Chapter 10

It was better to not attempt to focus on anything, he was finding. Anything he tried to focus on, slipped away. He couldn't remember how many years he had been travelling with Jaralxle. Couldn't remember why he had become slightly irate at the mention of Jarlaxle's lieutenant, and now failed to become irate at all. That lieutenant meant nothing now, whoever he was. It was maddening and depressing at the same time; to recognize both that he was losing his memory, and to have a faint inclination that he had already forgotten a great deal.

Also in the same category of maddening and depressing, was his near immobility. He knew how he wanted to move, how to make his body respond to his demands, yet every movement was so…weak. His muscles, once strong and able, were now weak to the point where it tired him so very much to even lift his arm. Added to this, was even if he did manage to force his body to obey, it came at an exponentially increasing risk of damage.

He glanced over at Jarlaxle, the drow who was staying at his side, and tried to ignore that he was beginning to forget why the drow wore that eyepatch. Tried to ignore that he was beginning to forget who he himself was.

"Jarlaxle." His voice was weak, he wanted to go back to sleep. Still, he saw his partner focus on him.

"Artemis. What is it? Have you thought of anything?" Something seemed off with the drow's expression and tone. Didn't fit right, didn't shouldn't belong to him. He shouldn't be like this. It doesn't suit him. A moment later. Why?

He had a feeling that what he wanted to say next was not going to go over well, but he was having trouble remembering why.

"My dagger. I want my dagger." He watched as his partner's expression froze, even if just for an instant.

"Why do you want that my friend?" The expression was cheerful, but questioning at the same time. I thought it was obvious…maybe not?

"I'm not going to get better. We both know this." A feeling of something missing-lost. "Not this time." That felt better, he assumed it was something common between them.

"Of course you are! I have all my connections working on finding a cure abbil! We'll –"

"There is no cure." He felt agitated, didn't the drow get it? It should be as plain as day! "This isn't a sickness Jarlaxle. This isn't some cold or even a disease. This is time. My body is long past its expiration date and the only thing keeping it from turning to dust right now is whatever remnants of the shade remain in me." He glowered, frustrated at his situation, and directing some of the anger towards the wilting drow beside him.

Silence. The drow opened his mouth, closed it, and scrunched up his face in a pained expression.

He sighed. "You know this, Jarlaxle."

"I won't let you turn to dust! I'll find another shade and I'll bring it here!" Jarlaxle stood, visibly trembling. His hands clenched into fists, his voice raised.

His voice was calm, steady, sure. He knew the truth of it. Knew Jarlaxle knew it as well. "There are no more shades. They left. They're gone."

"No." A small voice; weak, nearly a whimper. A pang of sadness rang through him at the tone. I can't live forever.

"Bring me my dagger Jarlaxle."

The drow shifts, turning his head to look away from him. A petulant voice.

"No."