Disclamer: I own nothing in this world. Even the atoms in my weird head are rented stardust. Bioware claims to own Bishop and Casavir and Neverwinter Nights; good luck to them. As for Ingrid, I thought I owned her; it turned out that she owned me. So, yeah:
Chapter 1. Ingrid
Early morning saw him standing in the shadow of the castle wall and watching the assembling riders. Bishop was bored and restless enough to seek any entertainment he could get here, at this too peaceful, too perfect and too boring Crossroad Keep. The smithy was still silent, and the inn was locked, but the fields were already full of activity, and the castle had grown alive at the first light. Yesterday their scouts reported a large group of orcs descending from the mountains into the valley in the east, and the Lady of the Castle ordered the cavalry to ride out and deal with them today. Horses sniffed the air and nickered, people shouted hello and exchanged pointless remarks about the raid, children ran around on small errands to fetch this or that.
Bishop bit into the apple he had been holding and leaned against the wall. Casavir emerged from the crowd, strode to his horse (what a glorious, monstrous beast, to carry all this iron) and started checking the straps meticulously. Bishop watched his hands and could discern nothing from them. A golem of a man. Back straight, shoulders rigid, every motion focused and precise, every step heavy and measured, face determined and carefully blank. Of course, he would lead the raid, the loyal dog. It's been three years since their mismatched freak circus moved into Crossroad Keep, and Bishop had trouble finding anything new to taunt the paladin with. Casavir just did not change at all. He did not even speak to him most of the time, just glared contemptuously and listened to his mockery with silent dignity.
Bishop could smell that Casavir enjoyed this kind of settled castle life. He enjoyed being a mere servant. He enjoyed riding in the vanguard of Grey Cloaks, bringing heads of unfortunate gang leaders to his Lady, following orders and giving orders. He seemed to enjoy all the things Bishop hated, and that made Bishop dislike the paladin even more.
He hated so many things about this grounded sort of adventuring that he did not have enough fingers to count them. Very often, he wanted to pack his bags and leave first thing in the morning. He always stayed, and he despised the reason that made him linger. Ingrid. Lady Captain Ingrid, as he was expected to call her now. Nothing tied him to the castle, no duty and no debt now, except this unfinished business that he could not get out of his mind: he wanted her, and she was out of his reach.
It had started as a game. He spoke his mind whenever she asked him anything, and it was always indecent. Yes, I can use my daggers and rush into the fray, but I rather prefer my longbow and the better view of your ass from back here. Oh, I can make a fire in this wind, don't doubt my abilities, Ingrid dear, but why bother with a fire if I am so hot and could keep you warm all night? Ah, the loot is mine and there are some interesting trinkets indeed, but as an honest dragon I can share them with a maid of my choice, so which jewels do you want? She never blushed and she was quick to bite back, and her retorts were funny, and the paladin fumed like a big metal kettle, heat creeping up his cheeks until he was boiling and blew up, so it was a complete victory on all fronts.
However, she kept taunting back and nothing happened. First, she slapped his hands off and kept him at arm's length, and then there was no way to try and lay his hands on her any more. No picking up firewood in a grove uphill, no night watches – spent together because everybody refused to be his watch partner. Always a crowd, always the castle, the sergeants, the soldiers, the paladin. He grew to take notice of everything her body did. And wasn't it a body to look at. He had noticed her the moment she entered that lousy tavern of her 'uncle'. She was tall and confident, with short dark hair that curled down her neck naughtily, with perfect, very pale skin that almost glowed in the dim light. Everyone could see that she was slightly otherworldly, but Ingrid claimed otherwise and explained her aura by echoes of the magic she practiced. The company she kept was even more intriguing – dwarfs, elves, a tiefling and a paladin together, of all creatures of Neverwinter. He felt an itch of curiosity at some point. He had been bored, Duncan called on his debt, and he was lured to join them and drive them crazy and apart just for the fun of it.
Now he hated and wanted her with the same passion. He hated how she always stayed behind their backs. Casavir, Khelgar and himself took on the sharp pointy things while she was chanting spells and they sizzled over their heads and into their opponents. He had to admit that magic was impressive. When a fragile wench raised her hand and a firestorm flared from her fingers, one could not call it anything but impressive. He loathed the awe it made him feel, the reflex to jerk away from magic missiles, the painful fear of being swallowed by acid clouds.
