The Night

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Jarlaxle folded up Artemis' letter and stuck it in a pocket of his belt before smiling up at the assassin. He slid his arms around the man's neck affectionately.

Artemis was nearly three inches taller than him in those boots he'd procured. He'd gone to the local cobbler and asked around. They were growing popular lately because they were the same style as a nobleman, Duke Thesby, whom he heard tell was a very short man with a tall order of responsibilities. It had interested him, thinking of the ways that humans attempted to even the playing field, whereas in his city the drow tried to widen the gap of advantage to disadvantage.

When he realized that his thoughts were drifting, he thought, I must be tired.

"What?" Artemis said. "What is it that you are thinking of?"

Jarlaxle shrugged. "Our little situation. You. Me. Here. Now." He kissed Artemis lightly on the mouth. Then he patted the assassin on the chest. "We ought to go to bed." He turned and walked over to the four poster bed, paused, looked outside.

It was a warm night; the last of the blazing color was draining from the sky outside the window, leaving shades of blue and purple in its wake. The moon was becoming more plainly visible.

He crossed the remainder of the room to the window and closed the curtains. As he did so, he checked the clever little traps that Artemis had placed there. Surprisingly, they looked as though they hadn't been checked in days. There was a thin film of dust over them. That also proved that no one had entered their room without their permission, but still. Still, that was bold negligence for a trained assassin.

"Artemis…"

The assassin walked up behind him, his footsteps barely perceptible against the wooden floor. "Yes?" He said no more, because he saw what Jarlaxle was examining. He had the sudden urge to run away. A frightening jumble of confusion, fear, defensiveness, and shame crashed down on him. Before he could get a hold of himself, he had already taken two steps back, retreating from the back of his companion.

The dark elven mercenary turned, looked at him sharply with concerned eyes, and then invaded his space, wrapping strong arms around the assassin.

He took another two steps back, almost falling over as Jarlaxle moved with him.

"Stop," Jarlaxle said. His eyes narrowed at the assassin's face, eyes gleaming sharply, his expression confused. "What are you doing?"

Artemis only saw the beginning of a tirade, a violent list of accusations that could only end one way. He felt sick. He shut his eyes for a moment, only wanting Jarlaxle to leave him alone, let go of him, back off, let him breathe. He opened them, taking in a shuddering breath, and said, "I…failed my responsibilities."

Jarlaxle saw the man's reaction and understood. "I'm not going to hurt you for failing to check a few traps," he said. "That would be ridiculous." He tightened his grip on Artemis' waist. "I'm here to help you, not hurt you." He held up a hand, wiggling four fingers at the assassin. "Four letters, but otherwise completely different words. Try to keep them straight." He smiled.

The man hung his head, avoiding Jarlaxle's eyes. "I'm sorry I overreacted."

Jarlaxle kissed him on the cheek. "Don't be ashamed of that. I'm not here to punish you." He stroked Artemis' waist with one hand, trying to calm the assassin down. "It's alright. It keeps me on my toes. Now let's go to bed."

"I failed my responsibilities," Artemis said. There was no hint of recognition in his eyes at all at what Jarlaxle had said. "I…I can't go on as a useful associate to you if I can't even – perform –"

Jarlaxle silenced him by kissing him on the lips. "I don't demand perfection of those I associate with. It's time you dropped that unhealthy fixation. It could only take you so far before the world you live in fell apart anyway. What it means to be a new person is to not have to fulfill the strange, convoluted objectives of the person you were before. You're Rathad now, remember? If you like, I'll cease talking to you as 'Artemis' and call you Rathad." He ran his hand down Artemis' chest. "Would you like that?"

The man nodded without looking him in the eyes.

Jarlaxle smiled at him. "Then I'll call you Rathad."

The assassin managed a reasonably impassive expression and raised one eyebrow. "Isn't that my name?" he said.

The drow mercenary nodded approvingly. He kissed the man on the lips again. "Well, then, Rathad, let's go to bed."

"You've said that four times," Rathad said. "I've been counting."

"I'd rather not contest that," Jarlaxle said, going around his companion and leaning on one of the bedposts, pulling off his boots one at a time and tossing them to the floor. "The sooner we're naked, the better."

