Disclaimer:
This is a continuation of 'Second Chances', which is archived at Fanfiction.net. All the characters you can recognize from the books obviously belong to TSR. I'm merely borrowing them for my own private armadillos… er, that is to say, peccadilloes. But it'd be fun seeing them play with little pink armored pigs won't it?
The continuation obviously takes place quite a while after 'Second Chances', and is about some discovered bits of Zaknafein's diary – which the first story considered as incomplete. Enjoy!
Also, it has nothing to do with armadillos. I promise.
--
Intersection
Dear Nalfein,
No, I still refuse to accept your apologies.
You really don't have any idea what you've done, have you. Perhaps it behooves me to explain, like the nice, obliging, understanding and, most of all, kittenish kitten I'm supposed to be, and not as a separate, sentient, intellectual entity capable of personal systems of thought and belief. However, I believe that on this case I will not be so nice, or obliging, or understanding, and will reply to you in whichever manner pleases me.
Firstly, I believe I have mentioned to you before that us Weyr-Cats, hard as this may be to believe, actually do have our own form of religion. As the Eclipse sleeps and, as though in a chrysalis, changes into the Equinox or the Solstice, we Cats see this 'sleep' as an euphemism for oblivion, and Solstice a rebirth. This universal cycle of change is an essential element of Weyr-Cat beliefs – it is seen as the driving force of everything that exists in all the worlds – to cut a long explanation short, of course. To describe the complexity of the Weyr-Cat religion in any detail would require a far longer letter than I ever intend to write to anyone.
Death to us is not only an integral part of our religion, but is also a core factor to our view of the world, our lives, and our own society. The concept of death is sacred – to die from your own hand is unimaginable sin, for it goes against nature, and to die from the hands of others is unimaginable sorrow.
Do you understand now, my 'beloved'?
I think not.
You and your elvish kin – whether of the Sun, the Moon, the Sea, the Woods… even the Darkness – all share a common haughty conceit in their persistent imposition of their narrow wants and views of this world. Perhaps it is your own natural longevity that makes you thus – perhaps it is your particular upbringing that shapes you. But very well, I shall state it to you more plainly.
By having to be young forever – I have lost much of how my race views life itself. Such as it would be – I would never be able to take part in most ceremonies that my kindred hold, such as any of the Birth Ceremonies – the first, when a kit first opens its eyes – the second, when a kit grows to a Cat, the third, when a Cat is ordained an Elder, and the last, when an Elder passes into the beyond. I am now a Cat, but not a Cat, as I can never be Elder – and the promise and the growth into an Elder is part of the existence of a Cat.
All this may sound quite foreign to you, but all you need to do is question our brightly dressed mutual friend. Go on. I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige, so long as you pay him. Personally, I am due to have my own little talk with him. I doubt that it was wholly your idea to set up this mad enterprise, and him I cannot credit with ignorance regarding the significance of mortality to a Weyr-Cat.
In the meantime – stop sending me gifts, or letters. You need not be worried that I would find another – after all, we have taken the M'haeri Promise before an Elder Se'thran together, and it is for 'life' even as it currently means to me. As a pair of Mated, we are bound together until the endless sleep. You can never lose me, and I can never lose you, and perhaps in time we will hate each other for that. I cannot commit adultery because of this. Does that answer some of your questions? I can not have 'someone else'. For you… well, the Promise may hold as little interest to you as most of the outside world, for as much as I know. Whether you hold to it – whether you understood it, is, of now, really none of my business.
I do not hate you for it. Certainly I am very angry, and I may never forgive you, but I still love you. I would not take the Promise with you if I thought that this love could be easily broken, and therein is part of the problem for me.
I am quite happy in Menzoberranzan, thank you, and have no inclination ever to visit Sshamath again. I am also due eventually for another visit back to the Surface. Thanks to you that will be highly uncomfortable, because I have to tell my community what has been done to me, and they will never fully accept me forthwith.
Oh, and be nice – if not just civil to the next person, whoever he or she is, who will be cataloguing and negotiating the use of your Library as I used to. It is not in my nature to threaten, but I am quite sure that you can think of ways as to how I can make this situation a lot more difficult for you.
