Hello there. It's the author. Yes, I know it's been a long time since I last updated, but RL is... you know how it is, right? Anyway, here you have the next installment of this thing that began as a little parody of another fic and has finished having a life of its own...
The next one won't play so hard to get, mind you.

A warning, dear reader: this chapter, and the next one, wallows a big in angst. Of course, not everything would be rosy for Raistlin, wouldn't it? After being so naughty, he deserves it...

By the way, see the little button down there? You can press it to keep the monster fed so that it can inspire me to write more of this... travesty. And thank you to those who'd bothered to keep it happy!

Thank too to my beta, Skull Bearer.

Now let us proceed to...

Flaming Summer!

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

Chapter 5: The Coward's Way, As Usual

If in previous weeks Raistlin had braved the coldness of early spring for the mere fact of awaking to the sound of birds, in the middle of the season he was forced to sleep with the shutters wide open under penalty of dying by baking. Solace had been plunged into a heat spell so punishing that its inhabitants shied from the wearying days and dragged them outside their homes in the stifling nights in search of a respite. However, the inclement weather offered none, so they went on sluggishly, lacking the energy to act as normal ─except for the two Majere sisters.

Laura and Dezra spent the whole day outside the inn, running mysterious errands all throughout town, at any hour of the day, but particularly in the evenings. It seemed that the Slicker was the leader in the enterprise they got involved in, so it was certain that there was money in the way. Whatever they were carrying out, however, the girls were bursting with enthusiasm.

The mage knew he should be worried by the level of activity of the two little devils, but he was too hot to care. In the first days of the heat wave, he had cast a spell to cool his bedroom, shutting himself within, but Tika had been "worried about her baby boiling himself to death in that small, gloomy room". Thus, in order to not raise suspicions in the sadistic ex-barmaid, the wizard gave up his nice, chilly seclusion and resigned himself to allow the heat to roast him slowly. To make matters worse, the middle-aged harpy had taken to watch him more carefully than usual since Dalamar's visit, probably chewing up some imaginary connection between the presence of the dark elf in Solace and his lack of appetite.

Thus, here he was, seated on a rickety rocking chair in the part of porch farthest from the entrance of the inn and the stairs, wishing he was as shameless as his nephews and the majority of Solace so that he wouldn't be suffocated under his sweaty robes. He had gotten the habit of walking to his 'secret place' near the lake in the early evening to be blissfully alone, but now it was too early even to think about leaving the protective shade of the vallenwoods. Leafing absently the book he had on his lap, he devoted his slothful thoughts to envy his apprentice, now coolly ensconced in his never-warm Tower. Maybe it would be a good idea to tell everything to go to the abyss, to give the boot to the elven dork, and to withdraw into the precious solitude of the Tower forevermore, colour-changing robes be damned. Of course, that would mean killing the conceited elf and his host of arse-lickers, and the mere idea of the effort that would entail exhausted him. Perhaps when the weather turned bit…

"Good afternoon, Palin," a definitely feminine, but shy voice interrupted his lucubrations. Looking up, Raistlin saw a young woman in a flowery dress so drenched in sweat that it clung to her like a second skin. Her hair probably was a vibrant, long mane usually, but now it was a wet mass stuck to her head. Not a lovely sight. He wondered what life-or-death matter had brought the lass here. "Would you want some lemonade? It's fresh made."

Oh, that was why she seemed so familiar; she was the loony that had braved the heat to bring him cakes last week. She had come at nightfall that time though, so her appearance was not so scruffy or damp. What was her name…?

"Thank you, Mirinda. Truth to be told, I'm parched. My mother seems to have forgotten about mthe." Fortunately. "You shouldn't trouble yourself with that though; it's too hot to fuss around."

The barmy lass, instead of taking the hint and clearing off, giggled as she blushingly poured lemonade into a wooden goblet she had in her basket. "It's no trouble at all. Besides, here it's better than in the mill with Father and Mother. The heat seems to have melted their brains and they are just annoying."

Well, they weren't the only ones. It ran in the family, apparently.

