We begin this time as the companions get ready to go to Jerro's Haven. They've already completed the Ritual of Purification.

In advance, I apologize for what Maeve does to poor Casavir. I really am fond of him, as you might have guessed from my other works. But evil is as evil does.

Rated M for violence, bad language and sexual situations. Lots of all of the above. The OC and NPCs, as always, belong to Obsidian.

#

Chapter 2: Haven

"Can we go already? My ancestor's death filled labyrinth awaits, apparently," Shandra complained. She was always complaining. How can you be so mean? A little compassion going to kill you? Why me? Boo-hoo. Gag me, Maeve thought, trying not to roll her eyes. As frustrating as Shandra was, she needed her to get into the haven. There was no way around it. Maeve glanced around the Phoenix Tail Inn, all her assorted weirdness of companions in their seemingly assigned places. The keep really hadn't changed things. The only difference was Sal was running the place instead of Duncan. It was funny how they all ended up here, instead of in the castle itself. But then again, this was a more familiar place, and far less cold. And with most of the castle still under construction, including her personal suite, the rooms here were far more comfortable.

"I will follow where you lead, my lady," Casavir offered predictably.

"Naturally," Maeve said. Under her breath, she muttered, "Since you obviously have a death wish anyway."

"What was that, my lady, I could not hear you?" Casavir asked.

"Got to work on those listening skills paladin," Bishop said from his customary table in the shadowed corner. He always used the word paladin like an insult. "You might learn something."

"I would not listen to your suggestions, no matter what they constituted," Casavir said haughtily.

"That's why you'll die with a dagger between your ribs someday," Bishop said, his voice like black ice.

"Is that a threat?" Casavir growled. Bishop laughed.

"You'll just have to wait and see," Bishop snorted. "And just to add some joy to your miserable life, I'll be right behind you the whole way to the lovely Jerro mountain retreat."

"Good, " Casavir said. "Then I can watch you and protect those you wish to harm with your malevolence."

"Who's watching who?" Bishop replied, grinning.

"Are you two just about finished?" Maeve interrupted.

Casavir's face flushed. "I am sorry lady, I did not wish to upset you with our . . . disagreement," he apologized. Bishop said nothing, just winked at Maeve and went back to his ale.

Maeve waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. You two are like oil and water, its to be expected. Anyway, who else is up for another glorious suicide mission?"

"Oh me, me!" Grobnar said, running up to her with his wild mop of blonde hair sticking up in every direction. "You never take me anywhere! I've learned all new spells and songs, and a wonderful Wendersnaven story where the Queen of the . . . . "

"Okay, okay," Maeve interrupted. "Fine, you want to come? Go ahead. It's your funeral."

"Oh thank you!" Grobnar sputtered. "Now, I just have to get my things, I need my boots and my blue hat and . . . ." His voice trailed off as he wandered towards his room.

"I will ready myself as well," Casavir said. "When will we leave?"

"In the morning, I'd like one last night in a bed before another two weeks of sleeping in the dirt," Maeve said.

"As you wish. I will be in prayer until then," Casavir said, before bowing stiffly. He glared one last angry look at Bishop and stomped out of the room.

"Whatever turns you on," she said, too softly for him to hear. Shaking her head, she walked across the room and sat down at the shadowy corner table Bishop always haunted. She reached out and grabbed his mug of ale and took a long drink. Strangely, he didn't react, but just took it back from her and emptied it, setting it back down on the table silently.

"I'm not sure who I'll have to arrow first, the gnome or the Sir Pain in the Ass," Bishop said.

"Just wait until after we make it through this lovely maze of death, eh?" she replied. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hand. "This is turning into entirely more work than I'm interested in. If it wasn't for this fucking shard in my chest, I swear to Beshaba, I'd just slaughter them all in their sleep and get the hells out of here."

Bishop grunted, but didn't say anything.

"What I want to know, is why you're still tagging along, with your grand hatred for orders, not to mention your plethora of good feelings for the rest of these misfits?" Maeve asked.