S'kaerik
--
"Yes?" S'kaerik looked up from her writing as she signed her name, wiping away the irritability that bubbled up from her heart like some vitriolic, bitter volcano waiting to wreck fiery havoc. She managed to smile a little weakly when one of the dwarves – she was now very sure his name was Jorat – poked his somewhat dirty, gray-bearded face respectfully in, the plain, conical adamantite helmet so firmly rammed onto the little duergar's head that S'kaerik surmised it would take several teams of dwarves to pull it off.
"Uh…" Jorat looked at her closely from under beetled, bushy ash eyebrows, as if trying valiantly to discern her current mood, then stepped in respectfully, tapping the side of one meaty palm against his helmet in an informal salute. "Y'said ye didn't want t'be disturbed, so we're askin' ye now whether y'want us to turn away th'drow at th'door."
"What drow?" S'kaerik asked, blinking, then frowned slightly, her ears twitching forward in apprehension, the image of Nalfein in is mage's finery, surrounded by an aura of quiet confidence only attainable by the incredibly powerful, rising far too easily in her mind for her own comfort. Uneasy, her arms, covered with sleek mackerel striped gray fur from the shoulders down, crossed over each other on the stone table, claw-like fingers tapping nervously, the curved, retractable nails temporarily sheathed. Triangular cat-ears twitched forward at him inquiringly under a nest of hair the same odd hue as her fur. "What does he look like?"
" 'e's an odd 'un… got a wide purple 'at…" Jorat waved his arms around, mimicking a large wide-brimmed hat, "w' lots'a feathers… an' damn-useless leather armor cut so 'igh y'could stick an axe into 'is stomach an' he wouldn'a feel it…"
S'kaerik sighed, narrowing amber eyes. There was only one being she knew who ever dressed like that, and right now she really did not want to see him… though there was a large element of relief in her voice. At least he wasn't…
" 'e said 'e'd come back some other day iffin y'were busy," Jorat continued, fixing his eyes on a point in the air in his effort to remember. "Said 'e'd just come back fr'm th'mage city an' 'e was tired anyway."
And of course, Jarlaxle would say that, say that he had come a long way, possibly to see her – and it would be rude to refuse, since he had been so polite as to provide her with an excuse. "No, no, it's fine. Show him in, please."
"Y'sure?" Jorat asked, frowning again. "This ain't yer Cats buildin'… this 'ere's a dwarf place, an' we kin turn awa' anyone we like."
S'kaerik smiled a little sadly, not really wanting to have been reminded of that fact. It helped that this converted inn was of Dark Elven make, very much like the building her kindred had commandeered. Technically she was still welcome there – but she made everyone so uncomfortable that she could not bear that place any longer, couldn't bear the sidelong glances, the averted gazes, the nervously twitching tails and the way everyone tried to avoid her if they could help it. Thankfully the dwarves seemed understanding, and got her assigned to sites where she saw few, if at all, of her kin. Still, despite their gruff hospitality, she couldn't help feeling incredibly isolated – there was really very little one could talk to with a dwarf outside work-related matters, because most of their lives were concerned with mining (said work-related matters) or fighting, or artifacts, or past great dwarves, or the distinct lack of drink available in Menzoberranzan despite all their concerted efforts.
"Um… S'kaerik?" Jorat coughed, breaking into her reverie.
S'kaerik blinked, her ears twitching backwards in surprise. "Uh right. Sorry. Show him in, please."
"Iffin y'say so…" Jorat said, unconvinced, and wandered out. S'kaerik felt annoyed with herself for being nervous, as she neatly folded the paper to fit into an envelope, then sealed it with a delicate lick, wrinkling her nose at the taste as always, then setting down the envelope just in time to see Jarlaxle stroll in, bowing with elegant, slightly mocking grace to his small escort of dwarves – S'kaerik could see at least four – and then grinning with his customary, irrepressible mischievousness at her, tipping his hat in the slight direction of the muttering, grumbling escort. The dwarves looked as though they would happily disembowel the flamboyant elf with little provocation. Being, as a whole, a race that was mostly down-to-earth – no puns intended – they viewed those that seemed so flippantly dressed with suspicion.