Raistlin took the proffered goblet, drinking it thirstily in one gulp. It was tepid, but it was better than nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her standing there nearby, with another goblet in her hand and unsure of what to do next. Even if he would have been in a gentlemanly mood ─which he was not─, he would not have been able to stand up and offer the seat to the girl. His soaked robes effectively stuck him to the chair. He could have, with some effort and a lot of embarrassment, but he was not willing to jeopardise his dignity, preferring to be considered rude. After all, that he was.

"Here, thank you. It was… uh… stimulating," he said, giving the goblet back. Surreptitiously, he tried to unstick his robes from his skin a little as he decided not to delve too much into the reasons that would lead a young woman like Mirinda to smile as brightly as if he had paid her a compliment.

"Do you want any more? The pitcher is not empty yet and you are hot," she murmured, coy.

"Yes, I am, but my stomach is a bit unsettled of lately…" Will you take the hint and get lost?

"You have a delicate stomach, don't you? I think the cakes I brought you last week didn't agree with you too much, poor you."

Why had the she-dunce to remind him of that shameful episode? That night Tika had been keeping him under sharp surveillance, thus not giving Salvador the chance to come to his rescue. He had been so stuffed, that just showing him the basket of offered sweets had made him sick there, in the middle of the common room. The Majere sisters had found it so funny that spreading the news of 'Palin the Girl-Puker' took them no time at all.

Disgruntled, Raistlin nodded, looking down again to his book and feigning he was engrossed in its study. Not even his plain rudeness kept Mirinda away though; she remained standing there like an idiot, staring at him with a smug half-smile that got on his nerves.

"They say you are now the best wizard of town," the irritating lass dared to interject. Moreover, she ignored his glower, blushing to a deeper shade of red and giggling instead. What was with that girl? Was she out of her mind?

"I'm the only wizard of town, so it stands to reason that I'm the most powerful one, no?" How low he had stooped; from the most powerful archmage in Krynn's history to the 'best wizard' of this rustic dump. It was depressing.

"Oh, but there's also old master Farnish," she protested.

"I don't think a farmer that uses cantrips to help to fatten up his pigs is worthy of the title of 'mage'," Raistlin retorted, feeling deeply insulted. His old tormentor at school had not had guts enough to pass his Test, and that alone should have provided him with some sense of vindication. At first, it had, but when he had gone to mock the geezer, he had found his former nemesis so decrepit, hard of hearing, and pathetic that it felt not worth it. In addition, the first and only visit was just depressing, reminding him that he was an old man too, and contrary to those of his same age, he had not lived his years.

Internally seething, the mage tried to curb any other Palin-unlike cutting reply. It was a hard task though; since he had returned to Solace he had been pestered by the merciless sisters, endlessly petted and nagged by nosy Tika, and plagued by his annoying twin. In addition, the awful weather and the nonsense of the young woman did not help to soothe his frayed nerves at all. To add insult to injury, the careless death of Theobald, Dalamar's visit, and the bandits' failed ambush only added more headaches. "You should realise that, for me to become even a better wizard, I need to study."

"Yes, of course, mages are studying all the time," she agreed obligingly.

"In peace," Raistlin snapped at last.

Instead of being taken aback, or at least insulted, Mirinda tittered again. "I understand. You must concentrate in your book and you can't while I'm here. How cute. I'm off now, then. I'll see you soon." She left, looking back every five minutes and waving at him until she was beyond sight.

The archmage in white grumbled to himself huffily, wondering how much time he would be allowed to mull over his lethargic cogitations. Not much, as usual, he supposed. It was a mystery how Palin had endured such family life, but he knew the boy had not been as unaffected as he had let everybody believe. Snooping–er, poking around his room a bit, he had discovered some sketches his nephew had drawn and then hidden. They were very well done, which only emphasised their disturbing nature. They were pictures of an unknown figure clothed in robes of undefined colour fireballing a big house full of screaming people, two little girls drowning in a lake —an empathising feeling—, two strapping young men being devoured in a very grisly way by horrific monsters —it seemed that the poor lad had harboured some resentment towards his brothers, probably because they left him at home to suffer—, a woman gorging herself up to the point of bursting, and a bulky warrior tortured by a very slim man in black robes. Why, not even the poems he had written in his youth about Sturm's ridiculous incipient moustache had been so visceral!

