"Ties that Bind"
"Ties that Bind"
Chapter One – Welcome Home.
"Oh, loosen up, paladin," Bishop sneered, and threw his feet up on the gnarly oak of the tavern table, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back on the stool, so it rested precariously on two legs. "Faith has handled more difficult situations in her sleep, and trust me, I know that to be a fact." He smirked lazily at Casavir, who stood watchful at the window, dignified and resolute.
"Do not sully her reputation, Bishop; there are those in these walls who do not know your words to be false, as I do." He said levelly, watching the horizon steadily, waiting for the return of the Knight Captain, and Sir Nevalle. A hollow gnawing was winding in the pit of his stomach, and that was a feeling which never preceded glad tidings.
"Oh, you know for sure, do you?" Bishop spat back, aiming a kick at Grobnar's head as the gnome passed - missing, which only served to enhance his ill-temper. "Could be I've seen the inside of the Captain's bedchambers more than once."
"Or, y'know, you just want what you can't have." Neeshka spoke up from her position at the fireplace, leaning absently against the warm brickwork, eying the pockets of those not of her group as they passed her. Bishop slammed his stool back onto four legs, and turned right around to stare at the tiefling.
"What did you say, hellspawn?"
"Oh, jeez, that's a new one." Neeshka rolled her eyes. "And you heard what I said."
Casavir suppressed a smile, though he never averted his eyes from the slowly dimming horizon. If Faith was not back within the hour, she would not be back at all this night. They would be forced to make camp, rest the horses, and set off again at dawn. Although this wasn't a great tragedy, Casavir would much prefer her to return sooner rather than later.
"Shows what you know then." Bishop's voice rang out again, harsh and untamed as the man himself. "If I wanted her to want me, she would."
"If you wanted her to want to want you, you'd want to want her to want you?" Neeshka jibed in a sing-song voice, attracting a completely sincere 'Ah-ha! So clever!' from Grobnar.
"I think what she wants is to get the job done and come home." Elanee's voice was calm, but the self-applauding undertone did nothing to soothe Bishop's mood.
"And we all know you think you know her best." He turned on the elf, throwing out an arm in a mocking gesture of compliance. "After all, you've been watching her all these years while the rest of us have merely been living our own lives, instead of someone else's."
"Easy there, Bishop." Khelgar emerged from over the top of his tankard, narrowing his eyes at the wayward ranger. "Elanee's not the enemy, here. None of us are. So maybe you can save all that hostility for someone who is, eh?"
"'The Hostile Ranger', now what a song that would make!" Grobnar flung up his arms and began a quick two-step around the room, his small feet marking a rhythmic staccato on the lovingly polished floorboards. "Bishop is so prickly, and so angry for a start / because the Hostile Ranger feels a feeling in his heart!"
"And you can shut up, right now." Bishop aimed another kick at Grobnar, who nimbly danced out of range. "You're disturbing the paladin, and he needs to concentrate to brood to full capacity."
Casavir remained silent and watchful, not willing to rise to Bishop's bait a second time. If the ranger decided to insult him, he would simply allow him to, for they were empty words spoken only to elicit a reaction. Casavir would not give him the satisfaction. An insult to Faith, however, would not be ignored. Sometimes even empty words have to be kept in check. The horizon remained still, and lifeless, and the paladin tried to put aside the urge to charge after the Knight Captain and help her in her task. This was something she had to do for herself, although why Nevalle insisted on being the only one allowed to accompany her was something that irked him more than he would have liked. Thoughtfully, he dragged his forefinger across the curve of his jaw, watching the treacherous sun sink ever lower.
Bishop stared at Casavir, waiting for a response but never getting one. He let loose an irritated breath and pulled his tankard back to him, taking a long drink from the strong and bitter ale. He was on edge, and even knowing he was put him deeper into aggravation. Faith was gone, off on some idiotic Neverwinter-serving mission and as much as he loathed himself for thinking it, he didn't like that she was gone. He didn't, in fact, admit it to himself. He let the thought pass through his mind, and then dismissed it, deigning instead to take another long drought of ale.