Admittedly, they'd taken a while to accept a Weyr Cat's normal dress – simply a cotton tanktop of white or tan brown hues, and either cotton or denim shorts of similarly plain colors. Having fur from the shoulders-down tended to make clothing a technicality worn merely for the sake of propriety.
"I will speak with him in private. Thank you all," S'kaerik rose from her chair and smiled at the dwarves as they left, muttering in their own guttural tongue and shooting Jarlaxle looks of suspicion. Jarlaxle waited until they had left, then stepped further into the room, his smile irrepressibly cheerful, though there was a certain weariness to his movement that could have been feigned.
"What brings you to Menzoberranzan, you rogue?" S'kaerik folded her arms and tried to sound humorously teasing, but the edge of raw bitterness, like a slinking gray cloud in an otherwise clear azure sky crept into her voice nonetheless. Still not too good at hiding her emotions…
"Do I need a reason to visit friends and oversee my business?" Jarlaxle smiled, placing a slight emphasis on the word 'business' so as to offset the incongruity still stereotypically inherent in a dark elf speaking that particular word.
"Therein was your reason," S'kaerik said, half-heartedly following Jarlaxle's playful cue as she sank back down onto her seat, her hands now on her lap. "Have a seat."
Jarlaxle delicately settled himself in a chair, leaning back and tenting his fingers in front of him close to the arch of his nose… and S'kaerik, despite herself, started chuckling. "Jarlaxle… I think I've told you before what you look like when you do that."
"And if I recall correctly," Jarlaxle smiled, now resting an arm on the chair rest while the other loosely cupped his cheek in support, "I took it as a compliment."
"Why you persist in doing that is beyond me," S'kaerik said dryly. Under her desk, her fists clenched – the small talk was beginning to make her head hurt, especially since Jarlaxle seemed so unconcerned about the whole affair that it was beginning to annoy her. Patience is a virtue. Patience is a…
As if sensing her increasing aggravation, Jarlaxle suddenly said solemnly, "Actually I came here on behalf of a mutual… friend."
S'kaerik stared at him incredulously, her ears flattening against her head in suspicion. "You wouldn't be talking about Nalfein, would you?"
"Unless it would distress you greatly, Lady Cat…"
"Mrr. Don't call me that anymore," S'kaerik sighed. "I'm no longer in the mood to play."
Jarlaxle smiled wryly, his manner – the slight leaning-forward of posture, the steady eye-contact, hands placed unthreateningly where they could be seen – just leaking 'obliging', as if even hurt by her curtness. As much as S'kaerik knew that it was likely a feigned sentiment, she immediately felt embarrassed, her tail curling uncertainly under her chair as he replied. "If you wish."
"Well, state your business then," S'kaerik said, the impatience from growing tension and her irritation at herself lashing out in her voice, and then she winced at the hostility in her own voice. "Sorry. I'm a bit… unstable at the moment."
"Understandable," Jarlaxle's expression became thoughtful, though his single eye still held S'kaerik's nervous gaze. "I have to apologize. Actually I had no idea regarding the effect longevity would have on you… as strange as this may sound, the secrecy your kin generally surrounds your rituals and beliefs with managed to bypass my information-seekers."
S'kaerik stared at him unashamedly in confusion and suspicion, her mind racing… to believe him or not? "Well… that may be so…" she said slowly, in the silence that followed, "But you both should have asked beforehand. Intended surprise as it may be… I think politeness would dictate that regarding something so momentous my permission should have been… sought."
"You have my sincerest apologies," Jarlaxle said, his tone and face both indicative of utmost seriousness.
"Don't try and sound meek, Jarlaxle – it doesn't suit you," S'kaerik said, a smile working its way onto her lips, all unheeded. Irritatingly enough, she could never stay angry with the mercenary for long even if she wanted to. With no outlet to lash out at, her temper slowly subsided, even as with desperate mental fingers she tried to grasp it – and it was gone, her mood inexorably returning to her normal good nature. "Would you like a drink?"
