Author's Note: I let Artemis determine the flow of the chapter this time. His thoughts go from one thing to the other, but I wrote about this in third person. It may be slightly confusing, but it came out this way, and I trust in Artemis' ability to eventually tie everything up neatly.

Artemis' Convoluted Narrative

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The next day, Artemis was out and about on Poln, the small town where he and Jarlaxle had ended up staying to avoid whatever mysterious ghost had tried to wring the elf's neck. He was constantly playing with his new weapon, swinging it through the air in lazy arcs and twirling it in coordinated rhythms. This minor show drew much curiosity from the inhabitants of the town, and he found that he didn't mind.

His new weapon was a sword named Shadir. It was a stylish broadsword made of steel, or something comparable, but lighter. The dull metal was strangely mottled, and though it was heavy, it had the best balance of any blade he'd ever wielded. It felt almost weightless in motion. It didn't flash in the sun.

Jarlaxle said that he'd almost thrown it away when he'd acquired it nearly a year ago, and had to be reassured by his best experts that it indeed had some enchantment or magical quality. He'd tried to figure it out, but had been frustratingly without any results to show for it.

He'd stowed it in a corner of the armory, where Artemis had found it yesterday. They'd gone straight to Bregan D'aerthe after Jarlaxle had found Artemis travel clothing in a style different from the assassin's old clothing. Something had drawn the assassin to the broadsword leaning against the wall, covered in old cobwebs hanging heavy with dust. It was a feeling, like a magnetic attraction. It hadn't felt harmful, so he'd indulged this feeling and walked across the room to it. The sword had almost seemed to recognize him.

Artemis felt an awareness there, but it was unlike any magical sentience he'd felt before. It felt almost the same as looking into a tame animal's eyes. He'd laughed, a small, low sound in his throat. This thing was friendly.

Before Jarlaxle could ask him what he was doing, he wrapped his hand around the cloth-bound grip of the sword's hilt and hefted it.

There was a benign tingling surge that traveled up his arm, almost as if it were saying hello. He liked it. The rusty understanding he had of his emotions took a while to discern that he was delighted at the sensation.

"What's its name?" he asked, looking at Jarlaxle and swinging the sword idly.

"It's sentient?" Jarlaxle had asked, watching him closely.

He nodded, and tilted his head with a grin. "Of course."

"Then why don't you ask it if it has a name?" the dark elf said, his expression still intent.

Artemis shrugged, and did so. He thought the question at it. He couldn't describe the way he knew he was directing his question at it. "Shadir," he said. It sounded like 'shah-dyr', with an emphasis on the second syllable.

Then he'd woven it through the air, swinging it back and forth in a complicated gesture, testing it. The smile on his face hadn't gone away. "It likes me."

He didn't know why he'd said that, but it was just so… It was almost intoxicating, being so connected to another mind. Shadir wasn't precisely a person, but it was a sort of thing. It was like his pet. It wanted to follow him around anywhere and cut things.

On impulse, he dragged the tip of it across the stone floor. There was a dull sloosh as the tip of the sword dragged against the stone, and then there was light gray dust on either side of a long, shallow scratch.

Jarlaxle gave a start, his hand out as if to stop the assassin, and halted, too late. "You're ruining my floor!"

Artemis looked at him and began laughing. He couldn't help himself. He held the sword point-down a few inches from the floor and stood there innocently.

The dark elf came over and bent over the patch of ruined floor, touching the gouge with his fingertip. "Now what am I supposed to do about this?" Jarlaxle said, the feather in his hat pointing at an annoyed angle as he tilted his head. His expression turned into a scowl.

Artemis shrugged, and began to make up some sort of excuse, but then he didn't bother. "Why don't you just ask someone to repair it? Surely floors get scratched in Menzoberranzan," he said, trying to keep from laughing any further. "It's not my fault you collected a sword that can cut through anything."

Jarlaxle jerked away from him, instantly a safe distance out of the reach of Artemis' new sword, cape flying. "Did you just say that thing cuts through anything?" he said.

The assassin nodded, looking slightly confused about the source of his companion's alarm. "Yes, I did. It does. It cuts through anything, as controlled by whatever I want it to do."

