As the Heart Sees Fit
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By: Selinthia Avenchesca
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The city of Menzoberranzan was a mirror to its highest mistress, the Spider Queen, Lloth. A dark, deadly web of ruthless intrigue and treachery. A beautiful, seductive lure that called with an insidious siren's voice, where there was no sea. Looking out over a balcony from the noble Ninth House of Do'Urden, the weapon master, Zaknafein, reflected upon the vista spread out in flickering patterns of multi-coloured heat. As he had thousands of times prior, he turned his back on the city, walked contemplatively with a long, graceful hunter's step, back into the training gymnasium. Here he could practice and fight, more against himself than anything, it seemed, over the years. However, this night the battle had been, physically, at least, against another. Standing there, in the center of the dark walled chamber, he remembered the furious battle. Of equals, as it had never been for him. A battle against Drizzt Do'Urden, Zaknafein's son.

A tiny, wistful smile lit the weapon master's grim, angular features, brightening their hard overtones for a moment.

Drizzt.

So very strong the young drow was. In the end, they had defeated each other, not with weapons of steel, but with words of truth. In the end, they had both won, from the strength of love.

Love. Zaknafein's crimson eyes narrowed in a combination of emotions that almost resulted in total confusion. Never before had he known that emotion, that bond, that strength of caring. The smile re-appeared this time in earnest as his heart lifted. To care, it was said, was a weakness. But Zaknafein did not care for that sentiment. Feeling more light-hearted than he had in years, the elven warrior sighed in satisfaction. The, suddenly, he wondered, 'What now?'

With everything the night had seen, his instinctive urge was to sleep, to renew his strength. But the pent up energy that danced in his being was so very distracting. Still, he should rest. Shrugging his shoulders, which were clad in drow mesh mail, a simple black tunic, and his piwafwi, Zaknafein turned, walking towards his private chamber stepping lightly on feet sheathed in magic drow boots. It did not take him long to reach the room. One of his long-fingered, ebony-skinned hands reached out for the doorknob. But something stopped him. Though the motion was a simple action that took but a moment, in that moment of reaching, something . . .something warned him. Though seemingly groundless to some, Zaknafein knew not to ignore his feelings, his intuitions. Taking a step back, he gazed at the stone door with steady eyes. Perhaps he should do otherwise. Perhaps he should postpone sleep for a while. Following a feeling, he turned, strode across the room, and exited the chambers altogether, entering the larger domain of House Do'Urden, leaving his private world.

* * *

One step, two steps, three steps. The dark alleys stretched ahead of him in a pattern he had been long absent to. This city that was the only All he knew. Beyond there were others, to be sure. There were other cities; there was the whole of the Underdark. Then, in a thought made reluctant, in a flash of contemplative remembrance he knew the surface came next on that list. And beyond that, there were other worlds, and other planes of existence. But all these things were, for the most part, beyond his concern. This city, the here and now was. This, he knew. Smooth steps upon stone streets, dancing upon a single strand of a tiny/vast spider's web. He almost did not know how he'd ended up where he was. He was beyond the gates of the compound, beyond Malice's rulership, in theory. The feeling, the instant, had alerted him, and in a moment of trust that was so very rare, even to himself, he had followed it. One step, the silent launching of a foot, two steps, the next movement, three steps, an adding of motion that simply went on . . .

* * *

Three sisters rode on the wings of ultimate silence, their magic wrapped about them. Their expressions were, on the surface, the arrogant masks of Lloth's high priestesses. But to assume that was all there was to them would have been a move of superficial stereotyping on any observer's part.

The eldest of the three was a stocky female with a cruel expression of smug self-centeredness. The sadistic heart that held rule within her delighted in doling out pain and punishment, whether earned or not. Her name was Briza.

The youngest daughter was handsome of feature, small and slender, wearing, as were the other two, the dark robes typical of Lloth's clerics. A passive, blank expression dominated her face. Though ambitious, she was timid, and lacked any true presence. She was clearly the weakest of the three. Her name was Maya.

The third, the middle daughter, was as small and slender as the youngest, possessing a quiet beauty. Though as ambitious as the next, this one retained within her a node of selfless compassion that even she did not fully understand. A quiet strength surrounded her. Her name was Vierna.

Moving quickly, furtively, constant worry permeating the air, each evaluated over something. At last, they reached the door, Stepping to it, they gazed forward, fatefully so, it seemed. The, Briza opened the door. They filed in the small dark chamber eyes lighting about. A cry of anger arose. The room was empty. In that moment, Vierna's near unconscious flicker of relief remained unnoticed.

