Title: Phlith Uns'aa (Hate Me)
Chapter: 1-- Darkness Descends
Fandom: Forgotten Realms
Disclaimer: I do not own Forgotten Realms or any characters, lands, or items from the TSR world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Archive: Yes, but please tell me where.
Rating: R (I hope)
Warnings: Slash, violence, violent rape, damaged people behaving in dysfunctional ways. If you're reading this because you enjoyed "Run," you'll probably hate it. This is NOT part of the "Run" universe
Summary: An AU that begins when Drizzt is captured and tortured in the Baenre complex during Starless Night. How far will Dantrag Baenre go to make sure Drizzt lives to fight him, and how far will another go to save him?
Notes: I like dark-vision as heat-vision, so it's written that way.
"Guuan phor!" For a moment the words made no sense, and then understanding came to him. The words were drow; a demand that he wake. The slap to his face stung. It was hard enough to snap his head back, smacking the rough stone of the wall behind him. Neither discomfort , however, was more than a vague footnote to the agony coursing through his chained and tortured body. He hung limp from his wrists, metal links that ended in a bracket on the wall above his head supporting his weight.
"Guuan phor!" The command was repeated, and the blow fell on the other side of his face this time. With effort, he opened his eyes, showing a sliver of lavender no wider than the thickness of a thumbnail.
Utter blackness met his gaze, though he could hear movement around him, two figures, in the dark. And then he began to remember. Menzoberanzan. The Baenre complex. He almost laughed at himself. What a fool he had been; leaving his friends, his life, to come here. It had been the deepest hubris, to think that the forces of the darkelf city had been mobilized to recapture him, a lone renegade; that if he surrendered himself they would no longer have interest in conquering the rich dwarven mines.
With effort, he shifted his perception of the chamber. The blackness disappeared, and the Baenre torture room sprang into existence, the patterns of heat giving form and shape to the stone walls, the chains, the table laden with devices of torment, and most of all, the features of the two drow before him.
Through the haze of pain-born confusion, he could see the dark elf's anger rising from his skin in visible waves of heat; staining his cheeks, his eyes, bright with unrestrained hatred.
"Spiders take you!" he hissed as Drizzt's head lolled to the side, too heavy to hold up any longer. Hard fingers caught him under the jaw, tilting his face upwards again. Fingers worked at the joint of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. A potion so bitter that it burned was poured past lips torn by his own teeth during the earlier tortures. A shiver swept through his lean form as the Llolth-gifted healing invaded his system, mending torn skin, bruised muscles, aching joints, cracked ribs.
"I know what you tried to do," the drow before him continued, his tone calmer, but his skin still hot with the power of his emotions. "You tried to rob me of tomorrow's victory over you in battle, by tricking my sister into killing you tonight."
Drizzt flicked his tongue over the parched skin of his lips. He wondered if the drow was mad. "I do not know you." His own voice was rougher than he remembered, despite the potion of healing he had swallowed. "I have no cause to rob you or to fight you, and much cause to wish for the quickest death I can find." Lavender eyes met those of his assailant without fear or anger.
The other drow's lips pulled back from his teeth. It was not a smile. "I am Dantrag Baenre; Elderboy and Weapon-master of house Baenre. I am the best fighter to never cross swords with Zaknafein Do'Urden. Tomorrow, I will fight you, his prodigy, and silence forever the voices that say I am only the best because Zaknafein is dead."
Perhaps it was the lingering effect of some spell the priestesses of Llolth had cast upon him. Perhaps, after all that they had done to him this day, he no longer had the energy with which to form a lie. Thin lips twisted into the saddest of smiles. "I pity you, Dantrag Baenre." His tone was gentle. "I pity you that you have so little sense of self that you must fight a ghost to have others tell you that you have value."
Dantrag's hand struck with the speed of a snake, palm striking the bottom of Drizzt's jaw, forcing his teeth closed, his head back hard against the wall. He held him there, helpless.
"Pity?" the weapon-master hissed, spit flying from his lips. "You pity me?" His nails dug into the skin of Drizzt's cheek. He pressed the other hand against Drizzt's throat, pushing him firm against the wall. Rough stone scraped against his naked shoulder-blades, though that discomfort fled a moment later, replaced by the all-encompassing pain of Dantrag's knee coming up between Drizzt's legs with all of the warrior's strength. His stomach tried to expel whatever remained of his last meal, and the agony was too intense for him to even cry out.
"I don't want your pity, I want your hate!" Dantrag stepped back and watched as his prisoner gasped and writhed in his chains, trying to curl into a fetal position while held upright.
"I do not hate you." Drizzt's voice was once again reduced to a hoarse whisper.
"You will," Dantrag promised him. "You will."
"No! It's faded again..." Catti-brie stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, and Artemis almost ran into her. With her attention more on the locket in her hands than the hallways in front of her, she made a slow circle, trying to find her friend with the magical talisman. The hallways and chambers beneath the Baenre complex were as convoluted as a maze.
An unfamiliar tension twisted in his guts as he bit back his frustrated curse and just waited for her to find her way again. After what felt like ages, she turned back the way they had come. "This way." She sounded less sure than she had the last time they altered course, and a part of him began to despair.
Some times it feels I have spent half of my life searching for this cursed ranger, he thought. The idea brought him no comfort at all.