Drizzt is dead.
My love, my companion, and in my heart, my husband. If only that dream had had time to come into fruition. But it did not, has not, and will not happen. For I cannot marry a dead man, or rather, drow. That dream was torn from me as my heart has been torn from my chest—at least that is how it now feels.
It is not really a physical pain, but it is a physical sensation. It is a sense of futility, of meaningless, a physical feeling of hopelessness and uncaring depression that takes hold of my heart as if someone has reached into my chest and is slowly crushing my heart, it is as if my heart is transformed into lead inside, as if nothing in the world no longer matters. It is a dull aching deep within the very fiber of my being, as if a part of me has been cleaved from the rest.
Then there is the unbelief.
Somehow, for some foolish reason, there is a small spark within me that refuses to believe that he is dead, that cannot, will not, accept that. And yet there is my heartache that mourns as if he is indeed dead, defying that small part of me that refuses to accept that he is dead. And I cannot understand why there is that feeling of hope, however small. Drizzt was tough, certainly, but not tough enough to survive a fall like that. But that, to imagine his broken and battered body lying amidst the Spine of the World, that I cannot do. It is a false hope; and somehow. . . . it makes the pain all the greater.
There is also the anger. I am angry. My heart and mind broil with barely contained rage. I lash out at those who love me, without reason or provocation. I am angry with everyone, the entire world. But I am particularly angry at those who were there, who watched him die and did nothing. I do understand that there was nothing they could have done, but that does not stop the brain from fantasizing that someone could have caught him and saved him.
I can still feel Drizzt when I sleep, during those times of not truly waking nor sleeping, I can feel him, holding me in his arms, my head resting on his strong, smooth shoulder, feeling his soft, warm breath on my neck. And this makes my heart ache all the more.
I am haunted by him in my dreams. In my sleep I can see him, see it happen, see the black arrow punch through his chest, see him stagger backward, see him vanish over the side. Then I see purple light everywhere, permeating the world, and I feel as if it were me that fell over that cliff.
As if I were the one who died.
My heart is dark, my mind confused with anger and grief, and I feel my destiny closing in, like a great suffocating, smothering blanket.
--Catti-brie
Raregar the barbarian stared out at the distant sunrise as he adjusted his grip on Drizzt Do'Urden's cold body. Compared to that frozen wind, even the drow ranger's body seemed warm in comparison. He did not feel the biting and slicing icewind that gave Icewind Dale itsname, or if he did notice, pointedly took no heed of it.
He was the champion warrior of the barbarian tribe of the Wolf, one of the many tribes that eked out an existence in the frozen wilderlands of the unpopulated areas of Icewind Dale.
Careful of his charge, he picked a path down through the mountains. He was already descending downwards out of the mountain chain of the Spine of the World.
He could feel the frigidicewind dying as he picked out a path towards the southern edge of the mountains and out of Icewind Dale, heading ultimately for Mithril Hall.
The barbarian warrior shrugged away the cold through sheer determination and will power, pushing away any thoughts of fatigue or chill, focusing entirely on exiting the mountains and onto the lower plains where he could rest for the fast-approaching night.
It would not be safe to camp in the mountains. This was not to say that it was any safer on the plains, just that the barbarian would be able to see any potential trouble from a fair distance, unlike in the mountains where there was uneven ground and predators could jump the unwary—and oftentimes the wary as well—without warning.
The warrior part of his mind liked the idea of an honorable challenge from some creature. Always eager for battle, that was how Raregar had, early in his youth, proved himself to be the greatest of all the warriors of the Tribe of the Wolf, and by the time of his twentieth year he had established himself as Champion.
Time wore on. The sun slowly set in the distance as a blazing ball of orange, and it began to snow gently as night fell. The sun was just vanishing under the horizon when Raregar emerged from the mountains onto the snow-crusted plains below the Spine of the World.
He moved quickly along the base of the mountains, the jagged outcroppings of rock shielding the barbarian from the chilled wind. Once he found one which shielded them the most from the whistling wind, he gently set Drizzt's body down, and huddled against the rock as far away from wind as possible and set about trying to make a small fire.
The night progressed, and Raregar got no sleep, amid the biting winds and snow.
Catti-brie awoke some hours later, and lay under the thin sheets, her mind awhirl with confusion, grief, and anger.
She could feel him next to her, his strong arms around her, holding her tight. She could see him in her mind's eye, pressed up close to her, a gentle smile on his lips as he played with her hair.
