Author's Note: A short story of Mystra's death from the eyes of the one who loved her more than anything else. Drabble. Also, if you think some of this doesn't make sense, its not supposed to. It isn't humor, but the person thinking it isn't in the right state of mind after Mystra's death.

Midnight

Her eyes had been like blue-white circles of unfathomable beauty, her raven-black hair sleek and soft, supple as her smooth, curvaceous frame. The shock and horror in those dead blue-white eyes haunted him to this day. Would haunt him to the end of his days. Even more haunting would be the ripple felt throughout his body, throughout the body of all who loved her, when those blue-white orbs closed forever and her head slumped to the floor. Azuth's staff had cracked her skull, had left glowing blood pouring from her fatal head wound. The wound was still not enough to sully her beauty. In fact, to him, in a crazy way, her death post after her murder almost made her more beautiful. The sparkling god-blood flowing down her midnight hair gave her a beauty that would never be matched in all the heavens. A beauty even Sune would envy. After her murder, Midnight was more beautiful than she had been in life. Thinking such things, about her death, her murder, made him almost sob with rage, rage that this had to happen. Still, he would have a sort of revenge. The dark dancer sought control of her magic, of her beloved Weave. He had seen to it that she would never sully Midnight's magic. As the dark goddess, Shar, had sought to take control of her own Shadow Weave and his beloved's true Weave, he had shot a bolt of power at her. Not enough to harm her, but enough to make her lose control. Enough to make it so no one would ever control the Weave again. He was a powerful god, only Shar was more powerful, and she was currently preoccupied with attempting to take control of the Weaves.

Now was the time to strike. If Midnight was not to have the Weave, no one would, especially not the shadow goddess, her antithesis. He had loved the Goddess of Magic. Loved Mystra, Midnight, Ariel Manx. Everything she was, everything she would ever have been. Even though they had never been lovers, nor even on friendly terms, he had still loved. Loved, and now lost. Lost forever. There would be no restoration from Ao for her. Whenever a previous Goddess of Magic had died, Ao had never resurrected her. He had merely put another in her place. That was not to be. No one would take her place. No one would be Midnight, the Goddess of Magic. His love. He had loved her since that day they had met in Shadowdale, while they were all mortal. Her death had killed a part of him as well. A part of him would never truly heal with her death. Midnight...yes, midnight...it described what he felt now. What he felt was only darkness. Only darkness lay before him.

His hands scrabbled at the cold, hard rock that lay on the floor of his homeplane. Or prison. He wasn't sure what it was. He didn't care. All he cared about was that she was dead. Midnight was dead. Long nails drew furrows in the rocks, drawing godly blood from the hands that scraped against them. White, sparkling blood leaked from the ends of his fingers onto the rocks. He felt no pain. He felt nothing. He had felt nothing since she had died. It was as if her death had taken everything out of him. Wind howled around him, whispering words of sorrow, of regret, of death. The winds never had anything good to say. They always told him things he didn't want to hear, things he didn't mean to do, but had done anyway...he hated them. This place of chaos, chaotic wind that told him horrible things...he wanted to get out. He had tried. Tried many times, but for some reason, he could not leave this place. Oh well. This place was as good as any to mourn her.

The darkness, the cold, sharp spikes piercing the shackles that embraced his wrists and ankles for some reason made him feel trapped. He felt like a prisoner. The shackles were there for a reason. What had he done to be so imprisoned? He had only loved Midnight. Loved her in the only way he knew how. A dog howled and paced nearby, a shadow mastiff. One he knew was called Kezef. The Chaos Hound. Why was he here? In this cold, dark place of howling winds and mourning gods? Kezef seemed to notice the god's attention for the first time. The dog simply gave a dog-shrug and continued his howling and pacing. The spiked collar and leash also marked the dog as a prisoner. Why? Why were they prisoners. Kezef, he knew, was evil. He devoured the worshippers of gods. Kezef deserved to be here. He would have eventually killed her if hadn't been imprisoned. He would have devoured all of her worshippers. Midnight would have died at the paws of a dog. Death. He had been master of Death once. Until it had been taken from him, as she had been, by Kelemvor. That wicked, evil monster that had taken all he cared about, all he loved. A growl escaped the imprisoned god.

A small bit of sanity crept its way into the god's mind at the thought of Kelemvor and his former mantle of Death God. Ariel was dead...dead because of him. He had killed her. He had killed the woman he loved. His mind spun in so many different directions that he knew not which one had led him to slay her. The dark dancer had not convinced, no some part of him always wanted her dead. The same part that loved her. He had wanted her dead because she did not love him. He had loved her, always loved her. Loved her as Mystra, Midnight, Ariel Manx. He would have loved her if she had been a mere mortal. She had to die by his hand because of that love. He would never be free if he continued to love her. Part of him would always hold back. And yet now, he was more a prisoner than when she had been alive. It was alright. He would find a way out. When he did, Toril would cry for mercy. Whatever was left of Ariel Manx would cry for him, would regret not loving him. He stood. There were no chains. Only shackles on his wrists and ankles. They were, of course, divine shackles. No chains were needed to keep him here. In this prison. He knew now what he was imprisoned for. He would find a way out. No prison could keep a god forever. Toril would weep when he escaped. The dark goddess would cry for mercy. He would visit upon her tortures she had never known. With her silvery sister more powerful now, she had a war to fight. She would be preoccupied. Thats when he would strike. They would beg for mercy. All of them.

And yet, he still loved her. He would always love Midnight. Until the day he died, however long that was.