Rain. It bore down like a relentless army, clattering against slick rooftops like blades against shields. Peals of thunder beat incessantly like the drums of war. Lightning streaks ignited the sky like volleys of flaming arrows. The city, which was barely more than a town, shuddered against the relentless onslaught, its citizens as subdued as farmers huddling in a barn while swords drank their red fill less than a field's length away. Even those surrounded by stone that was wrapped about sturdy frames and thick beams had much to fear, for upon the waves of the Sea of Swords came squalls like charging cavalry with sabers raised high.
In hushed tones, the town-city's denizens whispered to one another, hesitant to raise their voices despite the nigh-impossibility of being heard above the tumultuous cacophony. Despite the shadows that deepened every corner, few candles were lit, as though folk feared challenging the effulgence of blinding light that so oft seared the skies. The Storm Lord Talos might as well have made the fledgling coastal city his domain, the aberrant intensity of the storm befitting the will of a god of destruction. Indeed, it was beyond foolhardiness to attempt to brave the tempest, and even a fool would've been wise enough to recognize the folly of challenging a god.
The lone human who walked the street was neither foolhardy nor a fool. Shielded from the scrutiny of other mortals he was, his heavy dark cloak rendering him no more than another flickering shadow on the darkened street. But shielded from the judgment of the heavens he was not, for although it was not The Storm Lord nor any named deity whom battered Luskan this night, the prowess of the rainstorm and its gales were sufficient to force even this most capable character to acknowledge the divine-like dominance. His normally balanced gait was irregular as he picked his path across the cobblestones, their slick unevenness making them as dangerous as sharpened knives. The sodden man's characteristic surefootedness surrendered to shuffles and stumbles, for it was all that he could do to keep himself upright against the raging storm that buffeted him this way and that, changing directions as unpredictably as though the gusts were driven by the wings of a crazed dragon.
A few times, he came close to falling, but the most that he'd allow was the touch of one leather gauntlet-covered hand against the craggy stone street. As though to punish him for his hubris, a blast of wind that was at least as much water as it was air slammed the defiant man against a rickety wall, the impact sending a loud crash shuddering through the boards. Startled cries rang out from the people cowering behind the dubious cover, but much quieter was the grunt that the collision drew from behind the cloaked man's clenched teeth.
As he allowed a breath to compose himself, the assassin glared at the stormy skies with mutinous gray eyes. The heavens mocked him by whipping ice-cold globules directly into his steely gaze. But he didn't blink, paying no heed to the trailing beads that ran down his face, where they lingered imperceptibly upon his high cheekbones before rushing down the deep grooves that outlined his scowl. The watery trails might've looked like tears, but for the defiance so unconditionally written in the resolute man's countenance that it belied even the faintest suggestion of weakness.
But even the strongest will has limits, the most tenacious discipline its outer edge. The resolute man's hand betrayed a quiver before he stilled it, his shoulders slumping before he forced them square once more. As he lurched to a stop before a sturdy two-floor building, he summoned a facsimile of the reserves of energy that'd already been spent, and pushed in the door.
Like starving wolves sensing fresh prey, the torrent rushed in through the exposed entryway. A streak of lightning threw an elongated impression of a humanoid across the newly-wetted floor, a gust nearly extinguished the single lamp sitting on the counter. The small flame flickered dangerously but did not die out, stubborn as the figure whose shadow was many times longer than its caster. Though normally, a warm light in the adumbral space would've been a welcoming sight to the thoroughly soaked man, he hesitated. For many heartbeats longer than it took his darkvision-enhanced eyes to ascertain that no threat lingered amidst the seemingly secure refuge, Artemis Entreri paused in the doorway. Meanwhile, the downpour lost none of its chill as it permeated his weatherproofed heavy cloak, passing through his already saturated dark locks and flowing down his neck as though threatening to drown him from within. Yet, still he stood, accepting the deluge, his hand too tired to grip the door's handle even whilst each drop in the streams that ran from his boots stole away a bit more of his already thoroughly-tapped reserves of life-sustaining heat.
