called him back to himself.
“I just…” The younger god’s deep blue eyes went hazy, then he shook his head regretfully. “I neglect my duties, and for that, I apologize.” He shrugged, a faint smile crossing his face. “But my love is as endless as the heavens, as strong as Himself. And I do love him.” Majere turned to walk away. “I will assist you in a little while, Paladine, so long as you try to understand.”
Paladine shook his head and sighed, but Majere was already gone.
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Majere walked up to the still form laying in peace, curled on his side, and grazed his fingers over the gaunt face still lined with the results of a bitter, hard life, too much ambition, too little love. His hand lingered there, and then he crouched down closer, breathing in the scen the the other’s human soul. A single rose bud was grasped in the still form’s loosely curled hand.
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