Jarlaxle's Charm

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"Being alive is wrong," Jarlaxle said. He was curled up in bed, still trying to make sense of what had happened to him this morning. "There is nothing I can do about it – everything I do when alive will be wrong."

He closed his eyes, clutching the pillow where Artemis' head had rested to his chest. His position was curled up tightly enough to make him look as though he were trying to be unborn. He didn't know if that was possible. To undo everything that happened. Time, elastic, would bounce back, he imagined, and all the things he'd done would never exist. He'd be neatly excised and the world wouldn't know. He'd be dead. He'd return to being the strange, enigmatic spirit that could see everything he could have been, all the lives he could have lived and the children he could have fathered.

He vaguely remembered being that spirit, that being that could see in every direction around him at once, having no body and no eyes. Sometimes, he thought he remembered it being like a green flame. But then, he'd wake up, and the images were so disjointed that he wondered if he had ever seen the flickering shape, the green light.

"Being the third child is like being a dog. Being male is like being a dog. Being a third child is like being… nothing. A box of candy, perhaps, or a song, or a stick of incense. Something to be offered for sacrifice at an altar in order to please the goddess. Nothing but a thing created by the goddess in an act of self-homage." Jarlaxle's lip curled in bitterness, disgust, scorn. "Vanity. I am alive because of vanity."

He spoke only to himself, and he didn't care. Wasn't he enough, after all? Shouldn't he speak to him, when others wouldn't, refused, denied social contact with him? Shouldn't he even deign to say hello? Or would he ignore himself? Would that be the final act of expulsion? His family wrapped him in a package and killed him, expelling him as if he were something sickening their stomachs. Lloth, the goddess he was supposed to be a follower of, even if she found him as worthless as paste jewelry, a gaudy little trinket, then with an idle hand released him back into the world from whence he came. Two out of three. Would he now, unable to stomach himself, purge the 'self' from his body until there was nothing left?

The drow mercenary was contemptuous. No, he said, his voice ringing through the confines of his mind. I am myself, and myself is worthy to stand against anyone and anything – even if it is a goddess who says she has the secret of right and wrong – claiming that there is no worth to the being 'Me'.

Jarlaxle uncurled, and straightened, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up. His mouth was a grim line. He was a pillar of self-respect. He could take on anything.

His expression melted into foolish confusion. Why, then, can't I convince myself that I deserve Artemis? He cupped his chin in his hand.

Reaffirming himself hadn't helped. He still felt just as lost, just as pitiful as before. Why couldn't he convince himself that Artemis would value him just as much as he valued himself?

"If one man's trash is another man's treasure," Jarlaxle said aloud, "then why am I convinced that as far as I am concerned, I'm my own man's treasure, and everyone else's trash?" He frowned in thought. He uneasily began to pace the room. It didn't occur to him that he was still completely naked. "That is, why can't I see anyone else seeing anything good in me? Isn't that a lack of confidence?"

No. He denied it without hesitation. He felt fine. He was confident. He could do anything he wanted to. His judgement was razor sharp and discerning, he could make allies with anyone he pleased no matter how contrary or irrational the person might be, and he could escape danger with a paper clip and a strip of mint floss. He was competent all the way to the tips of his fingernails.

Why didn't he think anyone else would care? Be impressed? Actually want to be in his company if he turned his charm off for an instant? His heart plummeted in his chest, crestfallen. He didn't honestly think anyone would ever give him a second glance, no matter how obviously fabulous and indispensable he was. "But why?" He asked, staring at his own reflection in the mirror and gaping at the Jarlaxle there in protest. "Why doesn't anyone like me?"

He turned away from it, putting his hands behind him on the surface of the dresser, and paused there. He crossed his legs at the ankles and narrowed his eyes, furiously trying to think as if he could stab his way to insight.

A flash of cold from the inside, bone-deep, shook him. "Why do I need people to like me?" His words hung in the air, thundering echoes that sounded much too loud all of a sudden. He flinched, and froze.

He always felt better when he thought someone liked him. Their enthralled response to a speech, or an observation, a greeting or a joke, made him pleased. Not the calculating excitement related to how he could use their talents for his gain now that they liked him.