Suddenly, Raistlin started. What with it being so hot and him so deep in thought, he had fallen asleep, lowering his guard! The creaking steps were too close for him to run away and hide, so he used one of his new toys.

"Palin, where are you?" said Caramon, lumbering to stand in front of the rocking chair. "I was convinced he was here." He looked around then bent over to take the book from the wooden floor. He frowned. "How careless! Rai… He wouldn't ever have left behind one of his books, even less on the floor. Oh, but he seems to be waking up at last, perhaps the therapy was not as useless as I thought."

Raistlin wondered why his twin was so happy about his goody son reading a handbook on necromancy. And therapy? What had the dullard been inflicting on poor Palin?

He would have liked to wipe the stinging sweat from his eyes, but Caramon was so nearby that he barely dared to breathe. He hoped the heat also undermined the idiot's perseverance.

After some minutes of glancing at the book and clearly not understanding anything, the big man shrugged. "Well, I'll leave it here for when he returns."

The wizard held his breath painfully as his twin made the gesture of placing the book on the chair, but in the end, he merely dropped it without even looking and left.

Any observer would surely wonder why the book stood floating in the air a little over the chair.

"Phew! Luckily, I had the ring on. He could have heard me if I'd cast the spell," Raistlin murmured, appearing again and rubbing his sore leg. The book had dropped on its edge, sticking on him so badly he had nearly cried out in shock and pain. Damn Caramon! Nevertheless, he considered himself lucky; he had managed to escape unnoticed this time. The invisibility ring was certainly a welcome boon.

Upon returning to his hometown, he had made a wonderful discovery: Raistlin's room. It was a tiny room ─more a broom closet than anything else─ that wizards throughout Ansalon used as shrine devoted to their most powerful and mysterious legend ─Raistlin himself. For his part, the worshipped one thought they were a bunch of hypocrites that possibly left offerings hoping to appease the supposedly deceased archmage for him never to return to Krynn. Ha! Their efforts were for naught! However, their two-facedness benefited him. The small room was full of magical trinkets, scrolls and tomes of lore like the handbook he had been glancing at, and even spellbooks, all of them protected from the eager fingers of kender. He had been thrilled when found that, although most of them were minor items ─merely tokens─, among them there were true gifts. Of course, the fake White Robe refused to insult their goodwill leaving the useful ones to get mouldy in there.

Consequently, Raistlin took the promising gifts and hid them in order to study them later, in the solitude of his room. There was only a snag: Tika was the one who kept the room in order, and she searched it constantly for any sign of a potential advent of her brother-in-law ─to put an end to it in an extreme manner. Therefore, the wizard replaced the items gradually with sham ones. Thus, he already had in his hands the nice ring ─which had helped him to evade Caramon more times he could count up─, a pair of scrolls with interesting spells, two books of dark lore, a nearly exhausted wand of wonder, and a wristband that he had no idea what it did but was both powerful and hideous.

The archmage wondered whether any of his worshippers were still alive or at least safe of limb. Idolatry was extremely frowned upon by the jealous members of the Krynnish pantheon. He marvelled at the fact he himself had not been struck down yet.

The weather improved over the week, sending its heating punishment to other areas of the continent, probably the ones occupied by the unlucky barbarian tribes. They were the object of the brunt of most misfortunes throughout history, probably because they were a bunch of savages wearing feathers in their attires. No one respected feathered uncivilised humans.

