Author: Nariel
Disclaimer: grumbledrowbelongtowizardsofthecoastallhailthespiderqueengrumble
Rating: R/M, just like the books
AN: continuing on the page where the evil, heartless Paul S. Kemp – and Jeggred, and Quenthel – left Pharaun to die in the Demonweb Pits. They left him there paralysed and about to be consumed by a horde of hungry spiders. Nari felt there were things remaining unsaid. With extra punctuation and slashy, if you're so inclined. I am.
Time slowed down, and Pharaun's heartbeat thudded slowly, painfully slowly in his ears, his eyes burning with the dust clouds the wind chased about. The paralysis was complete indeed – he couldn't even close his eyes, nor was he sure he wanted to... The invisible seconds advanced at him, like a drow female strutting towards a doomed battle-captive in a torture chamber. For the first time in his life, he wished to die...
It was, truly, the first time. Some occasions had come close, and most directly involved a Baenre, fancy that. Oh, and the time he got stranded on the Surface. That ill-fated trip through the Shadow Plane... oh yes, that one definitely, it rivalled even that night with Gromph Baenre.
But then, he had always known that he might escape with his life, however remote that possibility was, and it had kept him smiling, always smiling, into the teeth of the Sarthos demon, even in face of the Archmage's wrath. Now, his face was locked into the grimace of concentration he had been in when the paralysis spell struck, and, damn it, like being eaten alive by spiders wouldn't be painful enough, every single one of his nerve endings tingled, sharpening his sense of touch as his sight blurred around the edges, darkening.
One more second passed, and he realised that beautiful, merciful darkness was made of the approaching spiders, thousands, millions, tiny, deadly. Pain. His body seemed to crave it, so sensitive had his skin become, so vulnerable, reporting every dust particle that grazed it, every tiny scratch and strain from the endless fights, every muscle strain, the small sharp stone boring into his back, the warmth of his own blood leaving him, too slowly, too slowly to let him die...
The darkness was complete now, the tiny spiders merged into one mass before his blurry gaze, surrounding him, and he could hear every single click of their hungry mandibles. Time, wicked, evil time, slowed even more, so that he could feel the first bite piercing his skin, and it was even bearable – then, it was joined by another thousand, and he couldn't scream as they tore through his skin, crawling inside his body, consuming him from inside as well, and through his last heartbeats, he could, somehow, still feel the cold wetness sliding down his cheek, burning into bared, bleeding flesh – tears...
An eternity passed until he could see the dark grey sky again, the silver shapes of departing souls shooting across it. It became, somehow, closer, and he found he could move again, craning his neck to see the remains of his body disappearing below, leaving only a carcass of bones in torn, dirty wizard robes, buried beneath the spiders. The pain was still there, but it had stopped increasing at last, and hardly registered in his consciousness – he had no body that could hurt anymore, so movement was more of a question of will than ability... he turned his head again and saw a face, drawn in a semi-transparent silver relief against the endless spider web spanning the horizon.
Ryld, he spoke. The ghost of his mouth moved, and no sound came forth – but it was heard, just as he heard it – or felt it, just like he felt the touch of a strong, achingly familiar hand taking his own, no more than tatters of flesh clinging to bone. He never knew souls could touch each other... His gaze shifted away from it, to the gaping hole in Ryld's chest, his armour well and truly ruined, broken ribs shimmering white amidst the dark mess of his insides. You look awful.
A small, gentle smile appeared on his friend's unharmed face, a smile he hadn't seen since Menzoberranzan, pre-Betrayal. You should see yourself. If you had a mirror, you'd die all over again.
And lose you again. Souls could also cry, Pharaun discovered, ghostly tears burning on his face. Ryld, I'm sorry...
I believe you. The calm assurance rang with truth. Here, he knew Ryld's smile to be real, as real as their sorrow, pain and regret. It held tenderness, just like before, and forgiveness. I waited for you, I wanted to know if you meant it, and you do. Souls couldn't lie to one another, limned by their thoughts as their mortal shells by smell. They ate your eyes.
The bastards. Pharaun smiled weakly. I told you so. I apologised, and you wouldn't listen, in Ched Nasad, when you slapped me all the way across the room and called me a slimy treacherous little slut. Had he been alive, he would have referred to the incident as a "little discussion", the only time they had actually talked about what had transpired during their flight from the illithid's cells. Or rather, Pharaun had talked, and Ryld had lost his temper for the first and final time in the centuries they knew each other.
Souls couldn't lie.
Well, Ryld said, his psychic voice conveying his feelings better than his living voice ever dared, you are a treacherous little slut. Slimy too, right now.
Fine, gloat away. The day has come that you're prettier than me... And I'm not a slut. I just like sex.
Ryld laughed, the odd, warm feeling engulfing them both, chasing Pharaun's pain away, making him smile, too – although barely anything remained of his lips. You sure do. Is there even a drow in Menzoberranzan left you haven't fucked, besides those born after we left?
Mmh... the Lichdrow Dyrr.
Undead don't count, Pharaun.
Quenthel, then.
Ryld laughed again, a free, unrestrained sound, unlike his usual bitter chuckle. Pharaun joined in, and their souls drifted with the wind across the corpse-strewn Plain, and into the darkness beyond.
Whatever fate, if any at all, awaited them, they would face it together.
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