The Lesser Evil

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: The following story is rated R for strong violence and some sexuality. This is my first fan-fic, so please be easy on me. Constructive reviews gladly welcomed.


I am nothing like my kin.

That is a statement I can now make with neither apprehension, nor regrets.

It has taken my entire life to say this openly, seventy-seven years of personal horror, self-dissection, and the overwhelming guilt I have always felt simply for my black skin and all the responsibility and connotations that have come with it since the day of my birth. Drow are evil: period. This fact was pounded into my skull every minute of my life by both the denizens of Menzoberranzan in deed and the people of the surface by reputation. No matter how many "good" things I did, no matter how many lives I saved, or how many villains fell under my blades, I was a drow and by default an evil, treacherous monster. Even in those many, many years when I took the role as protector of the goodly folk, I still felt undeserving of the admiration and praise I received simply because I was a drow and therefore naturally wicked no matter what my actions were. When even the most "heroic" renegade of dark elf kind hears from the first second of his recollection that he is a monster, he begins to believe it. My life's work was to be a goodly person who fought villainy and defended the innocent, yet I always felt the pull of my blood towards the actions and reputations more fitting a vile son of Menzoberranzan than a denizen of the surface. So was the grating series of contradictions that was my existence: I was a good person wearing heinous flesh, though I should have been plainly heinous.

Not any more

It has only been in the past few years of personal torture and reflection that I have finally accepted what I am. I have watched my world crumble and have sifted through the remains of all that I once held dear, and in this agony, I have raised a new man who I barely recognize, yet enjoy more than ever. Those around me now have described my rebirth as both a triumph and a tragedy, depending on the individual, though I more agree with the former. Above all, my metamorphosis has led me to one, impenetrable conclusion: my flesh is my flesh, nothing more. The only things for which I can be held accountable are my actions, good and ill. I am not the self-righteous, slave to Lolth who destroys all underneath him in some remote hope that he might please his Matron Mother and not die a horrible death by her hands someday. I am my own master who decides my own fate and lives his life by honor and not fruitless treachery. I am drow, but I am nothing like my kin.

It is in this realization that I have come to enjoy the flesh that I have long cursed. I now look at myself in the mirror and see handsome, black skin and long, white hair I keep a little neater these days, and a young face that shows some of the lines of a hard life. It is a little easier to look into those lavender eyes staring back at me and know that I am facing a worthy person and not a monster. It has taken seventy-seven years of mere existence, personal struggles, friends gained and lost, for Drizzt Do'Urden to finally call himself worthy of respect.

Drizzt Do'Urden