Chapter Text
Entreri’s new lizard earned them more than a few stares on the streets of Luskan. One guard started to stammer out a “halt!” but Entreri did not slow or even offer him a glance. Drizzt tied its reins to a post outside of One-Eyed Jax as Entreri carried a dazed and mumbling Dahlia into the tavern.
In the corner, Kimmuriel and his notes took up a full table, while a barmaid topped up his pitcher of water with an exasperated look. Kimmuriel stilled as they approached, turning towards Entreri before peeling his eyes from his scribbled notes. Gently, Entreri sat Dahlia in one of the chairs before occupying a second.
“A pint of mead, please,” Entreri ordered, keeping his stare on Kimmuriel.
“By all means,” Kimmuriel drawled, “have a seat. Dirty my notes with your fingers.” He snatched up the papers Entreri started to peek at and, scowling, neatened them into a stack. “You did not finish your part of our deal, rivvil. Are you that poor at understanding instruction?” His gaze darted up again as Drizzt sat at the last chair at the table. He sighed and grabbed up the notes on that side too before Drizzt could touch anything.
“I will complete my end of the deal, when yours is completed,” Entreri said. Just to irritate Kimmuriel, he took a swig straight from his water pitcher. “Ah, refreshing. Drizzt?”
“Thank you,” Drizzt said, taking an eager gulp from the pitcher as well, to Kimmuriel’s displeasure.
“My part was to help you bring back Dahlia,” Kimmuriel said, voice clipped. He gestured dryly at her. “And here she is.”
“We brought her back physically, not mentally,” Entreri argued. “Mentally, she is still in Menzoberranzan.”
Kimmuriel sat back, looking through Entreri, who slammed down his mental walls at the first brush of Kimmuriel’s mind against his. “You want me to fix her mind,” Kimmuriel said. “With what incentive?”
“The original incentive.”
“How will you contact Jarlaxle?” Kimmuriel pressed.
Entreri hesitated. “He will come to me.”
Kimmuriel’s eyes narrowed. “Not good enough.”
“He will!” Entreri snapped.
Kimmuriel’s expression turned doubtful. “He has not come to you all these long months. Why now?”
Entreri shifted uncomfortably, not realizing he had left a chink in his mental walls until Kimmuriel viciously peeled them open. His head ached as Kimmuriel thumbed through his recent memories with as much gentleness as he’d rearranged his physical notes. The images flit across the back of Entreri’s eyelids in too-bright swaths of color, images of Menzoberranzan, of the barlgura, of Jarlaxle, Jarlaxle, Jarlaxle, of Tiago, of their last goodbye, and—
Kimmuriel scoffed. “You are more pathetic than I realized.”
He abruptly released Entreri, reality snapping back into focus. Entreri blinked and swayed in his chair, then doubled over to vomit on Kimmuriel’s shoes. Kimmuriel’s lip curled in disgust.
“Artemis?” Drizzt reached over to squeeze Entreri’s shoulder, but Entreri waved him back.
“Do that again,” Entreri growled, “and I will have your head in a jar.”
“I am certain you will try,” Kimmuriel said dispassionately, not the least intimidated. He eyed Dahlia and her glazed look. “I cannot guarantee I can fix her mind.”
“Try,” Entreri growled.
“The action itself would go a long way to gaining Jarlaxle’s forgiveness,” Drizzt cut in. “One act of service says you might expect something in turn. Two acts of service are a beginning of a pattern. The pattern is what would appeal to Jarlaxle.”
Kimmuriel looked Drizzt over, expressionless. After a long, tense moment, he nodded. “You have a point. Very well. Rivvil, make yourself useful for once, and carry her upstairs. I will need privacy.”
Entreri scowled, but a nudge from Drizzt told him to obey for now. Gently, Entreri gathered Dahlia up again and brought her to Kimmuriel’s room, where he laid her out on the bed. She whimpered and clung to him as he started to pull away.
“I am not going anywhere,” Entreri assured her, carefully prying her fingers off of his sleeve.
“Yes, you are,” Kimmuriel said primly as he swept into the room. “I said privacy.”