An entirely gratuitous spurt of happiness, like the sensation he experienced when the sun warmed his skin, or when he bit into a sugared date for the first time. Like the pleasant scent of one of those flowers – roses. The feeling that rose up in him when he heard Rathad's voice change from cold to pleasantly purring when they were alone together.

No matter what else he had to do, he always felt like lingering longer than necessary in the company of the people that seemed so charmed by him. He had to tear himself away sometimes, when he didn't even realize that he wasn't being logical until ten minutes had lengthened into half an hour.

And then, their gazes changing later into looks of disappointment towards him when he came into the room, mingled with anger, and…disgust. He could read their faces as easily as a sign in front of an inn, and he didn't know why this transformation always happened.

Well, yes, he had put his best interests before their own, but it wasn't "betrayal". He never actually hurt any of them – they must surely have suspected in the very least – why, expected him to act as he saw fit! They would have done the same thing if they were in his position! Their hurt act was a humorous piece of manipulation, to get the upper hand, but still…

Why did they carry on so tiresomely long, time after time, even when he made it clear that their last bid for gaining more from him wouldn't work? Having that sort of disagreement between them could only stunt their relations – hold them back from having a good time the next time they met. Why did they persist with the game? Did they really enjoy losing that little?

Jarlaxle hesitated, his tongue poised for another question he longed to put to the empty room. He had to admit that he experienced a bruising ache. It hurt his feelings, though he'd been through the disappointment numerous times, over and over again, through his travels on the Surface. He had a nagging feeling that he didn't understand the Game here.

Surface-dwellers had their own variation on the Game, and to Jarlaxle it seemed an even more inscrutable one than that the Drow people of his own city engaged in. There were still rules and subtleties that he saw, but was unable to decipher. It was really his fault, he thought mournfully, looking at his hat on the floor where it had remained all night. I can't learn the Game well enough to play it to everyone's satisfaction. In the Underdark, I know all the rules so well that no matter what the twist necessary to arrange everyone's goals, I can make it with a simple flick of the wrist. He'd still suffer only half-victories until he could figure out how to twist the situation so that everyone walked away with what they really wanted in the first place.

He found himself becoming homesick for the wry smiles on the faces of dark-skinned elves as they silently admitted with their eyes he had been the better of them, but everything had worked out in the end. Coaxing smiles, genuinely harmless smiles, out of his resentfully distant people had been one of the things he enjoyed most about being the leader of Bregan D'aerthe, the lawless mastermind. Outwitting them for their own good, he'd like to think. Arranging deals and allies for everyone's mutual benefit.

It was a private emotion he kept very close to his heart where no one else would be likely to stumble upon it, but he hated seeing people lose. The academy where he and the other youths learned warriors' arts was the hardest place he'd ever been through in his entire life. People were wounded, defeated, and killed in training every day by fellow students. It sickened him.

With a lurch in his stomach, he remembered having a nervous breakdown in his fifth year and hiding in a closet in the dormitory until Zaknafein could coax him out with table scraps from dinner. Zaknafein's compassionate arms embracing him and his hastily spilled confession of horror at all the deaths surrounding him had led him to think of starting Bregan D'aerthe in the first place. "Maybe there's a way everyone can win after all," he'd said, and Zaknafein had looked as him as if he were crazy. He'd grinned ferociously and amended, "Well, the people that deserve to lose will still find their due."

Jarlaxle sighed. He found himself thinking of Rathad. Rathad. Now, here was a man that was confusing. Rathad was complicated, a new person evolved from a familiar one. Ever since Aberiss, Jarlaxle had for the first time noted a marked change in Artemis' behavior. Slow progress turned into stunning results. He'd noticed Artemis laughing easier and relaxing for longer periods of time. The assassin had been changing – growing, Jarlaxle thought – for months. But now all of a sudden his companion changed in leaps and bounds.

That was why he thought it was inevitable that Artemis would need to make the decision to make the change from Artemis Entreri into someone entirely different.

And now that Jarlaxle had helped Artemis choose a name for that new person, Jarlaxle could call it by name. Rathad.