"You can control it after only having handled it for less than five minutes?" Jarlaxle said. There was something like alarm in his eyes that Artemis didn't understand.

Artemis shrugged again. "It likes me." Jarlaxle looked at him incredulously. He blinked. "As I said." He twirled it through the air again. "I guess my other sword just had a temper." That was humorous for some reason, the thought of Charon's Claw hovering at his hip, constantly grumbling in its sheath. It made his face light up in uncharacteristic good humor for another time in a short space of time.

"Are you sure you're in control of yourself?" Jarlaxle asked.

"Is your eye patch still working?" Artemis said. He touched the black patch with his free hand.

Jarlaxle didn't look amused. "Yes, but that doesn't prevent certain other things from doing things they shouldn't be able to do." He gave the assassin a pointed stare, trying to remind him of evil magical crystals that turned themselves into monstrous towers.

"Do you always have to be vague, or is it a new trend you're starting?" Artemis said, blithely switching Shadir from hand to hand, testing his capability to wield it with either hand. It worked beautifully. He'd never dreamed of having such a perfect extension of himself to play with. The weapon did whatever he wanted it to.

The dark elf took on a patient demeanor, his eyes still grim. "Fine. Then show me what you can do."

"Is that a challenge for the practice arena?" Artemis asked, his visible eye eagerly lighting up.

Jarlaxle shook his head. "No. Just show me." I don't want him swinging that thing near me until I know it's safe. Who knows what an evil weapon might take it into its head to do? It might even be a weapon from the surface that was designed to kill people of my kind.

The assassin looked around, wondering what to do that would convince his friend. He saw another blade, one that Shadir told him was an ordinary cutlass, hanging on the wall amongst the many other blades stored in the arsenal. He strode over, took it down, and then handed the cutlass to Jarlaxle.

Jarlaxle took it and gave Artemis a look, waiting for an explanation.

Artemis started walking backwards, holding up a hand. "Stay back there. Just hold it." He wore a look of hopeful anticipation, as though he were about to show the elf something he was proud of, a hint of nervousness betrayed in his body language.

That inspired trust in Jarlaxle a little, which was the most he ever allowed a person's actions to inspire trust in him. So he waited without comment, holding the weapon out in front of him. If he makes one wrong move, my lover or no, he's going to die, the dark elven mercenary thought.

Artemis rushed him and sliced at the cutlass in a blindingly fast arc. Jarlaxle almost dropped the sword, but he didn't have time. The blade clattered to the floor right in front of him before he could even cry out. Jarlaxle stared at the stump of shorn metal protruding from the useless hilt he was holding in his hand. "You could have killed me," Jarlaxle said. His expression was blank. Artemis thought that this was because of annoyance that he was trying to handle in a civilized fashion.

Artemis smiled, trying to defuse his irritation. The assassin pointed to Shadir with his free hand, which he was holding straight up. "I didn't." There was still a faintly boyish hopefulness surrounding him. He glanced around the room briefly. "Is there a dagger that goes with this?"

Jarlaxle finally let out a convulsive shudder, cringed with his shoulders, and dropped the useless hilt on the floor. He recoiled from it, looking at it accusingly with one foot upraised as if it were the refuse of a rothe he had been about to step in before he looked down. "Thankfully, no. You and your theatrics. I should warn the world before you get back to it. Rathad is a prankster."

"You make it sound like an insult," he said, his visible eye wide.

"It is." Jarlaxle glared at him. "You ruined a perfectly good weapon."

The assassin made a dismissive gesture and turned his back on his companion, carelessly resting his new weapon on his shoulder. "You don't like it because you thought you had the only position as a prankster in this partnership." He meandered over to the other side of the room and leaned over a table on which more than a dozen different daggers had been laid out. "Are these ones available, or are they only for mercenaries who have been good?" He absently sheathed Shadir in order to have both hands free to examine the daggers.

Jarlaxle sighed. He was happy that Artemis had recovered from his suicidal impulses, yes, but now he was flippant. He wasn't sure how to interact with the man anymore after this. He was like an entirely different person.