And yet she was alone.
She felt the bitterness welling up again. She cursed, forced the emotion down again, kicked the sheets away from her body, rolled out of the soft bed and dressed hurriedly, throwing a tunic over her head and tugged up a pair of breeches. She moved to the wooden door and shoved it open, ignoring the echoing bang it made in the hallway as it swung open and bounced into the wall.
Her mind turned inward upon the turmoil of the events of the last few weeks, culminating in the death ofDrizzt, as shetramped through the stone hallways of Mithril Hall, barely aware of her surroundings.
Several passageways later, she collided with Regis, who gave a squeak of surprise as he fell hard on his backside.
"Sorry, Catti-brie—"the halfling started.
"Watch where you're going!" Catti-brie snapped irritably, and continued walking, leaving the hurt halfling to his business.
Some minutes later, she emerged from Mithril Hall into the rising sun and climbed the short distance to a high cliff's edge overlooking the ravine below which led up to the great doors of the Hall.
She dropped to the ground and slid her legs over the edge of the cliff, dangling them over open air, and watched the sun rise. She recalled the time she and Drizzt had done so, holding hands and drinking in the welcoming warmth of the sun.
Now it seemed neither welcoming nor happy, and the rays of the sun felt unnatural on her skin. It even looked harsh.
From there, overlooking the beauty of the world, Catti-brie once again gave herself to her overflowing emotions, and wept.
Having finished watching the sun rise, and becoming desperate to escape painful memories, Catti-brie left the cliff-side and re-entered Mithril Hall, winding through the stone passageways, and ignoring or snapping irritably at those she met along the way.
Deep in her own thoughts, she simply lost herself in them and let her feet take her where they wished.
She had many questions that desperately needed answers. Why did Drizzt have to die?Why, when she was near-death in her bed, had her spirit gone to him, helped him to live through that brief period if he was only to perish later? What were these dreams she kept having? Why did she have to live? Actually, come to think of it, how is it that she had lived at all?There was a part of her that wished very much to know the answers, and another part of her that understood that if she did know, her life would be irrevocably altered forever, maybe even to the point of not even being recognizably Catti-brie.
Nonetheless, there was a rising part of her that sought to re-examine her life to this point, to change.
It was then that she realized that her feet had taken her to the Great Hall, and she was pushing open the door before she even realized where she was.
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Bruenor sitting with a man Catti-brie loathed to recognize. It was Artemis Entreri.
Both of them turned as she entered, and Bruenor looked uncomfortable. Entreri simply nodded to Catti-brie.
"What is he doing here?" She demanded.
Bruenor opened and closed his mouth several times.
"Nothing," he finally lied.
But Entreri had already stood and faced Catti-brie.
"Actually, I am here to deliver a message to you."
Catti-brie looked at him with undisguised suspicion.
"Me? From who?"
"From Alustriel."
Now Catti-brie was completely taken aback. Of all the answers she suspected, that was the last.
"A-Alustriel?"
Bruenor jumped to his feet.
"Don't ye be speaking further, Entreri! Next thing ye're words'll have her back to her bed!"
Entreri pointedly ignored the dwarf.
"Yes. She says that she understands what you are going through and that for the answers you seek, you should travel to Silverymoon at once."
"She'll be going nowhere! She's barely healed! She must r'cover her strength!" Bruenor bellowed, not that either of the others were listening. Their eyes had locked and there was private communication passing between them
Entreri moved towards Catti-brie.
"Please, Catti-brie...." He said hurriedly, for she had shied away from him. "I know it won't do much for you, but I am sorry for—"
"Get out," she whispered, her voice trembling, pressing against the wall next to the door, as if hoping it would swallow her up.
Entreri opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again. He looked around helplessly, then sighed, pushed open the door and exited, making his way out of Mithril Hall.
When they were alone, she let out a shuddering gasp and slumped to the floor, arms wrapped around her knees.
"Catti-brie," Bruenor said, starting for her.
"Stay away from me!" she shouted, scrambling to her feet again.
Bruenor gave her a wounded look, as if she had tried to stab him.
She groaned and clutched at her head, eyes squeezed shut, swaying on her feet. Through the black she saw. It was a field, covered with corpses, blood and gore everywhere. The field was slick with it. She walked among the fallen. She saw them all. Wulfgar. Bruenor. Alustriel. The Harpels. Regis. Captain Deudermont. Drizzt. Entreri. Guenhwyvar'sstatue lay shattered and crushed. Cadderly.