However, the cooler air and the invigorated avian neighbours did not improve Raistlin's spirits; he was so suspicious and tense he had become nearly paranoid, a nervous wreck in white robes. He required all of his steely control to bit his tongue and not to snap at anyone, his whole willpower to not throw himself into a killing frenzy and murder most of the Majere household. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't just do so and thus free himself from their pernicious meddling; it was not as if he wanted to redeem himself or anything ─hadn't perhaps he done so throwing himself to Takhisis' hating clutches and allowing his twin look the hero? However, he knew he would not find the yearned peace doing away with them; not only that herd of geezers who called themselves 'Heroes of the Lance' would take an interest on their abettors' deaths, but his deception would be revealed too. Then, the 'Heroes', the Towerers, and his other countless enemies would make his life a misery even more than it currently was; at least as Palin only misguided bandits tried to kill him. He bet that, giving free rein to his heart's wish, even Paladine ─who was fond of his puppet riff-raff─ would step in, possibly sending him that divine retribution called Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Many thought he was merely a kender, but Raistlin knew better; the little pest was the herald of doom for the Platinum Dragon's opponents.

In addition, there were his reputation as mighty archmage and his pride. The curse of the Three Cousins was a real bummer; it would make him the laughing stock of Ansalon. What self-respecting evil wizard would wear white? White was for kids, idiots, and fanatics. In addition, black matched best his golden skin and eyes… Oh, he did not have them anymore, but they could… return, so it was wise to be far-sighed. Raistlin was not a vain man like Dalamar, but he knew that appearance counted greatly with regard to people's reaction. There was nothing mysterious or disquieting in the colour of the goody-goody folks.

All in all, viewed dispassionately, it was not worth, killing the yokels. Besides, he merely had to wait until Tanin and Sturm set off again and he would come with them, to never return ─this time for real. The wait was a real bitch, certainly, and everyday that passed seemed uphill, but he was determined to endure.

That foreboding late afternoon Raistlin took one of his spellbooks and directed his steps towards his Secret Place, on the southern shore of the Crystalmir lake, near the mill and a nice quiet, leafy grove. He was in a rotten mood and needed solitude and peace to soothe his frayed nerves. Caramon and Tika had been arguing nearly all the morning in that hushed way they had, and the mage guessed he had been the subject of the argument. He always was. It was fortunate that Tika loved so much to keep up appearances, so at meal she had been wearing her best smile and her husband had remained silent on the sore point. The lout had tried to ambush him, probably to speak about something the wizard did not care to learn, but Raistlin was too much clever and knew the best nooks in the building. After hiding in several of them for nearly all the afternoon, he made his escape at the first chance. As clever and crafty as he was, he knew he would run out of luck some day. The hateful Laura and Dera had an inexplicable way of thwarting him; he was not sure they were able to see through the invisibility of the magical ring, but was not willing to risk it. They seemed to sniff him out.

So engrossed in his dark thoughts Raistlin was, he was not aware of the danger lying in wait for him until the open-handed hit him in the cheek so hard he saw his own constellation.

The attack was so sudden and unexpected, he could only look dumbstruck at the red-faced young woman that glared at him with undisguised hate. "You-you miserable wretch!" So great was her anger that her entire frame shook. "You lying bastard!"

"What! What's the matter with you, Mirinda?" asked the bewildered wizard, rubbing his aching cheek. He was sure he now bore a five-fingered red mark. A little voice inside his head wondered why he had not lashed out yet; after all, he was in the mood. Or had been. Maybe the slap had stupefied some part of his brain, neutralizing the anger.

"You're an awful, horrible man, Palin Majere! You-you cheat!" the girl spat.

Raistlin wiped calmly his throbbing cheek with a clean rag he kept in one of the hidden pockets of his robe just in case his cough decided to return. He stared at the young woman with as much dignity as one with a now swelling jowl could. He wondered why curiosity had not followed the same path of anger. "Instead of insulting me, would you care to explain their reason?"

"How you dare to ask? You said you loved me!" she shouted.

The white-robe man looked apprehensively towards the town; her shrieks had been likely been heard from there. Then, the full meaning of what the girl had said hit him with nearly as much force has her hand had.

"What!"

"I should've paid attention to Mother! You're just like your uncle, feigning to be interested in an innocent girl just to ignore her at the moment of truth!"

"What!"

"The tales tell that he was an evil man, but you're much eviler than him! He at least never declared his undying love to a woman! Why did you do it if you couldn't love me? Just to make fun of me? Have you laughed hard enough, you vile mage?"

"When did I do that?" he asked, already beyond bewildered.