Shit. It wasn't as if it was her that he really missed anyway. Except missed was the wrong word; he never missed anything. But hells if there was anyone else worth talking to in this dump. More than a minute exchanging words with any of these fools and he wanted to bury a knife between their eyes. At least she had a bit of fire in her, something that was worth riling up and watching the results. Hells, he must be going soft; he'd been more than happy on his own in the Flagon. Of course, there were always welcoming whores to distract him in the Docks; Faith wouldn't allow them in the keep. A pity, she could have amassed a nice bit of profit from skimming their 'earnings' and he would have had a tumble every night. He'd thought the tiefling might be good for a tussle, if it weren't for the fact that he wanted to gag her every time she opened her mouth and there was no way in the hells he'd touch the elf. She was so freakishly thin that it would be like screwing a bag of thief's tools; she didn't even look female.
Faith, on the other hand, she had a certain something. But there was no point in getting attached, no point at all. Obviously he'd have to leave eventually, he wouldn't be tied down, not by a place or purpose - and not by a person either. Sometimes though, in some mad moments he felt like things were changing, he could feel himself changing around her and it was maddening. They were little things like not kicking the feral cats that pissed everywhere in the keep; she thought they were cute. Stupid bitch. He slammed the tankard back down on the table so hard that some of the liquid splashed back up and soaked the tabletop. Zhjaeve was watching him stoically from behind her veil, her perceptive silver gaze seeming to pierce his very thoughts, and read his mind.
"What?" He demanded. He was never quite sure of what to make of the Githzerai, she unnerved him in a way he couldn't place. Perhaps it was her constant calm, or her eerie empathy. Either way, had it been one of the others staring at him, his words would have been longer, more of them, and rather more 'colourful' in nature.
"Know that you are not alone in your thoughts," She intoned. "Know that each of us here has been touched by the heroism of the Kalach'cha, and in denying who you are becoming you do yourself a great disservice."
Bishop was suddenly keenly aware of most eyes in the room on him.
"Really," He muttered into his tankard, not able to meet the piercing eyes of the Gith. "You don't know the first thing about my thoughts, so why don't you go practice your bronze-piece fortune telling on someone who'll buy it. Like Grobnar."
"You know, Bishop," Neeshka folded her arms and jutted out her chin. "There's a word for someone who makes fun of people smaller than they are."
"Yeah. It's 'taller'. Or 'better'."
"Try 'bully' or 'bitter', you half-assed sad excuse for a man."
Bishop shot to his feet, and in half a second Casavir was in front of him.
"Calm yourself, Bishop." Casavir's voice resonated in the suddenly silent tavern. "Or I shall quieten you."
"I'd like to see you try." Bishop squared up to the slightly taller man, his hand on the dagger slung across his chest.
"Loosen your weapon, or you shall."
"Oh my, horses on the horizon. Now wouldn't that make for a good song...?"
The thickening of the air around the two men disappeared in an instant, their attentions pulled elsewhere. Casavir moved quickly to the window, pressing his palms against the sill to stare at the rapidly approaching pair of horses and their riders galloping in from the East - one horse a magnificent alabaster stallion, the steed of the Captain of the Keep. He let out a breath of relief which was long overdue. Bishop moved almost as fast, a mere step forward... but he stopped, mentally kicking himself for being such a lapdog, for feeling the jerk in his gut at the knowledge of her return.
"She'll be hungry. Sal, get the cook to rustle up something for her, will you?" Neeshka asked, and the barman nodded, vanishing into the kitchens to rouse the cook from his semi-intoxicated nap.
Hooves tore into the grounds of Crossroad Keep, their burnished bronze kicking up wads of turf in their wake, earth made soft by good management and good weather. Sir Nevalle urged his steed forward, trying to keep up with the one in front of him. She rode like she lived, fast and hard and without quarter. Steam and sweat rolled from the flanks of Asgaroth, the white stallion of Knight Captain Faith Kendall, the Captain of Crossroad Keep, the Shard-Bearer, the Kalach'cha, Orc Killer, Dragon Slayer. The list went on. She had been given many names, many titles since she left her home of West Harbour, but only one did she hold in any esteem. Her own.
