Title: Falling Slowly
Chapter: Seven
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: And we soldier on through chapter seven, in which Nevalle's mind has a penchant for wandering and wondering, and Tanithar is faced with a choice.
Reviews would be lovely!
Disclaimer: I don't own Neverwinter Nights, or any of its sequels or expansions, or any of the characters contained herein. Although, to be fair, I never actually created a Tanithar or played through the game with her, so perhaps I could claim her, though her trappings belong to Wizards of the Coast. Cadia, Alander, and Mournee also came from my head, rather than the game content.
7
and the truth has a habit
of falling out of your mouth
The waiting is interminable. Alander and Mournee sit next to him, and all three center their concentration on the call of their oath, waiting for it to recede, for the danger to be past. He shivers from the infection—Ivarr has healed it, but the effects linger, and he finds a small part of himself wishing that he were still fighting a war, that he would still be fit for combat. His last few years in the Castle have softened him, running espionage in Aarin's absence and Darmon's refusal to continue working it, and he wants to be reassigned again. He thinks he will mention it to his lord, which brings his little self back together with the larger picture, waiting to find out if his lord lives or not. He does not know the exact punishment for ignoring one's oath, or letting oneself become distracted from it, but every time his attention wanders he feels guilty. He is a soldier, able to concentrate on one object for days at a time, but he can't stop shivering and the involuntary motion irks him, and he lets himself be irked. It is better than feeling helpless. The undead continue to pound at the door, which has almost every piece of furniture dragged in front of it, and he wonders if he will be able to help hold them off, if they break through the door.
Then suddenly the release comes; he lets out his breath in a long exhale, while Mournee slumps next to him and Alander, ever the younger guard, lets out of a whoop of joy. The pounding on the door ceases, but he refuses to let anyone leave, preferring to wait for a summons instead. The lords and ladies swarm him, demanding escape from their claustrophobic surroundings, but he ignores their finery and concentrates on the door. Mournee stands, sword in hand, ready to clear the furniture at a moment's notice; Alander takes his charm to calm the civilians; and he sits, inactive as he has not been inactive in years, for a new thought has taken hold of him. His lord is safe, yes, but at what cost? He reminds himself that no cost is too great for the safety of his lord, and thus the safety of his city, though the two are not directly related; still, he has sworn loyalty to his lord, and loves him, and his concern should not be wondering if more has been lost in the battle to save his lord than he was yet willing to lose. He shivers and lets that serve as his excuse, and in that excuse feels his own weakness, and shivers again.
There is a loud knock at the door, and an order in a very real, living voice, demanding that the door be opened. Mournee throws the chairs aside and jerks the door open, brushing aside broken bits of china with her feet, and there stands Darmon, undead gore on his uniform and his hair falling from its bindings, looking particularly relieved to see them, though the look is gone into annoyance as soon as he is sure they are all safe. He stands, and smiles into his friend's scowl.
"Good to see you're all alive," Darmon says. "We could've used you in the throne room, but no matter. Lord Nasher wishes to see the Nine, if you feel like leaving."
"Nevalle's been hurt," Mournee says, upon seeing that neither Alander nor the wounded soldier in question plans to speak. He frowns at her, but his hand rubs his arm reflexively; the wound is barely visible, but still faintly green.
"Well then we'll just walk to the throne room, shall we?" Darmon says, and offers him a shoulder he knows he will refuse. Despite his occasional misstep they make good time to the throne room—all paths in the Castle lead there eventually, and theirs is particularly close. He looks, and sees his lord standing hale and hearty, if with a sword in his hand, and is thankful; but he sees no sign of a young woman in yellow and blue, and his heart, to his horror, stops.
"Lord Nasher," Darmon says, and he bows with all the others, then grasps his lord's arm when the older man comes to greet him.
"I am pleased that we all survived this attack," his lord says, but there is a fire in his eyes that is usually reserved for when he speaks of Luskan and its treachery. "That the King of Shadows would dare to send his minions in here is troubling, at the very least, but today we have prevailed. It seems I have chosen my new knight wisely."
