Dark, slender fingers smoothed away the dirt and moss that had accumulated over the years on the plain slab of stone, and with this unveiled scores of bittersweet memories. Carefully, he placed a handful of Zedorahs he had spent the better part of a day searching for. It was extremely good luck to have found them near the end of the blooming season, or perhaps Meilikki smiled on him today. He sighed, remembering when he first showed her the rare orange flower, petals raising in an arc then sloping down gracefully around a core of swirled folds. She had been a young girl then, no older than 11, and gruff as she was from being raised by dwarves, she still delighted in it as any elf would. They now reminded him of her, with their glorious but fleeting beauty.
As if suddenly remembering he wasn't alone, he turned to regard his companion, in whose eyes was a reflection of his pain. If he lived a drow's full life span, he would watch helplessly as she too left him.
"Don't look at me like that" Meave said coldly. "What?" cried Drizzt, startled out of his grim reverie. "Like I'm already dead," she bluntly replied. The ranger looked down, not knowing what to say. "You had a good life together, did you not?" He nodded. "Then remember it fondly, father, but move on. She wouldn't want you to be like this." Drizzt stood up and smiled at her, though secretly he didn't concede her point. There was no way she could understand unless she went through the same. She likely would, too. There were few of elven descent in this area of Icewind Dale, and such was elves' hatred for drow and their disdain for half-elves that she was unlikely to find someone suitable for her. He would be human, Drizzt knew, and then she would know what is was she spoke. More than anything else, more than not seeing Meave die, he wished he could protect her from that.
They walked away from the isolated grave in silence for nearly an hour. "I still mourn too, though sometimes it's hard to remember specific things about her," Meave admitted. Drizzt couldn't help but wince slightly at that. He realized with a pang of guilt that this was mainly his fault, for he rarely wanted to talk about Catti-brie, and Meave had been only 13 when she died, very young for a half-elf. "But I don't regret ever having known her to be able to feel sad." She looked at him, trying to seem casual. "Do you ever feel any regret?" He knew what she was asking. Should he have, perhaps, waited to find an elven lady willing to accept him, and have fully elven children? He had asked this of himself so many times, but in truth, he hadn't found an answer. "Absolutely not!" he said, curling his arm around her shoulders as she smiled in relief.
The End
As if suddenly remembering he wasn't alone, he turned to regard his companion, in whose eyes was a reflection of his pain. If he lived a drow's full life span, he would watch helplessly as she too left him.
"Don't look at me like that" Meave said coldly. "What?" cried Drizzt, startled out of his grim reverie. "Like I'm already dead," she bluntly replied. The ranger looked down, not knowing what to say. "You had a good life together, did you not?" He nodded. "Then remember it fondly, father, but move on. She wouldn't want you to be like this." Drizzt stood up and smiled at her, though secretly he didn't concede her point. There was no way she could understand unless she went through the same. She likely would, too. There were few of elven descent in this area of Icewind Dale, and such was elves' hatred for drow and their disdain for half-elves that she was unlikely to find someone suitable for her. He would be human, Drizzt knew, and then she would know what is was she spoke. More than anything else, more than not seeing Meave die, he wished he could protect her from that.
They walked away from the isolated grave in silence for nearly an hour. "I still mourn too, though sometimes it's hard to remember specific things about her," Meave admitted. Drizzt couldn't help but wince slightly at that. He realized with a pang of guilt that this was mainly his fault, for he rarely wanted to talk about Catti-brie, and Meave had been only 13 when she died, very young for a half-elf. "But I don't regret ever having known her to be able to feel sad." She looked at him, trying to seem casual. "Do you ever feel any regret?" He knew what she was asking. Should he have, perhaps, waited to find an elven lady willing to accept him, and have fully elven children? He had asked this of himself so many times, but in truth, he hadn't found an answer. "Absolutely not!" he said, curling his arm around her shoulders as she smiled in relief.
The End