Disclaimer : Am currently at home sick (possibly due to wishing I owned
Forgotten Realms) coughing madly and sneezing out rainbow-colored snot (not
pleasant but kinda funny) can't lay down and rest (though I should) so
instead I will write -er type. Whatever. I now have even more sympathy
for those characters that catch the plague. (Imagines vomiting rainbow-
colored stuff) Eew... Enough of that!
Mirror Me Dark
By Semdai Bloodquill
Chapter Eight : Tears of Blood
Antioch stormed back and forth across his chamber, fuming with rage.
"How could she choose him over me," he growled, "I'm older and far better equipped for the position of Patrol Commander. So what if he ranked higher than me? So what if he can cut his own flesh? So what? Why is he better than me!" Antioch slammed his fist against the wall in rage. "You will pay!" He punched the wall again. "I swear with all the strength that is in my body, you will pay, Zandrath!"
Antioch dropped down heavily on his cot. He clenched his hands before his eyes as he imagined. He pretended that his long, black fingers were gripping his younger brother's throat, strangling the life from his hated brother. He imagined the pleasure it would give him to see Zandrath, wriggling under his grasp. Imagined his brother's golden eyes widening in fear, in terror. Imagined the desperate pounding of Zandrath's heart against his hands as he dug hem into his brother's throat. How he longed for it to be real.
"Someday," Antioch promised grimly, "someday, I will kill my brother."
Lazuli had never traveled so fast in her life. Despite Melkor's size, though he was still small by the standards of his kind, the black dragon had already reached Luskan after only a single day of flying. When the three of them set up camp, Melkor found himself a ledge and stretched out on it. The dragon was resting peacefully under the moonlight moments later.
Seivriel made a spectacle of leaning against Melkor's side. If the dragon minded, he showed it not.
"You knew my father and Jarlaxle," Lazuli pressed, sitting across from the pirate leader, "how?"
"Artemis and Jarlaxle were bounty hunters for several years," Seivriel began, "I was to be one of their prizes. Artemis I and I were forced to fight against and allied with each other on many occasions. When the tiles and chips were counted and tallied we came to a dead tie. Then you came into the picture. Our final match was postponed until the matter of you was settled. Of course you needed your name, of which I played some part. But other problems arose, particularly where you would grow up. It was Jarlaxle's idea that he and Artemis keep you."
"What do you mean by that," Lazuli demanded, "am I not my father's daughter?"
"No, that's not what I mean," Seivriel explained hastily, "Artemis did indeed sire you. Your mother would not have allowed him to keep you had you not been his daughter."
"You knew my mother," Lazuli balked.
"My, but you are full of questions," Seivriel sighed, "yes, I knew your mother, quite well actually. But, one story at a time. Your mother and Artemis knew that they would not be able to raise you together. They were much too different to be a good pair of parents. They believed it would be better if you were raised by one or the other. Choosing which parent though, was a difficult choice. Neither of them were young enough to be considered model parents and both lead dangerous and wandering lives. Jarlaxle was the one who made the difference, he was absolutely enamored by you and he prodded and pushed Artemis to keep you. Finally, they decided that you would remain with your father, partly because you resembled him so keenly and partly because if something were to happen to Artemis, Jarlaxle, who still had a century or two of life left at the time, would be able to take care of you." Seivriel scratched the back of her neck absentmindedly.
"What happened to my mother," Lazuli asked.
"That was the last matter decided," Seivriel dodged, "it was agreed that your mother would not intervene in your upbringing and that Jarlaxle, Artemis, and I, would not reveal her name or whereabouts to you until you were ready."
"Why is that," Lazuli challenged, "do I not have the right to know who my own mother was?"
"Such a right you have," Seivriel admitted, "but there are things that you will not like about her and such things are for when you are ready to accept what you will inherit from her." Lazuli was not satisfied. "I will tell you this, though only if you swear you will not tell Artemis that I told you."
"I swear it," Lazuli promised eagerly.