It's disconcerting seeing him happy, the drow mercenary reminded himself. He hasn't really changed a bit except for the fact that he's not treating himself like something that was vomited into a gutter.

It was horrible, but true. Jarlaxle usually liked and valued the truth over everything else, viewing it as something rare and valuable as a gemstone. Nevertheless, somehow it was painful to think of Artemis' self loathing in such vivid terms. It gave him the feeling of his chest being punched, right over his heart.

He walked up behind the newly changed man and teasingly ran a finger down Artemis' neck and shoulder. He grinned slyly. "What are you going to do to be good?"

The assassin paused. Then Artemis smiled. "If it's like that, then I can do that right after I pick out my new dagger. You don't happen to have something non-magical, do you?"

Jarlaxle wound his arms around Artemis' thin waist. "No, but I do have a few that only have minor enchantments that improve things like accuracy, sharpness, and how fast it can be wielded. There's one that does nothing but come back to you after you've thrown it at a target. Of course, it has to wait until it imbeds itself in something or falls to the ground, or –"

" –basically stops moving," Artemis finished for him. "I think I get it." He scratched his chin. "I saw a dagger like that once before, but it wasn't very impressive. Then again, the man who wielded it was a fool. Fools make anything look useless." He was putting it mildly, but it was hard to keep up any ire when he had two people who liked him around. There was Jarlaxle hugging him, and then there was Shadir happily resting in the sheath at his belt. The sword pulsed contentment. "You know, I think putting Shadir in that corner all by himself made him lonely," Artemis said.

"The way you talk about that sword is truly frightening," Jarlaxle said. "Please tell me that you will stop."

Artemis stroked the hilt of the sword and said, "Don't talk to it that way; it can hear you. You have no grasp of other people's feelings, do you?"

Jarlaxle tapped his chin with a finger. "Funny, I remember saying that to a certain other person I knew once."

The assassin playfully elbowed his companion in the ribs.

Jarlaxle jumped back and made a melodramatic gesture, flinging his cape out and letting it drop. "Oh, help! I'm being attacked! Oh, I trusted him!" He sank to his knees and then leaned backwards until the brim of his hat brushed the stone floor behind his head, hands over his chest as if he'd been stabbed. "Ah, oh, ah, ugh…"

The assassin whirled around as he felt a surge of magic from the other side of the room through Shadir's warning pulse.

Kimmuriel appeared, staring down at Jarlaxle with an expression of surprise, disgust, and being absolutely revolted. "What…are you doing?"

Jarlaxle grinned up at him, looking at him with his head so far back that the psionist looked as if he were upside down. He quickly got to his feet with a flamboyant flash of his color changing cape. He adjusted his hat jauntily. "Practicing for my part in a play. Would you like to see it?"

Kimmuriel stared at him. "…No."

"Ah, spoilsport. You won't know what you're missing."

"My pardon, but I don't believe I will ever have the pleasure of knowing what in the demonweb pits you are talking about," the dignified drow said.

"Pity," said Jarlaxle, and examined one ring-laden hand with a bored stare, glossing things over. He effectively ended the subject. "So what brings you to my corner of our little organization?"

"Seeing what you are about," Kimmuriel said, looking pointedly at Artemis.

"Finding out what your weapons do," Artemis said, giving the psionist a wide-eyed, vacant look.

Jarlaxle saw that things between the two of them might quickly deteriorate after that, so he stepped in. He tipped his hat to Kimmuriel politely. "Well, we're really very busy – we've got places to be, gold to acquire, information to hoard, people to kill, that sort of thing. Very complicated. – I'll be sure to fill you in if I think there's time later."

Kimmuriel made a gesture, his fingers twitching slightly in drow hand code. Don't bother, he signed. I've got my hands full already. The slight curl of his lip made it clear that his current business matters were the cause of his disgust.

Ah. My condolences. Jarlaxle couldn't help that the signaled phrase was insincere in the drow language. If he could, he'd be sincere. Their home language just didn't allow that sort of thing. Don't get us all killed, right?

I'll try, Kimmuriel signed sourly. He bowed respectfully and then disappeared.