His lord waves a hand, and he sees what he did not, at first: a head of dark hair poking out from behind a tapestry. She pushes it aside and steps out completely, apparently explaining something to one of the soldiers; he can see, out of the corner of his eye, a dark opening beyond the tapestry, but otherwise his attention rests completely on her, taking in the blood and gore on her robes, wondering if she is badly hurt or if another was hurt around her—and then he realizes what he is thinking, and that he is verging on the edge of panic, and sternly orders his mind to his lord's words—but his mind wanders, as if it cannot be still for joy.
"You called, my lord?" she says, and there is sarcasm in her voice and evaluation in her gaze as she steps to his lord's side.
Nasher cannot stop the hint of a grin on his face at the way she looks at him, as if he is still young and virile, and he cannot stop the pang in his heart or the words that spill out of his mouth. "You have knighted her, my lord? But—but my lord, there are rules and ceremonies and etiquettes to follow—"
His lord laughs, and they join him; Darmon laughs the loudest, and he tries his hardest not to blush. "Nevalle, you were knighted in the mud at Redfallow's Watch, with orcs pressing in all around," as if he needs to be reminded, as if he does not remember every second, replaying it at this moment even as he stares at her and she stares at his lord, "really, these are times of action, not ceremony. We stand upon our deeds, and the Lady Tanithar's deeds, the deeds of the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep, show beyond any ceremony or words that she is a loyal citizen of Neverwinter, a competent warrior, and a wise leader. We are proud to recognize her as our Knight."
Alander claps her on the back, causing her to stumble; his lord has addressed this speech to the entire room, and the applause is thunderous. He watches her face twitch as his lord speaks, and she glances at him as if she remembers his words, but knows that at this moment her fate rests in the hands of his lord—of their lord, and he selfishly applauds this connection—and directs her attention to him. At his lord's signal, the members of his Nine who are present—himself, Darmon, Alander, Mournee, and Cadia—gather around the throne, where he settles himself, his sword still in hand. She comes as well, and they leave a place for her, breaking their half-circle in order that she may stand before her new lord. He wonders what else will happen, if there is some oath she has not had a chance to swear, perhaps, but then his lord says, "Knight of Neverwinter, you have proved yourself to be invaluable to my city. In the short time you have dwelt among us, you have shown the courage, cunning, and pride of my best soldiers."
His world seems to stop. He knows this speech—and he sees in his comrades' faces the same recognition, the same sense of remembrance. He knows Alander remembers three years ago, when Lady Ilyria retired after an encounter with a rogue Luskan left her blind; Mournee and Darmon remember the plague, and the deaths of three of the Nine; Cadia remembers the formation of the Nine itself, and pledging her loyalty on the day their lord ascended his city's throne. He himself remembers a day not long after the end of the war, when the Hero had left and the rebuilding had gone on, when the death of Sir Orilius came after a month-long battle with baalor poison and the summons came from the Castle, calling him away from the rubble to a less physical, but no less real, position: the rebuilding of his city in the abstract, the protection of her through the person of his lord. He remembers his mother's tears, and his comrades' smiles; and he remembers the words of his lord.
She is stunned by the offer; he feels as if he possesses the Sight, as he looks past her cocky smile and confident stance and sees the shock she feels, lurking in her eyes. He sees what she will say and wonders what he wants her to say, wonders why his heart is in his throat; wonders if his face is as easy to read, and if that is why Cadia glances at him, and smiles. She takes a moment to collect herself, flicking her gaze over his lord, over Darmon (who tries to smirk, but smiles too genuinely), over Alander (who blushes despite his professional stance). She does not look at him, and for this he wonders if he is grateful. She opens her mouth, closes it, and finally says, "My lord, I am no soldier."
"Hardly," says his lord, with a wave of his hand. "You are a Knight, a woman of free thoughts and decisive action. And so I offer you this position, the position that Melia once held; as you completed her mission, may you complete my circle."
"My lord," she purrs, and his face heats as he remembers the sound of her purr in his ear, even as he knows she does it to offset the words that follow, "I am greatly honored by your selection, but I'm afraid I'm just not cut out to be your bodyguard. I'm a sorceress. I'm not built for…close combat," she says, as though she is built for something else and he knows how she is built and wonders if Tyr will curse him for remembering this at such a moment. He sees this woman because in this moment he is the only one who has seen her and has at least some inkling as to what motivates her refusal, and yet it is not him on whom she turns her lustful gaze, and he knows he would not want her lustful gaze and yet he wonders at the jealousy—and it is jealousy—bubbling in his heart.