A year into their adventuring together, Ingrid concluded that her fighters needed more healing than firepower from her, and without asking any of them if they needed her sacrifice, she pledged herself to Sehanine, the elven goddess of the Moon, and followed the clerical path. Bishop hated the thrill that her soft magic gave him as it was soaked up in his skin. He hated the way the muscles in his arm stopped quivering with exhaustion when she administered her special spell for archers that she had been saving up for him until the fight became too long. He hated the way she gave them all small touches of blessing before battle, because it was a waste of her raw destructive force. He hated the prickling sensation of her magic diving into his wound and knitting his flesh together – she did lay her hands on his body then, but in a completely chaste, selfless way. Most of all, he hated the transformation she had been undergoing since then.
Her service was sucking her passions out of her. Ingrid still respected good ale and a good story, she still had that approachable, unsophisticated disposition of a person from a small town, she could still be deadly in a fight, but she grew contemplative and listened rather than spoke. Even before, she had this talent of cleaning up nicely from a ragged adventurer in singed leather gloves to a regal, breathtaking being that had all noble men eating out of her palm. Now, her wild core was buried deep under all the identities and duties she took upon herself. Her wine-red tunic over the same loose grey trousers hugged her figure as deliciously as ever, but her aura of power now radiated a peaceful serenity he abhorred. They all grew five years older since they first met, but her manner aged a good decade more. She was never going to be the all-powerful witch she had been shaping up into, and she would never become a great cleric that brought forces of hell and heaven to their knees. She chose to learn a little bit of everything instead, because these idiots needed a large variety of small daily spells, not a power to bring the sky down. She was leashed and bound to this castle, and she was not going to run away with him to wander in the wilderness if he offered again. In his eyes, it was death premature.
Of course, the paladin had been ecstatic at her choice. What kind of red-blooded man was getting hard at the thought of a woman praying? What kind of seasoned commander closed his eyes, blushed and stopped to breathe whenever she leaned over him to bestow a blessing? How did this man even function with so much pent up emotion? Bishop had toyed with the idea of restraining Casavir in some lavish brothel and rocking his world. That would be delicious to make the metalhead discover that he had a body underneath that armour and that after a certain point flesh did not care whose hands delivered the pleasure. Of course, that would be the final thing to do in this keep, because right after the stifled "please" he was confident he could tear away from the paladin's throat he would have to run for his life.
However, he had better fantasies to deal with first. He wanted to fuck Ingrid and to fuck with her in a deeply scarring way. She betrayed her body and her power every moment she had that placid mien on. She was born to drive men crazy, to play with them and dump them at will, to be the seductress and the cruelest lover, and instead she was honestly trying to save the boring lives of sorry sheep around her. For quite some time he had fantasized about keeping her for himself in some faraway cabin so deep in the woods that deer would break their legs roaming there. That dream was clearly impractical, because even if he could capture her and steal her away, her magic made her too powerful to keep as a souvenir safely.
Rape was another plan with consequences. He was not into rape. He had tried it once, and it was too messy and not enjoyable at all. He was good-looking enough to have his share of meat offered to him voluntarily.
No. Now he had another pet dream of his. He wanted her to fall for him, to pine for him, to refuse Casavir for him – preferably, in public, but breaking the paladin's stupid loyal heart when he finally mustered enough deprivation to talk to her in private would do as well. He wanted her to let him do whatever he wanted to her, to welcome his cruelty with passion, to be pushed further and further until she was ready to run from him, and then he would tell her the truth and disappear. That would be sweet indeed.
He smirked and crushed the apple in his hand. He knew women like her. Not of her league, but very much like her. He fucked them like he ate grapes, twenty a handful. They all thought he was going to abandon his ways for them. They all needed a sacred quest to dig for his immortal soul. They all fell for his prickly charm and felt compelled to show him love or at least to teach him to bathe properly. Honestly, a kind-hearted woman was her own worst enemy most of the time. Messing them up was fun and they should have been thankful for the education.
The paladin paused in his preparations, and Bishop smirked again. Clearly, the man had been listening for the sound of her steps and his rock-like façade was not without cracks. Casavir turned slowly, and Bishop caught a glimpse of his carefully neutral face and fisted hands. He wondered how much muscle the knight had under the metal plate; he had to be wearing at least two stones of steel on him.