"If you can spare one, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said, grinning a little mischievously when she didn't tell him off this time, his demeanor abruptly changing – no doubt the mercenary knew exactly what had happened to her emotional equilibrium.
Well, she might not be angry with him, but Nalfein was another matter altogether… and her mind pointed out that, as miserable as that might sound, she likely wasn't even angry with the mage any longer either, as much as she poured biting venom into her letters. It was so hard to hold on to the initial fury, and being apart from him hurt.
S'kaerik got up and walked to the drinks cabinet, carefully picking out a glass, then pouring some of the wine into it. She had taken a lot more of the alcohol since the incident started… and it was only through the dwarves' instigation that she'd stopped. Which was irritating, because the light-headed drowsiness that being intoxicated brought to her helped her forget, for a while, all the problems involved in her life at the moment.
She nearly dropped the glass after filling it when Jarlaxle seemed to appear at her shoulder and pick up the wine glass, ostensibly inspecting the date. "Do you get a lot of visitors, Lady Cat?" he asked mildly, and she realized he was looking at the wine level.
"Not of late," she replied automatically, then flushed slightly – that would indicate that she was the one who drank so much from the bottle… or from the other bottles visible from the cabinet. As politely as possible, she took the bottle from Jarlaxle, avoiding his eyes, hastily stashing the thing back into the cabinet then handing him the glass jerkily.
Muttering darkly to herself in her mind about the possible perceptiveness of ancient dark elves, she sat down on her chair and looked mulishly over to the mercenary, who tasted it, grimaced at the sharpness of the strong, young wine, then took his own seat. "Just tell me what you want to say, Jarlaxle," S'kaerik said wearily.
"Have you heard of Turaglas?"
"The Ebon Maw, yes – I think I read about it in…" S'kaerik paused, gritted her teeth as her throat seemed to choke up, then continued with iron determination, "Nalfein's library."
Jarlaxle gracefully overlooked that particular sentiment. "So you would know that after that rather regrettable outburst on the Material Plane he was bound somewhat haphazardly back into his void by several gems?"
"Uh… yes…"
"And that one of those gems has just been rumored to be found in Menzoberranzan?"
"… Say what?" S'kaerik's eyes widened in astonishment as she half-rose from her chair, "Are you sure about this?"
"Oh yes," Jarlaxle said, his smile implying that he was quite pleased with the dramatics of the situation, "I just received a set of highly interesting dispatches out of my network. It seems that the rumor's been circulating for a while, but the Feeders – Turaglas's unruly followers – have never actually been able to penetrate the Underdark through the chaos, or find Menzoberranzan, to try and get at this gem."
"Oh dear… and the lines just opened fully to public travel…" At the beginning, when the lines were still tentative and required much maintenance, one needed to be certified to travel. Now, with the necessary gold, anyone could buy a ticket if he or she wished to.
"Precisely my point," Jarlaxle nodded, taking a sip of the wine despite its taste. "Turaglas has been gaining some followers in the Mage Lords at Sshamath, which is why I came over with such haste. It takes mages a while to agree on anything, so I believe you may have a few days to prepare."
"But anything from this archaeological site belongs to the Company…"
Jarlaxle looked amused. "Not if it goes missing without them ever finding out about it, yes? Look out for the congregation of mages… and try not to tell this to anyone. Some Feeders are likely to have penetrated your Company already."
"Why are you telling this to me?" S'kaerik blinked. "It's not like I can really do anything by myself."
"I thought it might upset you to see a large, oozing, eyeball-covered slimy mouth thing eat all your efforts on this Old City and raze it to the ground," Jarlaxle grinned when S'kaerik pulled a face at him.
"Thank you for all that imagery."
"I try."
"Okay… but isn't it only one gem?"