Finally, when he felt as though he might be forced to enter the room by gracefully toppling onto his own face, the assassin yanked himself past the threshold with a forward jerk of his neck, as though it were a rope tied to the leaden block that was his body. His feet clomped against the wet floor, loud as falling bricks and no less unfeeling. A sudden reverse in the current sucked the door shut, and it was instinct alone that drew the exhausted man's hand out of danger. Had he a chance to think about it, he might've attempted to stop the door from shutting out the maelstrom, for although the elements had battered and besieged him, they stung his skin with acute sensation and rang in his ears with a deafening noise that at least served to force consciousness upon him.
But now, even though the sturdy walls barely muffled the tumult outside, Entreri felt as though a layer of wax coated his ears, just as the familiar but unwelcome numbness spread through his chest and mind. Mechanically, he shrugged off his cloak and tossed it at the rack. The entire ensemble tipped, unable to support the multiplied weight of the water-laden garment. It clattered loudly against the floor, a plain white mask tumbling free of the cloak and rack and rolling a few paces away, but all of that only drew an absentminded glance from the items' owner. One who'd gazed into those same dark eyes out in the storm would not be able to recognize their stare now, vacant, uncomprehending, diffuse. The owner of those empty eyes started to move towards the fallen apparatus, then stopped, the disorientation within his gaze spreading through the rest of him. As in so many instances in his life, Entreri forced his body into motion again, but it wasn't with a growl, but with something akin to a deep moan. As he lifted the pole and attempted different ways to balance it with his soaked cloak, his hands moved with the imprecise ponderousness of a dock worker rather than the graceful cadence of an artisan. As he struggled to keep the whole ensemble upright, his attention was the coarse survey of a digger rather than the acuity of a surveyor.
When the cloak hanger was finally re-erected, its intended burden laid in a soggy pile at its base. The puddle forming around the heap grew with the contribution from other shed garments, which were similarly tossed aside and lying in a sloppy arrangement formed from convenience rather than pragmatism. The puddle continued to grow, augmented by the run-off from the shivering man standing amidst the haphazard assortment. The direction of his eyes pointed at the cabinet with drawers full of neatly-sorted towels, clean shirts and trousers, but his gaze did not take any of them in. When Entreri's mind finally reeled his vision back to that which was before him, still, he didn't move, his body even turning slightly away as though preparing to enter a defensive crouch against the inanimate items.
Outside, water continued to fall in unrelenting sheets. The assassin's vigilance was suddenly shattered by his body starting to keel forward without his behest. Only then did the exhausted man break his stillness, catching himself and transforming his momentum forward into the hooking of a handle, his recovery of his balance pulling the drawer open. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, the soaked garment falling into itself like a fishing net on the floor. However, the burden that should've fallen away with it instead shifted to his chest, adding to the weight that already sat upon his heart. Removing his breeches was like pulling hide from his flesh, so thoroughly had the water permeated the leather, but so, too, did freeing his skin from the confines shift the constraints inwards. Entreri kicked the leggings to the side but found no satisfaction from the motion, instead feeling as though he kicked away a stone from the base of an already-crumbling wall. His frame shivered violently, but he did not snatch up a dry towel, instead pinching it by an edge as though it were a soiled rag. He did not work the water from his dripping black locks, instead settling the towel over his shoulders as if it were a short cloak. This brought him no true measure of warmth, and were he himself, he might've felt ridiculous for his utter inefficiency at performing this most simple of tasks.
But neither efficiency nor efficacy even neared the forlorn assassin's thoughts as he gazed upon the pitch-black staircase stretching up away from him. He stared, motionless again, until his body gave another forward lurch, and this time, he only managed to catch himself after one, two, three stumbles. With a long sigh that was drowned out by the din of the cascading cacophony, Entreri halfheartedly wiped the moisture from his skin and hair. Without bothering to sidestep the the discarded towel, the assassin forced his bare feet one in front of the other until he could set his hand on the railing that accompanied the steps.