He was quite attracted to Rathad. Some quality that Rathad had was not found in Artemis. Rathad demanded trust where Artemis did not. Rathad demanded trust simply by having a way of pulling at you, drawing you in, making you bask in one of those broad grins and long for his company because of his effortless energy in whatever task he was about. He made you feel more efficient just by being around him. Jarlaxle liked efficiency; and he liked Rathad.

He laughed to think that underneath all that scowling was some part of Artemis that had been blessed with inherent likeability. And worse – more humorous still – a part of Artemis that could be so pleasantly easygoing. It boggled the mind. It was no wonder that no one recognized Rathad as being the evolution of the man Artemis.

Jarlaxle could scarcely wait to see what else Artemis had buried under the demeanor of being an assassin.

But why did he care what happened to Artemis Entreri?

The part of him that did care was stung by this question. It defensively tried to escape analysis, but it didn't work. Under his prodding, it fell into several sections.

There was Curiosity – and that was okay. Curiosity about whether or not Artemis would be able to pull himself together, that was alright, a perfectly acceptable motivation for continuing to take interest in Rathad.

Partnership – he wasn't alone on the Surface when he had Artemis to back up any business venture he wanted to make, and having a reliable partner is an enormous asset. That's acceptable. He shifted uneasily.

There was the fact that he liked Artemis – he could have a sharp sense of humor and it made Jarlaxle feel special just because Artemis would make those comments around him. Artemis didn't speak to anyone; he only socialized with a select few. A feeling of Friendship. That was acceptable within certain boundaries.

He liked a challenge. Balancing his motivations with Artemis' and constantly needing to make adjustments in order to keep Artemis as a partner gave Jarlaxle plenty to do. Challenge is most approved of all. Nothing gets in the way of Challenge, not even personal feelings like Friendship.

But now, the one that Jarlaxle was avoiding all along. That tenuous connection he felt to people also motivated him to keep company with Artemis. He was drawn to people that liked him.

Just when he thought the guilty pleasure of staying longer than necessary with people who liked him might be normal, a hand slapped his face hard enough to leave a glowing imprint in heat vision for the next day.

He'd been talking to a group of soldiers in the common room of the barracks. The common room was a vast place where the soldiers of his House showed off their victories, lounged companionably with each other, ate, and played games. He'd always felt like an intruder, since he wasn't a soldier, he was the firstborn son of the House, but they were the only other men around besides the Weapon Master, and he was too young to be allowed to tag along after the reclusive man.

There was a pit of faerie fire recessed into one wall, lighting the common room up so all their trophies could be seen in normal light. There were heads and bodies of creatures killed on patrols, and various weapons decorated the walls like other races hung pictures and tapestries. One man had been given a badge of honor of sorts for being an exemplary soldier, and that was displayed here, too. It was a spider shaped medallion that did nothing, but was made of valuable metals and signified that he'd satisfactorily performed the will of Lloth, a rare admission for both the goddess and the House.

At first, Jarlaxle would sneak off to the barracks after he'd taken care of the Chapel, and when that was not discouraged, it became his routine. That was how the priestess knew to find him there the day everything fell apart.

She appeared in the doorway, startling everyone, and then strode furiously over to him. He turned, and accidentally made eye contact with her. Before he could look away, she slapped him, hard. His eyes stung with tears of pain, and as he stumbled, she grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the room. He didn't even get to say goodbye. One moment he was shyly smiling and having a conversation with the soldiers, and the next he was being marched through hallways on a path that he recognized would lead to the Matron's chamber. He didn't know what he'd done.

The Matron always intimidated him. She was Amuira Bellni, one of the oldest Matrons in Jarlaxle's time. He'd met her when he was on the run from soldiers having a good time by slaughtering any beggar children they came across, and Bellni had apparently prayed to Lloth for a child. He'd been surrounded by strange light, and then found himself transported to her Chapel. Lloth apparently thought he was a perfect son for the barren Matron, and arranged things to fit. It wasn't often that a Matron adopted a son, so he was told to feel honored, but what he felt instead was revulsion.

She was a withered up figure on a throne. He was dragged into the room by his arm and tossed to the ground by the priestess. Matron Bellni gave him a long explanation of exactly what she expected of him. Her sentences were punctuated with a whip.