Entreri stiffened, remembering too clearly the ugly abuse she’d suffered alone at the hands of drow. His hand clenched around the hilt of his dagger at the thought of leaving her alone and helpless again.
Kimmuriel pulled up short, tilting his head, and Entreri realized Kimmuriel must have easily read what he was thinking.
“Revolting,” Kimmuriel scoffed. Entreri couldn’t tell if the comment was directed at him, at her, at Tiago, or at the mere suggestion that he would ever touch someone carnally. “Very well. Stand guard in the hall, then. This may take a while.”
Kimmuriel dismissed him with an irritated flick of his wrist, and, grudgingly, Entreri obeyed, leaving the room and closing the door behind him. In the hallway, Drizzt waited, toes tapping impatiently in his shoe, tension tightening his brow.
Entreri sighed, sliding to the floor with his back against the door. He could sleep for a week, but he knew he wasn’t done yet. “Go see your wife, Drizzt,” he said tiredly. “We don’t both need to stand watch.”
“Are you sure?” Drizzt asked, even as his shoulders sagged in relief.
“Yes, yes,” Entreri sighed. “Just… figure out what to do with the lizard, if you can.”
“She needs a name, you know.”
“She?”
Drizzt nodded.
“Um…” Entreri shrugged helplessly. “‘Liz’?”
Drizzt pursed his lips, one eyebrow quirking judgmentally. “Liz the Lizard?”
“You have a sword named Twinkle,” Entreri shot back.
Drizzt opened and closed his mouth, only to shrug and sigh, as tired as Entreri. “Liz, then.”
Drizzt held Catti-Brie against him as tightly as he dared, her belly round and swollen against his. He breathed deeply of her scent, lavender soap over something more earthy and alluring. She smelled like home and safety.
“Welcome back,” she whispered in his ear, sounding as exhausted and relieved as he felt.
Outside, a pair of dwarves argued over how to stable a giant lizard.
“Glad ye made it back!” Bruenor shouted, clapping Drizzt’s shoulder hard enough to rock him on his feet. “We had a pool going as ter whether or not Entreri would try ter kill ye.”
“Bruenor!” Drizzt scolded, loosening his hug around Catti-Brie to give her adoptive father a reproachful look. “He’s changed! We’ve talked about this!”
Bruenor held up his hands. “I said I was happy ye were back, aye? I was bettin’ he wouldn’t harm ye!”
“I wasn’t!” Regis sing-songed from across the room. Drizzt turned his disapproving look on Regis.
“Yes, where is Artemis, by the way?” Jarlaxle asked, stepping into view. He looked around the room hopefully while Drizzt’s tired brain caught up to the dissonance of seeing him there.
“Jar—?” Drizzt sputtered. “What—?”
“Ye aren’t the only one who’s been busy,” Catti-Brie said. “Ye know Gromph and I have been working on the old Host Tower’s portals… when ye left with Entreri, I pushed for us to establish a new one, in case ye needed us.”
“They simply needed a place to connect the portal to, which I was happy to provide,” Jarlaxle explained with a beaming smile. “Since the portal comes out in my quarters and since I have those same quarters heavily enchanted against spying, it bypasses the matrons’ wards. It is safe enough, as long as we don’t abuse it, and allows me to, effectively, be in two places at once.” Jarlaxle grinned. “Now. Where is Artemis?”
With his head back against the door, Entreri dozed with a hand on his dagger, exhaustion weighing down his limbs. He danced between dreams and awareness. Shadows on the wall became drow and demons, fighting in the distance. Flickering torchlight became the faerie fire of Narbondel. And the footsteps coming down the hall became the familiar tread of Jarlaxle’s boots.
A shadow passed closer, and Entreri pried his eyes open. Age-old instincts had him tightening his grip on his dagger as the figure sat next to him on the floor. Its silhouette became decidedly Jarlaxle-shaped, and Entreri blinked and rubbed his eyes to make sure he hadn’t slipped back into another dream.