She urged her steed on, on to hearth and home, away from the chill of the lands, and the discomfort of trying to make conversation with a man as rigid as Nevalle. She was injured, but not critically so, she was tired and hungry - but she was galloping towards good food, good walls, and even better company. She had missed her companions so terribly in the past few days, and it surprised her how eager she was to get back to them. Even, however improbably, back to bloody Qara, who had taken to sulking in the courtyard, as far away from Sand and Aldanon in their library as possible. Dust and debris kicked up a storm outside the inn as she reined Asgaroth to a stop. The horse let out a whinny and a snort, probably just as glad to see home as she was. She breathed in deeply, taking back the free air of her home, closing her eyes for a fraction of a moment, as Sir Nevalle finally caught up.
"You ride as if the whips of the Abyss were behind you, my lady!" He shouted out over the noise of the horses stamping and snorting.
"No. Just you, Sir Nevalle." She glanced over her shoulder at him and unleashed a grin.
Nevalle watched her dismount with admiration in his eyes. He was not a man to whom emotion or spontaneity came easily, but somehow being around the free spirited bard stirred something in his soul, something once dormant but now waking and looking at the world in a new way. He wasn't attracted to her, no, she wasn't his type. She was indiscrete with her emotions and her actions, scandal followed close on her heels; she was what he referred to as a 'loose' woman. But there was no dishonour in having her as an acquaintance. He had insisted on being the one to accompany her; truth be told he had lied to the paladin and claimed it was on Nasher's orders that he was to be the second, but it was only his resolve and curiosity which drove him to follow her.
Faith's booted feet hit the dust path and in her mind a harmonious chord sang out to meet her. This was the ground of her home, and she felt a wave of gratitude pass over her. She loved this keep, loved it more than she'd ever thought possible. It was home now, irreversibly home, where she longed to be when elsewhere, and where her heart remained. She grinned to herself, and moved to stand in front of Asgaroth, stroking her fingers down his noble face, and laughing when he snorted and pushed his whiskery nose into her palm.
"Alright sweetheart, I know you're tired." She said.
The stable hands came clattering out, two Highcliff boys who knew their trade and had been a valuable find. Faith winked at Asgaroth, and stood back, giving him over to the care of the young men who would feed and water him, and make him comfortable. She watched the horse greet the boys with a snort of recognition and turned back to regard Sir Nevalle.
"It has been a long journey, Sir Nevalle." She said, eyeing the fact that he remained mounted. "If you would prefer, you are welcome to take a guest quarter and make your rest here this evening. It's still a way to Neverwinter."
"I... appreciate the offer but..." He began.
"Your horse is tired." Faith tilted her head, and gazed serenely at him. "As are you, I shouldn't wonder. The Keep is full of my friends. One more is no problem."
"Friends?" Sir Nevalle looked almost puzzled at the idea that the Knight Captain held him in such esteem - and unsure as to whether that was what she meant.
"Yes, Sir Nevalle. Friends." She cracked another grin. "I count you among their number. Stay, please. I insist."
Nevalle cleared his throat, and looked to the horizon. Perhaps he might have stayed on a different night, if he was permitted such luxuries as friends. He was the Voice of the Nine, and he had obligations. Never before had he longed, however briefly, for a night of normalcy amongst those who chose to be in his company, instead of being summoned for official reasons.
"I... appreciate your kind offer, Knight Captain." Though his words were stilted, he tried to convey the gratitude he felt in his gaze. "But I have business to attend to. Lord Nasher can be very... short, when schedules are not honoured."
"All right, Sir Nevalle." She made an elaborate bow - all humour and teasing. "In matters of honour, I excuse you. Though if our noble Lord grants you a day off then I have no doubt that Khelgar would be delighted to introduce you to the favourite pastime of the heroes of Crossroad Keep."
