Title: Falling Slowly
Chapter: Three
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: I have a note here that says, "You know once upon a time this fic was only supposed to be three chapters long." But it is not! It is a bit longer than that. Hope you enjoy!
Reviews, as always, would be a lovely way to let me know how you feel about the story, and a helpful way for me to grow as a writer.
Disclaimer: I don't own Neverwinter Nights, or any of its sequels or expansions, or any of the characters contained herein.
3
let go of my hand
you said what you have to
The transfer of funds between Castle Never and Crossroad Keep is generally a low-key affair; the money is either sent in small batches by road, or occasionally paid directly to those merchants who hold the wares necessary for paving the Keep's roads or fortifying its internal structure. The small wagons that make the three-day journey are given a minimal but highly efficient guard, in order to avoid being conspicuous. His elven contact offers weekly reports on the course of the upgrades, and generally his lord is content to listen and spout approval to anyone who voices discontent.
When a request for funds aimed at rebuilding the Keep's walls arrives, however, his lord decides to show his approval in a grander gesture, and answers the request half in gold, and half in the finest stone Neverwinter can offer from her quarries in the north. The caravan is unavoidably large, and deplorably ostentatious, and so his lord sends him as head of its heavily armored guard. There are Cloaktower mages under his command as well, and the journey takes twice as long as it normally would. He has only made the journey once, and his memory of the ruined keep mingles with other ruins he saw, still smoking, during the war, and he is eager to see the physical evidence of the upgrades of which Sand has assured him. He believes in rebuilding; he spent months organizing crews to clear out the rubble of Beggar's Nest after the war, standing knee-deep in broken buildings and wondering how to construct them and better the lives of the people who had lived so long on the brink of nothing.
He has wondered, too, about the Keep's Captain, but while the Keep is important to his lord it is not the only investment in Neverwinter's consideration, and he has had other duties to fulfill. By all accounts she was displeased with the assignment, and by all accounts she adjusted to that displeasure, and he has had few thoughts to spare her aside from his complete lack of surprise at these developments. He dreams about her, more often than he would care to admit, and oftener than that, though he doesn't remember. They are dreams born from her lustful eyes and the feel of her hands against his lips, her fingers against his, and he has dreamed such dreams about his fellow soldiers before and knows that they mean nothing, other than signifying that he has suppressed his own desires in favor of his duty which, given the chance, he would do again, and again, because he is only a man but his duty is to his city, a city with a history and a future legacy of greatness to forge, and he is content to be a part of that.
No bandits dare to attack during the entirety of the journey, a vague disappointment; he is so rarely assigned outside the city that he hopes for some excitement every moment, but there is only the motion of his horse beneath him and the sound of the creaking wagon wheels and hoofbeats and the occasional chattering guard. They reach the Keep at midday of the fourth day, and while the outer gates still look ruined, there is more life than before; men scurry to and fro, weighed down with wooden beams and construction tools, and the two Greycloaks standing guard have the proper posture of well-trained soldiers. He can see that they are hoping their intimidating, professional stance will fool bandits into not attacking, but he can also see that they have some familiarity, if not skill, with their weapons. They are escorted into the front courtyard; he dismounts and his horse is led away for care, leaving him to survey the grounds as he waits for a proper greeting.
The courtyard has been cleared of debris, and here and there stones outline the positions of future buildings; the inn is intact, and the stable attached to it looks so as well. The Keep itself sits atop a sharp incline in the ground; as he looks up the path to its half-tumbled inner wall, he sees a sight he hasn't realized he's missed, until this moment. She stands at the top of the path, distracted by a bald man he recognizes as the one in charge of the buildings, wearing black, and he doesn't know if he can actually make out the annoyed expression on her face, or if he is simply recalling it from times past. He follows her with his eyes as she steps down the path, straightening her robes and flicking her dark hair off her shoulders; and just as he expects (and he wonders if he doesn't hope as well), she takes in all of his soldiers in a single glance. She pauses, near the base of the hill, as her eyes finally land on him and give him their customary once-over; he seems to tingle under her gaze as she slowly runs her eyes from his boots to his hair, and wonders if she hasn't picked up some new charming magics in the time they've been apart. The look in her eyes holds the same appraisal, the same dismissal of anything other than what she wants to see; yet he wonders if the smile tugging at her lips is genuine.