"I'm tired of people saying that I spoil you, boy," she said. She had a gruff, grainy voice full of splinters. She took a whip from her belt as she spoke and shifted, slowly getting to her feet and walking towards him. He took this in with a glance as he pretended to have his eyes fixed on the smooth tiles of the floor. "I never laid a hand on you until now, and I get the feeling," she said, looking meaningfully at the priestess who brought Jarlaxle in, "that everyone thinks old Bellni's gone soft." The priestess paled slightly, making a show of her guilty tongue where those rumors were concerned.

It wasn't time for Jarlaxle to say anything. He felt a little apprehensive. Being whipped didn't look fun, and the cuts he'd seen some soldiers receive bled. He was hoping that if he behaved, she might not hit him as hard as she could. Her frail arms were full of sinew.

Matron Bellni paused about ten paces in front of him. Not close enough to strike him right now. She cocked her head quizzically, waiting for an opening remark. She knew he was a flippant individual and usually had one.

"I don't think you've gone soft, Matron," Jarlaxle said, glancing at her weathered arm. Her whipping arm was corded with muscle.

She laughed wryly. "You'd be a fool if you did, boy." That was the closest she got to complimenting him, but he knew it was substantially closer than most female drow would ever come. All things considered, she was treating him nicely.

He tried to think of what he did. It was important to him because that would make a difference in how he was supposed to act. Did she know about his flirting with the youngest priestess of the House? Or did she think he'd stolen an extra weva fruit from the table last week? He had, but that was beside the point. It hadn't been for him, it had been for a riding lizard. Almost no one knew that they liked weva fruit. It couldn't be that he didn't do his laundry on time. Why would she care?

"You're growing old enough to understand the intricacies of what we call society," she said.

Yes. Why? Jarlaxle thought back at her. Whatever it was she was talking about, it sounded worse than anything he'd done.

"It's time to begin chastising you whenever your behavior becomes inappropriate," the Matron said, tightening her grip on the handle of her whip. "Your childish fantasies of how the world works aren't going to benefit your survival, so listen to me."

He carefully eyed her whip without looking at her. Its heads were relaxed, swinging limply, and their eyes were closed. That meant that Matron Bellni wasn't angry at him. "Yes?"

"What runs through your head whenever you visit the soldiers at the barracks?" she said. "You sneak off to them as if you need them." She cut off his protest. "You're setting yourself up for betrayal. If you ever have to lead them into combat, they'll know that they can manipulate you into doing whatever they want you to do. They don't have to do their duty around you because they know you're looking for their approval."

"That's not true," he said.

She allowed him this protest, and then nodded, continuing as if she hadn't heard him. Her mild expression didn't change. "You don't need them. Drow never need each other. We use each other, and we respect each other so far as we need to in order to use the people around us again. It's not a sentimental attachment. Those fall away with childhood. And your period of childishness is over."

She approached him, and he bit his lip, expecting the beginning of his punishment. "Take your lip out from between your teeth, boy," she said. "You don't want to bite it off, do you?"

He hastily did as he was told. If you care, why are you going to hit me with those things? He thought, staring at the strange snakes that made up her whip as they wiggled sleepily, waking up.

"You should have had the sense to figure this out for yourself, but instead I have to tell you."

He didn't see precisely what she did, but he saw the snakes on the whip lash out. He flinched, closing his eyes. Instead of biting him, the snakes only slashed against his back because she wasn't truly angry. He stifled a sudden intake of breath. It burned. He could feel the long scratches on his back. He didn't even have to look in a mirror to know precisely what they looked like.

"You should know better. Tell me boy," she said, walking in a circle around him appraisingly, her piercing gaze trying to read whether he understood the situation and felt properly punished, "what is an acceptable motivation for going to the barracks?"

"Because they like me," Jarlaxle said, gritting his teeth against a surge of outrage and indignation helplessly coursing through him. He was afraid of it. He didn't know why he should feel so strongly when it would only get him into trouble. "What harm is there in it?"

She lashed out at him again, striking his back and scoring burning lines diagonally across the ones already there. It hurt more than he thought it would. He inadvertently yelped. Being made to cry out that way made him angry. It was humiliating. Until then, he'd never really been humiliated by anyone before.