Instead of answering, Mirinda hurled at him a crumpled parchment. He read it and paled, then narrowed his eyes in fury. "This piece of… of drivel is not mine! I never wrote these inane words! This is not even my handwriting!"

"No?" The wench's eyes widened, anger draining from them before the wrath in the wizard's.

"No. At all. Here, look at my spellbook. No, not this page, or you'll become insane." Well, more than you are now, he thought. "Look at these notes."

"'I should devise a way to put an end to the old goat's…'"

"Ah, enough. I did mean to look at the handwriting, not truly read it. They aren't even similar, are they? I bet Laura or Dezra wrote that," Raistlin said, putting away his book into his bag.

"Now that you mention it, they were the ones who gave me your letters…" the girl muttered, downcast.

"I should've known," the mage sighed. "How could you fall in love with a man that writes such stupid things? 'My desire is fierier than a fireball', 'I feel like the target of a charm person', 'If I were powerful enough I'd Wish us to be together forever'… Do you think I'd write this to anyone I was in love with?"

"Well, it was weird, but since you wizards are weird too…" Tears began to form in Mirinda's eyes. "Since I know –everyone knows– that mages love magic, I thought it was nice that you used it to describe what you felt. That felt so… magely."

Oh. Clearly, the populace still misunderstood wizards. They probably thought that mages used burning hands spells to light the hearth…

"I'm so sorry, Palin! I shouldn't have hit you; I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up, after what Mother told me. But your… the letters were so nice in a way, and you were so cute I thought you were different. But your father… I'm so sorry!" she wailed and turned away, running towards the mill at full speed.

Raistlin wondered how she managed to sprint and wail like a banshee at the same time with such efficiency. "Hey! Hey, don't go! You must tell me what you meant about my uncle!" the shouted after her. "Blast it! I must know!" And followed suit.

He had never been athletic, not even in this new incarnation, but seeing as a crying girl covering her face with her hands face and wearing long skirts broke away, leaving him behind, was humiliating. He considered for a moment giving up the chase; the curiosity gnawing his insides was stronger than pride thought, so he tucked up his robes and followed the barmy lass, just hoping this indignity would not be witnessed by anyone.

After what he considered a lifetime of running –in fact, only a few minutes–, he fast crossed some thick bushes through which the girl had disappeared, only to trip on an upright flat stone and fall to the ground, face-first.

"Damn!" he growled. Now, in addition to a swollen cheek, he had a muddy face and robe. Annoyed, he kicked the offending stone, but his foot turned out more hurt than the slab. "Ouch! Damn!"

Giving a quick glance at his surroundings, he realized he was in a backyard, the mill's in fact. The crying girl had likely gone through the door that led to the main building, because he could not hear her loud lamentations anymore. He stood and tried, futilely, to clean his robe with the rag, only to resign himself to wipe his face as much as it was possible. The cloth was almost immediately filthy. It was then when Raistlin realized that the stone he had tripped on was, actually, a gravestone. Looking closely, he could make out a name engraved on it, eroded by time and weather.

"Gabriel Raistlin Thrael. Beloved son. 345-347," he whispered. The words sent a shiver down his spine. "What's the meaning of this?"

The back door of the mill opened, to allow the exit of a middle-aged woman. Once upon a time, she had been an admired beauty, but sorrow more than time had erased the prettiness, leaving a weathered serenity behind. Her eyes widened at seeing him, then filled with sadness.

"Oh, you look so much like him," she said softy, to herself, although Raistlin managed to hear it. "I understood that you both were alike, but I never imagined it would be so much."

The white-robed mage had the nagging feeling he knew the woman, watching her warily as she approached.

"I'm sorry about what you've been through because of my daughter. Please, forgive her; she didn't intend to hurt you. She was in love and wouldn't understand. As I did," she added to herself. "And now she's heartbroken."

"Mirinda…" Oh. How could he have been so blind? The names! True, the girl looked nothing like the mother had, but… "Miranda," he mouthed soundlessly. Confused, he regarded the woman that long, long ago had broken his own heart, then the gravestone, and the aging woman again. "But…"

A twinge of pain twisted his insides. An inexplicable grief filled that part of him that he had thought –wished– dead long ago. When Miranda hold out her hand to touch him, he stepped back, breathing heavily. Why did she look at him with such sorrow and pity? He did not want them!