"All the gems are required to keep Turaglas from fully manifesting. One gem destroyed by itself and the Demon Lord can then proceed to manifest for an hour a month – enough to do copious damage to this city and, oh, likely a large part of this area, in fact." The whimsical way with which Jarlaxle was describing the situation was getting annoying.
"Can't you tell this to Management?" S'kaerik sat down thoughtfully, the precise speech of a Professor of Paranormal History showing in her careful intonation of the capitalization. 'I mean, you could find out which of them are Feeders and which aren't…"
"Oh, I could… for a price." Jarlaxle smiled, the quirk of his lips now calculating.
"I can't believe you said that," S'kaerik blinked, and then grinned a little wryly. "Okay, so I can… but don't you value Menzoberranzan?"
"Bregan D'aerthe has already evacuated everything of importance once it was evaluated that this place might become a problem," Jarlaxle replied dryly, "And let's just say that… on the day the mages arrive, you'd be hard-pressed to find any of us within a hundred-mile radius of here. On the other hand, you and your Company have not finished most of your archaeological diggings as yet, or be able to move in time."
"Aren't you concerned with the destruction of your heritage?"
Jarlaxle laughed at that. "Me? Heritage? I've lived long enough to be heritage, S'kaerik."
That was true. As far as she knew, Jarlaxle was currently likely the oldest dark elf in the realms… especially since Nalfein had forgotten his own age. Jarlaxle had explained his longevity with characteristic levity as an unwillingness to die, while Nalfein had simply given her an odd look when she'd asked, as if he thought it quite strange if dark elves didn't live to a few thousand years old.
"All right, all right," S'kaerik leaned her face against her hand, thinking quickly. "Fine. What's your price?"
"Nalfein is the plant we have in the Mages who are to arrive from Sshamath," Jarlaxle said mildly, as if commenting on the furniture in the room. "If you agree to be civil and allow him to speak with you alone for, say… an hour… I would quite gladly contact your Company, locate the Feeders within it, and play with it a little."
"Fine," S'kaerik said, her tone becoming frosty, though she had expected terms of this nature. And besides – as much as she hated to admit it, she missed the mage – it had been months since she'd left, such that she refused to keep count. "One question. Why are you doing this for him?"
"Why do you think I am, Lady Cat?" Jarlaxle arched a perfect eyebrow quizzically, his palms opening elegantly, inviting comment.
"He paid you for it," S'kaerik sighed. Stating the obvious made her feel stupid, and feeling stupid made her Jarlaxle-related headaches worsen.
"That, and I think you should speak with him nicely about the matter," Jarlaxle grinned mischievously, not even debating the point. "Because when powerful male mages greatly desire something… they tend to get themselves into all sorts of trouble."
"What sorts of trouble?"
"The Feeders approached him. Even through his self-imposed isolation."
"And?" S'kaerik asked, looking a little worried as the implications of such an act struck her.
"As far as I know he has only acceded to their advances on the surface – he did inform me of the meetings after all, and some judicious investigation would support his words."
"You really don't trust many people, do you?"
"You wound me," Jarlaxle said archly, his smile just reeking of amusement. "I trust everybody. To do whatever I 'persuade' them to do."
**
S'kaerik glanced down at the note once Jarlaxle left, sighed, and put it into one of her desk drawers. She did not particularly wish to see Nalfein… but if what Jarlaxle said was true – and it seemed a little too elaborate to be a ruse, even for the mercenary – then the situation was grave indeed. Contemplating the 'price' as she took the wineglass outside to the piped water rooms to wash it out only made her feel quite a bit more nervous than she should be, as a grown Cat surveying the prospect of meeting her mate, estranged situation aside.
Especially since she wasn't sure, despite her promise of civility, that she could have a normal conversation with him. Though if Jarlaxle was to be believed, and they truly thought that she would like the 'gift' of youth eternal (certainly a stereotypical goal for most non-elves, it seemed), then it wasn't really his fault, and the way her anger was slowly streaming away like shadows from a new lamp was irritating her. She had a right to be angry, didn't she?
At that thought, a rather belated sense of exasperation rose in her. Damn Jarlaxle for making her do this… granted, Turaglas was no small matter, but seriously, didn't he ever do anything from the goodness of his heart?
