I still don't own any of R.A. Salvatore's or Tolkien's glorious characters, nor do I profit from any of them!

But I love them very, very much:) A little reminder. This is AU on the part of Salvatore's characters.

I wanted to take a moment and thank those that have taken the time to review, and those that have opted to follow me around, I'm touched!

"No," Legolas said, "stay here with Mearnin and the others." Legolas nearly smiled when he saw the stubborn set of Bruenor's jaw, but thought better of it. He found himself wondering if this was how his father had often felt dealing with him. "You are not at your peak," Legolas added, a bright thought coming to mind, "and it is undoubtedly spiders anyway. You dislike spiders, remember?" He couldn't quite keep the amusement from his eyes at the wary look that overtook the dark elf's face. However, he watched the odd elf shake off the fear.

"I can handle 'em," Bruenor said. "Ye might need another set o' hands," he added, his expressive eyes worried.

Legolas was touched by the concern, but adamant. So, Bruenor was forced to concede. At any other time, he might have chosen to follow the group anyway, but the elves had yet to return his weapons, and hadn't bothered telling him where the blades were stashed. He had no choice but to obey. Legolas rested a hand briefly on the young elf's shoulder in sympathetic understanding before taking off into the forest with a handful of his warriors.

Guenhwyvar nudged him, concerned. Bruenor sighed. "Take care of 'em, Guen," Bruenor whispered, ruffling her fur. The panther rumbled in reassurance, then bounded off to take the lead.

Mearnin, and the others remaining behind, moved to set up a temporary camp and beckoned for Bruenor to join them. "Come," Mearnin called, "let us have some refreshment while we wait. How is your head?"

Bruenor felt a constant throb at the base of his skull, but he said, "I'm alreet." After all, what could be done about it that hadn't been? He had taken a swig of his Gram's holy water, but nothing had happened. His head still throbbed and his ribs still ached, and Mearnin had given him what aid he could. He waved off the offer of food and water, feeling nauseated at the thought of consuming anything. The traveling had not helped. Though he had tried to keep his mind off the pain by interacting with the elves, it remained an ever present reminder that he had bounced a few times down a rock face before Guenhwyvar had caught him. The experienced healer seemed to know Bruenor's misery, even if the drow elf didn't voice it.

"Come, rest a moment, Bruenor," Mearnin requested, though a measure of command underlined the words. In that moment, Mearnin reminded him of his grandfather, and Bruenor found himself instinctively obeying. He smiled wistfully as he lay on the palette that Mearnin had prepared. The Healer noticed the soft smile, and felt compelled to ask as he wet a cloth to place on the dark elf's forehead, "What is it?"

"Ye reminded me o' me grandda, Drizzt," Bruenor said, closing his eyes as the cool cloth came to rest on his brow. He smiled again thinking of the Drow Ranger. The reason his family existed as it did. "He's soft spoken. Ne'er heard 'im raise his voice in anger a' any of us." Bruenor chuckled, as he added, "but we ne'er dared disobey when he told us to do somethin'." His grandfather's laughing lavender eyes came to mind, a memory of racing his grandfather and Guenhwyvar down the trail from Mithril Hall. Though the ranger was a 'grandfather', he was still a young elf himself. Was that only two days ago? It felt longer.

Bruenor felt a burning behind his eyes, and wasn't able to stop a hot tear from escaping. "I'm . . ." he fought for control of his voice, "I'm goin' ta make it home again, reet, Mearnin?" he asked, mature enough to know that the elf couldn't possibly answer the question, but young enough to want some assurance, even if it was false. His eyes still closed, he felt the Healer's hand cup his face, much like his father often did, and another tear escaped.

"I believe that the Valar will see you returned to your proper place, young one," the Healer said, his heart aching in sympathy for this elf, but also his family. He couldn't image what this still very young elf's family must be feeling at that moment. As a father himself, the thought of his children being pulled into a strange world made his blood run cold.

And Drizzt Do'Urden, legendary Drow Ranger and grandfather to one Bruenor Battlehammer Do'Urden felt exactly that. His blood ran cold. Had he known of Mearnin's thoughts, he might have appreciated the sympathy. However, the ranger had no idea that Bruenor was safe in the presence of a band of elves. He only knew that Guenhwyvar had failed to answer his call.

"She isn't answering." Drizzt tried to remain calm, but the statuette in his hands felt strangely chilled, lifeless. He felt his son rush anxiously to his side, as well as his daughter-in-law, Neva. He tried again. "Guenhwyvar, come my shadow." Perhaps Bruenor and Guenhwyvar thought to play a prank. If so, he would explain, in no uncertain terms, that he was not amused.

He hoped they were only delaying to tease their family. He prayed fervently that it was merely a prank on Bruenor's part. His grandson could be very mischievous, but with a sinking feeling, Drizzt acknowledged that Bruenor would never intentionally worry his mother.

No wisps of smoke.

No materializing panther.

No Bruenor.

Nothing.

Zaknafein Do'Urden, son of Drizzt, snatched the statuette from his father's suddenly nerveless fingers. "Come on girl," he whispered to the panther that had served as friend, protector, and nursemaid to him and his siblings, as well as their children. "Come on, Guen," he pleaded, but to no avail. He heard his wife's muffled sob and gripped the statuette tighter, calling the panther's name again and again as their family and friends—left standing after the attack—gathered around.

Most of them had seen Bruenor tossed into the abyss and the panther dive in after him. All of them had hoped for the best. All of them had thought to see the young elf materialize next to the massive panther with an impish grin and an assurance that it wouldn't happen again.

With a sinking feeling, most began to fear the worst.

Drizzt saw the grief in the faces around him. He thought of the task of telling his old friend, Bruenor, that Cattibrie's grandson and Bruenor's own namesake was gone. His heart constricted. It might just break the old dwarf to hear it.

It didn't make sense! Even if Guenhwyvar missed catching Bruenor, she would not have died, but returned to the statuette. They wouldn't both be lost. They couldn't be. "No!" Drizzt shouted, surprising all of them. He snatched the statuette back. "They cannot be lost." He took a deep breath, to calm his racing heart. "I will not conclude him dead until I see it with my own eyes," Drizzt declared, his thoughts drifting to the memories of a young barbarian friend long gone. A friend they had assumed dead, but that had been held in torment before returning to them. "If we do not find—" Drizzt bit off the words, finding it difficult to even think of finding Bruenor's body, much less voicing the possibility. "If we do not, then I go to Silverymoon for aide. I WILL find them. Who goes with me?"