The bald man abandons her to inspect the stone, exclamations of overwhelming joy leaping from his mouth, and so she is alone as she steps to him, dropping into a curtsy which he returns with a half-bow. She wears black, embroidered with white, and gives no clue as to how she has handled the strain of command; she looks refreshed, and he finds himself imbibing that refreshment, and relaxing a little himself.
"Welcome, Sir Nevalle, to my humble abode," she says, gesturing around the empty courtyard. "I trust you like what you see?"
"Yes," he says, knowing that he's looking at her as he says it, and not caring. He is willing to play her game, if he must, because she isn't expecting it, and he is in the mood to deny her expectations.
She takes it in stride, of course, and says, "Will you and your men be spending the night?"
"No," he says, and he ignores her fleeting pout. "I am afraid we must return to Neverwinter as soon as the horses have been fed. The stoneworkers will remain; they are yours."
"Then I shan't be lonely," she says, and he wonders why she feels the need to be so audacious. She steps past him to inspect one of the loads of stone; he half-turns to follow her with his eyes. "I must thank you for the baubles, as well. You've brought me some very pretty playthings."
"It is only my lord's sincerest hope to aid you in your task," he says as she steps back to him, tilting her head back to look at him.
"I could use another second-in-command."
"Alas, for duty calls me elsewhere."
"But not until your horses are fed," she reminds him, and in the next moment she has slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and says, "Shall I give you a tour?"
"I would be much obliged," he answers, and together they ascend the path to her Keep. Her fingers stroke a light caress, finding the gap in his armor at the elbow and brushing the linen he wears underneath, and he can feel it despite the padding and it tickles, and he is not a ticklish man. He marvels at her skill, inwardly amused, while she docilely explains that she has given complete control over the Greycloaks to her lieutenant because she knows nothing about soldiers…well, not nothing, but nothing that her lieutenant considers useful. He can imagine the poor first recruits, and continues suppressing his smile; it is easy enough, because his attention is caught up in the details of the Keep's interior. She shows him the new library, and the war council room, and tells him of her builder's plans for the courtyard, as they walk down half-lit hallways on uncarpeted stones and step carefully around half-unloaded boxes of supplies. The Keep does not yet look like an inhabited fortress in a war zone, but rather resembles a refugee camp, he thinks, his mind again flashing back to the refugees he guarded during the war in places very much like this one, old rundown abandoned buildings whose ruined fortifications were better than no protection at all. Everything is stark and bare, and her finery thus juxtaposed seems exquisite; everything is harsh and flat, which outlines her delicateness and her softness; and his memories are full of blood and death, and her vivacity blows them away with her very breath.
"The living quarters are down this wing," she says, taking him down the hall, and he already knows what she will do and wonders why she bothers when they both know what his response will be. "They're in varying states of repair. Elanee didn't want a room, and Grobnar's happier in the basement, but Sand absolutely refused to start working seriously without some place to sleep away from Khelgar's snores—"
"Unsurprising," he mutters.
"—and the walls of the Phoenix Tail were apparently too thin for his ears, and so I thought I might as well give everyone a decent place to sleep, should they need one." She stops in front of one closed door, and he follows suit, looking down at her as she looks up at him, her eyes already taking on their seductive hue. She steps in between him and the door, in front of him, her hand still in his arm. "My room is entirely furnished," she says. "Would you care to see it?"
He doesn't answer immediately, though he has an immediate answer on hand; instead he stares down at her, wondering what she will do if he refuses to speak. Her lips pout, ever-so-slightly, and her big, tilted eyes leave little doubt as to her thoughts; and her fingers continue their caress. He wonders if she will try to press him, if he lets the silence stretch any longer; she seems content to wait, but that could change at any moment, if the look in her eyes actually extends as far into her mind as she wants him to think it does.