Ingrid went down into the courtyard and took in the thirty or so people. She stood on the marble steps of the keep and waited while they mounted their horses and Casavir barked his last directions in a low, confident voice that reverberated so deeply in the walls of the courtyard. She thought that if she placed her hand on his chest and he spoke she would feel this deep voice being born. She filed this thought away for some cold winter day in the future. Her gaze ran across the soldiers' shining armour she had paid for from her own funds, and across the beautiful horses all shades of bay. The sun was colouring the thick stone walls into pearls, and the wind carried a distant song of farmhands from the closest field. She smiled at the glowing stained glass windows of the temple, glanced down at the well-fed children peeking out from behind the stable doors, breathed in the smell of fresh bread from the castle kitchens. If it weren't for the shadow of distant war on her mind, she was content. She had never been a strategist, but she was surprisingly good at making decisions about how to do things. She had a talent for understanding what was wrong and what they needed to do to make it right.
Three years ago, this keep had been a charred ruin. She started with the smithy and the armoury, spent King Nasher's borrowed gold on hired safety and persuaded everyone she had ever met to join her here. Her wizarding connections from the academy helped her invite a young druid who consulted farmers about tending to their crops, and her unprejudiced attitude found her many unexpected allies. There was no other castle in the world where the horsemaster was an elf, the coin master a goblin, the castle merchants a cobold and a drow. They were all very committed to their work, as it always happened when talent met recognition before it was too late.
Sand and Aldanon had settled down in the library and she built rooms for them right in it; Khelgar and Neeshka stayed at the inn and bantered with an easy rapport of friends. Qara spent most of her time at the smithy with Edario, charming his weapons and telling him stories, often completely made up ones in order to test how much his awed trust could digest. They all found their small space to breathe here. Casavir especially. Not Bishop, though.
Ingrid felt him staring at her again, and pretended she did not notice him in the shadow of the wall. He was a pain. He should have been so good as the head of her scouts but for his attitude, and she had stopped asking him to go out on missions. Instead, she made sure to seek his advice whenever she had some problem that had the word "forest" in it, and most of the time he could not resist the bait and volunteered in his mocking way that implied they were all incompetent and she had to pay him back in something more precious than gold.
She stood on the steps and watched her people get ready for the ride and the fight. Someone was going to be wounded today, and she had checked with the priest that they had more than enough healing potions with them. Casavir approached her, all reverence and badly concealed anticipation, and she let a warm smile bloom on her lips. One day, he would be hers completely, but he needed to do it on his own terms and when he was ready. She could wait.
The paladin sank to one knee in front of her, and she could see Bishop roll his eyes. She ignored him, touched Casavir's metal shoulders, and said the ritual words. She thought about protection against poison and evil steel, about shields put up in the way of a sword, about arrows missing their soft prey, about life and love and good rest, about them returning whole and alive. She felt the soft, pleasant magic glow, grow inside her chest and rise to her fingers, and she released it to cover the courtyard and sink into her people's skin. She rested her cool palm on Casavir's forehead, and he leaned into her touch. He craved her touch, as he craved any physical contact, unaware of it. She smiled down at him, even though he could not see her face, and lasted her caress slightly longer than it was necessary. His black hair had several silver streaks already. She thought she liked them and pronounced the sealing words of the spell loudly and clearly.
Casavir rose, nodded his thanks and mounted his horse. The ground roared with hooves and in a minute, the courtyard was empty. Ingrid's mind reached out to her raven familiar, soaring high above the keep, and she sent it to follow the riders. She did not have enough rogue stones to make a portal if they needed her help, but she wanted to know that they were all right if they were all right. And Casavir was always secretly flattered by the presence of her raven on his shoulder.
The day ran its course. In the afternoon she started her rounds as she did weekly. The smithy, the armoury, the granary, the master of coin, the villages' mayors, the temple, the market place, the hospital, the school, the kitchens, the cellars, the stables, the castle barns, the library, the sergeant's report from the night watch, the sergeant's report on the day watch. A greeting here, a few questions there, a kind word to a troubled soul, a raised eyebrow to a lazy worker, requests and suggestions, complaints and some necessary gossip. Bevil's wife is on the family way. The foals need more grain. Look at the larks, m'lady, it is going to rain in the evening. It was important that people saw her, talked to her and talked about her later so that she was present in their lives. Castle walls were only as strong as the weakest people behind them. Loyalty was forged in daily care, small acts of respect, constant awareness of what effect your choices were going to have on the people around you. If it isn't me being wise today, she thought with a sad chuckle, the peace is turning me soft; I should have ridden with them.