"My dear, you are wonderfully built," his lord says, and for a brief moment, the first and last time, he wishes to strike his lord, "and need not worry about such matters. Close combat you may learn; otherwise you may keep to the back. I do not keep all of my Nine close at all times; I suspect your duties at Crossroad Keep will have you busy for years after this King of Shadows," he growls the name, his anger returning to him, "business has finished."
"Lord Nasher, you compliment me," she says, dipping her head, "but I cannot accept your offer."
"My dear," Cadia says, "think carefully about this decision. Lord Nasher does not offer his protection lightly. I doubt it is all that you fear it would be."
"I think it is exactly what I fear it would be," she says, and he can't help a smile, because if his lord had asked him he would not have recommended her. He should be horrified, or offended, or dismissive of her dismissal; and yet he smiles, because she is alive, and she does not want to do this. "I am sorry, my lord, but I cannot be one of your Nine."
His lord settles back on his throne, stroking his goatee. "That is…unfortunate," he says, and the smoldering anger from the attack is back, but she stands her ground and he cannot help but respect this. "For it means I must send one of my Nine with you, and I only have eight of them, you know, and three are already assigned elsewhere. But if you are sure…"
"I am."
"Very well." He looks around his assembled guards, and they all, instinctively, bow their heads before their lord; he himself concentrates his gaze on his boots, doing his best to suppress the occasional shiver. The healing process accelerates the time it takes the disease to run its course, and he can feel its last vestiges draining away, taking with it some of his strength. "Would any of you like to volunteer to go to Crossroad Keep? Darmon, you're out, I'm afraid, but the rest of you have a choice, now, if you would like."
They raise their heads a little and glance among the ranks—it is an old game among the Nine, for Nasher only offers a choice if the task is particularly unwanted. Cadia and Mournee both fix their covert gazes on him, while Alander keeps glancing between him and Darmon, and Darmon glances between him and Alander. Cadia and Mournee are both smiling again, while Darmon's stern eyes beg him not to let the kid fall under the sorceress's influence. But he cannot volunteer; he is content now for her to go her own way, because even while he smiles to know she is alive he remembers—everything, and he keeps remembering even now, when he ought to be concentrating on anything—and he knows he is the worst possible candidate. So he stares at Cadia, and hopes she in her elvish wisdom will understand. His lord is watching them, he knows, but his lord also remembers that he wants nothing to do with Crossroad Keep or its mistress—mistress is the wrong term to use, his memory keeps ambushing him, and he cannot concentrate on the proceedings—
"Sir Nevalle, I believe," his lord says, and they all raise their heads.
"Oh—" she says, and falters as Cadia and Mournee turn their smiles on her and covers it up with a smile of her own, one that hurts him to see. "Of course." She runs her gaze up him, crawling from his boots to his face and he can almost feel her soft hands on him and knows that this is a terrible idea, and presents her with a polite bow and a neutral expression, before turning to his lord with a pleading one instead.
"Sir Nevalle, you have been keeping surveillance on the Keep for months. You are the best suited for this job, and you know it," Nasher says, and he knows his lord wonders why he is so reluctant to work with the chosen hero. She is a pretty sorceress, but hardly the first one he's ever met; and he wonders that he would be hard-pressed to explain to his lord why this particular sorceress distracts him so completely. "Make sure no one attempts to impede my Knight Captain's plans for her Keep, and report to me daily on the Keep's progress. Lady Tanithar, I suggest you seek Sir Nevalle's advice; he has served me as a Knight and a member of the Nine for many years, and his counsel is sound."
"Yes," she says, and he hears a hint of the softness that makes his heart ache and his sword arm itch, "I know. We will ride back this evening, if my lord does not object."
His lord does not object, and so he steps away from the rest of the Nine and bows with her, and they depart the throne room. They do not speak; the ride to the Keep is similar to the last leg of their journey to Neverwinter, and he hesitates to speak to her, when she so clearly wishes nothing more than to be done with Neverwinter forever.