"What is that, milady?" Despite himself, Nevalle was curious.
"It's called 'See Who Can Drink the Most.'" Faith grinned mischievously and looked over her shoulder to the welcoming lights of the tavern. The faces of some of her friends were framed the windows; Neeshka gave her an enthusiastic wave and accidentally elbowed Khelgar in the temple at the same time. She felt her heart swell in her chest. It was the people of the keep that made it home. "Khelgar usually wins; I'm afraid I can't hold my drink at all. After the third they have to steer me gently away before the dancing and inappropriate behaviour begins. But Grobnar keels over after half a tankard, so at least I can beat someone."
"Well that sounds very..." Nevalle struggled for words.
"It is." The ghost of a smile flickered across her face. She felt rather mean for deliberately making him uncomfortable like this, but the man was immeasurably rigid and needed to relax. He made Casavir look like a more enthusiastic version of Grobnar. Back at the mines, she'd sliced her hand trying to force open an ancient steel door and let out a string of curses which would have seen Khelgar swelling with pride. Nevalle, however… By the scandalised look on his face, anyone would have thought she'd stripped naked and danced Eilistraee's 'Unbridled Passion'.
Sir Nevalle smiled - a rare occasion indeed - and nodded once to her. His steed kicked up dirt in great swathes as he turned back to Neverwinter and spurred it on. For a moment, Faith watched him go, an amused furrow in her brow. For the life of her, she'd never understand how one person could be wound so tight. If it weren't for growing up with Daeghun she probably wouldn't have been able to stand his presence at all.
"Hell if he aint pretty though." She muttered wryly, permitting herself a wicked chuckle.
She was home! The joy swelled up in her like a force and she could barely keep herself contained enough not to skip to the tavern, instead managing a serene trot to the oaken door. Even the knots in the wood seemed homely, and she grinned stupidly at them momentarily, before flinging wide the door so hard it screamed on its hinges and elicited a protest from Sal.
Framed in the doorway, she spent a fraction of a second drinking in the sight with grateful eyes. There was Neeshka, trying to apologize to Khelgar and being waved off. There was Casavir, tall and proud, staring at her with warmth and feeling. There was Grobnar, making an elated dance around the corner table and Elanee sitting serenely thereby. And there was Bishop. He was perhaps the only person within the walls who did not look delighted at her return, instead offering only a scowl, and the briefest moment of eye-contact before turning his back on her and returning to consider his tankard. A merry grin cracked her features.
"Someone get me a drink!" She demanded jovially, throwing a wink at Casavir and opening her arms to embrace Neeshka who had run to her side. "You're all a sight for sore eyes, and that's the damn truth."
"We had waited for your return, my lady." Casavir spoke earnestly as she kicked the door shut behind her and entered the tavern proper. "And I am glad you have returned safely to us."
"You and me both, Cas." Faith hooked a chair out with her foot and sank into it, opposite Bishop who resolutely avoided her.
"What happened? Did you find anything valuable?" Neeshka placed a frothy tankard in front of her friend, who sighed gratefully and punched her on the arm playfully.
"Always about business." Faith's eyes twinkled. "I picked up a few bits for you, but don't get overly excited. The place was full of zombies, not gold pieces."
"Had I known it would be undead you faced, I would have made a greater effort to demand my inclusion." Casavir took a seat opposite Faith, which happened to be next to Bishop. The ranger made an infuriated noise, and slammed his tankard back on the tabletop making Faith quirk a brow questioningly.
"Get over yourself, paladin." He snarled. "The only thing you're good at is brooding and running into walls when the conversation gets too difficult."
"What does that even mean?" Neeshka muttered, turning over the jewellery Faith had handed her in her palm, biting down on a particularly large ruby, and letting out a squeal as she realized it was genuine.
"I'm sorry, was I using words too big for you, Horn-Whore?"
