Chapter Text
Time no longer made sense to Artemis Entreri, but then, few things did anymore. He had replaced his envy of Drizzt with a wry appreciation of the absurd. Of course Drizzt had retained his naïve morals after bumbling about for decades. Of course Drizzt would be the one to free him from captivity. And of course Drizzt, after finally experiencing the tragedy of losing his friends and wife, had been given another chance with them all.
Reincarnated. King Bruenor was king again, this time of the great Gauntlgrym. Wulfgar was again a tall, robust warrior. Even that weaselly little Regis had returned, this time with some middling swordsmanship skills and the barest suggestion of a spine.
And Catti-Brie… she was reborn just as beautiful and just as willful, now a talented mage who could commune with a primordial and still with Drizzt wrapped around her little finger. She beamed now with an inner glow, her belly swollen with what Artemis had to assume would be a nightmare of a child.
Entreri chuckled helplessly. Absurd. That was the only word for it. People like him didn’t get second chances the way that people like Drizzt did. He’d tried with Dahlia, faking an attraction he didn’t feel in the hopes that it would suddenly appear, only to feel even more empty and alone. His younger self would have frothed at the unfairness, but his older self knew better. There was no sense in making sense of the universe.
Entreri kept an eye on the door, his drink untouched, until Catti-Brie waddled over, sinking into the seat across from him. “Ye thinking of leavin’?” she asked, noting his gaze. “Or are ye hoping someone will come through that door?”
A bit of both, Entreri would only admit to himself. Absurd again, still, that this woman, who had once been terrified of him, was speaking to him now like an old friend.
Each time a drow stepped through that door, Entreri’s breath caught, limbs freezing. A branch of Bregan D’Aerthe was here in Luskan, helping Gromph and Catti-Brie remake the Host Tower of the Arcane, powered by the primordial that had eaten Entreri’s sword all those months ago. He had been both relieved and disappointed to learn that Jarlaxle had returned to Menzoberranzan.
“Just keeping an eye on my exits,” Entreri lied, “for when that idiot sets fire to the place.” He tipped his head to indicate Athrogate, who was standing on a chair to tell a loud story to a group of gathered dwarves, unmindful of the torch inches from his bushy hair, every time he threw his head back with a Bwahaha! Entreri watched to see if he caught alight.
Catti-Brie snickered into her hand as she watched. “Might serve ‘im right.”
Entreri almost smiled. “Do you need something, Catti-Brie?”
She hesitated, eyeing him over his now warm mead. “I don’t pretend to understand ye, Entreri,” she said. “But I do know what it’s like to live for more than the one lifetime humans like us were meant to live. That comes with its share o’ grief.”
“My first lifetime came with plenty,” he drawled. He finally sipped at his drink as an excuse to avoid eye contact. The drink was tepid and thick on his tongue. At her unimpressed nod, he conceded, “But… yes. I am grateful, at least, that I only had to suffer through the one childhood.”
Catti-Brie hummed and frowned, glancing down at her belly. “Drizzt says you’re in here a lot,” she said, looking around the tavern.
“So is Athrogate.”
Catti-Brie rolled her eyes. “I expect that from him.”
“And you know me well enough to not expect it from me?” Entreri asked, an edge to his voice. He regretted his tone a moment later. His place among Drizzt’s friends was already questionable without him alienating them further.
She shook her head, exasperated, as she climbed back to her feet. “Ye can drink yerself to death, if ye like,” she said, “but Drizzt is worried about ye.”
“Of course he is,” Entreri muttered into his drink.
Absurd.
Catti-Brie frowned at him for a long moment, pausing like she was about to say something else. In the end, she simply turned and left, leaving Artemis with a strangely guilty twisting in his gut. He took another drink of his lukewarm mead.
Entreri’s neck prickled. Another drow had just walked in, hood pulled low over his eyes. From his vantage point at the corner of the tavern, Entreri had a clear view of the room and the door, and while it was common now to see drow in the area, this drow, in particular, was an unwelcome surprise.
“Kimmuriel,” Entreri acknowledged as the drow sank into the chair across from him. He knew the psionicist would not mind having his back to the room, not when he didn’t need to look to know exactly what was happening around him. “To what do I owe this displeasure?”
Entreri took another swig, bracing himself for whatever schemes Jarlaxle was planning now. At least he had the decency to not show his own face this time.
