History Repeats

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Jarlaxle paced throughout the hours of the night.

Back in Bregan D'aerthe, he was given an uninterrupted space in which to think, uninterrupted even by his two lieutenants, even though they would come to his room expecting him to be available and stand on the sidelines, watching him wear his boot soles thin.

But I am not in Bregan D'aerthe any more, he reminded himself. I am up here, on the surface. See how superior it is? Breathe the superior, top-world air! Breathe it! Breathe it in, feel its power, and breathe it out. Ahhhh. Don't you see how much better that is? He inhaled and exhaled, puffing out his chest. It was the air of ideas and inspiration – every breath was different. A different combination of tastes and smells, imparting its information to him as it slipped past his tongue, through his nose. Even now, he mused, turning on his heel and striding back towards the window, someone downstairs is having roasted quail.

Another wonder of the surface! See and feel everything around you, for under the correct circumstances, it may all be eaten! A feast for your eyes is a feast for your stomach. A feast for your soul.

But mightn't other things crawling here upon the surface also make a meal of me? Jarlaxle thought. How fine I must be, with pepper and lemon, lying all alone helplessly waiting for vultures to peck my innards out. He sighed. I am never going to get any sleep this way.

What would Zaknafein do? That made his face light up in the darkness. The weapons-master would probably hit him on the head with the hilt of his sword and force him to take a nap through the night under the peaceful cloak of unconsciousness. How wonderful! It's been ages since I had a good knock on the head. I wonder if anything will happen this time. The last time I saw dancing stars. It's too bad that Zaknafein's not here to do the honors.

That's right, I was thinking of Zaknafein lately. I was distracted by Artemis' attempt on himself. Now that a pleasing diversion, he thought, but he didn't really mean it. He was trying too hard. Artemis would never have said goodbye. Jarlaxle glanced over to the sleeping man, with a still smile on his face as he shifted peacefully between the covers. Jarlaxle saw a memory pass before his eyes.

"What's this?" he said in his memory, a dreamlike image constructed of himself. He sat up in his chair, jerking his feet from his desk and setting them on the ground instead as a kobold messenger set a silver platter bearing a note on the middle of his desk.

"A message from House Do'Urden," the kobold squeaked, and Jarlaxle felt his stomach lurch.

He hesitated to reach out and touch it, a grotesque offering to him like a still beating heart lying on an altar. An image that was so real that the ink on his hands, still sticky from the leak in his pen when he wrote in his ledgers, felt like drying blood to him. He resisted a shudder, but the kobold stiffened, making him realize that he had anyway. "Go away now. Why are you staring at me?" the drow mercenary said irritably, waving his hand at the creature.

It ran away, leaving only the disappearing sound of clacking claws against the stone floor.

The note contained only a few lines of script. It hardly qualified as a letter. Jarlaxle felt tears spring to his eyes. It was large and hardly legible – something both his friends had in common – and the letters were formed crudely in a way that made them uniquely Zaknafein's.

THIS IS ZAKNAFEIN. I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND, BUT I'M GOING TO KILL MYSELF. MY SON TURNED OUT TO BE A BIT OF AN IDIOT, BUT HE'S NOTHING IF NOT SOMEONE WORTH SAVING, SO MY HEART WILL GO TO A GOOD CAUSE. I HAVE TO CANCEL OUR DINNER PLANS FOR TOMORROW.

TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, YOU BASTARD.

ZAKNAFEIN

AND DON'T CONSIDER BURNING THIS UP. I WANT YOU TO KEEP IT. IF I WANTED YOU TO FORGET WHAT I SAID BEFORE I DIED, I'D COME AND SAY SOMETHING TO YOU SO YOU COULD LOSE IT IN YOUR OLD AGE.