* * *

"So," Matron Malice Do'Urden pronounced in slow, unreadable tones. "They are both gone." Briza nodded her confidence taken down a few notches in the face of her mother's malicious, powerful presence. "But surely they will return soon," she put in. Malice's eyes snapped in a sudden revelation of rage. "That is not what we need! We need one or the other! Not both! Both are not ideal. Or rather, too ideal."

Briza reflected that Malice seemed to be speaking not so much as to this night in particular, as in circumstances in general. And, in truth, Briza agreed. Both of those highly dangerous males, allied, was not ideal at all. Though Briza's arrogance bordered on supreme, she was not blinded by in terms of common sense. She knew what would result of things.

"We will wait for them," Malice said flatly.

There was a general shifting about, but no one dared voice their fears that waiting, on this night of impending war was, perhaps, more than they could afford.

* * *

Somehow, he ended up in the centre. Or rather, what must be considered the centre, though the measurements were greatly out of proportion. Narbondel. The time clock pillar of Menzoberranzan. Eyes caressing the heated pillar of stone that, no matter the fire, always seemed cold in reflection, Zaknafein was struck by a sensation akin to a pail of water being tossed in his face. It was a shuddering sensation of detached cold. Shivering in the ever-present warmth of the Underdark, Zaknafein pulled his cloak tighter about him as he looked up at the spike of rough, jagged stone. Why had he come here? He wondered. And was left with no answer. He generally was not given to such indecisive wandering. For him, order was a purpose. Where he went, what he said, it all had a goal. But now. Now he did not know. Everything still had a purpose, to be sure. But just what was it?

How much time had gone by? He did not know.

* * *

Matron Malice Do'Urden shifted impatiently in her high throne of black stone and velvet. She had come to a decision. The hasty choice of earlier this night was banished. Now that she had time to think things over, she was actually satisfied, though she would never admit it, that both Drizzt and Zaknafein had left the house this night. Had unwittingly changed things. Had removed a sentence of death.

In a moment of rash hate, she had decided to sacrifice Zaknafein to Lloth for Drizzt crimes. Not that Zaknafein himself did not deserve execution dozens of times over, but that was besides the immediate point.

Now that she was given the opportunity to reflect upon this, Malice realized that she had let her emotions over ride her better judgement. Drizzt was obviously out of control. He had already angered the Spider Queen, and his persona and behavior suggested that one incident would hardly end things. Besides that, this was not his first indescrepency, so the point was proven before even tested.

Though Zaknafein was hardly what you would call the model drow, he had the motivation to at least cooperate with Malice's directives, with Menzoberranzan's rules. His hate prompted him, in some way, to remain, as much as anything. His rage and hate were better chains than any threats.

If she were to have gone through with her original plan, Drizzt would almost certainly have reacted with emotional upset which would propel him to. . .foolishness. It was best, Malice decided, to discard her original plan, and sacrifice Drizzt.

* * *

Drizzt Do'Urden slipped wearily through the city, towards the stone castle that was his home. 'Or rather,' he thought, 'the place where I live. Home does not seem to be any place.' Yet, things did not seem to be as grim as he would have thought just some hours before. The reassuring shape of the panther figurine, the summoner of his panther friend Guenhwyvar, rested within his pocket. Tonight, he had freed Guenhwyvar from Masoj Hun'ett's slavery. And tonight, he had rediscovered friend, a mentor, and -he had found-father, Zaknafein. Those friends were surely enough to make life bearable. Still, Menzoberranzan was not of him, and no matter, he could not find his peace, not here.

* * *

Zaknafein Do'Urden strode gracefully across the courtyard of the Do'Urden compound, eyes subtly taking in the sights about him with a caution near to paranoia. It was that caution that had kept him alive for more than four centuries, and so, rightfully, he was making no to change it. In the infravision, he saw and observed the numerous soldiers guarding the compound. Their position then was well known to him anyhow, as it was he who led and directed them. However, it never did well to become complacent.

* * *

Drizzt was nearly shaking with excitement. In truth, he should not have been. The thoughts that he contemplated were enough to have him painfully executed. And with nervous, mind reading high priestesses so near all around, it was truly a danger. But the thoughts paid no heed to such logic. Drizzt wanted to leave. Not just the compound, but the city. Not just for a moment, but forever. And he was going to. If only he could convince his father to come with him.

His father. It was still a strange thought, still foreign, though so very welcome, that the one that had sired him was a friend of like-mind. But he was not at all sure that Zaknafein would leave, would even consider doing so. The weapon master had long centuries in which to do such a thing, and yet he never had. He had remained in the city of Menzoberranzan, amongst the people he hated with such lethal passion. Drizzt could not suppress a shudder as he thought of that hatred, of the killing-of his own people! -That was Zaknafein's life. Drizzt only hoped he could change that.