"Your mother was not truly human," Seivriel revealed, "you father did not learn of these things until after you were born, when your mother showed him her true form. She was a being not of this age nor even a full breed of that part of her that was not human. Her powers were great and terrible, her energies were without boundary, and her spirit was reckless and raging as fire. She feared greatly that her powers would manifest in you if you remained with her for too long." Lazuli was silent. "One day, when you are wise enough to understand, she will seek you out and ask for your forgiveness," Seivriel assured, "she made that promise to you before she gave you over to Artemis and Jarlaxle. It was my duty to bear witness to that pledge and to take you, Artemis, and Jarlaxle to Calimport and also to guide your mother away from you." Seivriel ended her tale and studied Lazuli's reaction.
Lazuli remained silent.
"Get some sleep," Seivriel advised, "it'll help."
Lazuli was still silent.
Spinalo's home was nestled on the northeastern edge of the city. The house wasn't very glamorous or elaborate, but it had a warm, friendly radiance to it that made it like the castle of a great king. Spinalo sent a large raven to what he refereed to as 'the palace' requesting an audience with the Queen and insisted that Zerial and Tanarial make themselves comfortable.
"It may take some time for an audience to be scheduled," Spinalo explained, "so please make yourselves at home."
"Don't you have a family, Spinalo," Zerial asked, sitting in a leather chair, "like a wife or kids?"
"I had a wife, a son, a brother, and two sisters," Spinalo replied sadly, "my younger sister and brother both left the city many years ago and I have not heard from them since. My elder sister was bonded to a great dragon that she raised from an egg. Her dragon was slain and she died as well. My wife died in childbirth," Spinalo stopped and his black eyes filled with hurt, "and my son I lost to the plague." His voice was anguished as he went on, "my poor son, barely nine years old, so small, and so very kind and gentle. He died in my arms, blind and suffering..." Spinalo sat and buried his face in his hands at the memory of his son's death.
"That's terrible," Tanarial said sadly.
"No parent should have to bury their child," Zerial added, "I'm sorry I brought it up."
"It's not your fault," Spinalo assured, "I still find it hard to believe that he's really gone. Sometimes I sit alone in this house and I hear him. He's always reminding me that it wasn't my fault and that he'll wait patiently for me to join him."
"He must have really loved you," Tanarial suggested, "if he comes back of his own free will to console you, then he cares for you even in death."
"Take solace in his presence," Zerial advised, "feel honored that he's watching over you."
Spinalo was greatly comforted by the two Gold elves.
Dagasta strode briskly down the corridor, a slight bounce in his step. He had a lot to be thankful for. He was alive for one thing. For another, Zandrath had his eye back. And finally, he had sired another child, this one a female. Granted he might get some hand in her upbringing, he hoped to keep his family's bloodline flowing. Yes, the patron was glad. Everything was working out as planned. They had entered and 'tainted' the most powerful house in the city. It had taken several decades, but the plan was beginning to bloom.
Yes, Dagasta knew his siblings would be proud.
He sauntered cheerfully into Triel's chamber, unannounced, and bowed before the foul-tempered matron.
"This had better be important," Triel threatened. Dagasta was fearful on the outside but laughing inside as he straightened and held out the message he had been asked to deliver.
"I bring word from the lieutenants," the patron explained, "apparently there has been a relapse."
"I was assured that this plague was contained and controlled," Triel roared when she saw the message, "two hundred soldiers in a single week!"
"If I'm not mistaken that puts us at roughly four hundred soldiers and one hundred clerics," Dagasta calculated.
"Thirty clerics have also died," Triel growled, knowing that Dagasta likely already knew that.
"Seventy clerics," the patron corrected, "it would appear that we have lost a third of the army before it has even begun its march."
Triel wanted to beat Dagasta, but he was right. Whether she liked it or not, he was right and also too valuable an asset to throw away.
"We will continue to pray to Lady Lloth for salvation," Triel decided firmly, "give Zandrath the command to ready the soldiers."
Inside, Dagasta was grinning ever wider. How deliciously everything was playing into his hands. Soon, everything would fall into place.
