A/N: Sorry! Holidays and college got the best of me for a bit.

Valen

Valen had never had much room for vanity in his life. If there had ever been a trace of it, it had burned low in the streets of Sigil and then been snuffed out in the Abyss, along with so many other pieces of himself. He had grown used to the ragged, careworn face that stared back at him in the mirror, lit dimly by sparse candlelight. He had lost track of years in the Abyss—no, perhaps even before that. The days and nights of Sigil melted together, and the Abyss was a haze of red. He had never known how old he was, and the demon's blood that ran through is veins concealed many traces of age. Still, he felt it. The weariness in his bones, the myriad scars that still ached. Too many battles, too little rest. He could not recall that last time he had slept, much less the last time he had slept without returning to the Blood Wars. The black rings under his eyes were a testament to that. Slipping, always slipping, and he could not afford to show it. No one in Lith My'athar could. Drow respected little other than strength, and though he knew that none had forgotten the terror his rage could instill, he was aware that they would seize upon even the barest hint of weakness. Those that followed the Seer had forsworn such betrayal, but not all in their camp had loyalty to her alone. Some, he knew, still followed Lolth, and that worried him most. The Valsharess would come for them all, but at least she did not hide the dagger in her hand. Even in Lith My'athar, one of the last bastions of Eilistraee in the Underdark, he only removed his armor to sleep— and reluctantly, at that.

If ever there was anything complimentary to be said about his…companions… that had fought beside him in the Abyss, it was that demons were usually too stupid or temperamental to succeed at treachery. Most had attempted to rip him limb from limb the moment the thought occurred to them. Rarely, some had waited until he was unguarded, though they all did such a poor job of hiding their intentions that he had always anticipated the attempt. They had no patience for lying, no use for false smiles or words.

The people of the Prime, it seemed, had endless patience. The surfacers decried the Drow unceasingly, but in truth, he had known them to be equally as capable of committing atrocities. It seemed only to be a matter of which people had more opportunities for wickedness.

It was the easier path, to give in to the beast and silence your heart.

He would die before he ever walked it again.

He allowed himself a small groan as he pushed away from the washbasin, his exhausted muscles protesting even the smallest use. In the heat of battle, with the adrenaline, the rage, running through his vein, it was easy to ignore their distress. Here, in his quarters, in the few hours before sleep, there was nothing to distract him. He would have foregone his attempt at rest entirely, if the Seer had not ordered him away.

Valen leaned forward and blew out the candles, letting darkness blanket the room. His vision shifted, adjusting, the colors bleeding into grey and black, the room and all within becoming dim shapes.

He had never seen true blackness before meeting the Drow. Now, at times, he found even the memory of light fading. He made his way to his bed, and slumped down upon it, his body exulting at the relief, but his mind would not rest. The worries clawed at him—

We are not prepared.

We will die. The Seer will die. I will die.

I will die, and return to the Abyss.

The flames flickered at the edge of his vision, his skin growing hot. Screaming, and teeth, and blood. Howling rage, so bright and burning that he could feel himself being devoured, turning into ash and smoke.

He wrenched himself back into wakefulness, sweat trickling down his brow. When the knock came at the door, it was welcome.

"A moment." He called, dressing himself and once again donning his armor. He drew in a deep breath, willing his blood to cool, counting back the moments until the red haze receded, dispersing like a hateful mist.

Every day it took less time, and he took a small joy in that comfort. Even if they did not survive the coming war, he could die as…almost himself, fighting in a war he chose, for people he had grown to love.

He pulled the door open, and Imloth stood before him, dour as ever. Drow were not known for any great merriment, but Valen could not recall ever seeing Imloth give anything other than the smallest of smiles, and even that was closer to the baring of teeth.

They had always gotten on well.

"Valen. I trust that I did not wake you."

Valen grunted in assent and stepped aside, leaving the doorway empty.

"One would have to sleep to be woken, and sleep is rare these days. What brings you?"

Imloth took the open door as a wordless invitation and swept inside, drawing up a chair next to the stone table. He gestured for Valen to sit, his mouth drawn into a grimmer line than usual. He still wore his leathers, and his fingers drummed a nervous pattern on the tabletop.

"Nothing you will enjoy hearing, I'm afraid." He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes with a tired shake of his head.

"Good or ill, I have always appreciated information."

Valen took the proffered seat a bit warily. The chairs were a sturdy stone, but they had not been made for one of his stature, much less when he was fully armored. He had learned caution early in the face of possible embarrassment.

"Just as well to have that attitude. Rarely do good tidings enter Lith My'athar in these days."

Imloth's hands had stilled, but still he did not speak. He gazed at Valen for a moment, giving him a long, considering look.

"I apologize for my reticence. This will anger you, my friend. Are you prepared?"

Valen leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands together, and tried to still his mind. Imloth had never truly feared him, nor had he ever been completely comfortable in his presence. In spite of that, he had never shied away from Valen's company. Once, when a long battle had wearied their souls, and loosened their tongues, and neither had quite believed they would return safely to the Seer, Imloth had told him that he thought of Valen as akin to a great dragon of the deep. One might fight beside the creature, perhaps even befriend it, but should never forget that its nature tempted it to rage.

