A/N: Childlike Empress: Yeah, the bunny conspiracy is great. It has become some kind of running gag between Dally and me.

Lady Valura: Yay, somebody noticed the "discomfort in the lungs" - issue. Things are explained here. More or less...

Hilary: No, they don't let him rest. But this time, Tas is not responsible for the trouble...

Guan: This one is longer. ;) Have fun.

Dally: Did the bunnies play the Salsamusic in this chapter? We'll never know...

and everybody: Thanks for reviewing!

Enjoy.

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Chapter 34 - The Dreaded Fiend Called Joy

At first, he looked at Naranja and studied how she raised her slender legs from the ground leaping in playful steps. She demonstrated some easy sequences for him and he tried to follow. He had watched other people dance often enough but he had rarely tried it himself. It had never occurred to him that dancing should be something more than a primitive amusement for those who had not enough brains to enjoy the fascination of intellectual challenges. The music was still there. He had to admit that something in the gypsy's rhythm was catching. It seemed to have a power to force body and feet into movement. After a while he began to follow the patterns of the rhythm. In contradiction to the simplicity of these songs, some underlying logic was hidden in those pieces. A complicated paragon. Comparable maybe to the pattern of a spell. He made up an easy step pattern and let the drums and the crying viola guide him.

'This is relatively easy. I haven't begun to get bored yet. Which is strange. Everything around this place is so dull. But there is some strange kind of logic in here. I still don't know why people get so entertained by this. But this is not boring, this is actually less tedious than I thought.'

"But can also move to the side..."

Naranja kept talking but it sounded just like echoes in his head. He glided farther into concentrating on the way his feet moved. Only music was there.

'Hm. This is something else. I don't know how people amuse themselves like this. It is stupid. This is just a waste of time. This is a waste of my time. I should be in the tower. Learning, doing something worthy. Yet I cannot stop. I could, there is nothing forcing me to dance.'

"Smile Nima! We always used to have a lot of fun, just like now..."

'But I won't. This is strange, I never felt this way before.'

"Oh I have got to get some water. Otherwise I'll get tired from dancing all night. Now its getting hot, don't you think?"

Raistlin noticed absently that the gypsy gave an excuse and hurried back to the camp.

'Indeed, there is something odd about this. What is this kind of witchcraft I've never known before? I feel a warm sensation, growing from the bottom of my feet. Rising slowly and twisting in my stomach. Yet, it is not something that I could compare with any disease of mine. I can feel my body slowly heating up and giving me a... hm... well... it actually gives me a comforting sensation of warmth. And a strange... impression... that this turmoil I am in right now it's not as bad for me as I thought it to be. Will there be actually something... is there something that can justify this type of movement? Is there a lesson that I must learn from... dance?'

It nearly escaped his notice that Naranja had come back.

"Hi, Nima you are still dancing? I knew you'd like it. I can teach you some more steps if you want. Look, you can..."

'Do I like it? Is there a slight possibility that I can like dancing? Or is that some kind of charm that kender and gypsies have put on me? This must be some kind of trick. Ha... I'm just getting too accustomed to being a kender. This dancing, this horrible dancing... this joyful movement of the body, designed to bring happiness. Is it actually happiness that I'm feeling? A relaxing sensation?'

Without noticing it, Raistlin stopped moving as he gave his mind a rest. The strength of his conclusion forced him to halt for a moment.

"Am I having fun?"

Raistlin was confused. He knew that the girl was watching so he continued to move. But his mind was busy with troubling thoughts. He didn't know which was worse. The possibility of him having fun, or the terror he had felt when he had accepted that this actually was a possibility. This master of darkness, this wizard of the blackest order was being disturbed by simple artistic manifestations of light and joy? In the darkest corners of his heart... could he actually be touched by... Good?

The whole idea made him so sick, that there was nothing for him to do save to turn and run away.