* * *

Zaknafein entered the training gym with quick, brisk steps, approaching his private chamber. He needed rest. As his long fingered hand brushed the doorknob he half-expected the danger sense he had experienced last time. But there was nothing. Relieved, Zaknafein entered and shut the door. He did not bother to change clothes before he lay down pensively, and waited for sleep to claim him.

* * *

As soon as Drizzt set foot down on the second level, his sisters materialized. Silently, quietly, suddenly. Briza regarded him maliciously, and Maya gazed with a sort of indifferent aloofness, while Vierna's eyes stonily drilled into him. Something was most definitely wrong.

"What is it?" he near demanded.

Briza narrowed her eyes and jerked her head to the side. Vierna and Maya fell into positions flanking Drizzt. His muscles tensed in reflective defensiveness, before he forced himself to relax.

"Matron Malice would see you now," Briza icily stated.

"Now?" Drizzt echoed.

"Now," she confirmed in a voice that allowed for no argument.

* * *

Matron Malice had paralyzed him with a single spell, which she had readied beforehand, speaking the last, activating word only as he entered. Now he lay strapped to the sacrificial altar. She had, humorous to her mind, he was sure, deactivated the spell once he was bound. Now, she stared down at him, her glaring eyes oddly curious. The crackled, or seemed to, as she held up a single, slender finger and spoke an arcane word. He stifled a chock of pain, as her finger erupted in brilliant, magical light no less than an inch from his sensitive eyes.

"No light," she whispered.

Drizzt eyes narrowed his lavender orbs glinting in confusion and puzzlement.

Then, Malice reached back for the sacrificial dagger. Drizzt only had a moment. Concentrating, he called in a low whisper, hoping that the other elves would ignore it as but a last plea. As it would be, if it did not work.

"Guenhwyvar."

The mist formed with gratifying quickness, and agonizingly slow movement.

Malice lifted the dagger then, holding it up to strike . . .

And stopped, jerking her eyes elsewhere as the doors of the chapel anteroom slammed open. At least, in the deathly stillness and quiet, it seemed a slam.

Zaknafein, entering, stopped short as he took in the scene. And instant later, both Zaknafein and the suddenly materialized Guenhwyvar leaped forward in rage. Malice plunged down with the dagger. Before it could even come close to hitting home, she was toppled over by both warriors, panther and drow alike. The dagger went flying out of her hand, clanging to the floor with the sharp click of metal smacking stone. Guenhwyvar jumped back a moment later, however, to swipe her forepaws across the bindings holding Drizzt to the altar. Gratefully, Drizzt jumped up. Dinin had rushed forward to restrain him, alongside Maya. Drizzt slammed his boot heel into Dinin's head, knocking him backwards. Maya's whip was out now, swinging at Drizzt. Drizzt, without the scimitars, which had been confiscated upon his entry, jumped down to the side of the altar, to the floor, avoiding the hit.

Zaknafein's crimson eyes burned with unthinking rage as he slammed Malice back against the wall. This was the point of no return, but he was not considering that. He was not considering anything, even as she screamed his name out in the midst of a threat. Even as his sword plunged into her heart. Eyes wide, she slid down to the floor, her lips still moving, in silence. And then, the glinting, frantic light in the eyes of Malice Do'Urden Matron of the Ninth House of Menzoberranzan, extinguished forever.

Drizzt slammed away his attackers as he made his way to the small table on which his scimitars had been placed. Kicking, punching, tripping his opponents down, frantically avoiding daggers and whips as Guenhwyvar, once more at his side, aided him. Finally, as though across a near-endless plane, he was there. The sheathed weapons, resting unremarkably upon the table's polished surface, called to him like talismans. Drizzt grasped them, buckled on the belt in a lightening quick movement. A moment later, the familiar, comfortably balanced weight of his twin blades rested in his hands, so fitting as to be extensions of his very arms.

Rage cleared to a low simmer as Zaknafein gazed upon Malice's corpse and shock crept into his senses. This was unreal. It had such a surreal, unheard of quality to it. His eyes roamed over her hated face in a sort of morbid fascination. Oh yes, he had hated her, without a doubt. Hated her with a passion. But it had been a comfortable hate. It had been a part of him for so long he had forgotten how not to live with it. They had played their jibbing game over the long centuries, when at times the only certainty had been their hatred for each other. And now that was gone. She was gone. Her form lay at his feet, the eyes soulless in a manner unlike any other. He had known death all his life. Why should this death be any different? But it was, and he knew it.