"They matter nothing to you," she said, her voice growling in her throat. He thought with apprehension that he was making her angry where she wasn't before. "Do you understand me? Their feelings, their thoughts, their desires –they are iblith. They are disposable creatures who are there to be forced to defend us and carry out our orders. They are not playthings. They are tools."

He flinched as the snakes hissed. The sound sliced through his thoughts and startled him, frightening him. He felt tears sting his eyes as he realized that he was trembling, and wanted very badly to run away.

"Curiosity," she said, and struck him with the whip. With another hiss, the snake heads lashed at him. One of them bit him. "That is an acceptable motivation for going to the barracks. Curiosity keeps you alert, it builds intrigue, and it leads you to investigate any advantages the enemy has left you."

He abnormally hot. In spite of himself, his knees weakened. He put his hands on the floor to keep from collapsing. The muscles in his arms weakened and relaxed when he didn't want them to. He sank forward, now lying on the floor face down, and couldn't move.

"Competitiveness," she said, striking at him again. "You're eager to start your training and wanted the soldiers to give you a head start before being apprenticed to the Weapon Master. You want to be the best, and that is the only way."

Jarlaxle shivered. The floor felt like ice against his skin, beginning to burn that it was so cold. He was having a hard time trying to understand her words, and they wouldn't stop. They invaded his head whether he wanted to hear them or not. She was beginning to sound like Lloth. The faint memory of hearing her voice was melding with Matron Bellni's. His back and the pain there seemed very far away.

"You want to gain their trust. You are eager to have such powerful tools in your command," she said, and a thrust of pain against his back cut into him again. "You have a natural talent for manipulation." She smiled viciously down at him, but he couldn't see it. He only heard it in her voice when she said, "Yes. You are charming."

He whimpered. It was still in his chest, the warm feeling when he thought about the soldiers. It was a comfort to him to cling to it, for him it meant that he could block out what she was saying to him. He could hear the soldiers' banter and their talks with him instead. How could she suggest that he use that to control them? Cannag and his friends were too valuable to him to trade them for something he was supposed to do just because he was in a position of power over them, or would be eventually. Jarlaxle hadn't talked to them because be wanted to control them. Doing that now would hurt what he had with them. "Matron…"

She whipped him in response, six snake heads ripping into him. The pain was suddenly intense. He felt his body twitch. "You like them," Matron Bellni said. "They draw you to them as easily as drawing a goblin with a few gold coins; they laugh at you, how easily you are won over. Know that when they decide to use you, they will not let you live as I have."

He heard her walking away.

The world started gently spinning and tilting, even though Jarlaxle knew that he was lying in place, and it couldn't be an earthquake.

It isn't natural, Jarlaxle thought, folding his arms across his chest and looking at the four poster bed longingly, wanting to get back in. It isn't natural to want to like people and be liked in return. Why do I do it, then? How can I be so much of an aberration in the Drow people? I've been left out my entire life. Needing to be liked has held me back in so many ways. The urge cropping up in so many places that it gets so that I can't stand it.

That's when I always turned to Zaknafein. He liked me. For a while, he'd make me feel as though there were nothing wrong with needing somebody. He'd help me pretend that I didn't need anybody. Help me feel normal. Rational. I could always act the right way when he was there to bolster me.

If I'd been a better person, I wouldn't have needed him to be able to function as a normal Drow being. If I weren't defective.

But if I weren't defective, I'd still be down there, no doubt happily making a living off of other people's misfortune. Menzoberranzan will collapse eventually when everyone cuts the supports out from under establishments that need to stay in place – the rothe herders, the patrol around the city, the common shopkeepers. They can't keep going that way. Even if they don't need to be liked by other people, society is built on necessities that have to be fulfilled. That is, after all, how I made a place for myself. I made reliable mercenaries a necessity.

But why can't I eliminate the urge to make people like me? Why do I care?

Why do I care?

Jarlaxle put a hand to his temples. He didn't know why he cared, and he was cold and was developing a headache. He admitted defeat and slipped back into the bed, nestling under the covers.