We All Falter

Disclaimer: As much as I wish I did, I don't own Artemis Entreri, or Jarlaxle, or any of them—except, that is, for the character introduced in this fic. She's mine. I'm not making money off this, and since I don't have any money anyway, don't sue me.

Author's Note: I've adopted the Deadly Duo over at Fanfic100 on LJ. So far I've written a couple of oneshots, but this story is the first in a little series I'll be (slowly) working on. To see my (97% incomplete) table, go to (http://) drekadair (dot) livejournal (dot) com (slash) 1972 (dot) html.

The prompt for this story was #29: "birth."

We are born innocent.

Believe me, Adia,

we are still innocent.

It's easy, we all falter.

Does it matter?

"Adia," by Sarah McLachlan

The drow sat in Artemis's own chair, his booted feet propped on the shining surface of Artemis's desk. His broad-brimmed hat, plumed with a giant purple feather, was tilted back to expose his smiling black face. He held a small bundle on his lap, but the angle of his legs prevented Artemis from making out the contents of the package.

Artemis checked the hallway behind and then closed the office door gently, though he wanted to slam it shut with all his strength. "I told you I was finished with you," he told Jarlaxle, his voice low and full of rage. "Get out. Now."

As he spoke, his eyes studied the room, searching for signs of other drow. Jarlaxle appeared to be alone, and Artemis trusted the Copper Ante's wards to keep out any magical—or psionic—intrusions. Still, the mercenary was always full of tricks.

"You did tell me that," Jarlaxle agreed, not moving. "But I did not say I was finished with you. I have news for you. Please, sit." He gestured at one of the human-sized chairs placed in front of the desk.

Artemis remained standing and kept his glare fixed steadily on the drow.

Jarlaxle sighed. "Very well. It is bad news, I'm afraid." He started to drop his legs and sit up, but then checked himself and leaned back again, glancing quickly at the bundle in his lap. "Nine months ago, when you threw Lady Calihye through the window, she did not die. Kimmuriel took her to Menzoberranzan and healed her, with the intention of employing her."

Artemis did not respond; he had suspected as much. There was no way the badly wounded woman could have staggered away, but her trail had disappeared in the alley. To his surprise, however, his chest tightened at the sound of her name. He had tried his best not to think of Calihye, to convince himself his feelings for her were gone, but he realized he did not want to hear of her death. And that, he felt sure, was what Jarlaxle had come to tell him.

"She died last night," Jarlaxle continued, "in childbirth."

For a long moment Artemis did not understand what he had heard. She was dead—that he had expected, and he would allow himself to feel the pain of it later. But the rest of it.... Nine months. The child was his. He had sired the child that killed her. She had died giving life to his child.

"Did it live?" he asked finally. His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears.

"Yes," Jarlaxle said, and stood up. The bundle on his lap, which he now cradled gently in his arms, contained a tiny baby, sound asleep. Jarlaxle offered it to him, and Artemis took it. He had never held a baby before, and felt awkward, unsure where to put his hands.

It was so small, just a handful of wrinkled pink skin wrapped tightly in soft cloth. A few wisps of blond hair adorned the top of its oversized head; since both its parents were black-haired, Artemis assumed the hair would darken with time. He wondered what color its eyes were, but was afraid to wake it.

"It's a girl," Jarlaxle said softly.

"Why didn't you tell me Calihye was pregnant?" Artemis demanded harshly.

"She was afraid you would be angry, that you might even want her to be rid of the child." Jarlaxle must have seen the pain on Artemis's face, for he added quickly, "You did not part on the best of terms."

"No," Artemis agreed absently. If he had not thrown her from the window, would she be alive now? He doubted it, but the thought gnawed at him.

"She forgave you," Jarlaxle said, as if he had read Artemis's mind, his voice almost a whisper. "Before she died, she said that she forgave you, and hoped you could for—"

"Get out."

"Artemis—"

Artemis stepped around Jarlaxle and laid the baby—his daughter—gently on the desk. "Get out," he repeated, turning to face the drow. He dropped his hand to the hilt of Charon's Claw. "Leave now, or I will kill you."

The confusion of emotions that filled him—pain, regret, confusion, joy—focused into rage and hatred. Those two emotion felt familiar, almost comforting, and he aimed them at Jarlaxle—Jarlaxle who had used him, manipulated him, and forced him to feel in the first place.

"My friend—" Jarlaxle began again.

"Get out!" Artemis shouted. Behind him, the baby woke and began to cry weakly. He drew his sword and had the tip tucked beneath Jarlaxle's chin before the drow had finished dropping a dagger from his enchanted bracers.

"Very well," Jarlaxle said, backing away slowly. He twisted one of his many rings, and a portal appeared beside him. "But Artemis—I, too, hope you can forgive me."

Artemis lunged forward, sword leading, but Jarlaxle was already gone.

* * *

When Dwahvel Tiggerwillies entered his office door a short time later, Artemis was seated behind his desk, rocking a baby gently in his arms. She stared at the bizarre sight for several long moments before she was able to speak.

"Where did you get that?"

Artemis looked up, wry amusement twisting his lips. "The same place most men get them."

"Calihye," Dwahvel said, nodding with understanding. "She did not wish to keep it?"

"She is dead."

Dwahvel settled herself cautiously in one of the halfling-sized chairs and laced her fingers beneath her chin, trying to figure out the man before her. He had told her everything: the flute, Calihye's betrayal, the priests of Memnon. He had even hinted at the events of his childhood—enough for the intelligent halfling to figure out what had given him the deep emotional scars he still bore. Yet even though she knew him better than anyone—except, perhaps, the drow Jarlaxle—she could not tell how he felt about the death of his lover and the birth of his child.

"Will you keep it?" she asked finally.

"Yes."

His reply was swift and fervent. That was a good clue, she thought. "We will need to hire a wet-nurse," she said. She thought it was a practical suggestion, but Artemis closed his eyes as though in pain.

"You are right," he said, "but we must tell no one she is mine. If the guilds learn she is my child, they will try to use her.

Dwahvel understood instantly. The man who had returned to Calimport nine months ago was not the Artemis Entreri who had ruled the streets. This new man, Artemis, was no assassin, and had no interest in the wars of the street guilds. They both knew, however, that the guilds did not believe that, and might never believe it. As long as he was considered a danger, he would be in danger—and so would anyone the guilds thought precious to him.

"We'll create a story to explain her presence," Dwahvel said, thinking quickly. Perhaps if it was believed the child was connected to her, Dwahvel, rather than Artemis.... "Perhaps," she began tentatively, "perhaps I should take her for now?"

The look Artemis gave her was so incredulous and outraged that she regretted speaking. After a moment, however, Artemis held the tiny child out to her. "That would be safest," he said reluctantly.

Dwahvel took the little bundle and held it expertly against her chest. Baby-blue eyes stared up at her from a pink face. She wondered what color the child's eyes and hair would become.

She turned to go, but stopped in the doorway and turned back to Artemis. "What is her name?" she asked.

Artemis stared at the child she held in her arms with something that, in another man, Dwahvel would have called love. She wasn't sure the old Artemis Entreri could feel such an emotion, but she felt sure that with time this new man, Artemis, could learn—especially with his daughter to help him.

"Shenali," he said. "Shenali Calihye... Entreri."