Though her eyes were the color of fresh snow, she was far from blind. Her eyes had not always been white, either. When she was young, they had been as black as any other drandil, as had been her hair, but their obsidian hues had faded with her youth, faded to pure, untainted white.
She was very old, even more so than the late Matron Yvonnel Baenre. It was not just her eyes and hair that had faded with age. She was thin as well and not very strong in body. Her limbs were longer than normal and her nails were sharp and curved. Her skin was so pale that it was nearly as white as her hair.
Yet, she was still very beautiful. Her clothes were as white as her eyes and flowed gracefully like water down her famished frame to sway about her bare feet. She had few accessories to her attire other than a pair of silver and pearl earrings, a trio of silver encased, diamond bracelets, two simple silver chains around each ankle, and a plain silver band on her left ring finger.
Instantly, Zerial and Tanarial were humbled. Her mere presence was cause enough to make the twins want to fall to their knees in reverence. Never before had they seen an elf so ancient and noble. Spinalo, however, seemed perfectly at ease.
"This is Shiroinohi Tavalone," Spinalo introduced dramatically, "in our language her name means 'White Queen.'"
"Welcome," Shiroinohi greeted, her voice was soft, clear, and akin to the ringing of little bells. The twins felt the need to prostrate themselves before her. "You needn't bother with such silly formalities," she assured, "you are friends until proven otherwise."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Tanarial said gratefully, contenting himself with a simple bow of his head and shoulders.
"What brings the two of you to the forgotten forest of Gloomwood," Shiroinohi asked politely.
"We come seeking the cure of the plague that is currently sweeping the world," Tanarial replied.
"I know the plague of which you speak," Shiroinohi said sadly, her long, white eyelashes drooped over her bind eyes, "Aruine Abitus our dark cousins have named it. My ears have heard of its terrors and my far eyes have seen its anguish."
"Pardon my saying this, but aren't you blind," Zerial asked tentatively.
"That is correct, Zerial," Shiroinohi nodded, "I am indeed blind, but it is only a blindness of my body's eyes. The sight of my spirit and my mind are unhindered. So, in a way I see more than I did before my body's eyes failed. But it matters not, you come seeking the cure and I can tell you of it if so you desire."
"We do," the brothers answered in unison. Shiroinohi turned her face upward.
"Of the moon, they come as two. The Golds they tell, came two as well. Of the dark, three did embark. And a mix of breed was one to lead," she recited, "so it comes to pass."
"What comes to pass," Zerial asked.
"The prophesy," Shiroinohi said quietly, "foretold by the ancient queens after the Sundering."
Monty didn't wake up that morning, nor did he awaken that afternoon. Still, Nessa and Drizzt were ever at his side keeping their tortured vigil over their son like guardian angels.
It was clear to everyone that Monty was very sick. The young drow's purple eyes were dimming in light and color. His stomach could not hold even a single swallow of water for more than a few seconds before it was forced back up accompanied by a gush of scarlet fluid. There was blood collecting in his ears, nose, and eyes. His breathing was shallow and faltering more severely every minute. No one would voice it, but it became clear that Montolio Do'Urden would not live to see the next sunrise.
It was midnight when Monty at last opened his failing eyes. He was in his father's arms, his heavy head resting against Drizzt's collarbone, so close he could hear the beating of the ranger's heart. His mother was there too. He could feel her even though he couldn't see her. She was on the opposite side of him as Drizzt, as if they were holding him between them. Her soft cheek was resting against his burning forehead. He wanted to speak to them.
"Mom," Monty coughed weakly, "Dad..."
"We're here, Monty," Drizzt comforted, "it's all right." Something wet splashed onto Monty's cheek. Was his father crying?
"I saw... terrible... things... in my dreams..." Monty's voice was raspy and feeble, "two armies... one drow... one fearie... fighting... then... another army appeared... they were... different..." Monty stopped and gasped for breath.
"Don't try to talk, save your strength," Nessa cried.
