A/N - I'm not sure if Rudyard Kipling's well known anymore, but I liked it. If you haven't heard about his "The Cat Who Walked by Himself" go look it up on a search engine.

Original Verses:

I am not a friend,

I am not a servant,

I am the cat who walks by himself,

And I wish to come into your cave.

Special thanks to Silver Wolf Pups (author on Fanfiction).

Nope, don't own Forgotten Realms.

The endless fog swirled around him, changing the landscape to a maze of black and white shades. Teasingly, it danced around, changing the trails until its opponent could not know what was up or down. Laughing, it played its game with ease, but the fog was loosing. The drow it had chosen as its target never faltered a step, walking past with practiced skill.

He walked up the mountain path heavily, and Drizzt's white mane veiled his bowed head. The small onyx statue was warm in his had. Whether it was because he refused to part from it, or the fate that was in store, he knew not. The lavender eyes, that had noted everything, saw nothing. In the pit of helplessness he had fallen in, it did not matter.

Gwenhwyvar had been his only friend in those early years, when his need was greatest. The one that guarded him from loneliness, accepting what he was without question. The black shadow that had taught him so much, yet not speaking a single word.

They were more than just master and servant, more than just friends. She had been his shadow, his twin. Like two mirrored scimitars, that knew each other by heart. Spitting images of slender, deadly darkness, reflections, matching souls . . .

But now that sword was broken, and he felt his heart bleed.

The low-laying cloud continued to close in on him, yet he felt comfort in the white walls. "You promised . . ." Now, when the world was a pale void, the burdens of his morals that he had built himself, fell to pieces. His eyes burned, threatening to spill with tears. "His name shall not be Wild Dog, but First Friend, for he shall be our friend for always and always and always." Drizzt could almost hear Catti-brie, on that warm summer day, telling the strange tales that she said were for the very young. Humans, perhaps, but not drow. "For always and always and always . . ." the slender elf whispered, feeling childish, but not caring. Surrounded by friends, his moral code gave him the façade of strength, lead by integrity. But he could not tax them with his own problems, more problems than their own, though they would readily accept. He would not.

In his hand, Drizzt felt a sudden crack in the smooth stone, and knew time was against him. He broke into a run, climbing steadily uphill through the fog. His legs worked methodically, and he almost tumbled as the harsh climb abruptly gave way. Looking down through the translucent mist, he saw the steep path downward. A sudden gust of wind swept away a section of the fog, and the breathe-taking view that was hidden before finally appeared. The sun was setting in a burst of colour, and the beauty was reflected tenfold. But the light was gradually giving way to darkness, reflecting the many battles of life battling death. This time, life was losing. The slender figure standing against the dying light bent down to summon his life-long friend. Mist wrapped around him, mingling with the clouds, and soon, Gwenhwyvar lay before him, waiting with her golden eyes. Drizzt just smiled sadly, and felt his eyes burn.

"Don't go," he whispered, and gritted his teeth at the selfish thing. Gwen shook her gentle head, and purred softly, nuzzling him. The drow quickly embraced the panther, and buried himself in the dark fur. He held his companion tightly, unable to let go. It felt so real, so alive. Was Gwen really of another plane of existence?

But he tore himself away, and drowned his moment of weakness. His battle partner had already enough to deal with, and he would not allow himself to burden her with more. What was could not be changed, not matter what he did. The ranger sighed, and said as a little farewell gift,

"You maybe a friend,

You maybe a servant

But you are the cat –"

Drizzt's voice cracked, and his friend blurred as the tears reached his eyes. The magical creature seemed to smile, though bitterly, and gave a bow in thanks. Mist wrapped around her, and she was no more. As the drow stepped forward to pick up the statue, a growl, like a last word of goodbye sounded. The figurine began to dot with crack, and it gave, falling apart to pieces. At last, the tears came, as Drizzt slowly dug a grave in the tough earth of the mountain. Carefully, he set each onyx stone into the small tomb, until only one was left. The beautiful head of the black panther looked back at him, with, still, those intelligent eyes.

A tear dropped, landing on the figurine, and made it look as if it, too, was in sorrow. He let the last of the statue fall, and buried the last of her sleek form. Standing, Drizzt watched as the last glimmering light retreated weakly away from the darkness. As he unsheathed his scimitar, it sang quietly, and flashed with the last of the sun as he set it in the ground. The marker would soon be no more than rusted steel, no matter how powerful it was made, as the elements incessantly damaged it.

But it was enough.

Drizzt sobbed, crying openly, for there was no one around. Like any other being, he was covered with vices, with sins. But no one knew, for he would not allow it. Inside the dark fog, he could be a lost child, in the Underdark, and it wouldn't matter. Only Gwenhwyvar had known; she had experienced his life with him, and he had no need to speak. But now, there was no one.

When he turned away from the strange grave, his tears had dried, and the grim stoic expression, of that elven ranger, revealed nothing of what had been before. As he trekked down the mountainside, he was able to finish his verses,

"I may be a friend,

I may be a servant,

But I am the cat who walks by himself,

And I will have to leave tonight."

Above, the stars awakened among the dark shadows. An orange globe of a moon glowed down at the silent drow, the Hunter's Moon, pulsed with the beat of the rhymes, singing its own requiem for not one, but two broken souls.