“I swear to the hells,” Entreri said, voice gravelly with lack of sleep, “if you were able to teleport directly here from Menzoberranzan while Drizzt and I had to walk, I will need to punch something.”
Jarlaxle’s chuckle filled Entreri with a familiar warmth. “And here I thought ‘Liz the Lizard’ did most of the walking for you. Clever name, by the way.”
“Well, what would you have called her?”
“Eilizstraee, clearly.”
Entreri blinked, processing that. “Well, that is what Liz is short for. Obviously.”
“A boy would have been ‘Drizzard Do’Urden’.”
Entreri was tired enough not to hide a smile at that. Jarlaxle’s uncovered eye lit with warmth, focused on Entreri’s face.
“This is why I was always the brains of our partnership,” Jarlaxle said matter-of-factly.
Entreri hummed. “I certainly let you believe that.”
“You were the beauty, of course.”
Entreri smirked and shook his head. “And you came all this way to gaze upon it, did you?” he prompted.
Jarlaxle smiled and took Artemis’ hand in his, bringing it up to his lips to kiss the knuckles. His hands were sweaty and grimy from being confined to gloves for so long, but Jarlaxle did not seem to mind.
“Yes,” Jarlaxle said, “but I also said that we would talk later.”
Entreri flushed as the embarrassment of the truth potion rushed back to him. He cleared his throat. “We… do not need to… talk about it.”
“I do,” Jarlaxle said with a shrug, lacing their fingers together and resting their joined hands in his lap. Simple affections that Artemis had once been so used to. “I know there are words that do not come naturally to either of us, for varying reasons. You do not need to say them, mal’ai. I already know you feel them, whether I am worthy of it or not.”
Entreri felt tension coil in his shoulders again, that exposed, torn-open feeling returning.
Jarlaxle cleared his throat. “I can say the words, too, and mean them. But if you do not believe I mean them, there is not much point to them.”
Entreri smiled wryly, his expression shuttering. He was retreating inwards, Jarlaxle knew, and he squeezed Artemis’ hand to keep him grounded.
“But I do, you know,” Jarlaxle murmured. “I do love you, for whatever meaning that has, coming from a drow.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “And I will spend however many years necessary to make sure you believe I mean that.”
Entreri’s brow furrowed, his face twisting oddly as he looked away.
“Artemis?” Jarlaxle prompted, concerned.
“How in the hells am I supposed to respond to that, you ass?” Entreri hissed, voice thick and shaky with suppressed emotion. “Do I say, ‘Thank you’? Do I propose marriage? What exactly is the protocol here?”
“You say, ‘Ravish me, Jarlaxle, you stud’.”
Entreri shook his head and wiped a hand over his face, his laugh the breathless, pitched kind that came with a release of nerves.
“Unless you wish to save that for the wedding night,” Jarlaxle teased. “Just be warned, I will expect you to buy me a very expensive wedding dress. I have refined taste.”
“You used to walk around with a rainbow cloak and a ferret-headed cane, you troglodyte!”
Jarlaxle clucked his tongue. “I don’t expect you to understand fashion, mal’ai.”
“In fairness, I see that you are dressing more like a high-price escort instead of a common street whore now,” Artemis went on, eyeing Jarlaxle’s clothing. “So, congratulations on the promotion.”
“Either way, you would be marrying up,” Jarlaxle teased back. He laughed at Entreri’s offended look and pulled him into a kiss before the idiot could keep bickering.
Entreri rested his forehead against Jarlaxle’s when they pulled apart, some of the tension in the lines of his face easing. His eyes were still shadowed with exhaustion, but he looked younger and more at peace in that moment.
“Are you staying?” Artemis murmured. This close, Jarlaxle could see all the striations of color in Artemis’ pale gray eyes.
“Yes, and no.” Jarlaxle shrugged, sitting back to lean against the door. “I now have quick means of travel between Menzoberranzan and Luskan. I intend to divide my time between them for now.”
Entreri nodded.
“So, my dear mal’ai, I just have one question, and I hope it isn’t anything offensive but… why are we sitting on the floor in the middle of the hallway?”
