Regrets

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With the splashing of the warm water as a backdrop, all Artemis could think about were his regrets. He hardly noticed Jarlaxle's ministrations; he leaned back in the tub and stared at a blank white spot on its porcelain shell. Things came to him in chains, things that happened in no connection with each other that he now found had been stuck together somehow in his head while he wasn't looking. The innocent recollection of talking to Sha'lazzi in a coffeehouse, the scent of burnt beans bitterly invading his senses, led suddenly into the memory of Pasha Basadoni dying, and before he could stop it, the same furtive grief came back to him.

The sense of grief was an uneasy twinge, guilt ridden, like a lost child wandering in after seeing a beautiful festival in the streets at the expense of knowing that his parents didn't know where he had been. Somehow, he'd always kept himself from fully realizing that it was his fault, and alternately, if he ever let himself relive the memory of killing the old man, he'd never simultaneously remember his sense of loss. Now the two were combined, and shame tightened on him, grinding into him unbearably like a thumbscrew.

Shame that invaded his memory of trying to buy Charon's Claw. It changed further, changing into bitterness and despair tempered with self-loathing, a vision of himself trying to buy his own soul from someone.

That was when the tears came. There was a sickening jerk, as if he'd been knocked off his feet, and three or four tears burst out and trickled down his face – he'd been trying to buy his soul for his entire life. He'd been running, trying to get away, without ever being able to save his soul. No sooner would he feel free than someone else would have control over him, than someone else knew too much but were too powerful to kill, and he was wrenched into servitude again.

He cried audibly, shoulders shaking, and finally was able to let it out into the open, at last letting the uncontrollable tangle of emotion loose. There'd been no time when he felt fully peaceful inside, never letting himself be. Now he felt that tightness easing in his chest and that peace in its wake, when he let himself grieve.

He'd killed Basadoni because he wanted to be free. He'd wanted to be free. No more accusing shadows, doubts of what lay in his own character, pointing at him, plaguing him, inventing new atrocities or new kinds of mercilessness. It wasn't any of those things he'd been afraid of being the reason, it was only that he'd been afraid. A small part of him that had seized control, the hidden pain of being at someone else's mercy and being unable to do a single thing about it. He hadn't given in to some secret evil at that moment; he was afraid and trying to be free.

He was free. Now he was crying, and he was free. "Jarlaxle," he said between the sounds of his crying, "I know why I did it now, oh, Jarlaxle."

"It's alright," the drow said. He didn't understand, Artemis could see that on his face, but he wrapped his arms around Artemis anyway and held him close. He was sitting in front of Artemis in the bathtub, leaning in to rest his head on Artemis' chest and holding the assassin close.

Artemis let himself cry.

He settled back down into his more customary pool of thought, taking in every sensation and every bit of information at once, to find that Jarlaxle was still holding him, and that his face was cold and wet, several tears still making their journey downward on each cheek.

He didn't know how long he'd been crying, and that man was still holding him, warming his torso with the elf's own, making sure that Entreri knew he wasn't alone. The most vulnerable moments of his life, and this man was still with him. This way Jarlaxle had with him renewed how he felt about the elven mercenary.

They met eyes, and he couldn't resist saying it again. "I love you…" Jarlaxle kissed his shoulder, then his neck. "I do," Artemis said. "I love you." He waited uncertainly for a reaction, feeling Jarlaxle pressing against him, both hands on Artemis' shoulders. There was no longer any eye contact.

"I would rather trade my life…than to have you die," Jarlaxle said. Artemis saw that he was frowning. "And believe me. I did not trade for my life in vain. I would rather the sun burst, turn into a ball of dying flame, than give up what I have always believed is rightfully mine. But to see you live, and die, in front of me, that is harder to tolerate than giving my soul back to Lloth and telling her to be done with it." He sat in silence, then said, "That is why it took a toll on me so to witness the great Artemis Entreri trying to dispose of himself as if he were nothing to me. You are something to me; something I would damn myself for if I tried to replace it with anyone or anything else. It is unacceptable. I need you, and for you there is no substitute; only you will do." He looked up at Artemis and met his intense gray eyes. "If that is something that you call love, I hope it is adequate." It was a statement of truth, without any frills, there were no emotions, no sarcasm, no lies artfully mixed in to create a more aesthetic whole.

The thing he wanted to be able to give to Artemis, which he believed the man truly needed, was a thing that was a foreign concept to him. He didn't know if he would ever understand it, if anything he could feel could ever qualify for it, or if he would even know if he felt it. He wanted it to be something he could give. But that want wasn't good enough. That want wouldn't give Artemis an end to the human's emptiness, wouldn't fill it up and make him whole.

Humans needed to be loved by someone; it was built into them, ingrained from birth –he knew that humans were taught to believe that they were to feel unworthy, unloved, if they believed themselves to be deprived of such outside admiration. They were taught that if no one loved them, then they must be somehow useless or worthless as a person.

No such thing was ever said to a drow child – and why would it be? That was impractical, an unnecessary thing to have, someone else's approval. It meant far more to make decisions based on what one could get away with, what one could contrive, and try only to please their own selfish desires.

Selfish, in fact, wasn't even a word in Drow. Not in the manner that humans represented it. In Drow, the equivalent of 'selfish' was a compliment. To care for someone else was discouraged since…well, practically for as long as humans were told they needed 'love', Jarlaxle supposed.

The mindset of their societies were completely opposite. It's a miracle that he and Artemis had managed to relate at all. But then, he knew a little about being 'human', and Artemis knew a little about being 'drow'. They'd gone from there and worked their own system of interactions out.

What it meant to trust someone completely apparently meant the same thing in both societies. If unwarranted, the answer was death. If deserved…'love'. Jarlaxle ran his fingers through a lock of Artemis' hair, playing with it absently. "I think I love you."