"Why not?" he replied. "Its not as if I've got anything more interesting to do. Besides, a debt is a debt, all the way until the end."

"That's a bunch of crap and you know it," she said.

"Probably."

"So why then?" she asked again.

"As much as I hate to admit it, traveling with you is the most fun I've had in years. And I get so much pleasure from tormenting Casavir, that I can hardly stand it."

"I can think of better pleasures," Maeve said, leaning towards him.

Bishop leaned in across the table, his face just inches from hers. His breath smelled of ale and smoke. His eyes were hooded and he wore a sly grin.

"I bet you can, which is yet another reason for sticking around," he whispered.

"You know, " she said. "If you don't take me up on it pretty soon, I'm going to stop offering."

"Patience is a virtue they say," he replied.

"What would you know about virtue? And like I told Casavir, I'm hardly overflowing with virtues."

Bishop reached out and ran his finger across her lips gently. Maeve closed her eyes. He traced her face with his finger, running it gently across her cheekbone and then her lashes. Then he stopped.

"We're leaving in the morning?" he whispered, his lips brushing against her cheek as he spoke.

"Yes," she murmured, her eyes still closed.

"Hmm," he said. She could hear him lean back in his chair. She opened her eyes reluctantly. Bishop folded his arms across his chest and tilted the chair back on two legs, swinging his feet up on to the table, crossing them at the ankles.

Frustrated, Maeve pushed her chair away from the table and stood up.

"Fine," she said. "In the morning. Try not to be too hungover." With a snort, she turned around and walked away. She hoped Bishop was watching, but when she looked behind to check as she reached to the door to the boarding rooms, he was gone.

#

Maeve undressed and slipped into bed, not bothering to light a lamp or a candle. Between the moonlight and her darkvision, it wasn't really necessary. She tied her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. Leaving on only her red amulet of Beshaba, she didn't bother to put on a nightgown. She always thought there was something liberating about being able sleep in the nude. And if someone attacked in the middle of the night? Well, that'd give the paladin a thrill, seeing her fight with her shield, flail and nothing else.

Pulling the blanket up only to her waist, she folded her arms behind her head and stared up at the glow of moonlight dancing across the wood ceiling. Slowly, her eyes closed and she drifted in and out of a light sleep. As much as she wanted that deep sleep like the dead, she knew that wouldn't happen. She'd gotten too much in the habit of sleeping with one eye open.

Suddenly, goose bumps raised on her skin and she had the unmistakable feeling of being watched. She opened her eyes. Bishop stood just inside the door, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He had to know she could see him by the smirk on his face.

"I locked the door," she hissed.

"I noticed," he replied. He didn't move for a moment, but then gracefully uncrossed his arms and crossed the room to the side of her bed in a few strides of his long legs.

"I'd think you could see in the dark, the way you move," Maeve said. She didn't bother to cover herself or move her arms from behind her head. "But I know you can't."

"I know some tricks," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He leaned across her, his arm propping him up at her waist.

"Do you now?" she said.

"Shhh . . . don't talk," he hushed her, putting his finger across his lips. He reached out and trailed his hand down her arm, starting at her elbow. When he reached her side, he realized she was undressed. His eyes glittered. His slid his hand up her side, around her ribs. His hand found her scar and tracked it upwards. Slowly, very slowly.

Maeve's breath caught in her throat as he reached up and cupped her breast in his warm, calloused hand. He leaned in close to her, but instead of her mouth, his lips found the sensitive flesh of her neck, right above her collarbone. She moaned softly. With a growl, he practical leapt into the bed, rolling her on top of him. He still wore his leathers, and it felt damp against her bare flesh. His breathing was ragged. One hand slid down the small of her back to the curve of her thigh. With his other hand, he loosened the knot of her hair, letting in tumble down over him. He tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her down to him.

Bishop kissed her.

Just like before, Maeve felt like she was going to forget her own name. He twisted his fingers in her hair, grabbing it fiercely. His other hand ground her against him. The perpetual stubble he wore rubbed against her lips, chafing her, only adding to her thrill. The combination of his soft lips and tongue with that rougher texture . . . she moaned into his mouth.