As if on cue—and likely because he was listening—Kimmuriel opened the door behind them. Beyond him, the room was pitch dark, and he squinted into the torchlight of the hall, expression blank but shoulders tenser than Entreri had ever seen them.
The humor died on Jarlaxle’s face. He stared up at Kimmuriel, then cut a questioning glance at Entreri.
“Hello, Jarlaxle,” Kimmuriel greeted him stiffly. “I see you are well.”
Slowly, Jarlaxle rose to his feet, taking a moment to adjust his hat and brush off a speck of lint. “Kimmuriel,” he said, resting his wrist on the hilt of his sword. “You may not be soon, unless someone starts talking.”
“Kimmuriel told me about Dahlia,” Entreri said, not bothering to get up. He just shifted to lean back against the doorjamb. If the two drow needed to fight it out, he would let them. “He is currently treating her mind to fix the damage his mindflayer friend caused.”
Jarlaxle’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he help you?”
Entreri arched an eyebrow at Kimmuriel expectantly.
“It was… an attempt to correct certain actions,” Kimmuriel said uncomfortably.
Jarlaxle gave him a measuring look as he considered that. “You mean you regret the consequences of your actions.”
“Yes.”
“Pitiful,” Jarlaxle said sharply. “I would rather you have conviction.”
“You misunderstand,” Kimmuriel went on. “I do not regret the action. It was the right decision to protect Bregan D’aerthe at the time, and I think you will agree one day. But that does not mean I do not regret the toll such a decision took on you.”
Jarlaxle tilted his head. “On me?”
“Yes.” Kimmuriel sighed. “I have had my shares of matrons and patrons, but you were always fairer and more loyal than most. I did not enjoy repaying that with betrayal.”
“Twice,” Jarlaxle reminded him.
“Both times in the interest of Bregan D’aerthe.”
“Both times in your own interest,” Jarlaxle corrected.
“They are not mutually exclusive,” Kimmuriel admitted. “You are angry due to personal wrongs that have been wrought against you, but you know I have only ever been an asset to Bregan D’aerthe.”
Jarlaxle’s lips pressed thin. Entreri watched his frustrations play out across his face. Kimmuriel had acted as drow were expected to act. That Jarlaxle had expected differently said much about the influence of the surface on him. That Kimmuriel was attempting to make amends said much about the influence of Jarlaxle on him.
“And this is an overture to be allowed return to Bregan D’aerthe, I take it,” Jarlaxle said, to which Kimmuriel nodded.
“I will not deny that,” Kimmuriel said. “But if not, I hope it will at least begin to mend the ill will between us.”
Jarlaxle’s smile was brittle and unfriendly. “Better, perhaps, to know where you are than send you away again. I promised you once that I would kill you for what you did.”
“I know,” Kimmuriel answered without flinching.
“Perhaps I will leave that to Archmage Gromph.”
Kimmuriel’s eyes widened slightly, the closest look to true fear Entreri had ever seen on the psionicist’s face.
“Oh yes,” Jarlaxle said, still with that unfriendly smile. “I know all about what you did. Gromph has made it clear that he wants your head, and after the havoc the Abyssal portal the two of you summoned has wreaked, I am inclined to give it to him.”
“There were… other factors at play,” Kimmuriel responded stiffly. “It was no more my intention than Gromph’s.”
Jarlaxle hummed. “And you are hoping now that, as long as you are useful, I will protect you from his wrath.”
Kimmuriel did not bother denying that either.
“There is only so much protection I can give,” Jarlaxle warned him, and Entreri knew that Jarlaxle had made up his mind.
“I know,” Kimmuriel assured him. The easing of tension in his shoulders said he knew too.
“But betray Artemis or myself again, and I will hand deliver you to Gromph myself,” Jarlaxle warned. “I will make my decision once you have healed Dahlia.”
Kimmuriel bowed his head respectfully and disappeared back into the room with Dahlia, closing the door behind him.
“I would have killed him,” Entreri said matter-of-factly.