The flickering candlelight faded behind him, taking with it touches of color but none of the forms. So, too, did the fading light take the colors from inside him. Entreri shifted his mind to his soles, feeling the balls of his feet rolling against the cooled wood, counting the half-breaths that his heels grazed against the smooth boards. This alone kept him moving, toes flexing with each rhythmic touchdown, the predictability of the pattern an anchor in a life that had become so unpredictable.
Suddenly, the the forlorn sequence froze. A rattle sounded from above, feeble as distress signal amidst the relentless onslaught, but promising that hope yet lived. The assassin's pause lasted not even a heartbeat, and before he knew it, his body was at the top of the landing, his quickened exhales bouncing off of the closed door even while his mind still counted his heel-falls. Before Entreri could understand his own thoughts, his fingers had already disarmed all of his meticulously-set traps. A twitch of his muscles had already thrown the door wide, before his mind could warn them to not move.
Despite his self-preservation instinct, his eyes went to the bed first. He knew that his magically-enhanced sight could see perfectly in the total darkness, but still he stared, disbelieving. He'd heard movement, so why did Jarlaxle still lay so still?
A ruse, Entreri thought, as his heart thrust forward against his chest, as though eager to leap to the prone form's side, even if it meant doing so without the rest of his body.
It's just like him to try to trick me as soon as he woke up, the assassin told himself, but his leaden feet would not move.
He then saw the empty cup, still rolling back and forth where it'd fallen, and felt the remaining strength leave him. Entreri managed to catch the frame of the door with a hand that felt like it had no bones in it. He told himself that he held fast to avoid going to his knees, but a guilty voice deep within whispered the truth of his cowardice.
As the rain had soaked him until it threatened to permeate his skin, so too did the gnawing ache burrow through his limbs like a devouring worm. Shame of his early dawdling sped the enervated man to the vulnerable figure's side, whereupon all haste was lost, transformed into delicate exactitude. Tenderly, he laid a palm against the smooth ebony forehead, then winced when he felt less warmth than from his own rain-chilled skin. Nonetheless, the assassin carefully drew the blankets around the lithe form. As he'd done countless times already, he slid one hand behind the unconscious drow's back while the other tucked the blankets around the lifeless body. The tired man's arms repeated the motions that'd become so painfully familiar to him while his mind balked, until the mercenary sat partially-upright against the headboard.
A rumble of thunder sounded so close by that Entreri felt it reverberate within his rib cage, but so tightly had he boarded the shutters closed that no flash of lightning distorted the colorless consistency of the room. No matter what elements raged outside, he'd ensured that the space he'd "sanctified" in his own way was as peaceful as it could be. His usual thoroughness had paid off, as everything was consistent – too consistent, Entreri noted with anguish. As he studied his companion, the only other occupant in the room, he felt as though he were frozen in time. Jarlaxle was as still as the furnishings, yet so at ease that he could've been simply closing his eyes for a moment.
A moment without end.
Entreri roughly shook the thought from his head and gruffly grabbed two dark blue berries from a small bowl on the nearby table. He'd long stopped reaching for the ones at the bottom, for those that he didn't use disappeared after a day anyway. Even though he needed its magic, the assassin almost wished that the bowl didn't replenish itself, for each morning that he looked upon the newly-spawned pile of dew-kissed fruit, it seemed as though he were taken back to the previous day in a torturous cycle without end.
With eyes fixed upon his companion, Entreri set the two berries carefully between his teeth. He gingerly slid onto the bed with the immobile figure, his attention focused to such a degree upon minimally jostling the mattress that he didn't notice the soft coos and assurances he breathed around the berries. He eased the unconscious drow's head close enough until he could lift it with a nudge of his own, and, with one hand gently but firmly cupping Jarlaxle's shoulder, Entreri pulled open the mercenary's mouth, took one of the berries from between his teeth, and pushed it onto his companion's tongue. With practiced ease, the assassin then guided the mercenary's jaw up and down. He paused to nuzzle his cheek against his companion's forehead, whispering a soft apology as the bristles on his jaw brushed roughly against the smooth black skin. Before the drow's head could tip too far back, the attentive human caught it with a raised shoulder, his free hand already massaging the bared throat. Purple juices leaked from the corners of the mercenary's pale gray lips, but the assassin's hand was already there, accepting the staining onto his own skin.