Turning right around, Raistlin fled.

Sitting on the ground with his back against his own tombstone, the archmage gazed absently at the starts shining in the nocturnal sky, mocking him. Night had already fallen over Solace, but he did not want to return to the Inn and to the Majeres'. They would be looking for him; he knew, however, that no one visited Raistlin's tomb, ever –they feared too much Tika's wrath–, save Caramon for its tending, so they would not come here searching for him.

He allowed bitter remembrances to come to his mind, memories he had tried to bury under his devotion to the magic. It had never worked completely; the sourness of his younger years would always keep him company to emerge in times like these. Nevertheless, he had thought he had left behind pain such as the one that was torturing him now.

He did not understand completely what happened earlier with Mirinda and her mother, but he felt that it did not bode well for him. He had done the maths, the child had been conceived roughly when Miranda had been involved with his brother; but then, rumours had that she had bedded half the young males of Solace, and she finally had married the miller after a scandal. Even so, why did that dead baby bear his name? He remembered the girl's angry words sharply: 'You're just like your uncle, feigning to be interested in an innocent girl just to ignore her at the moment of truth.' However, that made no sense. It had been just the opposite; Miranda had deceived him, making him believe she had taken an interest in him, only to dispel all his childish delusions by having a roll in the hay with his twin. Witnessing it had been painful, but it had probably been for the best; it had likely saved him much more grief later. He had feigned nothing, he had even considered renouncing –even if briefly– to his magic for the wench's sake, by the Gods! He had allowed himself to be duped, and the price had been his broken heart; the result, a vow of swearing off fickle love.

No, it made no sense at all.

The archmage pondered the tormenting mystery for long moments, reclining against the stupid shrine Caramon had built just to have a really great time drowning in his grief for his "deceased" brother. He should be sleeping, as the inscription stated. In peace. Then he decided that, for the moment, he might be happy with doing it in a bed and not on the hard ground.

When he reached the rear door of the Inn of the Last Home, Raistlin's melancholy had evaporated; the mere sight of this place angered him. For most people, it was a milestone, a place of worship and legend, of solace and rest; for him it was a huge and veiled torture chamber. He wished nothing but seeing it aflame. With its owners inside, like in Palin's picture. He would miss the spiced potatoes, although not very much; after all, they gave him heartburn.

He entered the inn quietly, but apparently not enough to deceive the senses of the guard on watch waiting for his arrival. The wizard heard the scrapping of a chair against the wooden floor and a light came into sight. For once, he was lucky; it was Caramon. He was not in the mood to put up with Tika's screeching.

"Where were you, young man?" the big man chided.

The venom in Raistlin's glare was so malignant, so evident, his twin stepped back, alarmed. "It is not your business," he sneered. "I am a growth man, not a boy anymore. You have no saying in my affairs, so leave me alone."

Even taken aback by so uncharacteristic reply, Caramon worried about his dirty appearance. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his tone full of that dogged concern that had exasperated the younger twin even as he was a child.

"As I said, it is not your business. I will not stain your floor with my blood, if that is what you are worried about," he answered with his own scorn, heading for his bedroom, not giving him a second glance.

If he had, he would have shuddered at the grin that widened his twin's lips.

Even thought Raistlin was deathly tired by dawn, he got up. After quickly gathering his things, all of them, he got dressed and dispelled the guards that had protected him from the sisters with an indolent wave of his hand. Then he left what had been his room for the last months without a second glance.

During his short hours of rest, he had decided that Palin was going to suffer a bout of defiance and run away from his parent's home. He was fed up with most of the Majeres, and did not want to put up with them anymore. It saddened him to abandon his nephews, but it would be better this way, at least for himself.

He reached the stables without any incident, getting rid of the neighbours he passed on his way with a greeting, a smile, and some inane words. Just as well, he was not in the mood to deal with overly curious yokels.