So he says, "No, thank you," which doesn't stop her fingers, or the look in her eyes, and her smile is bolder than he likes, which is perhaps why he continues. "I believe you, though I must confess I am surprised."
"Oh?" she asks, tilting her head.
He shouldn't continue, and he realizes that; but he also wonders what she will do, if he continues, and so recklessly he pursues his train of thought. "You said the rooms were furnished if people needed them. I can't imagine you need yours very often; or is your bed softer than your soldiers'?"
He has a dry wit and a sarcastic sense of humor that belies his straightforward, honest character, and he enjoys making light jokes at the expense of others, though rarely is the cost as expensive as it is now. Her eyes widen and she sucks in a breath; in the next moment she has withdrawn her hand from him and leans back against the door, staring up at him. He makes no move to apologize, and keeps his own wince from his face, and waits.
Her voice, when it finally comes, has traces of amusement and little else. "You are known for your honesty."
"I do try," he says, unmoved, shaken.
"You think I do this for every man? You think every soldier that comes my way gets this kind of treatment?" She shakes her head, her gaze chastising him for being a bad boy, even though if he had simply been a bad boy she simply would have laughed, instead. "You underestimate yourself. You're a highly valuable commodity."
"I think you overestimate my worth," he says.
She shakes her head again, and she looks at him as she did after he loosed her bonds, and she quietly murmurs, "No, I don't think I do."
He wonders if that is why she would like to have him over and done with, as it were. "Shall I apologize, then?"
"Oh no," she says, and there is a brittleness in her innuendo and he feels the urge to apologize, suddenly uncomfortable and with no escape in sight; he can hardly hope to get away from himself. "No, don't spoil the moment."
"I insist," he says, and without knowing why, he holds out his hands.
After a moment, the first real moment of hesitation he's ever seen in her, she places her hands in his, and they both look at them; he wonders if she does so to avoid looking in his face, and he does so to contemplate the sight of her pale slim fingers against his broad palms, at the perfect shape of her fingernails, at the way the contact is curiously muted, for her hands are so soft and light, and his are rough and calloused. He closes his thumbs around her fingers, and once more he lifts them one by one to his mouth, closing his eyes to savor the feeling. He draws them away, and looks at them once more, and then at her; she is staring at him and he wonders if in her eyes he doesn't see the same sort of confusion he feels in the naturalness of the act.
After a moment she says, "Sir Nevalle, you're staring at me."
He nods, unable to articulate any sort of explanation, and his mind inexplicably has already moved past the moment, towards the duties that lie ahead of him, towards Neverwinter or Luskan or anywhere but here, under the scrutiny of her light green gaze, utterly devoid of anything but life.
"My horse should be ready," he says, and her eyes drop away, and relief floods through him. "Your management of the Keep is admirable. My report shall reflect this."
She shrugs her shoulders and turns her head, examining the doorpost as if its simple pattern is the most interesting pattern she's ever seen; he wants to wonder if it's a rune, but suddenly cannot summon the energy. "You know the way out. Safe travels to you and your men."
He doesn't like leaving her there, alone, but she gives no sign that she cares to look at him anymore, and so he bows shortly and leaves. During the two-and-a-half-day journey home they are attacked by bandits six times, and not a single battle salves the emptiness inside him, and once back at the Castle he requests to be assigned to court espionage, and Nasher grants his request. He throws himself into his work, because he doesn't want romance and she doesn't want romance and every time he wonders if he doesn't want romance if she doesn't want romance he remembers the dark look in her eyes and the feeling that he is mere chattel beneath her gaze. Neither alone are enough to keep him from saddling his horse and riding to see her, but together they form a split-rail fence, and he plugs the gaps with Darmon's gossip and Brelaina's reports and the tiny holes with a pint of ale and a glass of wine every night before bed, and slowly duty worms its way back into the cracks and he begins to feel that he might be whole, again.