Probably not.
Come to think of it, he probably extracted extremely large favors from Nalfein as well – shaking her head at the habitual duplicity of the mercenary, S'kaerik got back to reading through the neatly typeset reports from Company and the roughly scratched out reports from various dwarves from various excavating Old Cities, who seemed to assume that with her knowledge of dark elven architecture (mostly stemming from an extensive purview of… Nalfein's library…) she would know exactly which part of which cities held the dwarven enclaves.
Well, at least that meant that she would hardly ever be out of a job in this field… which was not as comforting a thought as one would imagine. An eternity to spend alone in the darkness was not as entertaining as it may sound.
What was she to do? If Jarlaxle was right – and she had little doubt that he wasn't – then it meant that the Company might be… compromised. That being so, she could hardly go around making enquiries regarding the finding of gems, especially since if a Feeder had located the gem in question, it was likely that it wasn't in the records.
Oh wait. Jarlaxle had said there was a rumor about the gems, wasn't it?
That meant it had been found and had not been broken or hidden, meaning that a Feeder hadn't found it… right?
S'kaerik smiled wearily. Asking herself strange questions was likely the first mark of schizophrenia.
Still – it meant that the gem might have been logged into the records after all. Getting up, she approached the door on customarily silent feet, and therefore scared the hell out of the dwarf guard outside it when she opened it with a click. S'kaerik had to hide a smile as her tail curled around fur and paws, the only sign of her amusement. "Um, Jorat? Could you ask someone to find me a copy of the records of items found in Menzoberranzan since the beginning?"
"Why?" the dwarf asked curiously, then his bushy eyebrows furrowed again. "This ha' t'do with th' axes we found in Eastmyr?"
"Uh… what axes?"
"Nothin'! Er, no axes at all, heh, just wanted t'see if ye was listenin'," the dwarf said hastily, with a weak grin. "Er… records ye said?"
"Uh… yes?"
"I'd be ri' on tha'." Jorat moved quickly down the corridor before S'kaerik could ask any funny questions about purportedly imaginary axes. "An' me name's Joran."
Oops.
**
S'kaerik buried her face in her claw-like hands with a deep sigh, wishing that Jarlaxle was here such that she could rake some of the claws over that conceited, grinning face. The amount of records simply regarding items with precious gems inset in them was overwhelming, let alone gems thought to be normal, or unidentifiable gems classified until further notice. Gems found by themselves had a stack all to their own, and was again classified into three, impressive stacks of paper.
Swearing quietly in dark elvish under her tongue, pronouncing the key invective badly and with relish, knowing that there was no elf for some distance who was to correct her, S'kaerik took another deep sip of coffee and flipped through another set of papers. She wasn't even halfway through and she'd already picked up twenty possible pieces, half of which had already been sent to the Surface World for inspection.
And with no way of even being able to recognize what the gem looked like, S'kaerik wished that she'd gone to ask Jarlaxle about it before the mercenary, true to his word, had vanished, along with something like all the dark elves in Menzoberranzan. They knew what was coming.
"Like rats," S'kaerik said sourly, as she added another possibility to her hurriedly drafted list. The storm was coming, and notification of that was right there in her drawer, in a beautifully scripted letter from Nalfein that, to observers, would simply appear to be yet another of his apologies, though this one included a date and time of arrival, and a strange doodle on the inside of the envelope which she couldn't figure out and had thought it to be some sort of ink stain or a test for the quill.
Bored, she looked at it again, and then noticed on further inspection, under the cancellations, a delicate tracery of lines in ink an almost imperceptible shade lighter, probably invisible to anyone without a cat's sharp darkvision.
Frowning, she drew it out on her notepad, following the tracery of lines with her quill on the paper, and finally looked to her 'masterpiece' – it could barely be seen as some sort of hewn stone or crystal vase, seen from the top, at its base a malevolent-looking, smooth eye like half of a pearl, complete with a veinwork of metal to its edges.
She stared dumbly at it for a moment, and then scrambled for the papers.