He felt his feet moving swiftly and heard his own short breaths as he ran farther into the darkness of the nightly woods. He had to...get...away...from... them. This made him soft. What had they done to him? Why did they suddenly have the power to touch and move his emotions with their rhythm like they had moved his body? How could this have been possible? Cursed bards and their cursed music! How could this simple dance induce such a loss of control? Naranja hadn't even sung. A huge tree appeared out of the darkness. Raistlin dodged it. He took a few more steps and stopped.

He was alone now. Far away enough for not having to hear their voices, their music and their goddamned laughter anymore. He was alone. In the dark. At least this was something he was used to. The sudden silence of the night only disturbed by his own ragged breathing made him come to his senses again. He could start to think it over now, could analyze what had happened...

Suddenly he heard footsteps.

"Nima, Nima where are you? Why did you just run away like that?"

Oh, this terrible girl! For that second, he hated her. He hated her for having triggered this unwanted experience. Hated her for being so damned caring and happy. So naive. Like his brother. Just like Caramon.

"Go away!" he hissed as she stepped up to him. "Leave me alone."

"But Nima? What happened? Is there something I can do for you?" She laid her delicate, feminine hand on his shoulder. "Are you not feeling-"

"SHUT UP!" he shouted and pushed her hand away. She had sounded so much like Caramon that he had felt like drowning in her care. Only too late he realized that his move had been so violent it had made her stumble and trip over the root of a tree. She fell and he made no effort catching her or helping her up.

"If I need your help, I will ask you. Right now I don't! So leave me be!"

His words were cold as ice. She raised herself awkwardly from the ground. He could sense that she was hurt. He had done it again. Because once more he wasn't able to bear her presence any longer. This time it was worse than on the evening in the caravan. He had only been annoyed then. Now he desperately needed her to leave. Her concerned looks pierced his heart, agonized him. She couldn't understand. Of course she couldn't. It didn't matter to him. The only thing he cared for at this point was being left alone. Not having to bear the care of someone who was the last person he would show his misery to. Finally he knew he had won. Shaking her head, Naranja turned to go.

"Don't stay there too long. It can get cold."

He needn't to be an empath to hear the pain and anger in her voice. Then she was gone and he was alone as he had commanded.

But the sudden silence seemed even more depressing now. Shivering, he sank on a nearby tree stump. Though it was a warm summer night, he felt cold. Nevertheless, he refused to go back to the camp. Back to those thrice-cursed, happy, shining faces. Raistlin clung is arms around himself and prevented to ignore his trembling body. Was it just the cold that shook him or was it the overwhelming feeling of despair which he fought since he had sent Naranja away?

He was nearly sure now, he had felt happiness while dancing. A pleasure that was in certain respects similar to the sovereign, fulfilling, exquisite taste he felt when working a spell or concluding a long prepared ritual. All his life he had been sure that only magic could fulfil in this way. Only magic. For nearly two decades it had been his own true source of delight. Nothing else had given him these feelings. And now, after such a long time, this barely grown-up gypsy girl should have an answer he had not been able to give himself? That could not be true. It mustn't!

He had listened to music before. He had heard beautiful elven voices singing intriguing ballads. He had seen talented bards performing the finest dance music. He hadn't always been able to avoid feasts where he occasionally had been forced to dance himself. But none of these things had him ever touched. Except for Naranja's song. That was a different matter, though; she had used manipulative magic after all.

So far, only the gift of magic had given him pleasure. And he had been sure that it had to be this way. That things were what they were. Now he couldn't be sure of that anymore. If the unbelievable was really true, if he had found some kind of joy in the music... then... then... maybe he had been wrong all his life. Could there be anything else beside the realms of sorcery? The thought made him sick. That couldn't be because it mustn't be. He was Raistlin, godammit! Magic was his life! And all he wanted was to control its forces to gain access to the full power it could grant. He had never been able to cherish anything else beside it and he had never missed it. Hadn't he? Had he?