Rathad gave him a look. "We just did that this afternoon."

The drow gave him a winning smile. "But don't you want to do it again?"

The assassin put his fists on his hips and stood there. "I don't know. Convince me."

"You're a dashing man," Jarlaxle said, unbuttoning his vest and wiggling out of it. He tossed it carelessly over to where his hat was resting on the floor. His smile was dazzling against the pure black of his skin. "Surely you have…needs?"

Rathad pointed at him. "Not like the needs that you have." It was a game, and that showed clearly in his gray eyes. He was enjoying himself.

"No?" Jarlaxle said, his eyes lighting up with interest. He sauntered over to the assassin and circled him, making a friendly inspection. "Then maybe you have special needs."

"Like space," Rathad said.

"Like closeness," Jarlaxle said, brightly wrapping his arms around the man and nuzzling his companion's neck. The statement was a deliberate contrast.

"Or rest," Rathad said.

"I like rest, too," Jarlaxle said. "Let's 'rest' together." He kissed a line from the assassin's neck to his jaw.

"Your lustfulness is getting the best of you," the assassin said.

"What about you?"

Rathad smiled smugly. "I have none."

"This wonderful bantering aside…" Jarlaxle said, unwrapping his companion's cape and letting it fall to the ground. He quickly worked on separating his dear Rathad from the man's vest, shirt, and gloves, all of which went into a pile on the floor. The assassin stood there and let him, looking amused.

"What next?" Rathad asked.

Jarlaxle beamed. "Now off with your sword," he said, and reached for it.

The man stepped out of the way. He clutched at the hilt of his weapon defensively and then began stroking its leather sheath. "The sword has a name," Rathad said, "and it's been lonely enough for a few decades. I'm not leaving it on the floor. Shadir's going to stay in bed with me."

The drow's mouth was ajar. "You can't be serious."

"Shadir wants to know why you don't like it." Rathad pinned him with a stare.

Jarlaxle held out his hands helplessly. "It's a sword." He made a pitiful face. "How do you expect me to sleep in the same bed as that infernal weapon?"

"It's not infernal," Rathad said. "It's never even been to a Hell." He didn't stop stroking the sword's sheath. "In fact, it was forged here on the surface."

"I know that," Jarlaxle said, looking annoyed. He bristled. "That thing is simply unsafe."

"Shadir never cuts anything its master doesn't want it to," Rathad said. "It's the safest sword in the world. Now apologize, or I'm not going to get into bed with you."

The drow felt himself beginning to wilt. "You're…not serious," he said weakly, but he let out a sigh of defeat, already knowing that his friend was, in fact, serious.

"Shadir is a very nice sword," Rathad said, glaring at Jarlaxle uncompromisingly. "Say it."

The drow mercenary eyed the broadsword at Artemis' side with barely concealed revulsion. "Mumble, mumble, very nice sword," Jarlaxle said. He pouted.

The assassin rolled his eyes. The drow hadn't even bothered to mumble, he'd just said the word 'mumble'. In spite of himself, Artemis was beginning to chuckle at that. Artemis? he thought suddenly. No, Rathad. He frowned. This is more confusing than I thought. How does Jarlaxle manage to pull this off? He ran a hand through his tangled hair and decided that perhaps he should ask. "How do you manage to keep all of your identities straight?"

"The problem," Jarlaxle said, lightly poking him in a nose, "is that you, unlike me, are not inherently dishonest." The drow kissed him on the lips. "It takes a rare man to believe that everything everyone says is a lie, and so it doesn't matter what you say one way or another."

"But it does matter one way or another," Rathad said.

Jarlaxle almost poked him in the nose again with his gesturing hand. "Ah, but that is why you are confused, and I am not."

"You're very confused," the assassin said. "I think you're the most confused person I know."

Jarlaxle shrugged.

The assassin reached out and embraced him, pulling him close on an impulse. Contentment ran through his blood like the alcohol he'd had at dinner, a couple of glasses of wine that quickly wore off, it seemed, since he felt no trace of them in his blood now. The beer he'd ordered before that had been with him longer. It had mingled with the wine into a third, new sensation. He felt warm. That was just him, or he could be feeling the warmth of Jarlaxle's body, which was so thin and lithe and muscular, so perfectly familiar in his arms. He was distantly aware of Jarlaxle grinning at him.