"Not much time..." Monty refused to give up, "at the end... four elves... with... instruments... came to... stop... the fighting..." Monty lost his voice in a fit of violent coughing, but regained it in time to say, " such... beautiful... music..."
Drizzt's heart skipped a beat. "Monty," he cried frantically, "Montolio, don't you dare die!"
"Take me... outside... please," Monty pleaded. Drizzt rose immediately and carried his sickened son out of the dwarven complex. At first he walked, but he was soon running as fast as his legs could carry him, Nessa not far behind.
They reached the surface just as the sun was preparing to rise.
"Monty, look," Drizzt urged, "the sun is rising."
Monty peered through the haze of his waning sight and found he could make out the light of the rising sun. A contented smile crossed his face. Drizzt cradled Monty in his arms, moaning in anguish.
"Father..." Monty's voice was almost inaudible, "don't be sad... I love you... and Mom..." Monty's head fell lifeless against his father's shoulder. Montolio Do'Urden suffered no more.
To be continued...
AN : Gloomwood was designed as a mixture between Silverymoon, Imladerus (Rivendell), and Evereska (elven city in Troy Denning's Return of the Archwizards) plus a little bit of flourish on my part. I wanted the place to kind of mirror Menzoberranzan, both cities are populated by elves, both are ruled by really, friggin, old females, and they both are matriarchal societies. So alike and yet completely opposite (fits the story title I think). I also have to apologize for how sad and depressing this chapter is. The last one was really happy and upbeat, then this one comes along and everything goes to hell. I wonder if I subconsciously planed it that way. Damn my sadistic alter egos. Mmmmm... Eggo waffles...
Bonus Feature: I wrote this poem after I decided that Monty was going to die. It's written from Drizzt's point of view, about what he must have felt when his son died. The last line was inspired by Lord Montague from 'Romeo and Juliet.' Hope you enjoy!
Lament
I didn't know. It was time for you to go. My sadness for you will be great. My tears will flow, my heart will ache. You left so soon and I don't know why. It was you that had to die. If only I could have taken your place. A smile would still brighten your shining face. But you smile no longer and my soul is hurt. My life no longer has any worth. Forever will I miss you so. Memory makes me heavy with woe. If only it was me, that I would rather. For a son should not die before his father...
Mirror Me Dark
By Semdai Bloodquill
Chapter Eight : Tears of Blood
Antioch stormed back and forth across his chamber, fuming with rage.
"How could she choose him over me," he growled, "I'm older and far better equipped for the position of Patrol Commander. So what if he ranked higher than me? So what if he can cut his own flesh? So what? Why is he better than me!" Antioch slammed his fist against the wall in rage. "You will pay!" He punched the wall again. "I swear with all the strength that is in my body, you will pay, Zandrath!"
Antioch dropped down heavily on his cot. He clenched his hands before his eyes as he imagined. He pretended that his long, black fingers were gripping his younger brother's throat, strangling the life from his hated brother. He imagined the pleasure it would give him to see Zandrath, wriggling under his grasp. Imagined his brother's golden eyes widening in fear, in terror. Imagined the desperate pounding of Zandrath's heart against his hands as he dug hem into his brother's throat. How he longed for it to be real.
"Someday," Antioch promised grimly, "someday, I will kill my brother."
Lazuli had never traveled so fast in her life. Despite Melkor's size, though he was still small by the standards of his kind, the black dragon had already reached Luskan after only a single day of flying. When the three of them set up camp, Melkor found himself a ledge and stretched out on it. The dragon was resting peacefully under the moonlight moments later.
Seivriel made a spectacle of leaning against Melkor's side. If the dragon minded, he showed it not.
"You knew my father and Jarlaxle," Lazuli pressed, sitting across from the pirate leader, "how?"
"Artemis and Jarlaxle were bounty hunters for several years," Seivriel began, "I was to be one of their prizes. Artemis I and I were forced to fight against and allied with each other on many occasions. When the tiles and chips were counted and tallied we came to a dead tie. Then you came into the picture. Our final match was postponed until the matter of you was settled. Of course you needed your name, of which I played some part. But other problems arose, particularly where you would grow up. It was Jarlaxle's idea that he and Artemis keep you."
