That night was one of the most painful times either of them had probably ever felt before. By some unspoken agreement, they avoided eye contact with each other, and both stayed up until almost two o'clock in the morning. Jarlaxle spent most of his time staring at the stars.

He wasn't aware of the fact that he'd slipped into a reverie until he found himself wandering through a familiar hallway. None of the doors were closed. He almost had the feeling that something he sought was behind one of the doors, and if he opened it, the right one, then he could stop looking. Instead, he walked past them all.

His dream continued along that vein for quite a while, he was walking and looking at all the doors. It was a common enough thing for him to do when he was thinking.

"When did it happen?" he heard someone else say.

Then the dream shifted, and he found himself in the cave-like master bedroom he'd had at his mercenary headquarters. A woman lounged on his bed with a coy expression on her face. She was wearing a dress so grayed and torn it looked like a rag. She'd always dressed like that.

The woman reached out languidly and took his hand, her long nails biting into his skin. She placed his hand on her stomach. "You're a father," she said.

He said nothing, and turned away.

"What's the matter?" she said, her voice rich with amusement. Though he couldn't see her, he knew that she was smiling at him. "Didn't you enjoy me?"

Jarlaxle, the witness to the himself of the past, had a sick feeling burning from his throat to his chest and stomach, as if he'd swallowed poison. His voice, when it came, was cold. "Get rid of it," he said.

He knew she'd been stunned.

"You heard me." He walked out of the room.

When he found her hung the next morning, he hadn't been surprised. He'd merely had her cut down and then went for a walk in the monster infested wilderness, leaving all his mercenaries wondering about him. As he'd left, they'd parted for him, staring. He knew they couldn't understand his coldness; it frightened them. Even about this, there was an emotion running so icily through his veins that it was no emotion at all.

He didn't care whether or not one of the many creatures who made the wilderness their home attacked him, but even though he sensed them nearby, they wouldn't attack. He thought that was probably for the best.

For a while, he wondered why he was reliving this. It was a numb question in the back of his mind as he walked through a forest of glowing mushrooms.

He knew that if he ate so much as a handful of one of the huge, glowing caps, he'd die. The bright lemon glow of the fungus was comforting to him for that reason. Why should he wait until someone else finished him off? It was tempting to claim one last triumph and ensure he died his own way.

He hadn't, of course, and the part of Jarlaxle that was not part of the dream knew this. This mood had passed through him. He'd left it lying in the wilderness of the Underdark somewhere, among the forest of mushrooms, where it rightfully belonged.

He wanted kill off the Underdark bit by bit, until there were no more drow. He wanted to live to see the vast cities devastated, devoid of life, littered with dead, black-skinned bodies. They deserved to die off. One by one, he would pick off people until there was just him, and then he would stand on the highest summit he could find that overlooked his city, and he would stab himself.

Jarlaxle's shoulders shook. Now that Zulameza had died, all he had left was Zaknafein, and once he murdered his best friend, all he had left was his band of mercenaries and his 'family'. Then he would move on to business associates, and after that, people he didn't even know. He'd systematically remove everyone he knew so that there was nothing to stop him from his path of destruction. After Menzoberranzan, he'd pick apart Ched Nasad. That would probably take him a while. He'd find it easy after he destroyed two cities. The rest would be easy.

He'd finally be in peace. The drow mercenary closed his eyes. No more people to bother him. No more people to close their fingers around his heart and leave long gouges when he pried their fingers off of his soul. Everyone inevitably hurt him somehow, and by then it was too late to stop them.

Lloth mocked him. So, you're just a mere male after all. You'd undo the fate you secured for yourself with your cunning.

Jarlaxle jerked. His body was convulsing uncontrollably. He thought in benumbed terror that he was having some kind of seizure. Jarlaxle suddenly snapped out of his reverie and found himself face to face with Artemis. He stared into the assassin's eyes, startled. The man was shaking him awake. He felt briefly disoriented.

Artemis looked…frightened.

"What is going on?" Jarlaxle asked. He was lying on his back in the grass, his hat on the ground beside him.

"Jarlaxle," Artemis said. "You weren't breathing."

"I wasn't –" Jarlaxle irritably sat up and swatted the assassin's hands away. Then he put his wide brimmed hat back on, adjusting it. He narrowed his eyes at his companion. "What do you mean I wasn't breathing?"

"You were turning blue," Artemis said. "Or whatever color it is that you drow turn when you're choking to death."

Jarlaxle felt fear flutter in his stomach. "I wasn't choking to death," he said, and automatically put a hand to his neck. He felt a bruise. That flutter in his stomach flared nearly out of control. Then he felt someone directly behind him and almost levitated straight up in the air. Jarlaxle spun, proving that there was no one behind him. "We're getting out of here!" The drow mercenary ran, but Artemis was still mounted on his steed before the elf.

It wasn't yet light, but they rode for hours and only stopped when the sun was in the sky and it was halfway to afternoon.