She pulled away, sitting up and straddling him. She wriggled her hips a bit and watched with glee as his eyes closed and it was his turn to groan. She slipped back on to his thighs, reaching down to untie the laces of his breeches. She glanced back up at Bishop's face. His eyes were still closed and he was struggling to keep his breathing in check. Maeve unfastened the buckle of the belt holding his leather vest closed, folding it back to expose the vulnerable skin of his chest. Happily, she saw his muscular chest was nearly hairless, just a few soft hairs around his nipples and a light line of auburn hair on his belly, leading into the top of his breeches. She finished with the laces and slipped his breeches down over his slim hips.

She wasn't one for patience. In one swift move, she moved forward and slipped him inside of her. Bishop lost his battle with silence. "Oh gods," he moaned, pushing his hips up against her.

Maeve rode him fiercely. No tenderness. She didn't speak, or even moan. The room was silent except for the sound of their haggard breathing and the sound of flesh on flesh. Finally unable to stop himself, Bishop grabbed her by the waist and flung her on her on to her stomach. He pulled her up on to her knees and thrust himself into her hard enough to hurt. With a few painful thrusts of his hips and pulling her hair so hard her head was twisted back, he groaned loudly. She felt him pulse inside of her before he collapsed on top of her.

He rolled on to his back.

"Bitch," he muttered.

"What?" she asked incredulously, turning her face out of the pillow, still laying on her stomach.

"I wanted to make you beg," he said.

"We'll get to that," she replied.

#

Going to the haven was fairly uneventful. The way back was pathetic. Grobnar wept, Casavir brooded. And Ammon Jerro? She had no idea what the hells to make of him. He was very full of himself, actually having the audacity to blame Maeve for killing Shandra. As if the cow hadn't cut herself open, nearly bled to death and then been roasted by Ammon's hellfire blast. She had a grand desire to knock the smug look off his face the same as she had for Lorne. But then again, he'd finished part of the ritual, and she knew that without him, she'd be utterly screwed.

Bishop kept insisting he had to scout ahead, leaving her alone with the three strange men. She spent the long painful hours of the trek back to the keep, listening to Grobnar sing short snippets of a song he was composing in Shandra's honor before bursting into tears over and over again. Eventually, he wore himself into such a state that Maeve and Casavir had to take turns carrying him when he'd faint. If Casavir hadn't been there, she probably would have slit the annoying gnome's throat, just to stop the blubbering. But she knew she couldn't get away with that sort of thing with Casavir around.

As much as it should have pissed her off, all that Tyrran posturing, other parts of her body made her behave. Bishop had rekindled a fire in her that she thought she had under control. And then he made himself scarce. She might have started with that begging he'd wanted, if he'd just stuck around. So instead of begging Bishop to touch her, she spent her time staring at Casavir and wondering what he kept hidden under his armor. He might be a self righteous prig, but he was incredibly good looking too.

Maeve did feel a little guilty about not feeling sorrow when Casavir insisted on holding a memorial for Shandra a few days after they'd returned to the keep. Honestly, she was just happy to not have to listen to her incessant whining. The guilt didn't last long, it never did anymore. It was one of the myriad of reasons that Maeve knew she was bound directly for the hells. She was glad when Casavir finally stopped all the praying and hand-wringing and she could escape to her now finished suite in the castle.

Things had finally changed.

Once the castle interior was finished, there was finally room to spread out. Khelgar, Neeshka and Bishop still spent most of their time at the Tail, but the others found their own little niches in the castle. There was a lot less bickering anyway. That was something. But of course, Casavir had insisted on a room next to hers, so he could protect her, or whatever the hells it was he thought he was doing. Mostly, he stayed in the war room, pouring over books of tactics and historical battles. Supposedly to prepare to hold the keep. Maeve figured it was a damned effective way to cool any desire he might have otherwise felt, all those dusty tomes about death.