Had he never found anything or anyone else since it had been determined to be like this, or because, at a certain point in his life, he hadn't allowed himself to try anymore? He bit on his lip until he felt blood in the corner of his mouth. These doubts. These terrifying doubts. That one horrorstricken moment of realization that made him question his whole life. His stomach seemed to twist and turn. He felt so sick. And he froze. Had the night become cold suddenly or did he himself burn in a strange inner fire? He coughed. Coughed from a sickness that had let him at ease for nearly two weeks now. The cough that he thought he had left in his own body. Now it had found him. Was there, back again. He felt a familiar pain in the lungs.

That sickness!

How could that be? How? This body was not sick. So it had to be his mind, his soul. It carried the illness with it. Maybe he had been wrong in that as well. Maybe his frail body could not be blamed for everything after all. Had he thus inflicted this pain on himself? But why? Some inner part of him claimed to have an answer. He didn't want to know it, but the nagging part cruelly forced itself into consciousness, finally claiming dominance. He didn't know himself anymore. Who was this man called Raistlin? Had he been the way he was or had he just made up an image of himself? An image that had become so strong that he finally had believed it to be truth? Had he really followed his inner nature or just his own mental picture of himself? Had Raistlin been his own perfect creation? Could this explain his nightmares and his sickness? The messengers of those things he had refused to see? The things he had eliminated because they didn't fit in the ideal of himself he had invented? Had he really been able to eliminate them or had be just banned them from his conscious thoughts? He screamed in the pain his reflections gave him. His body tried to burn itself out. He was in such emotional turmoil that he didn't even notice the tears that run along his cheeks. Thoughts and emotions whirled around in his tortured, burning mind that it nearly tore him apart. He only stopped screaming when he turned over and vomited.

When Raistlin was absolutely sure he'd finished spitting out all of the food from the last week, he let himself sink against the backside of the tree stump he had been sitting on. The sickness was still there, but there were no resources left. He hadn't even the strength to throw up anymore. At least the vomiting had broken the stream of thoughts. He felt so empty now that even emotions and reflections had gone. Only dizziness and tiredness were left. He let himself sink onto the ground and lay there for considerable time. Unthinking, unfeeling.

Then, a warm strong hand touched his shoulder and a voice spoke to him. Something was familiar about this. Was that Caramon who had found him as always when he had had a breakdown? But Caramon couldn't be here, could he? Blinking he stared at the stranger. A soft shake helped him to find his way back to reality. This was not Caramon. Tiomar, the Half-Orc, kneeled in front of him. It took Raistlin several seconds but then he was able to understand what was said.

"Naranja sent me. She asked me to find you and keep watch."

That girl was indeed very much like Caramon!

"Seems that she was right to send me."

In the meantime he supported Raistlin with his left arm and produced a handkerchief out of somewhere to help the mage clean his face.

"I want to be alone." Raistlin whispered.

"We don't always get what we want." The halfbreed said softly but determined. "I'll bring you back now."

With those words he stood up, carrying Raistlin in his arms. The mage felt to dizzy and too exhausted to seriously fight the halfblooded ranger. And it felt so familiar. Tiomar's presence was supporting, soothing, as Caramon's had been sometimes.

He let himself be carried away. Tonight he wouldn't do anything anymore. He just wanted to sleep.

When they arrived at the camp, everybody was still celebrating. The wagons were silent and empty. Raistlin couldn't tell it for sure but he had the feeling that Tiomar walked trough shadowy corners in order to avoid being seen. He was thankful to the halfblood for this sign of understanding. Tiomar had more brains than he had credited him at first. Silently Tiomar carried the mage to the Teketoll's wagon and put him in his bed. Then he left Raistlin alone. Already at the door, he halted.

"I see that you have some problems, Nima. Everybody sees that. You can't blame them for trying to help you. I know, for some reason you don't want to talk. I'm not your mother and I'm not Naranja. And I know that there are some situations in life one has to face alone. But if you ever need someone to listen to you, I will be there."

The next thing Raistlin heard was the closing of the door.

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TBC