"What was all that about?" Artemis said, looking at Jarlaxle with his hands on his hips, his stance nonchalant.

"The poor man's finding out what a curse it is to be the leader of an organization where everyone's held together with happy thoughts and wood glue," Jarlaxle said, beaming with a sympathetic air.

"Wood glue?" Artemis said. The assassin raised an eyebrow.

The dark elven mercenary turned to him with a mysterious expression on his face. "Wood glue," he said solemnly.

Then they'd gone back to their room. They did certain things of a private nature there that Artemis did not like to dwell on because strange feelings had lately begun to flutter in his chest whenever he and Jarlaxle were alone.

The Lucky Horseshoe was Poln's best, worst, and last inn. The other two burned down in marauder raids in the past two hundred years that periodically came from the nearest forest grove, called Bandit's Beat.

Artemis found this information out by being passingly friendly to the timid innkeeper he'd bullied only a short week ago. The man didn't even recognize him now when he was smiling.

"How are the wife and kids?" he asked, tossing the balding man a gold coin. "I hear this is a family business, isn't that right?"

The man nodded. He was nervous, but Artemis found that Erald Sunginnings was nervous by nature rather than anything Artemis managed to do to him. "My boy's doing okay," the innkeeper said. He added unhappily, looking distant for a moment, "He's having a tough time in the third grade, though. The other kids don't seem to like him."

"The third grade?" Artemis asked, blinking. He rocked back on his heels, confused by that reference.

"There are four grades in school until you move onto the next level," the balding man said. "Then there are four more at the next level. It's divided by age group." He paused, giving the assassin a curious look, as if he didn't know why Artemis didn't know this, but he wasn't going to ask. "There are three levels. One for little kids," He gestured with his hand his knee to indicate height, "then one for the youths who're still growing into things, and then the last one is for the oldest sons and daughters in the town. My son's still in the first level. He's the boy in the stable. You might have met him."

"Yes, I have," Artemis said, surprised. He tried to think of something to say to the portly man's obvious pride, a thing that baffled him and fairly scattered his wits. "He's a good boy."

"He's so good with the horses, too," Erald said, clasping his hands eagerly. "Says he wants to own all the horses he can get to anyone that'll listen to 'im," he said. "Yuil might even become a horse trader one day."

"Ah…" Artemis glanced at Jarlaxle, who leaned against a corner of the room with his arms crossed and the wide brim of his hat shadowing his eyes, but it didn't hide the dazzling white grin on his face. He was enjoying Artemis' attempts to make conversation with the innkeeper.

A woman in a blue checkered dress and apron walked into the room through the swinging saloon-style doors beside the clerk's desk. She was carrying two large, round trays, one in each hand. "Your evening meal's ready," she said.

"Thank you," Artemis said, turning to her, one arm still resting on the top of the innkeeper's clerical desk. That was what he'd just paid Erald for; actually, also for drinks and anything he might have for a dessert afterwards. He hadn't wanted a dessert for a long time, but he had a sudden craving for a sweet food today. He wanted to celebrate.

He was relieved for the excuse to sit down at one of the round wooden tables and get away from the balding man before he was pushed entirely beyond the boundary of his comfort. He dropped into the chair without even cushioning his fall. The worn black cloak that he wore now billowed up at the sudden puff of air and settled over the back of the wooden chair.

Artemis sighed and rested his elbows on the table.

"Long day?" Jarlaxle asked. His crimson eyes gazed at him sympathetically from across the table.

"Mmph," Artemis said. He was still getting used to the eye patch and the clothing Jarlaxle had found him.

The whole ensemble he was wearing was made of light, airy cotton, and it was purposefully oversized, obscuring his frame and giving the illusion that he was more heavily built than he was. He wore a white shirt with long, loose sleeves and thick cuffs that were fitted to his wrists. He appreciated the soft gloves of white leather that Jarlaxle had turned up for him to wear; having his hands exposed made him nervous for reasons he didn't ponder.

His boots were nearly knee-high with turned down cuffs. They were made of dull black leather and had large, chunky heels. He supposed the idea had been to make him look taller. They were comfortable, which was all he really cared about. In addition, no one would suspect him for an assassin, because it was impossible to walk silently in them; they would still faintly thump when he used stealth. He supposed he didn't mind, because Jarlaxle had silencing spells.