"What do you mean by that," Lazuli demanded, "am I not my father's daughter?"
"No, that's not what I mean," Seivriel explained hastily, "Artemis did indeed sire you. Your mother would not have allowed him to keep you had you not been his daughter."
"You knew my mother," Lazuli balked.
"My, but you are full of questions," Seivriel sighed, "yes, I knew your mother, quite well actually. But, one story at a time. Your mother and Artemis knew that they would not be able to raise you together. They were much too different to be a good pair of parents. They believed it would be better if you were raised by one or the other. Choosing which parent though, was a difficult choice. Neither of them were young enough to be considered model parents and both lead dangerous and wandering lives. Jarlaxle was the one who made the difference, he was absolutely enamored by you and he prodded and pushed Artemis to keep you. Finally, they decided that you would remain with your father, partly because you resembled him so keenly and partly because if something were to happen to Artemis, Jarlaxle, who still had a century or two of life left at the time, would be able to take care of you." Seivriel scratched the back of her neck absentmindedly.
"What happened to my mother," Lazuli asked.
"That was the last matter decided," Seivriel dodged, "it was agreed that your mother would not intervene in your upbringing and that Jarlaxle, Artemis, and I, would not reveal her name or whereabouts to you until you were ready."
"Why is that," Lazuli challenged, "do I not have the right to know who my own mother was?"
"Such a right you have," Seivriel admitted, "but there are things that you will not like about her and such things are for when you are ready to accept what you will inherit from her." Lazuli was not satisfied. "I will tell you this, though only if you swear you will not tell Artemis that I told you."
"I swear it," Lazuli promised eagerly.
"Your mother was not truly human," Seivriel revealed, "you father did not learn of these things until after you were born, when your mother showed him her true form. She was a being not of this age nor even a full breed of that part of her that was not human. Her powers were great and terrible, her energies were without boundary, and her spirit was reckless and raging as fire. She feared greatly that her powers would manifest in you if you remained with her for too long." Lazuli was silent. "One day, when you are wise enough to understand, she will seek you out and ask for your forgiveness," Seivriel assured, "she made that promise to you before she gave you over to Artemis and Jarlaxle. It was my duty to bear witness to that pledge and to take you, Artemis, and Jarlaxle to Calimport and also to guide your mother away from you." Seivriel ended her tale and studied Lazuli's reaction.
Lazuli remained silent.
"Get some sleep," Seivriel advised, "it'll help."
Lazuli was still silent.
Spinalo's home was nestled on the northeastern edge of the city. The house wasn't very glamorous or elaborate, but it had a warm, friendly radiance to it that made it like the castle of a great king. Spinalo sent a large raven to what he refereed to as 'the palace' requesting an audience with the Queen and insisted that Zerial and Tanarial make themselves comfortable.
"It may take some time for an audience to be scheduled," Spinalo explained, "so please make yourselves at home."
"Don't you have a family, Spinalo," Zerial asked, sitting in a leather chair, "like a wife or kids?"
"I had a wife, a son, a brother, and two sisters," Spinalo replied sadly, "my younger sister and brother both left the city many years ago and I have not heard from them since. My elder sister was bonded to a great dragon that she raised from an egg. Her dragon was slain and she died as well. My wife died in childbirth," Spinalo stopped and his black eyes filled with hurt, "and my son I lost to the plague." His voice was anguished as he went on, "my poor son, barely nine years old, so small, and so very kind and gentle. He died in my arms, blind and suffering..." Spinalo sat and buried his face in his hands at the memory of his son's death.
"That's terrible," Tanarial said sadly.
"No parent should have to bury their child," Zerial added, "I'm sorry I brought it up."
"It's not your fault," Spinalo assured, "I still find it hard to believe that he's really gone. Sometimes I sit alone in this house and I hear him. He's always reminding me that it wasn't my fault and that he'll wait patiently for me to join him."