“I am surprised you didn’t,” Jarlaxle drawled. “And I may still do so. But he has not outlived his usefulness quite yet.” Jarlaxle held out a hand to Entreri, a soft smile on his face. “Come. He will guard Dahlia with his life now that his livelihood is at stake. You need rest.”
Entreri hesitated but eventually nodded, taking Jarlaxle’s hand and letting himself be pulled to his feet. “I wonder if the owner of this establishment can cut us a good deal on a room,” he teased.
Jarlaxle smirked. “For you? He would even open up his personal chambers. You might have to put out, though.”
Entreri chuffed and shook his head, allowing Jarlaxle to lead him to the sprawling suite the next floor up. They locked the door and did not leave until well into the next afternoon.
Beniago paused in the bath’s doorway, eyes alighting on a familiar shape, tucked under the stool where he had last seen it. He snatched up Agatha’s Mask, his body sagging with relief even as he berated himself for not seeing it earlier. He could have sworn he had checked every inch of this room when he had thought it lost.
“Must be the stress getting to me,” he said with a soft chuckle. He slid the mask onto his face, and his human appearance replaced his drow self. He looked in the mirror at his fair skin and red hair and felt, oddly, more like himself.
Thank the gods he had found it before Jarlaxle had been the wiser, or there would have been hells to pay.
A week later, Entreri walked into the tavern to peals of laughter. The Companions of the Hall had clustered a few tables together, sitting and drinking as they listened raptly to Jarlaxle, who was soaking up the attention. Entreri knew he shouldn’t have left the peacock unattended.
“…and then he looks at me and says, ‘The ring isn’t on my hand…’”
He definitely shouldn’t have left the drow unattended. The heat rushed to Entreri’s face, eyes popping wide when he realized which story Jarlaxle was in the middle of telling, to riotous laughter. Even Dahlia, still mostly withdrawn and flinching after her torment but now fully cognizant of her surroundings, was snicker-snorting into her hand.
“Really?” Entreri said, pinning Jarlaxle with a thunderous glare that only earned them both more snickering.
Jarlaxle froze, then looked up at him with a sheepish smile. “Come now, mal’ai. It’s a delightful story! I had to share it!”
“You did not.”
“I still don’t understand,” Drizzt whispered to Catti-Brie, who was wiping away tears of laughter. “Where else would the ring be?”
Catti-Brie gave her husband a pitying look and whispered in his ear. His eyes widened, his gaze snapping to stare up at Entreri, then down at his crotch.
“You see?” Entreri deadpanned at Jarlaxle, gesturing at Drizzt. “You have ruined his innocence.”
“And here I thought I had already done that,” Catti-Brie said with a smirk.
“Clearly not thoroughly enough,” Entreri drawled, earning him a punch in the thigh from Bruenor. Entreri tensed, hand flinching for his dagger before he replaced the impulse with a scowl at Bruenor.
“That’s me daughter yer talkin’ about!” Bruenor growled, pointing a warning finger Entreri’s way.
“Yes, and she is quite pregnant,” Entreri answered flatly. “I am certain I do not need to explain how that happens.”
“Ye might,” Catti-Brie said around a laugh, distracting Bruenor from losing his blustering temper. “It may surprise ye to know that I’m adopted, and he don’t have kids of his own. Maybe it’s time one of us had the talk with me da.”
This time it was Bruenor sputtering and the rest of the table laughing. Jarlaxle was still chuckling as he stood up to join Entreri.
“Do you see what you started?” Entreri mock scolded.
“An atmosphere of laughter and good spirits?” Jarlaxle replied, grinning. He nudged Entreri’s shoulder with his.
“You are a menace,” Entreri sighed.
“Why don’t you tell us a story then, if you have such strong opinions?”
Entreri considered that as Jarlaxle kissed his cheek and went to get a refill of his wine and a glass of whiskey for Entreri. Entreri took Jarlaxle’s seat, while the others looked at him expectantly.
“If that is the tone of his storytelling,” Entreri said, eyes glittering with wicked amusement, “then allow me to tell you a story about how Jarlaxle thought he might spice things up with his diatryma feather…”