Before anyone could speak or act, Neeshka's patience had broken. She moved faster than perhaps she would have been able in less provoked circumstances, and her fist connected with Bishop's face with a sickening thud. He toppled backwards from his stool and the array of rings Faith had brought back for her gleamed on the tiefling's fingers, now glistening with the blood of the ranger. Faith flew to her feet, her fingers closing around Neeshka's upper arm and pulling her away. Hells, she sometimes forgot just how fast Neeshka could be. When Bishop shot to his feet, all fury and vengeance, it was Faith he came face-to-face with. Her expression was stony, and unyielding. And it pissed him off.
"Out of the way, princess." He spat, drawing a hand across his eye to wipe the blood which marred his view.
"Get over it." She snapped back. "You pushed it too far, and she gave you what was coming to you. Take it like a man."
"I'll use her innards as a table decoration," He snarled in reply, and moved to step around her. She matched his step and barred his way once more.
"Forget it." Faith moved to lay a hand on his forearm, but he pushed it roughly away. For a moment she looked hurt, then relented and gave a shrug. What did she expect from him anyway? "You got what you deserved. Maybe from now on you'll keep a more diplomatic tongue in that mouth of yours; I'd hate for you to lose it." She glared at him.
"Empty threat." Bishop shot back, though Zhjaeve noticed his eyes softened somewhat whenever he held the Knight Captain in his gaze. "I notice I still have the use of my legs; I only mention it since last we were at Port Llast you told me you'd break them both."
"True. I did say that." Faith tilted her head, and a wave of glossy chestnut locks cascaded across her shoulder. "I relented, however, after you were so helpful in tracking that Orc Captain. Would you like me to reconsider?"
"Any excuse to get up close and personal, eh?" Bishop shot back, and suddenly he was smirking.
"Any excuse, it would seem, to break your legs." Faith lifted sloped brows, laughter a faint step away. Slowly, she let go of Neeshka's arm, the tension had broken.
The evening passed in song, and drink, and easy companionship. Khelgar was sick twice, and Neeshka flummoxed Sal in a game of chance so many time he begged her to tell him the secret. It wasn't until the small hours that anyone even noticed Faith was gone.
The velvet tapestry of night stretched lazily across the sky, blanketing the world in soft hues of purple and silver, smoothing harsh edges until everything looked somehow calmer. Stars shone and blinked under the benevolence of a waxing moon, marking their unfathomable night dances, watched steadily by the girl who stood motionless in the midst of one of the meadows in the outskirts of Crossroad Keep. A warm breeze curled around her legs; the night was not chilly, and Faith was perfectly comfortable staring up at the clear skies, a smile curving her lips as she gazed at the celestial lamps.
"Would it be completely pointless to ask what you're doing?" A voice drawled from behind her, and she had to force herself not to jump. She let a breath hiss past clenched teeth.
"I'm just… looking." She muttered, not turning around to face him, but continuing her watchful vigil.
This time when he moved she heard it, almost indistinguishable footfalls on the lush grass, quiet like a stalking panther as he circled around her and stopped a few feet away.
"Believe it or not, my keen senses actually picked that up." He glanced skywards momentarily, dismissively, before turning his eyes back to the girl. "Is there any particular reason why you're gawking at the sky?"
"Because it puts things in perspective." Faith spoke quietly, then gave a little sigh and finally wrenched her gaze from the heavens, and let it settle on the ranger himself. The cut above his eye was blossoming into a hearty bruise of what would be spectacular colours. "Why haven't you had that healed?"
Bishop snorted, and let a shrug roll off lean shoulders; dressed in dark leather trousers and a loose fitting white shirt he looked different from his usual well-fortified self, he didn't look so harsh - even if he still was. Faith let a smirk tug at one corner of her lips - he looked more like a man, and less like a personification of rage. Bishop narrowed his eyes at her, tilting his head back a little as if trying to read her expression, her thoughts, and failing.
"Why do you ask?" He swaggered a few steps closer, folding his arms across his chest. "Want to kiss it better?"