After their one night together, Bishop had been avoiding her like she had the Wailing Death.

She hated the fact that it bothered her.

Outside the door of her suite, she could hear Casavir walking through the hall to his room. The clinking of his armor was unmistakable. She heard him pause right outside the door for a moment, then continued on, slower now. She leapt to her feet, and flung the door open, just as Casavir was walking through the door to his room. He turned to look at her. There were dark circles under his eyes.

"Do you need something my lady?" he asked.

Maeve took a few steps towards him and leaned against the wall. Her long hair was unbound, and tucked over her shoulder. As usual when out of armor, she wore a soft grey robe. It was finer fabric than she'd had before. She was a noble after all. "Just some company," she said, containing herself enough to not sound seductive and scare him off. Casavir tried to smile and failed. He gestured to his room.

"You are welcome to join me," he said.

"I will, " she said, coming up behind him. "I can help you with all those buckles on your armor."

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, but didn't say anything.

"I know how hard it is to reach some of them without help," she said in her best sweet and innocent voice.

"Of course," he said, "After you." He followed her into the room and clicked the door closed behind them. Setting down his ceremonial sword and helmet on the table, he turned to look at her. There were actually tears in his eyes.

Maeve felt that tiny pang of guilt again. She knew exactly what she planned to do here. She'd figured out that sorrow made Casavir vulnerable, and more likely to give into her than any other time. She saw a glimpse of it when they'd been in the temple in Ahrvan, when he'd asked her to bury him there. Of course, Bishop piped up immediately with a rude comment about sex on a grave. And Casavir's normally well checked temper had raged. She'd barely managed to keep him from taking Bishop's head off. So sorrow was what did it for him. And anger or passion? Really not that different emotions.

The guilt faded even faster this time.

"Here," she said softly, reaching out, "Let me help you with that." She slowly unfastened the leather straps at his side and another at his neck, helping him slide out of the ceremonial plate he'd worn to speak for Shandra. It wasn't so complicated like actual armor, and she knew he didn't really need her help to get out of it. She also knew that he realized that too, but was going along with the farce anyway.

She'd been right about the sorrow thing.

"Thank you," he said, taking the breastplate from her. The blue robe he wore underneath the armor was open in the front, and without the breastplate to hold it, it gaped open to his narrow waist. She saw he'd worn soft black pants, boots and nothing else. Maeve fought the urge to grin. She couldn't wait to get that halo dirty. But she knew this was going to take some subtlety. He'd know if she lied to him, so nothing but the truth. She knew he wanted so badly for her to love him, but she also knew she didn't. She felt something akin to love, but a little lower centered in her body. But then again, those irritating priests at the Temple of Sune had taught her that desire and love were not so far apart, but joined. So, why not use what they taught her to get what she wanted?

In the back of her head, she thought she heard Beshaba laugh.

Casavir sat down on the edge of the bed unceremoniously and cradled his face in his hands. Maeve gingerly sat next to him and put her hand on his knee.

"This is very hard for you, isn't it?" she asked him.

"Yes," he said without looking at her. "It does not seem just for Shandra to die like that. But I am glad that you still had mercy with Ammon Jerro."

Mercy? Maeve thought. I need him to deal with this King of Shadows freak, otherwise I would have slit his throat, not for Shandra, but just for being such a pompous ass.

"I hope this means that some of what I have spoken to you about has begun to mean something to you," Casavir said, looking at her expectantly.

"We'll see, I suppose," she replied. It wasn't a lie. He'd see. Of course, she was certain he wouldn't like it, but he'd see.

Casavir turned to face her, tears actually streaming down his cheeks now. Maeve thought that it probably wasn't normal to be turned on by someone all wrecked and in pain like he clearly was. But again, she'd realized a long time ago that she wasn't normal. She reached out and brushed away the tears, and he captured her hand, holding it against his hot face. He met her eyes.

There was such pain and longing in his blue eyes that it nearly took her breath away.

"Maeve," he said her name like she was worthy of worship. She tilted her head and slid a bit closer to him. He still held her hand against his face, turning his face to kiss the palm of her hand.