"It's true, you know," Artemis said. He was free again, the same feeling as that morning, when he'd thrown off the restraints of his earlier fears and suspicions and allowed himself to be. "I'm in love with you."

The drow mercenary looked at him affectionately. "Ah, but you don't know what you're talking about," he said, tracing little circles on Artemis' bare collarbone teasingly.

"But I do," Artemis said, and he wondered whether or not the alcohol was really making him a little unbalanced. "I do." It was harder and harder to think before he spoke. "There's no one else I love but you. I want to be with you always." He nestled even closer to that ebony-skinned body, taking in the familiar scent of his companion. It was warm, and salty, almost like chicken broth, and it was mingled with a sharper scent that reminded Artemis of fresh celery. "For forever." He rested his chin on the drow's shoulder. "Please..." He felt alone, a feeling like a cold draft on his back. He also felt safe, longingly trying to reach some promise of security. He couldn't look at his friend's expression.

Jarlaxle's voice was soft. "Alright, now, that's enough. The both of us have had a big day. There's no need to end it all in high drama. You know I'm not going anyplace. I gave you my promise, remember?"

As the drow guided him towards the bed, he stumbled. "I've had too much to drink," Artemis mumbled. "Shouldn't have…done this to myself, I'm a –"

"Very tired man," Jarlaxle finished for him, diverting his thoughts from unpleasant things to less volatile topics. The drow helped pull Artemis' boots off and turned the covers down for him.

"Wanna tell you a-bout my father," Artemis said, collapsing on the bed in an awkward heap.

Jarlaxle climbed in after him and helped straighten him out, pulling the covers up around them. It may be a warm night, but being covered gave them an extra sense of comfort they couldn't deny themselves.

The man's arms and legs became hopelessly intertwined with his own the more he tried to lay the assassin out in a comfortable position. He suspected this was his companion's doing.

The hilt of the sword at his companion's side was pressing into his hip uncomfortably, but he decided to let it be. Jarlaxle thought, who knows what might happen if I touched the thing. Nothing good.

The drow mercenary began, "It is a sensitive subject for you and you need–"

"I wanna tell you about my father," Artemis repeated, giving Jarlaxle a stare.

"Alright," Jarlaxle said, "alright, tell me about your father. I don't mind."

Artemis shifted, leaving the drow exhaling in relief as the hilt of the sword no longer jabbed into him. The assassin rested his head on the drow's chest, listening to Jarlaxle's heart beating. His face felt flushed. Perhaps he was really drunk. Was that what this was like? "I escaped from a bad place," the assassin said, reaching up and placing his hand on the other side of Jarlaxle's chest. "You'd be proud of me." Part of his mind already felt as though it were asleep.

Jarlaxle kissed the top of his head. "Very proud of you." The drow positioned his arms to greater advantage and rested his hands on the assassin's hips. They were still clothed from the waist down…for now. "Now, what was this bad place like?"

"Bad," Artemis said, reaching for the first word that came to mind. His expression was black, and he looked up, as if seeing again the imposing place of which he spoke. He shifted restlessly, the beginnings of a bitter scowl tugging at his mouth. "He was nice to me when other people were around. They didn't know…What he did to me. He had his hand on me. Inside, he told me I couldn't tell them what he was really…Bastard," he said, jerking away from Jarlaxle suddenly, averting his eyes. "He wouldn't tell me what he was doing. He said I didn't need to know. He said he was cleansing me. He said I was evil." The assassin began to tremble.

Jarlaxle saw that he was becoming angered. The drow mercenary didn't know what to do. The assassin still wasn't being coherent, but he didn't think it was the time to point that out yet. He should let Artemis try to get it out of his system. After so long, he knew it might take a long time. Perhaps we'll be like this for years, Jarlaxle thought. Still just as confused and desperate for each other as we are now.

"Tyr," Artemis said, breathing hard in and out, his breath catching in throes of an urge to cry. He closed his eyes. "Tyr let him do this to me, let him say that I was evil, that I was rotten – Tyr said my soul was meant for wicked deeds." His voice was growling in his throat. His skin felt hot, like a glowing coal. He was retreating into his own world of hatred and self-loathing. "What can I do?"

