Title: Not Yet by Lightning
Title: Not Yet by Lightning
Chapter: Ten
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: I wrestled a bit with this one, and decided in the end to let it stand as I originally wrote it, and hope that y'all know Laura well enough by now to guess at what's going through her head in this instance. This is the last of the Hoar chapters, and puts us almost halfway through the entire fic. I hope y'all are still enjoying it. Reviews, as always, would be lovely.
Disclaimer: I don't own Neverwinter Nights, or any of its sequels or expansions, or any of the characters contained herein, aside from my PC, who was created on a Bioware engine and thus probably therefore partially belongs to them too.
10
Bishop didn't so much join the group as insinuate himself into it: he offered to stay, served as a guide around Ember, and next thing they knew he accompanied them to the Keep. Laura didn't mind; she neither invited him nor asked him to leave. Personally he was unreliable and untrustworthy, but he did his job and believed everyone else should be able to do theirs. Not without some heckling, of course, but as long as she didn't order him around she was safe, for the most part. And he liked how calmly she approached problems, and he liked her creed. She suspected some of his support was mocking her for giving her life away, and some was especially vocal for Casavir's benefit; but he stayed, so she figured some of it was actual respect.
Sand thirsted for knowledge of her god, and confused, she warily gave it to him. He absorbed it with a dry, scholarly gleam in his eyes, and one day he showed her the report he had written on her faith and told her he was bound to turn it over to Nasher. Angered, she took it from him and asked if he considered himself a Tyrran spy.
"Oh no," he said. "I'm too guilty for their tenets, and too cowardly for yours."
"Then don't turn it in," she said.
He took it back. "Never fear, dear girl. I take your threats very seriously. You need never fear betrayal from my corner."
She watched him closely after that, but aside from his natural curiosity about everything, he showed no sign of ever planning on turning in his report. She knew, of course, that by now everyone had figured out that Neverwinter's latest hero was a cleric, and that anyone who spent any time in close proximity to her would have noticed the symbols and prayers she put her faith in—the thunderstorm, the iterations of others' faults, the icy sleet, the code of the innocent. New acquaintances treated her warily, afraid of causing offense, while those who knew her well—as well as anyone did—kept their jokes to themselves out of respect for her piety. Her companions in particular accepted her beliefs as part of the package, and generally supported her—but every now and then she would catch the same wary fear in their eyes.
Zhjaeve was harder to read. Zhjaeve seemed to live in her own special kind of reality, where Laura was a hero and heroes always lived through their battles. She was not psychic, yet even when her statements proved false she never wavered in her claims of knowledge. Laura always felt a sort of disappointment underlying the githzerai's steady support, because she was not a hero, because she relied on another for her power and strength. Being a creature of the planes, it made sense for her to doubt the strength of the gods; but she never voiced this discontent, and Laura was grateful.
She became Captain of Crossroad Keep and immediately installed a chapel for general usage. She'd never had a chapel of her own before, and found she didn't know how to decorate it according to her own faith; the other members of her order were scattered throughout Faerûn, and so she elected to leave the place bare, in order that others might use it for their own needs. She consecrated one corner to Hoar, near the western window, and spent at least an hour there every night, and while her underlings might view her beliefs with fear or disgust, no one dared to argue with her.
o-o-o
o-o-o
Zhjaeve openly defied her, once. They were gathered in the main room of the Phoenix Tail while a storm beat down on the roof, darkening the torch-lit interior. A fire roared in the fireplace, almost drowning out the sound of rain on the chimney, and Sal was unusually silent as he went around filling everyone's glass. Neeshka sat in front of the fire, knees pulled up to her chest and tail pulled in tight, next to Khelgar, who had pulled up a chair and sat with his feet brushing the ground, staring into his mug of ale. Grobnar stood awkwardly near the wall, his normally busy hands empty, looking lost; Elanee stood next to him, silently offering comfort, while Casavir stood a little to the other side of her, closer to the fire. Qara sat at a table, pretending nonchalance, while Sand sat next to her, his fingers clenched around his wineglass. Bishop leaned against the wall, next to where the bar counter ran into it, lurking in the little shadow he found, while Laura sat on a stool a few feet away from him, facing the wall and not the fireplace, where Zhjaeve stood with their newest addition.