"Maeve, I . . . I love," he started to say, but she knew if he finished that sentence it was all over. She couldn't say it in return like he wanted her to. He'd clam up again and send her back to her own room, even more sexually frustrated than she already was. So instead she kissed him. He could take it however he wanted.

Casavir wasn't like Bishop at all. He didn't throw her around, or leap on top of her, no matter how much she wanted him to. He let her kiss him, he let her guide his hand to her breast. He let her touch him. Despite how hard he was, he didn't try to push her or rush her into anything. Maeve smiled against his neck as she kissed him, feeling the thickness of him under her hand. And he was just going to let her have her way with him. Apparently, he'd given up.

She leaned back and looked into his eyes.

"Casavir," she said softly. His eyes closed. "Just let me give you some comfort," she said, "Gods know you need it." His only reply was a supplicating moan as he pulled her to him and buried his face in her neck. She pushed the robes back off his shoulders, wrapping her arms around him. He was shaking. Maeve felt a surge of power come over her.

Let's spread the misfortune all around, Maeve thought. And what's more unfortunate than a fallen paladin? She slipped out of his arms and knelt on the floor between his knees. Delicately, she undid the buckles on this boots and pulled them off, one by one. She looked up to see him watching her intently. All that earlier sobbing had been replaced by a look of naked desire on his face. Reaching up, she untied the drawstring on his trews and he lifted his hips off the bed to help her slide them down. She slid them over his feet and set them gently on the floor. Still not looking and wanting to savor the moment, she rested her cheek against his thigh. She turned her head and kissed the soft skin of his inner thigh, moving her way upwards. Slowly, deliberately, she ran her tongue along his skin and with a sigh, captured him in her mouth.

He gasped in shock and pleasure, throwing his head back and instinctively weaving his fingers into her hair. She was a little surprised by his reaction. He was a thirty-five year old man and certainly no stranger to sex, even with all his paladin repression. This must have been something new for him though, considering the way he let his normal gentleness disappear as he pushed on the back of her head. It was nice to see even he had a bit of animal in him too.

Reluctantly, she pulled away. As pleasurable as that was, she didn't want things to be over quite so soon. And Maeve didn't have any delusions that she'd be able to get Casavir out of his pants a second time.

She stood and pulled her robes over her head in one graceful move, letting them crumple on to the floor at her feet. Casavir stared at her. His eyes were fever bright. Tentatively, he reached out for her. She stepped closer, letting him run his hand down her rib cage to her waist, pulling her closer. He kissed the wicked scar between her breasts.

"I did not realized how close you'd come to death," he said, leaning his face against the rumpled flesh of her old wound. "It is so close to your heart."

"Shhh . . . ," she hushed him. "No more talk about death, not now. Now is for living." She moved to lay on the bed and he followed, laying on top of her. He slid down to rest his head on her breasts. She could feel him pulsing against her thigh.

He shuttered and looked up at her. "Maeve," he whispered, sliding up between her thighs and holding his weight off her with his elbows. He twisted one of her curls around his finger. "I'm afraid," he continued.

"Why?" she asked, suddenly afraid herself. Although likely for very different reasons. The only thing that comforted her was how hard he still was, paused just a hairbreadth away from where she wanted him.

"Because I should not love you," he said, moving forward. Maeve felt him slip inside her. He was hard as steel; if this was what all those years of good living caused, she thought she might have to find more paladins to tempt. She closed her eyes for a second. He started to move slowly, sliding out and in, his eyes fixed on hers like he could bore into her soul. Every emotion Maeve had a name for fluttered across his face.

"But I cannot help myself," he continued as his thrusting began to speed. Maeve arched up against him. It felt like he was not just filling her with his cock, but trying to fill her with his soul. With a whimper, she clutched at him and felt her whole body pulse with pleasure. Unable to hold back any longer, Casavir joined her, pushing himself so hard inside of her that she slid up the coarse linens and her head hit the wall behind the bed.