The drow had been enthusiastic to play dress-up-the-assassin with him. He'd had Artemis stand in the middle of the room while he took garments out of a bag and examined the fit, mixing and matching until Jarlaxle was satisfied. Artemis had merely rolled his eyes. The grinning elf had also gotten him to try on a black hat with a wide, turned up brim, but Artemis had said, "It makes me look too much like a swashbuckler." He'd allowed himself to chuckle at the image he presented in the mirror above the dresser and then had taken the overly stylish hat off.

The assassin reflected on those events of the early afternoon and sighed again. "I know," Artemis said, seeing the look on his companion's face. "'Why so glum', right?"

Jarlaxle shrugged and smiled invitingly, waiting for the assassin's response to his own question.

"Well, never mind," Artemis said, brushing off the thought with a dismissive wave of his gloved hand. He unrolled a napkin with his silverware in it and breathed in the rich smell of the roasted turkey on the table in front of him, smiling easily. "Let's eat."

"Mmn," the drow mercenary said, likewise unrolling his own napkin without really taking his eyes off of his companion. He felt his usual compulsion to push, but made himself wait. If he wants to put this conversation off until later, let him enjoy himself, Jarlaxle thought.

"What were you up to these past three days? I've seen less and less of you, and now you're back," Artemis said, trying to make light conversation over their meal. He carved up a few slices of turkey breast and deposited them on his plate. "Were you always preparing for me, or were you doing something else sometimes? Why did you think I would do it?"

"I specialize in desperate men," Jarlaxle said, smiling lightheartedly and shrugging, but the look in his eyes showed that he was the slightest bit worried. "Interesting people, the desperate." He gestured with a leg of turkey, holding it unabashedly in his bare hand.

"How so?" Artemis asked, glancing up at him and then at a plate of boiled eggs near to Jarlaxle, wondering if he would enact something with his food. Sometimes Jarlaxle displayed this ridiculous habit. It tempted Artemis to eat whatever it was Jarlaxle used as a prop just to disrupt the drow and see if his companion would recover enough to finish telling his stories.

"You see, my dear Rathad," Jarlaxle said, "people almost become different people when they're desperate. It's as if their true natures were waiting underneath the surface, just waiting to be revealed by a true crisis." His eyes gleamed. "How fascinating, to watch as this unveiling begins." He bit into the turkey leg, chewed, and swallowed. Then he beamed innocently. "Or so I have often fantasized."

The assassin gave him a look. "Fantasize nothing," Artemis said. "You actually go around doing it, don't you. Manipulating people to the wall, cornering them until they have to do something to escape just to see what they do."

Jarlaxle laughed. "My friend, whatever gave you that idea? My ideas are entirely within the realm of speculation. Why, to corner a person just like a rat and prod at them to see if they bite? That would be cruel." He blithely took more chunks out of the leg of turkey and acted as though the conversation had ended.

"I think you are cruel," Artemis announced, staring at the dark elf with a smile playing across his features. The look he directed at Jarlaxle was cynical, but affectionate at the same time.

Jarlaxle stared back, raising his eyebrow ever so slightly. There was ambition, charisma, and amusement all mingled with intelligence in the depths of his eyes. "Do you?"

There was a subtle impression of coming into conflict, perhaps at an impasse. But the brief power struggle ended as they withdrew, regretfully. Jarlaxle looked at his plate, Artemis ordered a beer.

No one bothered them during their meal, though a few townspeople kept giving Jarlaxle dissatisfied glances from across the room.

Artemis had taken care to explain to Erald that Jarlaxle was 'a friendly drow', and therefore was to be treated with respect. He made sure that the innkeeper understood before he went back up to his room. That had been nearly two days ago, and the effort had paid off as no one suddenly banged on the door and rudely demanded through the wooden barrier why the 'evil black-skinned fiend' was being offered a place to stay.