She screamed.
Everywhere she turned, she saw the bodies of those she knew, killed, brutally hacked. Everywhere she tried to run, there they were, looking up at her, as if silently accusing her of not stopping the inevitable.
"Catti-brie!" Bruenor shouted, looking on in horror as she screamed again, a high pitched wail of sheer terror and anguish. Chills rolled over his skin as he saw her eyes, staring blanking at nothingness, haunted, empty orbs of anguish and terror.
At the sound of her name, her eyes snapped open wide, and Bruenor stared at those eyes. They were subtly different, though Bruenor couldn't tell how.
He reached out to steady her, but she shied away, still picturing the images of Bruenor dead on that field.
"Don't touch me!" she snarled, gasping for breath.
Bruenor paused, stunned and hurt at her words.
She straightened, breathing hard, adrenaline running wild in her veins.
"Catti-brie...." Bruenor practically whispered. "Me daughter..."
She stared at him through the eyes of a caged animal, feral and terrified, lost and confused.
Without a word, she turned away, pushed through the door and vanished from sight, leaving a helpless Bruenor behind her in the Great Hall of Mithril Hall.
Catti-brie returned to her room, slammed and bolted her door, and collapsed on her bed. There was definitely something wrong with her. She was being cut off from those she loved; she could feel the mental barrier going up around her. It was a growing feeling of disillusionment and disattachment with the world and what it had to offer.
It had been that way ever since she had lost Drizzt. There was a pain that disconnected her to the cheer and beauty of the world. To her it was all great shades of grays and blacks, there was no life anywhere, only shadows of death and depression. She couldn't stand it any longer. She had to have answers.
Her mind went back and forth on whether or not she should go. There was some sort of mental hurdle she had to pass over before she could.She knew in her heart that if she went, her life would never be the same again, that she might not even be the same person. Then again, it wasn't as if her life would ever be as it was before Drizzt's death. It wasn't like she wanted to be depressed and angry for the rest of her life. The only change could be positive.
Catti-brie broke a small, shallow smile for the first time in weeks.
Silently, she stood and began to pack.
The General leaned forward against the makeshift table, digging the heels of his hands into the rough wood as he stared down at a large map of Icewind Dale and the Sword Coast. Small black blocks of wood were settled in specific places on the map. Currently there were several clumps of blocks, one in Icewind Dale, one heading towards Silverymoon, and the largest clump moving slowly towards Mithril Hall.
The General smiled. It was the largest trap Faerun had ever seen, and when they were each in their appointed place, it would snap shut against a singular point like a very, very large hammer.
"What are you smiling about?" a sly voice asked.
The General looked up and frowned.
A cloaked figure moved through the tent flap to stand before him.
"A derk for your thoughts?"
The General was silent.
"Not much of a sense of humor?"
"Be careful how you address me, woman," the General snapped.
The figure threw back its hood to reveal the ebony features of a drow female. She appeared angry.
"I am a drow, not one of your gangly, pale, ugly human females!"
The General shrugged.
"You will have respect for me!" she nearly shrieked.
The General lifted a hand towards her and she was lifted from the ground, legs kicking. Holding her there, the General cocked his head, as if regarding her as something of a curiosity.
"I could crush you," the General said. It was not in anger, not in frustration, not a threat. He stated it as if it were merely a fact. The effect was chilling.
"And do not assume that I am human."
He dropped his hand and she collapsed to the ground.
"I am much more than that," whispered the General.
The drow female slowly gathered her legs under herself and climbed to her feet again.
"I know that in your culture, the females are in charge, but here gender does not determine worth. Power determines worth. To be without power is to be without worth."
She glared at him, but now there was the hint of fear in her eyes.
"Do not forget that." His voice was cold, deadly.
Some time later, Catti-brie walked determinedly up the stone passageway, heading for the surface, adjusting a pack on her shoulder as she went.
Her heart felt a dull ache at leaving, but she tried unsuccessfully in forcing from her mind. She wanted nothing more than to forget her heart and the dead man it loved.
Perhaps a new life would help her do so.
She turned a corner and found Regis walking towards her, his head bent low. He looked up as she rounded the corner, and his expression became one of uncertainty and, perhaps, fear.
Then his eyes fell upon the pack on her shoulders, and he shook his head.
