Chapter 7: Embraced by Shadow
Illefarn reborn. In blood and horror much of the Sword coast fell into shadow. At the head of the undead army a pair of generals, they say, led the blackness in wave upon wave across the once green and fertile land. It was graveyard now.
And then they stopped. At the ancient borders of Illefarn, the shadow army halted, content with the knowledge that all that was once theirs belonged to them again. The King of Shadows had no desire for conquest, only to regain what was lost. And now, once again, Illefarn was whole.
Whole again, in death. That was the way of Illefarn now.
The King of Shadow held his two great generals in great esteem, which meant he did not kill them. He gifted them with the keep they had once fought against him at. A bitter irony it was when the generals returned to Crossroad Keep with the blood of thousands still drying on their blades.
Even the Sword of Gith was still theirs. Although it was the only weapon that could harm their new master, he had no fear of them. They were his, total and complete.
Even those who'd dared stand against him to their last breath, they were his now as well. And those few that had dared to come for him as he emerged from the portal, those too he gave to his victorious slaves.
Even Maeve was tired of death by the time she finally returned to the keep. Bishop too was beyond words. Behind them, a mockery of all they'd held dear in life, her once loyal companions followed, only shadows of what they had been. The King of Shadows, her master now, had brought her companions back from the dead before their bodies had even begun to cool on the floor of the temple ruins. They fought at Maeve's back, mindless minions to her every whim.
Zhjaeve, Khelgar, Ammon Jerro, Qara, Grobnar and Casavir. Such a party they made, puppets of flesh.
Once the fighting was over and they'd come back to the keep, it was all Maeve could do to drag herself to her bed to sleep. It was not that kind sleep, deep and dreamless, but the wretched sleep of exhaustion and nightmares. After night, upon restless night of fighting and bloodshed, she slept. And then, in the half dawn that was as bright as the day could ever be in this land of shadows, she woke.
She sat up and looked around the room. It was the same room she'd slept in as the Captain of Crossroad Keep. But now, the rich colors were muted, grey. Only her bright hair still held its brilliance. It set her apart from the room like a red rose petal in a pool of milk. That suited her just fine.
She grinned. It was the sort of smile that would send a good man running for the hills. But luckily, there weren't any good men here. Only Bishop, who was not, in any way, a good man. He sat at the desk, his long legs crossed at the ankles, quietly putting black feathers onto Duskwood arrows. He was only wearing grey trews with laces in the front, untied. If he moved from his slung back posture in the chair, gravity would likely win the battle against propriety.
"Welcome back to the living," he sneered. Maeve looked over at him. He was the same; shockingly the same as he'd always been. Uncombed hair, day old stubble, wicked amber eyes and even more wicked grin.
"I'm not sure," she said, her voice soft from disuse, "If I should kiss you or kill you."
"Either one is fine," he replied, the corner of his mouth pulling up. Maeve swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the fact that she was completely undressed. Her legs felt a bit shaky, but she wasn't sure it that was from too much sleep of too much half dressed ranger.
"Well," Bishop purred, dropping his arrow on the floor next to the chair. "That's a good look for you."
"Is it now?" she asked, stretching languidly, surprised by the complete lack of stiffness and pain.
"You only look better when you're killing someone," he smirked. She crossed to him in a few steps and slung her leg across his lap, straddling him. Bishop slid his hands up to the small of her back. He stared at her, a strange, quizzical expression on his face.
"So, we survived," Maeve said softly. "Now what do we do?"
Bishop chuckled. "I can think of a few things."
"I don't doubt that," Maeve replied. "But what you're thinking won't keep us occupied forever. What are we going to do with this new life we've gotten ourselves into?"
"Let's worry about that later," Bishop sighed. He leaned forward as he spoke and his breath was hot against her skin. Maeve sighed and closed her eyes. Bishop's teeth found her collarbone and he bit her on the delicate skin there, hard enough to draw blood.