For his entire life, he wanted to know the answer to the question he'd been faced with ever since he was three years old, ever since he was old enough to think the question, it had plagued him, eating away at him. It was something he'd never told anyone, never wanted to tell anyone, for fear that they'd take it away from him, saying it wasn't proper for him to ask it.

He wanted to roar Jarlaxle's name in frustration. "I believe in Tyr. What can I do?" He didn't know whether or not Jarlaxle would even understand what he was talking about.

Then, he remembered the most recent humiliation he'd suffered. Just when he thought his reputation made him safe. He gripped Jarlaxle's bare shoulder too hard, making the drow yelp and then look at him reproachfully. "I had to kill him! I had to stop him, even if I had to rip out his throat," Artemis said. His teeth were bared in hostility, but his gray eyes were clouded with pain. "Make him stop saying those things – tell him that he's wrong!"

Tyr? Or his father? Or someone else I don't even know about? Jarlaxle thought.

He prepared to say something, but Artemis spoke first. "Why couldn't he let me

alone?" he moaned in despair, his hand slipping from Jarlaxle's shoulder, shutting his eyes and resting his head against the drow's chest again. "Why? He had no business." He almost seemed as though he were going to break down, but he didn't. All that came out was a solitary sob and he looked Jarlaxle in the eyes. "But you did. You did tell him to be quiet. You helped me defeat him. He can't say it ever again."

"Drizzt," Jarlaxle said.

Twin tears burst from Artemis with another sob and trickled in lonely hesitation down his face, disappearing into the rough black stubble. "Yes, Drizzt," he said. "The worthiest swordsman in Faerun." For a few moments, all he could do was sob. "The man who saw through the son of one of the greatest disciples of Tyr in Faerun and saw aimless, black-hearted trash, like having the half-eaten carcass of a dog hanging inside my body."

There was only silence in the room, and Jarlaxle. Artemis was suddenly aware that the wetness on his face was there because he was weeping. He couldn't stop himself. It was just like that night almost a week ago when he'd tried to hard to please Jarlaxle and had only ended up revealing himself for what he really was. A coward. A victim. An abuser. "I survived," he said. "Why am I evil?" Tears ran actively down his face as he looked at Jarlaxle.

"You've been hurt," Jarlaxle said. He pursed his lips. "But I've seen evil. Every kind of evil has its own unique form. You are not evil, my friend. I don't know what you have been told, but even if it was a god himself who told you so, it is not right of them to say such things of you." His crimson eyes were intense. "It was not right."

And I will make it right, he thought. If that Do'Urden boy has said such things about Artemis, perhaps I was foolish to let him live, Zaknafein's son or not. He should know better than to say such vicious things before he knows anyone. Zaknafein should at least have taught him that. It is easy to judge, but not so easy to withhold judgement until you know it's fairly dealt. I need to have a talk with that elf.

It registered with him only then that Artemis had confirmed one his worst fears – that his companion's father had been both Artemis' abuser and an influential cleric. Of Tyr, no less, who if he remembered correctly was supposed to be a god of justice to the humans on the surface.

Jarlaxle kissed his friend on the cheek. Forty would be young yet for a drow, but for Artemis, it meant that his time was half up. At the best, he'd have to say good-bye to Artemis soon, far sooner than he would have liked.

But…yes. Perhaps if I could find a magical artifact that could extend his life… His hopes rapidly rose and then crashed. There was no chance that Artemis would want to live any longer than his race would naturally allow him to do so. He's tried to end his life already, and I would have to stand in the way every day for the rest of his life if I tried to get him to stay longer for my sake.

Another blow to his heart was dealt when he realized that even if they died together, they would go to different planes, and he would never see Artemis again. He'd be taken to the pits where Lloth resided. And at this rate, Artemis is going to the endless plain where non-followers have to wander forever. He'd heard of something like that. The thought of Artemis there, lost in a crowd of rejected souls, was almost more than he could stand.

Why can't we all live forever? Jarlaxle thought.