"He must have really loved you," Tanarial suggested, "if he comes back of his own free will to console you, then he cares for you even in death."
"Take solace in his presence," Zerial advised, "feel honored that he's watching over you."
Spinalo was greatly comforted by the two Gold elves.
Dagasta strode briskly down the corridor, a slight bounce in his step. He had a lot to be thankful for. He was alive for one thing. For another, Zandrath had his eye back. And finally, he had sired another child, this one a female. Granted he might get some hand in her upbringing, he hoped to keep his family's bloodline flowing. Yes, the patron was glad. Everything was working out as planned. They had entered and 'tainted' the most powerful house in the city. It had taken several decades, but the plan was beginning to bloom.
Yes, Dagasta knew his siblings would be proud.
He sauntered cheerfully into Triel's chamber, unannounced, and bowed before the foul-tempered matron.
"This had better be important," Triel threatened. Dagasta was fearful on the outside but laughing inside as he straightened and held out the message he had been asked to deliver.
"I bring word from the lieutenants," the patron explained, "apparently there has been a relapse."
"I was assured that this plague was contained and controlled," Triel roared when she saw the message, "two hundred soldiers in a single week!"
"If I'm not mistaken that puts us at roughly four hundred soldiers and one hundred clerics," Dagasta calculated.
"Thirty clerics have also died," Triel growled, knowing that Dagasta likely already knew that.
"Seventy clerics," the patron corrected, "it would appear that we have lost a third of the army before it has even begun its march."
Triel wanted to beat Dagasta, but he was right. Whether she liked it or not, he was right and also too valuable an asset to throw away.
"We will continue to pray to Lady Lloth for salvation," Triel decided firmly, "give Zandrath the command to ready the soldiers."
Inside, Dagasta was grinning ever wider. How deliciously everything was playing into his hands. Soon, everything would fall into place.
Though her eyes were the color of fresh snow, she was far from blind. Her eyes had not always been white, either. When she was young, they had been as black as any other drandil, as had been her hair, but their obsidian hues had faded with her youth, faded to pure, untainted white.
She was very old, even more so than the late Matron Yvonnel Baenre. It was not just her eyes and hair that had faded with age. She was thin as well and not very strong in body. Her limbs were longer than normal and her nails were sharp and curved. Her skin was so pale that it was nearly as white as her hair.
Yet, she was still very beautiful. Her clothes were as white as her eyes and flowed gracefully like water down her famished frame to sway about her bare feet. She had few accessories to her attire other than a pair of silver and pearl earrings, a trio of silver encased, diamond bracelets, two simple silver chains around each ankle, and a plain silver band on her left ring finger.
Instantly, Zerial and Tanarial were humbled. Her mere presence was cause enough to make the twins want to fall to their knees in reverence. Never before had they seen an elf so ancient and noble. Spinalo, however, seemed perfectly at ease.
"This is Shiroinohi Tavalone," Spinalo introduced dramatically, "in our language her name means 'White Queen.'"
"Welcome," Shiroinohi greeted, her voice was soft, clear, and akin to the ringing of little bells. The twins felt the need to prostrate themselves before her. "You needn't bother with such silly formalities," she assured, "you are friends until proven otherwise."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Tanarial said gratefully, contenting himself with a simple bow of his head and shoulders.
"What brings the two of you to the forgotten forest of Gloomwood," Shiroinohi asked politely.
"We come seeking the cure of the plague that is currently sweeping the world," Tanarial replied.
"I know the plague of which you speak," Shiroinohi said sadly, her long, white eyelashes drooped over her bind eyes, "Aruine Abitus our dark cousins have named it. My ears have heard of its terrors and my far eyes have seen its anguish."
"Pardon my saying this, but aren't you blind," Zerial asked tentatively.
"That is correct, Zerial," Shiroinohi nodded, "I am indeed blind, but it is only a blindness of my body's eyes. The sight of my spirit and my mind are unhindered. So, in a way I see more than I did before my body's eyes failed. But it matters not, you come seeking the cure and I can tell you of it if so you desire."