"I don't think I'd do it justice, Bishop." Faith remained unflapped by Bishop's attempt to rile her. "I don't possess that particular gift. Paladins are particularly good at healing; maybe Casavir will kiss it better for you."
"Casavir can kiss my..." He began angrily, drawing his arms back down to his sides.
"Oh calm down." She cracked a grin at the furious expression on his face, and followed up her little victory with a step closer to him. Flip the coin, turn the tables, and always press an advantage. "You two are giving Qara and Sand a run for their money in the 'Neverwinter Snide Comment and Snipe Contest'."
"I just tell it how it is, sweetheart." Never one to back down from a challenge, even a verbal one, Bishop gave a roguish grin of his own and matched her step closer. "I can't help it if the paladin reacts badly to a few recreational insults. Must be all that brooding he does, making him all sensitive."
"As opposed to defensive and prickly, like you?"
"Or naive and stubborn, like you?"
A mere foot apart, they glared at one another, gazes matched in ferocity. The air between them seemed to have thickened as they drew closer, now a kind of palpability hung in the space separating them, resonating electricity which appeared to muffle any sound or sight except from the place they stood. Both sets of eyes blazed, both visions locked onto the other, each daring the other to push it further. Only one thing mattered - who would look away first? The air between them seemed to ripple and pull, Faith could feel her heart hammering in her chest, just as she could hear Bishop's ragged breaths. They glared at each other for what felt like a very long time - or perhaps a very short time - before something changed in the air again. Faith was suddenly acutely aware of him, of their proximity, how she could feel his breath on her face. They'd stared too long. Something had given way. Bishop's eyes never changed, but behind their icy exterior his thoughts were racing. He wanted to move, to close that gap between them. His mind willed his muscles to move. Faith took in a breath, just as Bishop started forward. It jerked her back to reality - she moved with him, but she turned away, she broke the stare, she folded first. She felt him come to a sudden stop at her side, felt his chest against her shoulder.
"I'm not naive." She managed to mutter, trying to fight back a hundred and one demands her mind and body were making of her. Her throat felt constricted, as if having him this close to her was too much; too much emotion, too many possibilities for everything to go so terribly wrong. She felt him shift his weight, and then draw back a pace.
"Well now, of course you are." His words were forcefully normal. "I never met someone so intent on saving everyone she meets; regardless of whether or not they ask for it or even want saving."
"I haven't tried to save you." She finally looked back at his face. But it had closed suddenly, and completely.
"And for small mercies, may you thank whatever dead gods you believe in." Bishop drew back a pace and flung out his arms in a sweeping gesture to the heavens. "Enjoy your pointless staring, Knight Captain."
That said, he snorted derisively and turned on his heel, striding back towards the Keep itself, furious at himself for a hundred different reasons. He felt his muscles clench involuntarily, the stress of just being near Faith made him want to...
"I'll wait for you to ask me."
Her voice broke into his thoughts, and slowed his step across the dewy grass. He clenched his jaw, and let a breath stream out of his nostrils like a great magnificent animal in the half light. He glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the girl in her leather and lace. She was all desire and badly concealed rage, desperately struggling against the tide of darkness threatening to pull her under and swallow her whole. In a fraction of a second, in the time it took for a night bird to beat its wings and take flight, for a small creature in the grasses to startle and bolt, in the spaces in between the moment and what might have been - in that time, he felt… something. Was it lust? Need? Pity? The spell broke, the shadows upon his strong features returned, and the bite in his words was evident.
"Don't hold your breath, princess."
She smiled to herself, perhaps only a little sadly, watching the silent slow march of the celestials above her. It was a night she might have penned a song in time gone by. But everything had changed, and it had changed so much. There was no way to go back, and she could feel the rush of eternity nipping at her heels. She knew her time was running out. It was a pity. As he spoke, she smiled again, and her breath made a cloud of resigned frustration in the rapidly chilling night.
"Don't call me princess," She whispered, out of habit.