Doused Fire
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Selinthia Avenchesca
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zelna@sprint.ca
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He was old.

His friends were dead, were gone, his happiness, his life force, was wading around at the bottom of some pool in his soul, hardly spared a glance. He had known adventure, has known excitement, had known pain, had known anger, and grief, and hate, and love, and so many other things that were now so long faded and gone.

The only part of his past that remained was the figurine that summoned the cat, and the two blades that were strapped around his slender waist. He had not used them now in roughly two years, hardly any time at all in comparison to span of his life. But that was not the point. The point was, his passion, his fire, his life, was gone. There was nothing left save a heartbeat, a pulse, and that meant nothing if there was no pulse of spirit to direct it. The spirit was dead, or so far gone that it hardly mattered. He kept waiting, and wondering, and hoping that something, someone, would happen along his path to revive him, to revive purpose in his life.

He wondered at time if this was how those he had know, who had been approaching life's end, had felt. If they too, had felt the life slowly being drained away from their spirit, before the emptiness went to work upon their bodies. But he did not know. They were no longer around for him to ask them.

Six and a half centuries. Never had he thought that he would live this long, though never had he thought that he would not, either. In the manner of the young, he had felt, without actually thinking it, that his life would last forever.

Shaking his head, Drizzt Do'Urden turned away from the spanning pond that he stood by the edge of, and waited for the end to come.

end