Maeve drew in a sharp breath between her clenched teeth and looked at him with fire in her eyes. Bishop licked his lips and grinned. She could feel his arousal at the violence. He throbbed beneath her as he tasted her blood.
"I hate you Bishop," Maeve growled at him.
"Ah," he sighed. "I see that." He grabbed her roughly and thrust up against her. Maeve could feel herself responding to him.
"If you were any other man," she spat.
"But I'm not," he said. In an uncharacteristic gesture, he gently tucked a curl of her hair behind her ear. "And you don't hate me," he continued. "Not yet anyway."
"You seem pretty sure of that," Maeve said.
"Well, you've already soaked through my trews, and that's not a normal reaction to someone you hate," Bishop replied.
Once, Maeve might have blushed at his words. But those times were long gone. She stared at him. He was a traitor, despite fighting beside her all these past months as Neverwinter fell. He was liar, a thief and a murderer.
And he was exactly what she wanted.
She ran her hands slowly up his arms, feeling the lean muscles under his slightly sweat damp skin. Moving her hands back up, she reached up and cupped his face between her hands. She licked her lips and he stared up at her expectantly.
"What in the hells am I going to do with you?" she sighed. She brushed her lips across his softly and pulled back to look at him. His eyes were closed.
Maeve knew, with no uncertainty, that someday Bishop would be the end of her, one way or the other. But who else who have come with her, such as she'd become? He was still here, without a gaes, without orders, without anything but . . . but what?
"Bishop?"
"Hm?" he replied, his eyes still closed.
"Why are you here?" Maeve asked. He opened his eyes and frowned at her. She continued. "And for Beshaba's sake, the truth, not some bullshit answer."
Bishop sighed, still frowning. "The truth and I don't have a good relationship."
"I'm aware," she said.
"Don't ask me for things I can't do," he said.
"Like what?"
"Like honesty, like trust, like love . . . I don't know what to do with that."
"Have you looked around?" she asked incredulously. "Have you noticed were we are? We're in the damned Hells on Faerun, the only truly living things that can survive beyond the Shadowline. I'm not expecting you suddenly become a paladin. If you've forgotten, I had a paladin and I let you shoot him in the throat."
"Even so," he said. "Even with you . . . I don't know." He looked away.
"Damn it," Maeve said, easing herself off his lap. She stalked over the bed and sat down. "Is it so fucking hard to talk to me?"
"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to feed you some line?"
"No, I think we're past that, aren't we?" she asked. "I'm not interested in honeyed words and bullshit, Bishop. I'm interested in knowing how long its going to be before you stop stabbing me with your cock and pick a less friendly weapon."
"Not for a while, I think," he replied, standing up and crossing the room to stand in front of her, his trews hanging dangerously low on his hips.
"Or not if I kill you first," she said.
"There's that," he said, smirking. "Look, you want the truth? Truth is, you've given me a taste of power. I don't have to be a dog here, and as good as I am at it, I don't need to hide what I am, and who I am with you. I was so fucking tired of having the Luskan threat hanging over my head, and now it's gone. Wiped off the face of Faerun. And now? Who knows? But I can think of a lot of fun tortures for those puppets that we've got now, and some even better torture for you."
"Oh, can you?" Maeve replied.
"I can," he said, his voice husky. "And even though I know you could kill me, you let me torture you. I like that in a woman."
"That's better," she said. "I like to know where I stand."
"I'd rather you kneel," Bishop said, pushing his trews down, and tangling his fingers in her hair, pushing her head towards him.
She resisted for a moment, looking up at him.
"So that's it then?" she asked.
"For now anyway," he said. "But if it makes you feel any better, I do feel . . . . well, I can't say it's love in the rest of the world, but it's as close as I can get."
"I think that makes me feel worse," she replied. "I saw what happened before. You ran away, after betraying me, of course."
"Eh," he grunted. "Things change."
"I doubt that," she replied. "But honestly, I don't care. As long as you love me now, whatever that is for people like us, it's good enough for me."
"Just shut up already," he said. "There are better things you can do with your mouth."
With a grin like a starving beast, she did.