Studying at great length the animals, he chose the horse more to his liking, incidentally the best of the stable and began to put on it the trappings. Once he girthed the saddle in place, he began to buckle fastidiously the saddlebags. A harrumph interrupted his preparations.

A bulky figure stood in the doorway of the stable. Tanin approached quickly and held the horse by the bridle, a deep frown on his moustached face.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To go for a ride," mumbled the wizard.

"Oh, yeah, with the saddlebags full of your things, eh? Your spellbooks, your robes, even your winter clothes, and your staff strapped to the saddle," accused the first-born Majere.

The easiest way to be off the damned town would be enchanting Tanin or merely pushing him aside. Nevertheless, Raistlin was fond of his nephew, as he was of Sturm too, and did not want to hurt them. They were the only worthy members of the Majere household, their only sin being blind of their brother's suffering. The wizard knew that the strong warrior would not take well to being bested by magic, so he opted for another path.

He offered his nephew his best award-winning puppy eyes. They had won him the heart of a clerical ice-maiden, so they should work on one as gullible as his twin's older son.

"Tanin, please, you must let me go. I can't stay here anymore; it's too dangerous for me and… Solace itself," he pleaded. "If I remain here something truly terrible will happen, particularly to our family." Yes, truly terrible, at least from the young man's viewpoint: He would personally set fire to the Inn with its proprietors locked up inside, and he supposed that, in his murdering thirst for revenge, he would not pay any attention if destruction spread to the rest of the town. "I must go, to keep it away from you and the others."

The warrior Majere regarded him with something akin to stern approval, although tinged with scepticism.

"That's very noble on your part. Still, you don't need to make excuses."

"Er ─What do you mean excuses? I'm talking about…"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You see, l know your secret. I know why you really want to leave."

Raistlin regarded his nephew in silent horror. How had the young man discovered his secret? He had been extremely discreet and covered well any track he would have left. Had the would-be knight not fallen for his explanation about the spell that felled the bandits? Or perhaps was it that he remembered the jam with the succubus? Had he let fall his Palin-mask any other moment save the last night confronting Caramon?

Taking advantage of the silence of his gob smacked 'brother', Tanin continued before the mage had the chance of bewildering him with words, as he was fond of doing. His tone was placatory, soft. "And I understand; I know how hard it must be for you to think that you are failing their expectations. I don't know if I would've been able to feign I'm someone that I'm not in reality, and I think you must be suffering greatly for that."

Damn! His charade to the Abyss! Maybe it was still not too late for a few well-placed forgetfulness spells…

"All these girls pining for you, and you…" The corpulent young man sighed. "And I know you think Father is the worst. I've seen you avoiding him like the plague so don't try to deny it. You don't want to disappoint him, but you can't fight what you are."

The fake Palin blinked. What was Tanin talking about? One moment his encouraging tirade was leading to Raistlin's doom and the next one, it had turned into complete nonsense. As if he cared two hoots about the lout's approval!

"But I'll have you to know that he'll be understanding, just as he was with…" He looked around fearfully, expecting to see a fearsome monster emerging from the shadows to strike him down. "You know who."

All right, Tanin was not speaking about him, but about Palin. He had not been discovered yet. Nevertheless, what the devil did he mean?

"What was father understanding about with 'I-know-who'?"

"You don't need to pretend, little brother. I spoke with Revered Daughter Albertus, you know, the cleric of Mishakal, about this and he reasserted my suspicions in that regard."

"I haven't the faintest idea of what do you mean. Please, quit beating the bush and explain yourself. I want to set off before I'm an old man," said the wizard.

"Well, it's about you being gay."

Raistlin regarded his twin's son, utter incomprehension in his eyes.

"What the abyss has anything to do with being bloody cheerful?"

Tanin rolled his eyes and sighed exasperated.

"At times I wonder if you really live at the present time with the rest of us mortals," the warrior snorted, visibly amused. "Not that kind of gay, but, you know, the other. Oh, c'mon, Palin, you know… as in fairy."

The archmage opened his mouth to reply, then closed it and opened it again.