He got it the day it had happened. It only arrived two hours after. When he tried to stop Zaknafein, it was too late. He ran into an empty room, dashed to the weapons room, found it empty, and then ran to the chapel. He didn't know what he thought he would have done. He imagined priestesses gathered around the altar, Zaknafein lying on his back, waiting for them to finish their ritual, and felt numb. His weapons were already half drawn when he burst into the room. But no one was there. And there was still blood on the altar. He collapsed to his knees.

From the viewpoint of someone levitating around the level of the ceiling, he saw someone else – that couldn't be him, he didn't look so tiny and lost. That crumpled figure in the large hat had to be someone else. Then the doors opened, and a woman walked through, wearing the garb of a priestess and only part of Zaknafein's facial features, the rest an unfamiliar jumble that he wanted to tell her was some sort of terrible mistake.

She smirked at the figure crumpled on the floor and said, "Praying to Lloth, Jarlaxle?"

The man crumpled helplessly to his knees tilted his head up at her and smiled a sick, empty smile. The voice that came out was hollow and strained – nothing like his own. It was a distant jack-in-the-box, a nightmarish caricature of his voice. "I tried the one around the corner, but the sign on the door said Out of Service. I would have used mine, but I stepped on a spider yesterday, and the floor hasn't been cleansed and sanctified by a holy ritual yet. I think I need to sacrifice a man who is a necessity to the household but can't be granted a life because he has the wrong genitals and he has an over-fondness for epithets. Can I borrow yours?"

She shrugged smoothly, and smiled, revealing sharp canines. Her eyes were calculating and sly; she was used to the usual array of his antics. "Fresh out. We used up the last one to avoid dishonor and certain death at the hands of our opposition."

Jarlaxle realized that he'd never thanked Vierna for not beating him black and blue and then spilling his blood on the stone tiles until he could hardly scrape together the pride to crawl away. He stopped and turned towards the bed, looking down at Artemis' sleeping form. He felt very old all of a sudden.

Then he woke up with a gasp, finding himself in bed with Artemis, pressed up against the warm of the other man's body. He'd slipped into Reverie without even noticing it. The letter, the flight from Bregan D'aerthe to House Do'Urden, the altar, the blood, the ink on his fingers, it was so real.

His head fell back against the pillows. Had been so real. And it had all gotten jumbled up in his head. He'd began thinking about Artemis' suicide letter, and somehow it had all come to his letter from Zaknafein, and knowing what was going to happen before it did, but then getting there and not knowing that it had happened. He held his head in his hands. It had all been very strange, in the manner of Reveries.

And when did he decide to get into bed?

He didn't remember making that decision.

Had he dreamed pacing?

No, he must have exhausted himself with the real pacing all night long, and then dreamed the very last part of it, the contemplation of Zaknafein and Artemis and the annoying platitude of history repeating itself and all that.

Does history repeat itself?

No, Jarlaxle thought. It may seem that it does to the uneducated observer, but the future is always different than the past! The outcomes may be the same, but four added to one being five isn't the name as two and three's sum being five. They are different paths, with different meanings. And I stopped it this time. Four plus one doesn't equal five! It equals six! He blinked, recognizing the fallacy of his own thoughts, probably due to a lack of restful Reverie.

Because I'm doctoring the books, he said to himself. No one will ever know. As he snuggled in deeper next to Artemis, it occurred to him that Fate, Destiny, and the Spider Queen probably all had found out about five seconds after he'd done the deed and were just waiting for the right time to pounce on him.

Oh well, I like it that way, he thought. Then he thought, a little uneasily, Do I say that to myself because it is true, or because I hope it will be someday because I can't really help myself and sinking spirits will drown me as surely as a sinking ship?

"Stop worrying," Artemis murmured deep in his throat, smiling at Jarlaxle even though he was still asleep. His admonishing comment had become habitual of late. Perhaps he could sense when the drow mercenary was having his doubts.

"That's easy for you to say," Jarlaxle said, grinning at the sleeping assassin. He kissed the scruffy man on the lips and then closed his eyes.