“The displeasure is all mine, Entreri.” Kimmuriel looked him over dispassionately. He was always thin, but his features were sharper now than Entreri remembered. His clothing, while well-maintained, was showing a bit of wear at the hem and cuffs. It was the sort of thing Jarlaxle usually fussed over. “I see your surly demeanor is unchanged. I will not ask how you are still alive.”
“Spite is a powerful motivator,” Entreri drawled. “I will ask again: what do you want?”
Kimmuriel folded spidery fingers on the table in front of him. “I have a proposal.”
Entreri snorted, setting aside his drink. He no longer had the stomach for it. “For our ‘mutual benefit’?”
“I would not suggest any other.”
“Of course,” Entreri sneered. “Then tell me. What does Jarlaxle want?”
Kimmuriel blinked, the closest thing to an emotion Entreri was used to seeing on his face. “Jarlaxle.”
Entreri nodded and gestured for him to continue.
Kimmuriel sat back, the barest crease forming between his brows. “You do not know.”
Entreri’s patience was fraying. “Know what?”
“I have not worked for Jarlaxle or Bregan D’Aerthe for many years now.”
“What?” That brought Entreri up short. Why would Jarlaxle throw aside his prized psionicist? And why would Kimmuriel come here on his own?
Kimmuriel’s gaze skittered down and to the side. He regarded the dwarves at the table next to theirs, his lip curling in the barest distaste at the boisterous way they slammed the table between drinks. “We had a falling out,” he said dispassionately.
Entreri’s eyes narrowed. “I fail to see how that involves me.”
“Oh, it involved you,” Kimmuriel said sharply, dragging his stare back to land on Entreri.
Entreri’s hand dropped to the dagger at his side in impulse. “Yes, I know you wanted to be rid of me,” he sneered. Then he paused, a cold realization dawning. “…and you were rid of me, weren’t you.”
Kimmuriel did not deny it. “Jarlaxle was displeased to find his memories tampered with. I have recently tried to make a new ally in Gromph Baenre, but that… ended just as precipitously.”
His words floated past Entreri. Memories, tampered with?
“And so, I wish to try to mend bridges with Jarlaxle, and—do pay attention, Entreri. This is where you come in.”
“I should kill you,” Entreri spat out, voice thick and ragged. His grip tightened on the dagger at his belt. He imagined it, a quick slice across that delicate throat, spilling his lifeblood out over the table. Entreri was done with his drink, anyway. He would hardly mind the mess.
“You are welcome to try,” Kimmuriel said, one hand twitching up towards his throat. A reminder that he could see what Entreri was thinking, a reminder that he could rip into Entreri’s mind like a piece of fruit. “But it would not be to the benefit of either of us.”
“Disagree,” Entreri growled.
“Not to the benefit of Dahlia, then, who holds you in some regard, even if you do not reciprocate.”
Entreri hated how often he was finding himself at a loss in this conversation. He did care about—had cared about—Dahlia, but he’d watched her die, buried under a collapsed tunnel. He’d likewise buried his grief for her, one of the few people he had considered a friend.
“She is alive,” Kimmuriel corrected, and Entreri flinched, fumbling to throw up his mental walls. “Though for how long depends on you.”
“A threat?”
“A statement.” Kimmuriel shrugged. “She is in no danger from me.” He sat back, primly smoothing out his fraying cuff. “Now. Will you listen to my proposal, or will you continue to envision more colorful ways to kill me?”
“I can multitask.”
The pounding on the door came loud enough to rattle it in its hinges. Next to Drizzt, his wife groaned and stirred, her eyes puffy with interrupted sleep.
“I will take care of it,” Drizzt assured her with a soft kiss to her forehead. He swept to his feet, dressed only in his sleep pants, and snatched up Icingdeath. The scimitar was a cold weight in his hand as he opened the door to find a disheveled and wild-eyed Entreri.
“Dahlia is alive,” he said by way of greeting.
“What?” Drizzt stammered, flat-footed. Behind him, Catti-Brie stirred, one hand braced on her belly as she sat up, her shoulders stiff, eyes darting for her bow on the other side of the bed. He remembered belatedly that Entreri had kidnapped her as part a contract a lifetime ago, before Drizzt had even heard the name Artemis Entreri.
Though he did not think Entreri meant her harm, Drizzt was still careful to keep himself bodily between them, for her comfort.