The warlock's tattoos glowed from within, adding their own ghastly light to the flickering firelight across his face, turning the shadows gold. His clothes were ratty and smelled of smoke; his beard looked rough, and his face was hard in its expressionless façade. He stood facing the fire and not the people gathered around him. His voice crunched like gravel underfoot, gruff and harsh as he answered the githzerai's questions and gave his own brief, remorseless explanation for his previous actions.
When he was finished, the room was silent again, the crackling of the fire echoing strangely against the steady thump of the rain. There was a tremor in Laura's shoulders, but other than that the Knight Captain sat motionless, facing away from all of them. The others glanced to her and then back at their hands, or the drinks held therein, waiting for her judgment, listless.
Her voice, when it came, was as flat and pragmatic as always, in a low, dangerous tone. "Explain to me why any of this matters."
"Know that he is the one who has completed the final Ritual of Purification," Zhjaeve said.
"And?" she said.
"And you lose the battle against the King of Shadows the second you strike me down," Jerro said.
"Why?"
"Know that the Ritual of Purification is the only way to weaken the King of Shadows—" Zhjaeve began.
"—and without it, even bearing the Sword of Gith will not help you," he finished.
There was a long pause after that. Bishop ended it with his usual bloody opinion. "I say we find some way to transfer it, and then kill him."
"We will not answer murder with murder," Casavir said, his response riding on Bishop's final words.
"Oh, I really don't think that's true," Bishop said, at the same time Laura said, "I wonder at your confidence."
The others looked in alarm at their leader's back; Bishop had a view of her profile and could see how her jaw was clenched, her arms trembling as she locked her fingers around her tankard, trying to suppress her shaking. He smirked without mirth.
"Laura—" Elanee said.
"Know that if you kill him, our cause is lost," Zhjaeve said.
"Then what?" Laura said.
"Yeah," Neeshka spoke up, the tip of her tail thumping against the floor. "When does he pay for what he did to Shandra?"
"Whatever punishments you think I deserve," Jerro said, "I assure you I will suffer a thousandfold at the hands of your relatives, tiefling—"
"After you die." Laura's words were flat, yet had the hint of a question about them.
"Yes."
"Which once again leads me to ask why you aren't dead yet."
Exasperated, he turned around, ignoring the glares he received to focus on her back. "Have you not listened to a word I've said? If you kill me—"
"And I still don't see why I care," she said. She turned on her stool and met his blistering yellow gaze with her own, her eyes dark and fathomless. "If I want revenge for myself, if I want to accomplish my goals, they tell me you must live. But while you live, who takes revenge for Shandra?" Her voice shook as she lost control, unable to hide the twitching of her limbs as she crossed her arms and stared at him. "How can I let you live? You don't deserve to exist."
"I wish to rectify—"
"Rectifying your error does not restore Shandra to the living," she said, her words a cold slap to the face. His expression shifted to one of murder. "There is no forgiveness for one such as you. There is no life for one such as you, and yet I must let you live." She swallowed and suddenly broke his gaze, looking to the ceiling as if she could see to the storm beyond. "And what does that make me?"
Lightning flashed outside, followed by an instantaneous crack of thunder loud enough to rattle the windows. Only Laura was unperturbed, trembling in her seat for a moment longer before sliding to her feet and crossing to him in one fluid motion, reaching under her tunic and withdrawing a well-worn coin. Before the warlock could react she pressed it to the side of his neck, her voice suddenly as harsh and guttural as his as she uttered archaic words laced with spite and hate. White light burned from beneath her hand, the air in the room freezing as she spoke.
She pulled her hand away and spat at his feet, then turned and stalked out of the inn, into the storm. Jerro lifted a hand to his neck, feeling the icy skin and the shape of the mark she had left—round, with three lightning bolts indented in his flesh.
Bishop laughed, then, a drawling, mocking sound that startled the somber awe in the room. "You know what this is?" the warlock demanded, wheeling around to glare at him.
"She's marked you for protection," the ranger said, smug. "To keep herself from killing you."
"How do you know that?" Neeshka said. "She have to mark you too for something, huh?"
"Oh, but what could I possibly have done to need it?" The sneer on his face was impenetrable. "Good luck with that," he added, looking back to Jerro. "That's what you get, crossing a cleric of Hoar. She can find you whenever she wants, and when she doesn't need you anymore…"
Jerro looked around, but none of the others looked particularly helpful: most were glaring at him, while the paladin just looked consternated, as if he wanted to offer reassurances but could think of nothing true to say. He grunted once, and turned back to the fire; one by one, the others turned back to their drinks, and their grief.