"No, don't tell me..."
Catti-brie sighed and looked away.
"You can't leave," the halfling protested. "Everyone leaves, and they don't come back!"
She knew to whom he was referring, and she felt angry that he had brought Drizzt up.
"You can't stop me," she said, her jaw set.
The halfling shook his head.
"I'm not trying to. It's just—we already lost Drizzt, I don't want another friend lost."
Catti-brie was silent. Her internal emotions were too confused to warrant an answer. She closed her eyes and a tear formed in the corner. Drawing a deep breath to relax herself, she opened her eyes and looked at Regis.
"I'm already gone." Tears were forming more readily now. "You lost me when I lost Drizzt. I need to. . . sort things out. Maybe someday I can come back, but not just now. . . ."
She pushed past him, then paused, reached down and grabbed a handful of the halfling's tunic and pulled him off his feet. She looked at him hard. He saw into the infinite depths of her pain and despair in her eyes, and was silent.
"And I don't want anyone coming after me, got that? No one. I don't want to see or hear or talk to any of you. Not Bruenor, not Wulfgar, not anyone. There's nothing any of you can say that I haven't already heard. This is my fight, and I need to fight it on my own."
She dropped him without even waiting for a response and pushed past him. She did not look back.
Five minutes later, she emerged from Mithril Hall, and cut cross country, never even glancing backat the horrible memories. They beat against the insides of her head like great, black serpents. Slowly, as she continued onward away from Mithril Hall, she felt them fade a bit, and she allowed a little, sad smile, to curl the corners of her mouth.
Perhaps she might have looked back, had she known what the future held.
The day after Catti-brie left Mithril Hall was a frantic day for Bruenor. He had been searching for Catti-brie ever since he realized that she had not been seen for a whole day. They had checked her rooms, and Bruenor was now anxiously awaiting Pwent's report, after being sent to scour the whole of Mithril Hall for her.
"Any luck, Bruenor?"
Regis was entering the Great Hall. Bruenor looked up, then shook his head.
"You...you don't think she might have left?" Regis asked timidly, trying to appear as if he had just thrown the idea out there.
Bruenor shook his head.
"Nah, she'd not—"
Whatever it was that she would not do, Regis never found out, because Bruenor met his eyes, and they narrowed.
"What would make ye think she'd want te be leavin?"
Regis shrugged, a little too casually.
"Oh, I don't know. Just guessing."
Bruenor sprang from his seat and grabbed Regis by the tunic.
"Where's she gone? What do ye know, halfling?"
"Me? I—Nothing! Nothing at all!"
Bruenor shook the unfortunate halfling violently, then glared at Regis with eyes glinting with danger.
"I'm not bein' interested in yer little games, Regis. Where has me daughter gone?"
"All right! She said something about Silverymoon!"
Bruenor let go of Regis, who gratefully readjusted his wrinkled tunic.
"But she said she didn't want any of us to follow her. She was. . . quite insistent about that."
"None of us?" Bruenor asked.
"No, not you, not me, not Wulfgar—"
"Me king!"
Bruenor turned eagerly, as Pwent burst in through the doors of the Great Hall, hopping around the room in agitation.
"Me king, we searched the whole of Mithril Hall, but we could not a trace of her."
"Never mind, never mind. She's heading for Silverymoon. I want ye to be takin' two of yer best dwarven trackers and have 'em follow her, make sure she's all right."
His voice was determined. Pwent nodded.
There was a thunderous, resounding crash as something heavy and powerful fell against the doors outside, thrusting the huge, thick, heavy doors aside as if they were as light as straws to bang against the stone walls, and Wulfgar staggered into the Great Hall.
Bruenor was on his feet in surprise as the large man collapsed onto the floor, breathing hard. His hair was tangled and unwashed, his trousers covered with spattered mud, and, Bruenor saw, blood as well, and his skin was covered in a sheen of sweat.
"Wulfgar! Ye bein' all right? What happened to ye?"
"I ran for miles," the winded Wulfgar explained, "to get here. . . . orcs. . . found me."
"Orcs? How many?"
"Perhaps fifty thousand. . ."
Bruenor looked at his adopted son as if he had not quite heard correctly. Pwent was stunned into silence, finally ceasing his agitated hopping.
"An army of orcs?" he asked wonderingly.
Wulfgar nodded gravely.