He was left no more time for reflection, then as he noted the stealthy approach of Malice's three daughters, stepping forward with whips bared and revenge in their eyes. Spinning about with lightening quickness, he launched himself forward, swords extended. The priestesses split apart in quick reaction. Briza was directly in front of him, her arm cocked to launch her whip. Still in the air, Zaknafein sheathed his blades, and drew a dagger. Snaking his arm through the whips coils, taking hits, but driving his dagger home. Briza gurgled, as her throat was slit open. The painful whip hits Zaknafein stoically ignored as the whip fell from Briza's hand and became inanimate. Quickly, he stabbed her through the heart, to assure death. Her breathing ceased altogether then.

* * *

Vierna Do'Urden gazed with narrowed eyes at the chaos all about the room, chaos which her brother and father had caused. The priestess shook her head sharply at the manner in which she had referred to Zaknafein, if only in her thoughts. There was no place for such thought. He was a murdered, a heretic. He needed to die. As did Drizzt, Vierna noted.

All relief she might have felt tonight when it had been found that both males had left the house, was lost now in the desire for revenge. Suddenly, it hit her that not only were Malice and Briza were dead, but that she was now Matron Mother. She held Maya back with a gesture as they beheld Drizzt and Zaknafein escape, along with the huge black panther that had devastatingly appeared.

Dinin approached Vierna then.

"What do we do now?" he rasped, angry and frightened, and with good reason. This was a disaster. That was surely an understatement.

"We must ready our mother and sister for entombment. Then, we shall deal with this problem, once and for all." Vierna's voice was a composition of ice, in resolve.

Dinin, who had been distracted by the general chaos, looked in shock upon the bodies of his mother and eldest sister. Those priestesses, those tyrants, He had known their rule his entire life. Briza, with her brutal temper and quick whip. And Malice, cunning and malicious, ruthless and ambitious. It was unbelievable that their forms were no more than lifeless husks of useless flesh upon the floor.

"Who killed them?" he questioned. But really, he already knew.

Vierna's eyes narrowed, glinted in anger and vengeance as she hissed in a low, deathly voice. "Zaknafein!"

Dinin nodded in confirmation of his suspicions as he gazed into Malice's dead eyes, and then glanced once more into Vierna's glowing orbs, which were divided between rage, and something else.

* * *

They raced forward, down the corridors all three knew so well. And though they knew, in their hearts, that there was no pursuit in truth they ran from no foe of flesh. They ran in the freedom they had claimed for themselves lying to outrun the taint of Menzoberranzan's memory. It could not be done. For they, the memories would always be. All they could hope for now was to live their lives from that point on, as their hearts saw fit.