“She is alive, and the drow have her,” Entreri went on. “Something about… using her as a puppet? Matron of House Do’Urden? They’re torturing her, and we have to go get her.” There was something off about his voice and the way he leaned against the doorframe, but Drizzt was too busy trying to parse what he was saying.
“Artemis, slow down,” Drizzt coaxed. “You are not making any sense. Who told you this?”
Entreri growled in frustration, bonking his forehead against the doorframe. “Kimmuriel.”
“Oblodra? And you trust what he says?”
Entreri shrugged helplessly. “I asked one of the… the scouts, the Bregan D’Aerthe people.” He gestured flippantly in the direction of the Host Tower. “They confirmed.”
“What does this have to do with House Do’Urden? My family was destroyed decades ago.” Because of him, but he was not about to start wallowing in guilt again.
“Matron Baenre brought it back as a puppet house, so she’d have more votes in the ruling council,” Entreri grumbled. “I don’t understand the why, and I don’t care. I keep… I keep seeing her face…” And Dwahvel’s, if he were honest, even though she had nothing in common with Dwahvel. But perhaps that was the point, the things they didn’t have in common. He couldn’t bring back Dwahvel, but he could save Dahlia. He was likely the only one aside from Drizzt who would even care to.
Drizzt leaned in, sniffed Entreri’s breath. “You are drunk,” he realized.
“I am not drunk,” Entreri protested, shaking a finger in Drizzt’s face. He over-enunciated his words, as though to avoid slurring them. “I am… lubricated. I can count on one hand the number of times in my life I have been well and truly drunk.”
It was, once, a point of pride. His younger self had refused to touch alcohol of any kind, lest it dull his senses.
Or, if he were honest, lest he become like his rotten-breathed uncle. His younger self would loathe him even more than his current self did.
“Well, Entreri, you can add one more to the count,” Drizzt assured him, his words pulling Artemis back from the brink before he could spiral into ugly memories. “Because you are drunk.”
“Lubricated,” he corrected again.
Catti-Brie snorted indelicately, and he shot her a scowl. “Well-lubricated,” she said. “And over a girl? Ye’ve changed, Entreri. Here I thought you did all yer lubricatin’ over Jarlaxle.”
The glare and splotchy flush that rose to his cheeks said that he’d understood her double meaning. Drizzt’s pensive frown said that he had not.
“Why are you coming to me with this?” Drizzt asked, cutting off Entreri’s retort before it could form.
“Because this is the sort of thing you do!” Entreri replied, gesturing at the drow. “Traipse off towards danger and certain death, for the sake of people you maybe tolerate! And this danger is your home—”
“Menzoberranzan is not my home.”
“Place of birth, then,” Entreri amended, “whose language and layout you know better than I do. And you and Dahlia were lovers once—” He cut himself off, gaze flicking to Catti-Brie. “Don’t worry. You were dead at the time.”
“I know about Dahlia,” Catti-Brie sighed, brushing a tangle of curls back from her face.
“She knows about Dahlia,” Drizzt added with a nod, “who tried to kill me the last time we spoke, if you recall.”
Entreri waved that aside and squeezed Drizzt’s shoulders, giving them a soft shake. “How many times have I tried to kill you? And we’re still…” He gestured between them, frowning as he grappled for the right word. “…what are we, exactly?”
“Drunk,” Drizzt said with a patient smile and a pat on Entreri’s back. “We’re drunk. And when we’re sober, we should have a discussion regarding what healthy relationships look like…”
He ushered Entreri out of the room and set him in the direction of his own chambers. He shut the door with a head shake and a sigh, turning back to face his wife. She gave him a knowing look.
“Ye’re goin’ with him, ain’t ye?” she asked, her dwarven accent thicker when it was just them.
Drizzt looked sheepishly at her and then down to her swollen belly. “You know why I must.”
Catti-Brie hummed and nodded. “To save the former lover who tried to kill ye, from the home world that tried to kill ye, for the sake of the man who tried to kill ye. All while yer pregnant wife sits here and twiddles her thumbs, aye?”
Drizzt folded her into his arms while she was still talking and buried his head in her hair. She smelled of mine dust and sleep sweat, under the faded scent of her lavender soap. How many years had he gone without the weight of her in his arms? How many years had he ached for exactly this?
“You are right,” he murmured. “I will stay.”
Catti-Brie’s whole body heaved with a sigh. “No,” she groaned. “Ye’ll go. But ye’ll come back to me, or I’ll drag ye from the hells meself.”