As he guided his companion, Entreri tipped the remaining berry back into his own mouth. Chewing and swallowing in conjunction with the mercenary both soothed and stung his heart. This had become how they would dine together, and tonight, the weeping heavens serenaded them.
The bitter melody was almost too much to bear.
"The other 'Lords' are as obnoxious as ever." the assassin began, the way his words cracked marking his throat as the only part of him not having been soaked by the relentless rain. His voice echoed hollowly in the empty room. He attempted to swallow what felt like a rock lodged in his throat.
"So fixated are they upon their delusions of grandeur that they still have not noticed that I've taken your place."
Entreri felt his breath catch, so he pasted a self-deprecating smile on his face. The forced flexing of muscles briefly distracted him from the intensifying feelings of despair rising inexorably within his heart.
"They've finally agreed to allow Luskan to use their precious highways," he pushed on. "You would've found much humor in their chagrin in being forced to acknowledge the fruits of your work."
Your work.
Pain flooded the assassin's chest, as though a hole had ruptured his flesh and bone and the still-hungry wolves had found him in the same instant. The deluge of depression, despair, doubt and defeat poured in. He gasped for calming breaths, desperate not to allow the flood to distort his voice. His shaking frame shifted the precious consignment in his arms, causing the drow's head to fall forward against his neck to rest perfectly in the crook.
"This was made specifically for me," Entreri heard Jarlaxle's musical tone croon in his thoughts.
The embankment that he had struggled so hard to build over the past months blasted wide apart.
Even while his mind screamed at him in horrified admonition, the distraught human roughly gathered up the far too still form, pulling the drow over his own legs and encircling him with his arms. Unable to stop the convulsions of his own body and the disgusting racket coming out of his own mouth, the assassin threw his mind far out beyond the walls, where the tumult spared him his own shameful display. He imagined himself floating weightlessly amidst the maelstrom, the sheets of water passing through him as easily as did the streaks of harsh light. He wanted to drift away even farther, but he could not, perhaps as penance for his indulgence.
Moistness on his arm called his mind back to his body. Entreri looked down and saw the cooling streams that ran off of the smooth black arms onto his own, the hairs of the latter delaying the wetting of the blankets around them. Cursing, the assassin slipped out from the bed before his show of weakness could cause further disruption, roughly wiping his arm against his bare back and berating himself with words sharper than any blade that'd ever punctured his skin. Delicately, he straightened the sheets that he'd ruffled around the drow, then gently smoothed the covers over the still and quiet mercenary. He found and flattened every ripple in his ritual of atonement, until he realized that his efforts achieved an effect akin to a burial shroud.
Entreri's hands dropped to his sides and he slowly sank down until he felt his heels dig into his bare thighs. His mind began issuing the customary instructions for climbing onto the mattress with minimal disturbance of his unconscious bedfellow, instructions that he'd followed for countless nights, but his body didn't move. It wasn't exhaustion that pinned him there, but the weight of awareness. Awareness that his skin was still chilled from the rain, awareness that the deluge had tainted him with the city's filth. Awareness that the garments that would provide an acceptable barrier between his companion and his disgrace were absent, and an awareness that "acceptable" was far from sufficient.
Entreri's forehead fell until his messy black locks splayed out against the neat white sheet. His fingers clasped before himself in a vain effort to still the shaking of his hands.
"Jarlaxle, open your eyes." His voice was quiet, subdued. "Open your eyes, and look upon your city. Look upon this place that you've carved for yourself, in a world that wasn't meant for you. Look upon your accomplishments. You finally have all that you'd ever wanted. Please, open your eyes, and look upon them."
He swallowed. He could keep his heavy lids open no more. His willpower and discipline were stolen from him by the grueling passage of time, a merciless ravaging reaver that stole, too, words from his very lips.
"Jarlaxle, please, open your eyes, and look upon me."