"I AM NOT!" he shrieked some seconds after. He was more than furious, he was livid, but he knew he had to control himself or his secret would be forfeit. Raistlin forced himself to calm down and willed the golden armour of the Miiro not to appear, all the while glaring daggers at the younger man through narrowed eyes. If he had been able to come out undiscovered from the confrontation with his brother, he could manage in this strait too. Once he had tucked all thoughts about murder in that dark place in the depths of his mind where he kept record of every slight ever done to him, the archmage took a long cleansing breath, and let it go. In a frosty voice, he added, "And Uncle Raistlin was not either."

Tanin gasped at his audacity, quite expecting to see his fearsome mother appear on the doorway wielding her terrible frying pans in a berserk rage. "Shhhh! Mother might hear you! And don't be angry, I already said you don't have to be ashamed of it. I don't mind at all, and Sturm either. C'mon, Palin, you can't deny it anymore, we saw you those sidelong glances you kept casting to master Dalamar when he visited. I don't approve of your poor choice, he's not a good man and he doesn't deserve you, but I'm happy you at least got your affections returned. He was so obviously grateful you did!"

By all the gods of the multiverse, how could they have misread so badly his smug, vindictive glances at his apprentice? It was true that Dalamar kept looking at him hopefully, but it was because the elf hoped he would lift the curse from his now lifeless willie, not because the dork felt any sort of affection towards him!

At least, he hoped so.

"But that was the ultimate proof. In fact, we had suspected it all along, me and Sturm, even before Father explained us that... you know who was gay too."

"What!"

"We didn't say anything to you because we guessed you'd be disappointed, or just angry. We know he is sort of your role model. And we didn't want to scare you either. Father told us that you know whose misfortunes were due to him never accepting his sexuality; he refused to acknowledge it and it led him to a life of angst and bitterness, ultimately causing his downfall. There's a theory that holds that he wanted to become a god because that would allow him to change his condition."

That was not true in the least! Not at all! He did not even want actually to become a god; he had been driven to kill the 'baddie dragon' by the Staff of Magius. Who had devised such a preposterous theory? Damn, and what was Caramon doing, spewing such idiotic –and wholly false– stories?

"You cannot allow it to gnaw you away, Palin. We'll support you when you come out of the closet, I promise. I know that in Solamnia your kind are badly thought of, but your brothers will fight foot and nail for you! Maybe there you'd find a nice knight to love you as you deserve, even if you are a wizard. Such cases might be rare, but not unheard of. Don't give up, little brother, we are with you!"

Ready to burst ─even though he did not know whether into tears or swear words─, Raistlin decided it was best if he just was off that very moment, before he was completely driven insane. Schooling his features into a mask of horror, he pointed to the street and gasped, "Mom's coming! She's heard us!"

As Tanin turned on his heels to face what he thought his doom, his uncle mounted with a deft movement, and spurred the horse, which went out the stables at a gallop, leaving the young man in the lurch.

"Palin, don't be silly! Don't run away!" the warrior called after him, realizing he had been duped. Swearing under his breath, he ran towards his horse and saddled it. He was ready to mount it when he heard a clinking sound. Looking down, he saw one of the horseshoes had come off. Cursing, he reached for another animal, only to discover that its horseshoes were also slackened.

"Hey, Tanin, I believe I've seen Palin riding out town like a bloody maniac. Where is he going at this early hour and alone?"

"He's just like… you know who. He has fled because he refuses to accept he's gay. And I'm not after him because the kid's done something with that magic of his!" he explained pointing the horseshoes on the floor.

Sturm's eyes widened in surprise and dismay. "We cannot let him suffer because that!" he said firmly. "Haven't you explained him he can rely on us?"

"Of course I did, but he refused to believe me!"

"We must follow him and bring him back before he does something foolish driven by anguish, like…" A sudden thought crossed his mind. "Or before he really accepts what he is but goes astray. He might elope with that dark elf that kept eyeing him some weeks ago! That nasty character will take advantage of our poor, distressed little brother!"

"I know! Just fetch the blacksmith to put the damned horseshoes on the horses' hooves!" he commanded. His younger brother complied hastily.

"Father and Mother are going to kill us."