"He made me pray to Tyr," Artemis said. "And then he raped me. He did it almost every night. Even when I tried…" He felt disoriented, as if he were just a child again and he didn't know where he was. He hurt. At the same time, he was an adult and he knew what he was doing, where he was, who he was with. It was strange.

Shadir was buzzing with some kind of energy at his side, the entire length of the sheath against his leg vibrating. I want to cut him.

You can't, Entreri thought to it silently.

Shadir subsided, mournfully.

Jarlaxle could understand that behavior of Lloth, but it was different with goodly gods. They weren't supposed to do that sort of thing. They weren't supposed to be capable of the same kind of atrocity… Jarlaxle didn't know any of the surface deities that well, and still he found himself becoming shocked at the obvious contradiction between Artemis' story and the general knowledge that was spread throughout the realm.

He liked this less and less. It looked ever more as though he would have to defend his honor and that of Artemis' by confronting Drizzt and giving the ignorant ranger a few more battle scars. At the very least. It was true that the drow child hadn't any idea what he'd done, but that made his actions more unforgivable, not less. If he'd truly wanted to do good, then he would have taken the trouble to help Artemis, not condemn the assassin for being forced into the line of work as a child after escaping from an abusive father. True virtue was about helping the downtrodden, the trapped, the ones that lost hope and became withdrawn shells of themselves. Not helping kittens down from trees. Jarlaxle knew he hadn't been on the surface long enough for anyone to trust him, but an outsider had some of the best insights into a culture that could possibly be attained, and he knew that there was an injustice to be righted. Because it was Artemis', he cared enough to do it, no matter what the costs. His own angered surprised him a little, but only made him more resolved to track Drizzt down.

"He's not going to get away with hurting you," Jarlaxle said, tightening his hands on the assassin's hips and kissing Artemis on the cheek. "If no good deed goes unpunished, as they say here, then it stands to reason that bad deeds are punished as well."

Artemis practically curled up into a ball. "If it's bad deeds that deserve punishing, I'll meet a far worse fate than my father ever did." His voice was a scratchy whisper. "I'll have to be lucky to die." He clung to Jarlaxle in a way that the drow had never felt him touch before. "All that my father ever did was rape me. One person. I've killed…over a hundred different people. One versus one hundred." He was weeping again. "I should never have become an assassin."

Jarlaxle was struck speechless again. All he could do was hang onto the man and hope that his suicidal talk would pass. The drow mercenary swallowed, then said, "You're drunk."

Artemis laughed through his tears. "Of course. I'm never satisfied with my old offenses. I have to create new ones. Once an assassin, now a liquor-fiend." He choked, trying to stop, but it didn't work. He was helpless against himself. "I'll be a hopeless sot for the rest of my days." The assassin let out a moan. "Tyr…Why did Tyr desert me? If it had been different, I never would have run away. Why didn't he answer me? I…" He shut his eyes tightly against another sob. "I prayed to him. I asked him to hurt my father, to punish him the way he claims in his scriptures to punish evil without mercy, asked him to get Father to stop hurting me."

Jarlaxle tried to imagine the small, bruised child that Artemis had been, hiding away somewhere to pray to a god he was sure would listen to him, begging in secret to be spared his daily pain. He ran an ebony hand through Artemis' hair.

"Do you know what happened?" Artemis' voice was emotionless. Flat.

Jarlaxle paused.

"Do you know what happened?"

The drow said, "No. What happened?"

"My father dragged me into his private study by my hair and made me lie on the floor in front of the desk where his Book of Tyr always rested. He broke my arms and legs and then forced himself inside of me." The man's body shuddered once. Then Artemis lay still, and it struck Jarlaxle that his stillness was a gruesome imitation of that stillness when he lay on the floor in his father's study. "I was helpless. I couldn't move without hurting myself so badly that I blacked out."

"What happened?" Jarlaxle said. He was gaping, but he didn't care that he was allowing that unattractive reaction to get the best of him. He found himself breathing a little faster. Amazingly, the images his imagination was conjuring up were scaring him. He tried to remind himself that Artemis was alright, and whole, lying on top of him, but somehow, that made it more unbearable.