Divine magic had given her a new perspective. Her former mentors were disappointed, her new mentors were confused, but she had made the right choice. Those cold-hearted wizards did not see Casavir's shattered arm when he threw his shield up in front of her at the last moment; he blanched with pain when she peeled the remnants of the shield off. They did not see that awful gaping hole in Bishop's hip when an orc pinned him to a tree with a spear. They did not know the helpless shame when her fingers prickled with power, but it was destructive and good for nothing. Once, it was she who was bleeding and in pain; Casavir prayed and covered her wound with his callous hands, and as she felt pure compassion flood her and heal her flesh, she knew she was capable of learning that.
Much later, after Sehanine kindly accepted her and even gifted her with occasional clairvoyant dreams, Ingrid learnt that the arcane and the divine addressed her lifelong duality perfectly. She also learnt that her clerical promise made her an acceptable partner for a paladin of Tyr, as the Maimed God did not mind such unions. Casavir did not comment on that aspect of her choice; Bishop probably thought that it had been the true purpose of her commitment from the start.
She noticed that Bishop shadowed her today. He was never close, but he was never really far, always keeping her within eyesight. Perhaps she could deal with him today. As the air grew fresh and the sun was setting, she was finally free of her self-imposed duties. She walked to the small grove she had kept within castle walls for meditation, Elani's sake and medicinal herbs she had had her gardener plant here.
This was one of Bishop's least-disliked places, and she was sure he would follow. She summoned her inner witch's flame to the surface. He often called Casavir a dog, and she did not take offence: a dog was a good, honest animal. Bishop himself was more like a cat – lithe, treacherous, deadly with his prey, asking for a caress and then biting into your hand for serious, to draw blood. Was it wrong of her to blame the man for the crimes he had yet to commit? Her visions of the future were dim and unreliable and ever changing, but he was always there, a key to disasters, a dark harbinger, a blade twisted in her gut.
For several years, Ingrid had hoped he was going to find his peace. Now she was sure that there was no hope for him. The shard of the Sword of Gith in her own chest was not sharp at all compared to the shards of his emotions. He shook them up for entertainment and threw randomly at the people that could be his friends. They left deep cuts.
She watched the grass grow and waited, baiting him to approach. His steps were soundless, but his presence was heavy; it distorted the world around him like a lens. She turned and stepped out of his reach a moment before he could touch her.
"Bishop," she greeted him with a nod. He glared at her through his eyelashes, a wild creature. "I thought I could talk to you."
His face expressed the usual lazy curiosity of a predator. She took him in appraisingly. He was, in a way, striking, she admitted to herself.
"Talking is about the last thing on my mind," he drawled suggestively. Careful now, she reminded herself.
"Not right now, no. I suggest you join me for a meal tonight. I have things to discuss with you, and I'd rather hear what you have to say without extra company. Without all the bickering." She added a note of mild annoyance to the last sentence, and he bought it as he always did.
"Make it a meal and a drink, and I might agree to keep you company," he stepped back and rocked on his heels slightly. Relief flooded her. Her trap had shut, and he was unaware of it.
"A meal and a goblet of wine then," She agreed amiably. "Meet me in my suite at ten, after the vigil."
Of course, the temple vigil, Bishop thought angrily. How could our proud leader live without reeking of incense and wax.
Author's Notes:
This is the first part of a three-part story. This part was comparatively innocent, but the next two will earn their M rating for serious, and as I am exploring the way a wise woman rewards love with love and cruelty with more cruelty, I am going to ask you to proceed with care. I don't like very explicit sex scenes, but sometimes they are necessary.
If you made it so far - thank you for reading. I honestly think the fandom must be buried in their adult lives this long after the game's release, so any comment on the story is going to be a miracle.
Also, I am not a native speaker of English, so if you notice mistakes - don't be too polite to point them out. Please.