A/N: Set during RotP.

Wounded Wolves Part II: Tiger

Intimacy was poison.

Artemis Entreri paused at that thought and frowned. Perhaps that wasn't entirely fair. Perhaps he should consider that whom he had intimacy with made a difference.

And intimacy, he had concluded, was not merely a matter of romance or sex.

In the castle Jarlaxle had stolen, Entreri had found dozens of nooks and crannies to disappear into in order to avoid the drow who came and went, swarming up from the Underdark like black flies.

For two years now, he had rarely been alone. Certainly Jarlaxle vanished from time to time – most often to have sex, but also to get reports or magical items from Kimmuriel. But for the most part, Entreri had been crammed into inn rooms, one-room apartments, and even tents with Jarlaxle. From time to time, they picked up more people temporarily. Right now, that included Athrogate and Calihye, although the woman had proven easy on the nerves.

Overall, though, Entreri felt as though he were being pressed to death under a boulder, and he didn't think it had to do with Idalia's flute.

He was suffocating.

He'd been suffocating for two years.

Entreri emerged from his current nook and walked up to the parapet, gazing out at the sweeping landscape around him – sharp hills, crags, streams. There was a certain beauty to it, he supposed.

He wished he could go get lost in it and never return.

Although Jarlaxle let Entreri wander off and be alone, he didn't really understand. Jarlaxle was a pack animal, like a wolf. He enjoyed people – talking, mingling, interacting. He thrived on it, drawing energy from crowded rooms and parties.

Entreri was the tiger, content to hunt alone. To wander his territory by himself, fighting off all intruders.

For a moment, his imagination took him there: he was the tiger, sleek and graceful. Eyes and nose trained on his prey, his ears perked forward to catch all sounds of movement. His muscles tensing as he crouched, his tail flicking. And then he burst forward, racing, his muscles rippling as he chased and caught his prey, breaking its neck with his powerful jaws.

The daydream ended as quickly as it began, and he knew the flute was responsible. However, for those brief seconds, he was not drowning in drow. He was alone, free, answering to no one but himself and the inherent brutality of nature.

His entire self, down to the core, seemed to scramble after that autonomy. He felt as though his soul would tear out of his chest. Clawing, ripping, reaching, yearning . . .

If only he could be independent again: the assassin who worked for the highest bidder, retained by a guild by gold alone, not dependence. Even the boy in the street who answered to no one, king of his own miserable shanty town.

Entreri flexed his hands on the stone, which was cold against his fingers and palm. He wondered if he could ever be free of Jarlaxle. Did he even want to be free of Calihye?

He felt pulled in two directions. The concept of being on a emotional rack seemed reasonable as a metaphor.

Part of him had always wished to have friends. He rarely acknowledged that part of himself, but after spending time with Dwahvel, he couldn't deny it was there. He envied Drizzt Do'Urden's effortless companionship with others. Despite being a drow, he had two humans, a dwarf, and a halfling loyal to him.

Jarlaxle had offered him friendship, although to Entreri's mind, he had also retracted it.

Calihye offered him a relationship, he supposed.

And he felt suffocated.

Intimacy? Companionship?

Yes. No. Sometimes.

He sighed as the cold wind whipped over him, stinging his cheeks. He had never felt there was anything wrong with being a loner. Some people were, and some people weren't. However, the question might be whether it was possible to be too alone.

But even that question grated against what Entreri could only define as his personal needs. They might be learned needs, taught to him by how much time he'd spent alone when he was young, but they were still needs.

He wondered if not having enough time to himself could make him emotionally ill. If so, it would explain why he'd been in an increasingly black humor over the past two years.

Although the damn flute wasn't helping matters by digging up his insides.

He turned and headed back to his nook, too chilled by the wind to remain at the parapet. At least here he could be alone, if only for a few hours. It would not last long, he knew.

The boulder seemed to press harder upon his chest.

He had no idea what to do.