* * *

Part 2
~~~~~~

They had stopped in a small, rough natural chamber, which they carefully searched for inhabitants, before wearily settling back against the stone wall. The rough pattern was discernable even through clothes and armor. The curved, tiny patterns, the reaching of the stone. They were no deep gnomes, had no real affinity for the stone, but in the silence of the chamber, leaning against that wall with their eyes closed against the world, the stone suddenly seemed intense, seemed the most real feature of things at the moment to the elves, as the cat, sprawled at the younger drow's side, looked on with silent knowing.

To Zaknafein, this was a strange, indescribable feeling about it. Earlier, as he had lay upon his bed, waiting for sleep to claim him, it had refused to do so. Though by that time, he was weary indeed, sleep had refused to relieve him of that burden. Frustrated, he had risen, had walked out, had somehow found himself at the chapel ante-room, had opened the door, had saw the sight before him, and the rest, as they say, was history.

And now, his only feeling was no feeling. Zaknafein did not know what to make of things, now, at this moment. This would soon change, of course, but at that moment, there was nothing but emptiness.

To Drizzt, this night had been both horrifying and exhilarating. More changes to his life had taken place in that one night than any other.

Zaknafein, his sharp ears listening for any signal of other beings that may be about, even as he sat in a half-doze, detected a slight shifting from his son. Opening his eyes, gazing at the younger drow, the weapon master reflected that it was strange in a way. You never knew when the day had come when everything would change. You never knew when a seemingly routine day would be the one that would alter your existence.

Drizzt glanced away from Zaknafein, and looked at Guenhwyvar, as the cat looked on them both. The young elf's hand absently dropped to the panther's flank began to pet the cat in long, smooth strokes. Guenhwyvar stretched luxuriously purred deep in her throat. Zaknafein spoke then, breaking the spell of silence that seemingly held sway.

"So this is the cat?"

Drizzt looked up at him and grinned.

"Yes. Guenhwyvar is her name."

Zaknafein nodded.

"She saved your life. A worthy -and formidable-companion."

Drizzt smiled, but it soon faded into a more serious expression.

"You saved my life tonight, as well. Thank you." His voice seemed filled with some emotion neither could define. Zaknafein eyed the other, somewhat at a loss for a response. He was not used to being thanked, and it seemed to him, somewhat awkward. Still, he felt he should make some response, and so nodded, and said, "It's fine."

Silence descended once more. Though they had known one another for years, always it had been a relationship on the level of teacher/student. Now they were closer to equals in some manners and both simply did not seem to know what to do with it. Zaknafein broke the silence again, briefly, saying, "Get some sleep. I'll take watch."

Drizzt started then, realizing that statement said more about their predicament then anything so far. It clarified things. Their life from that point on would be watching, would be fighting off a stream of Underdark enemies. Though Menzoberranzan presented such in plenty, it was far different that the wilds, as the wilds were . . .just that. Wild.

"Okay. If you don't mind, that is."

"I don't mind," Zaknafein responded.

Drizzt nodded and reached in his pouch for the figurine.

"Go back, Guenhwyvar."

Both Drizzt and Zaknafein watched intently as Guenhwyvar paced, dissolving into mist.

A few minutes later, Drizzt, exhausted despite himself, fell asleep, his head leaning forward, back still against the wall, as Zaknafein gazed forward with glowing crimson eyes, into the darkness.

Part 3
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Matron Vierna Do'Urden carefully resisted the impulse to squirm under the stern eyes of Matron Yvonel Baenre. Vierna had been called to House Baenre after a long, torturous period of three days, during which the Do'Urden's, Noble and commoner alike, devoted tremendous energy to biting their fingernails, pacing, and nervously checking their defenses. By the end of those three days and the appearance of the summons, they could have been on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Now, Vierna stood before Matron Baenre, trying to hide her nervousness, feeling a veritable child in contrast to the uncrowned Queen of the City.

"It is a tragic thing that has struck your House. The loss of the Matron and her principle heiress," Baenre's voice spoke with eloquent false sorrow, not without a certain amount of dryness. Every House had its quirks, for the most part. Hose Do'Urden had contained the unique problem of it's weapon master, at once very useful and very blasphemous. Matron Malice always seemed to deem him useful enough that keeping him alive was worth it. However, in recent years there came the additional problem of House Do'Urden's youngest scion, Drizzt, who seemed to share Zaknafein's singularly delightful belief's, which singularly condemned the drow race's most holy deity and Dark Mother, the Spider Queen Lloth.

The last couple of present days had been . . .trying. Both weapon master and scion had made their rather dramatic exit from Menzoberranzian society, which had resulted, during said drama, in the death of Matron Malice and her eldest offspring, Briza, leaving Vierna as standing Matron Mother of House Do'Urden.

"However,' Baenre continued, the Council has decreed that you, Vierna Do'Urden, are sound for the position of Matron Mother of your House. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Matron Baenre," Vierna spoke with quiet dignity, barely betraying the nervousness she held within her at that moment.

"Perhaps you are wondering what our opinions are upon the matter of your escapes`?"

Indeed, Vierna most certainly was wondering.

"Though under any other circumstances, the apprehension and execution of the drow in question would be our immediate order, Lloth has decreed that your House is the first matter to be tend to. The criminals will surely die in the Wilds, anyhow."

Vierna was at once relieved, shocked, and doubtful. Relieved that she would be able to tend to her House without distraction, shocked that Lloth would allow, much less decree such a thing, and doubtful that two such superb warriors as Zaknafein and Drizzt would not survive. However, this did not seem the prudent time to say that.

"You are perhaps wondering how this decree came about?" Baenre rhetorically questioned, continuing without waiting for an answer.

"Call it an experiment. The one who has allowed for such foolishness as heretical beliefs to flourish in her House, in her very family, is dead. You are now given the chance to redeem your family name under your own work. And, it will be difficult, I assure you. However, obligations in regards to the criminals are suspended. Perhaps at some later time, if the Wilds have not yet devoured them, you will be called upon to deliver them to Lloth. Not now, however. It is not often, Vierna Do'Urden, that such a reprieve is extended. Take care not to abuse it."

The unspoken "or you will regret it," was heard loud and clear.

"I understand, Matron Baenre."

"I think you do, Matron Vierna. I think you do."

* * *

And some where in the wilds, two drow warriors and a black panther stalked with graceful hunter's strides along to stony corridors, unaware of the repreive that had unwittingly extended to them, as well.

* * *

END