The moment Jarlaxle was sure that he and Artemis were alone in the dimly lit hallway of the upstairs of the pleasant inn as they walked side by side back to their room, the drow drew his companion close and kissed him on the mouth, savoring the assassin's lips. Artemis was too startled to do anything about it until he could speak again, and then he pointed to their door and said, "Why can't we do that in there?"

Jarlaxle yanked the door open a trifle roughly, pulled Artemis through it, and them shut it with a loud bang behind them. With both hands gripping the front of Artemis' shirt, the drow mercenary pushed Artemis against the door and kissed him again, this time with an open mouth. The passionate pressing of their bodies together as they kissed lasted for almost a full minute.

Artemis drew away, still loosely pinned against the door, breathing heavily. His eye patch was askew, revealing both eyes. He stared at Jarlaxle, confused. "What's the meaning of this?"

Jarlaxle closed the distance between them and nuzzled the assassin's neck, rubbing against him, one hand on his shoulder and the other loosely placed at his hip. The wide brim of the drow's purple hat almost poked Artemis in the eye.

"I don't know," the elven mercenary said. He paused, his mouth slightly ajar, frowning at nothing in the face of the horrible blankness of not knowing what he was doing.

The realization Jarlaxle had came in an unbalancing rush, and he kissed Artemis on the nose. He was possessive. That was why. He'd almost lost the assassin, and he didn't know what he would have done. "I guess I'm just glad you're alright," he said, breaking into a genuine, relieved smile.

"Your hat's attacking me," Artemis said, plucking the offending object from the top of Jarlaxle's head and tossing it across the room. It flopped down onto the floor pathetically. He avoided meeting Jarlaxle's eyes at all costs.

When Jarlaxle saw this, he felt slightly hurt. There was a flicker of pain and surprise in his eyes; however small, it frustrated him that he felt stung at all. Usually, he was untouchable. Unstingable. And now he'd let someone else actually go and hurt him. He was being ridiculous. The drow's eyes hardened.

"I see," he said gaily, turning and wiggling a scolding finger at the hat. "I shall have to see it gets sent to a better trainer. Or perhaps an anger management school for vicious hats." He beamed at Artemis engagingly. "Now, where were we?"

But the real expression on his face was thinly veiled. The drow mercenary probably didn't understand that he hadn't quite covered it up, but it said, 'Do you know what it cost me to say those words? You ungrateful bastard.'

Artemis was a master of reading half-hidden expressions. He reluctantly looked directly at Jarlaxle, looking uncomfortable and unhappy. "There was no need to worry," he said, ignoring his friend's other words. "I wouldn't have…" The assassin shifted; it was almost a cringe. "…left without saying goodbye."

Jarlaxle balled his hands into fists to keep from impulsively slapping the human man. No, he told himself. That would not do anyone any bit of good in this situation. He has been hurt enough by other people. Don't you start in on him. You may be a grumpy old graybeard, you don't have to take it out on him. He doesn't know any better. The last bit helped the most. He felt himself calming down. The man doesn't know any better.

"And how would you have performed this remarkable feat of speaking from the grave?" Jarlaxle asked, tilting his head and making a face of childish interest. "By enlisting the help of a cleric, perhaps?"

Artemis wordlessly reached into the pocket sewn into the lining of his shirt and drew out a folded paper concealed next to his skin there. His cramped, flourished handwriting was visible, almost too small to read. He handed it to the dark elf solemnly.

Jarlaxle took it, gingerly holding it between thumb and forefinger. "What is this?" he asked.

"A letter." Artemis stood and waited for Jarlaxle to unfold it.

Jarlaxle glanced from the folded paper in his hand, to Artemis, and back to the letter. He cleared his throat. "You expect me to read this?" He saw an almost imperceptible nod. "Right now?" Another nod. "Standing here?"

Artemis stood there like a stone. "Sit if you want."

He wasn't sure if he wanted to do it while Artemis was watching. He got the sinking feeling that he might not have a choice in the matter. The assassin wanted him to read it while the man watched, gauging his reactions. He didn't envy the task. Artemis might take insult to any reactions that passed over Jarlaxle's face. He didn't even know what the assassin wanted from him.

I'm not going to like this, am I, Jarlaxle thought.