"We do," the brothers answered in unison. Shiroinohi turned her face upward.
"Of the moon, they come as two. The Golds they tell, came two as well. Of the dark, three did embark. And a mix of breed was one to lead," she recited, "so it comes to pass."
"What comes to pass," Zerial asked.
"The prophesy," Shiroinohi said quietly, "foretold by the ancient queens after the Sundering."
Monty didn't wake up that morning, nor did he awaken that afternoon. Still, Nessa and Drizzt were ever at his side keeping their tortured vigil over their son like guardian angels.
It was clear to everyone that Monty was very sick. The young drow's purple eyes were dimming in light and color. His stomach could not hold even a single swallow of water for more than a few seconds before it was forced back up accompanied by a gush of scarlet fluid. There was blood collecting in his ears, nose, and eyes. His breathing was shallow and faltering more severely every minute. No one would voice it, but it became clear that Montolio Do'Urden would not live to see the next sunrise.
It was midnight when Monty at last opened his failing eyes. He was in his father's arms, his heavy head resting against Drizzt's collarbone, so close he could hear the beating of the ranger's heart. His mother was there too. He could feel her even though he couldn't see her. She was on the opposite side of him as Drizzt, as if they were holding him between them. Her soft cheek was resting against his burning forehead. He wanted to speak to them.
"Mom," Monty coughed weakly, "Dad..."
"We're here, Monty," Drizzt comforted, "it's all right." Something wet splashed onto Monty's cheek. Was his father crying?
"I saw... terrible... things... in my dreams..." Monty's voice was raspy and feeble, "two armies... one drow... one fearie... fighting... then... another army appeared... they were... different..." Monty stopped and gasped for breath.
"Don't try to talk, save your strength," Nessa cried.
"Not much time..." Monty refused to give up, "at the end... four elves... with... instruments... came to... stop... the fighting..." Monty lost his voice in a fit of violent coughing, but regained it in time to say, " such... beautiful... music..."
Drizzt's heart skipped a beat. "Monty," he cried frantically, "Montolio, don't you dare die!"
"Take me... outside... please," Monty pleaded. Drizzt rose immediately and carried his sickened son out of the dwarven complex. At first he walked, but he was soon running as fast as his legs could carry him, Nessa not far behind.
They reached the surface just as the sun was preparing to rise.
"Monty, look," Drizzt urged, "the sun is rising."
Monty peered through the haze of his waning sight and found he could make out the light of the rising sun. A contented smile crossed his face. Drizzt cradled Monty in his arms, moaning in anguish.
"Father..." Monty's voice was almost inaudible, "don't be sad... I love you... and Mom..." Monty's head fell lifeless against his father's shoulder. Montolio Do'Urden suffered no more.
To be continued...
AN : Gloomwood was designed as a mixture between Silverymoon, Imladerus (Rivendell), and Evereska (elven city in Troy Denning's Return of the Archwizards) plus a little bit of flourish on my part. I wanted the place to kind of mirror Menzoberranzan, both cities are populated by elves, both are ruled by really, friggin, old females, and they both are matriarchal societies. So alike and yet completely opposite (fits the story title I think). I also have to apologize for how sad and depressing this chapter is. The last one was really happy and upbeat, then this one comes along and everything goes to hell. I wonder if I subconsciously planed it that way. Damn my sadistic alter egos. Mmmmm... Eggo waffles...
Bonus Feature: I wrote this poem after I decided that Monty was going to die. It's written from Drizzt's point of view, about what he must have felt when his son died. The last line was inspired by Lord Montague from 'Romeo and Juliet.' Hope you enjoy!
Lament
I didn't know. It was time for you to go. My sadness for you will be great. My tears will flow, my heart will ache. You left so soon and I don't know why. It was you that had to die. If only I could have taken your place. A smile would still brighten your shining face. But you smile no longer and my soul is hurt. My life no longer has any worth. Forever will I miss you so. Memory makes me heavy with woe. If only it was me, that I would rather. For a son should not die before his father...