It came to him that he was reacting so strongly because of the thought of Artemis lying on the floor, helpless, for possibly months until his limbs healed was giving himself flashbacks about the Mistress Yanari and the way she'd locked him away, trying to break him.

Artemis trembled, then uncurled and pushed himself up with his hands on the bed on either side of Jarlaxle. "I need to throw up."

The drow was motionless in surprise for a moment, then grasped the situation all too clearly and ducked under Artemis' arm, rolling out from under him. He grabbed Artemis and guided him to the door, then opened it and led the assassin to the wash room around the corner.

Artemis fell to his knees and vomited into the bathtub. He limply leaned over the rim, one arm draped over the edge, his head bowed, hiding his face.

Jarlaxle quietly closed the door behind them and watched, waiting for Artemis to finish, or ask for assistance.

"This is vile," Artemis said, his words echoing against the ceramic tub.

He puked again.

"Now I need a bath." He stirred, jerkily, as if he were in pain. "I hate my life."

"What about me?" Jarlaxle asked.

"You're the only good part," Artemis said. He made no move to actually get back on his feet. Jarlaxle thought that he was having trouble merely kneeling instead of collapsing altogether.

"You're shaking," Jarlaxle said, coming forward in concern and kneeling behind him. It wasn't unusual for a person to shake after they'd just thrown up, but it was the way Artemis did it that didn't look natural. He touched Artemis' arm.

"Aren't you?" Artemis' voice was brusque, but Jarlaxle still didn't have the right angle to view his companion's face. "I just told you one of the most horrible events of my life. You were shaking like a leaf in there." He sounded as though he had regained some of his composure. "I think I'm flattered. I thought the drow were unmovable. Haven't you heard of anything like that ever happening?"

"Some things," Jarlaxle said. "Never like that." He slipped his arms around Artemis' waist, pressing his cheek against the man's shoulder. "Humans, I have noted, instead of developing a delicate method of torture, brutalize their victims with simplistic monstrosity." He paused, and then added, "In a way it's worse. Drow show a kind of sophisticated cunning – it's no better than a demented beast. No better than a maddened, mindless beast, what happened to you." He sucked in a deep breath and realized that he was close to crying. The drow mercenary tried to hide that fact from Artemis by staying silent, breathing in and out, trying not to let a shudder pass through the slight sounds.

He could feel the strain and give of a little boy's bones breaking in his hands, conjured up by his imagination, too ignited now to be banished. He was frozen, confused and fixated on the horrific, pointless image of his lover, no more than a little boy, lying on his back with four broken limbs, silent and unmoving.

Stop. Now. The voice that came from his mind startled him, though it was his voice speaking to himself. Jarlaxle's head cleared, and now all there was to see was his Artemis with his shirt off, still leaning over the bathtub, a sheen of sweat collecting on the light brown skin of his back.

The silence was broken by Artemis suddenly vomiting for a third time, retching and coughing amidst the sound of something splashing into the tub. It was long and painful.

Jarlaxle ran a hand through Artemis' hair, drawing it away from the man's face. "It's alright," he said. "It'll be alright." He sighed. "My, my, you don't hold it in very well, do you. This isn't your first time, I trust?"

"Trust nothing. The most I had before was wine watered down with…water." Artemis retched again, but though his stomach heaved, nothing came out. "That and a mug of beer over the span of six hours."

"That's not enough to get a halfling drunk," Jarlaxle said.

"I know."

"Well, don't drink again," Jarlaxle said.

"You're not my…" Artemis stopped before he completed the colloquialism. He had to draw on those sayings to get him by while his head hurt too much to think. But now, of course, his lack of judgement had led him to pick the stupidest, most hurtful… worst…"What I say might come to be offensive." He was expressionless. "Bathe me. Please. I'm sincerely afraid of drowning in my current state, and I feel filthy. I'll never be able to go to sleep like this in that expensive bed."

Jarlaxle blinked, unable to assimilate what he'd just heard. "Are you…sure?" he asked almost timidly. "You would…be comfortable with that?"

"Yes."

Jarlaxle looked like he wanted a longer explanation. Artemis growled in exasperation. "Just get a clean change of clothes," he said. "Please."

The drow kissed him on the side of the neck.