"Bruenor," the winded human panted, leaning close to emphasize the seriousness of what he was about to say. "Bruenor. . . .they're coming here."
"What do ye mean, 'coming here'?"
"I mean that fifty thousand heavily armed orcs are preparing to assault Mithril Hall."
Wulfgar paused to let this sink in.
"But. . . why?" Bruenor asked
Wulfgar snorted and shook his head.
"Since when do orcs need a reason? I have told you all I know. Besides, does it matter why an army of orcs is coming when the important thing is that they are coming?"
Bruenor couldn't argue with the logic, but still, the magnitude of the thought. There had never been an army fifty thousand strong ever before assembled in the Realms.
"How long until they arrive?" Bruenor asked, his voice quiet.
"I give us not more than a week, possibly three days, depending on how swiftly they march."
Bruenor breathed out a heavy sigh.
"Do we evacuate? Get everyone out before they can arrive?"
Wulfgar and Pwent looked in surprise at Bruenor.
"Don' look at me like tha'!" Bruenor bellowed. "I'm jus' askin' if ye think we can hold 'em off here. I'm a king now. Gotta be lookin' after the bes' interests of me people. We've got womenfolk and children here, the last thing I'm wantin' is a massacre."
"Mithril Hall is an extremely defensible position. We withstood the Dark Elves' invasion, we can withstand this. Besides, if we run, we risk being caught on indefensible ground and many will die. If we can hold this storm at bay here, even defeat it, how many lives of those in surrounding villages and cities will we save?" Wulfgar said.
Bruenor was nodding eagerly, unable, and unwilling to argue the point. He had been uncertain before, because, he thought, he was worried about Catti-brie. Had he thought deeper, he would have realized that they were allowing an invading army to besiege them. If they breached the tunnels inside, it would be a massacre.
"Yes," Bruenor was saying. "We shall stand here and fight."
Pwent thrust a fist of excitement into the air.
Bruenor began pacing in his eagerness for a battle, one last battle.
"This warning gives us time to plan and prepare defenses. I think that we should not allow them to our gates without opposition. We shall not simply remain inside our tunnels while the darkness surrounds us!"
He spun on Wulfgar and Pwent.
"We have much to prepare!"
As the eastern sky grew dark, Catti-brie broke into a run. She wanted to reach the safety of Silverymoon before she stopped. After the Yeti attack had nearly cost her her life, she was not keen on spending a night out-of-doors at the moment. At any rate, she could see itslights glittering in the distance.
Soon she was forced to stop running, because the injuries in her side were becoming quite painful, and she continued in a kind of bizarre limping gait.
Over the next hour, she watched it draw steadily closer, but her energy, which had been so high that morning, was now leaving her, and her legs were growing more tired. At least, she thought, I'm keeping warm. For her torso felt very warm, oddly warm. She knew that the bleeding had started again, and had been for a while. She had to make it to Silverymoon. . .
Feeling light-headed, she stumbled onward determinedly. Her hand brushed against her side, and she felt wetness on her fingers. She stopped, only a hundred yards from the gates to Silverymoon, and lifted her hand. Even in the failing light, she could tell that it was blood. She touched her side again, and her hand came away slick with the stuff.
She took two more staggering steps, noting how light-headed she was feeling, and then simply collapsed onto the snow, oblivion taking her to darkness and peace.
Raregar sat upon the hard, cold snow, wrapped in furs, watching the sky turn blood-red over the horizon as the sun rose once again. The start of a new day. He closed his eyes as the first warm rays struck his face.
It had been several days since he had emerged from the mountains, several days of cold and sore muscles and constant walking. His feet were hurting, a dull sort of ache that refused to go away, and he knew it wouldn't until he had had a descent rest.
He sat there, enjoying the rest for some time longer, mustering his strength and willpower. Then, with a sigh, he got up, noting that his legs had gone unpleasantly numb from the cold.
Stretching his powerful muscles, he turned and reached down to pick of the body of Drizzt Do'Urden.
He groaned as he lifted the body; his muscles were sore from carrying it. But there was something different about it this time, except he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Well, it seemed a little less stiff than before, but that could simply be because the weather was warming as it approached spring.
But there was something else. . .the whole body seemed a little firmer than before, some of the bones solid where before they had been pulverized by the fall.
It hit him then. The body was. . .
His eyes opened in shock and surprise. He staggered backwards, lost his balance and fell to the snow, stuned speechless.
It was warm.