It had hurt all the more for being truth, and yet, Imloth had never condemned him for it.

"Speak, Imloth."

The drow hesitated a moment longer, then plunged forward.

"The Seer intends to withdraw most of our scouting parties. Of those that will remain in the field…" He drew in a long breath, "The Seer has made plans to use them as bait for the allies as the Valsharess."

Valen snarled, and stood up so swiftly that his chair was knocked back. He paced the room, his tail whipping back and forth in agitation.

"When was this decided? For what purpose?!"

Imloth tensed ever so lightly in his seat, his red eyes searing bright as he watched Valen pace.

"When the surfacer arrives, the Seer plans to use our men as a diversion, so that we may have a chance at disrupting the Valsharess from within."

"We have attempted that, or has she forgotten? Our people were found within a fortnight and butchered."

"Not spies. She believes that a small team will be capable of infiltration, so that we may strike the head off the snake, as it were."

Valen snorted, and stopped in his pacing.

"It will be more akin to cutting off a single leg of a spider, if we could even succeed. Who does she intent to send on this fool's errand?"

"You, my friend. You and the surfacer. Perhaps Nathyrra, if she returns hale and whole from Undermountain."

Valen could not help but laugh at his words, though there was no mirth in it. The Seer had truly lost her faith in him, then. He should have seen it coming. How could he expect her to place all of her trust in him, a demon-blooded vagabond who she had met as a beast on the battlefield? Still— to be so quickly stripped of favor, and replaced by a stranger the Seer had seen only in dreams…it was fitting that he be sent on a fool's errand, for a fool he had most certainly been. He slumped back down into his seat, suddenly far wearier than before.

"Have faith. The Seer has seen us through thus far."

"Luck and skill has seen us through, Imloth. I have yet to see the hands of any god in this war. Only archdevils and demons."

"You do not share our trust in Eilistraee. I know this. I ask only that you do not lose hope yet, my friend."

"I cannot promise you my hope, Imloth. Only my resolve."

The drow nodded, and gave the faintest hint of a smile, so quickly that Valen might have imagined it. He stood to leave, then turned back.

"I do have another concern, though it has yet to bear fruit. House Zesyyr."

House Zesyyr had been a thorn in their side from the moment they took them in. Desperation was all that held them together, and it was not a strong binding, particularly in the face of imminent slaughter.

"Has there been more fighting?"

"No— that would be a comfort. There has been no trouble. I fear that if my kin are not currently in the midst of a betrayal, then that usually means they are plotting one."

"Not your kin any longer," Valen remarked, though Imloth merely shrugged.

"They still might be. So long as there is life, I pray that they may yet be guided back to Eilistraee's light. Though I admit, it is unlikely. Particularly if my suspicions are correct."

"Do you believe the House stands united in this, or might they be swayed?"

Valen had learned long ago that Imloth's suspicions, much like Nathyrra's, tended to be right, and waiting for proof only led to needless bloodshed. It would be a lie to say that such swift judgment did not concern him, but neither of the two would have survived the brutal society of drow if they were possessed of naiveté. He did not consider himself a trusting person— trust had always been a luxury—but even he found that he was apt to misjudge the depths of lies in the Underdark.

Imloth was slow to speak, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Houses rarely stand united. The matter is one of discerning who is fomenting the betrayal. An elder daughter, wishing to curry favor with the Valsharess, or the Matriarch?"

Valen paused, considering. He knew some of the drow hierarchy, but never enough, it seemed.

"Would a younger daughter be willing to risk such? She would stand to gain the most, if successful."

Imloth shook his head immediately, dismissing the question.

"Aye, she would, but none would willingly follow her on such a venture. Nor would she bear the status to bend them to her will. The Matriarch could easily command them, but I cannot believe she would be fool enough to throw herself on the mercy of the Valsharess."

Valen nodded, and stood once more. He folded his arms in thought, his tail twitching slightly. He believed Imloth, but could not bring himself to discount the Matriarch entirely. She had been enough of the fool to join a pack of Eilistraee's followers, and yet follow Lolth.

"She threw herself at the mercy of Lolth, did she not?"

"I suppose she may be more of a fool than I thought," Imloth remarked dryly. "The Queen of Spiders does so despise moonlight." He shivered, his eyes closed and his face far away in some dark place, some dark memory. When he opened them again, they were cold and bitter, hard as the stone that surrounded them.

"We should wait, before we strike. I would not have us destroy any who may be allies."

Imloth nodded, and for the smallest moment, a shadow of regret passed over his face.

"Even though I have followed the Moonlit Lady for so very long, it seems I still serve Lolth's purpose, for how many I send to the Demonweb Pits."

He sighed, long and low, then straightened his shoulders and turned on his heel, slipping silently out of the room before Valen could reply.

It was just as well.

He had ever only known cold comforts, and they were all he could ever give.