The Black Canary: Triptych Three
Perhaps the dawn was faint that morning, for no pinkish light was cast through the knight Nevalle's drapes and onto the satin of his sheets. He woke early despite the lack of radiant morning light, fumbling through the covers to where Axarthys's body should have slept beside him. Discovering that the spot was empty, he rubbed his eyes wearily, scoping his chambers. At his desk, Axarthys perched atop his seat. Her hair was tousled still from the night before, but had been secured in a loose tail that rested over her shoulder. Nevalle's eyes fell down her neck and to her back. Her diaphanous nightgown revealed a skeletal spine beneath that cast bony shadows over her arched figure. Her curse, the cold, racked her body and taken its toll of her frail form. Pity consumed his heart, and he silently crawled from bed, swathing Axarthys in his arms. Nevalle mourned apologetically, "I scoured the Abyss for you."
"And if you would have found me?" She asked quietly. He kissed the back of her neck, nestling his nose into her hairline.
"I would never have left you from my sight again." He replied.
She grew colder than even her hypothermic state, and shivered, "I would not have accepted your protection, if that is what your words imply."
"That's not what I would have offered." He responded soundly. Axarthys crept from the chair, sitting on the desktop to stare into his eyes. Her own strained sadly, her brow knotted. When Nevalle leaned in to kiss her, she turned her cheek, gasping audibly. He pressed abrasively, "Why do you turn from me, Axarthys? Even last night you were terribly distant. Have you forgotten me so easily?"
"Too much has transpired in these past years. I ascended to the most enviable of positions in the demonic hierarchy, and yet concurrently regressed, settled for power and not humanity," she breathed, speaking aloud what she wished to cement within. Composed, her countenance faded into dignified blankness, and her lips hardened. She responded more solidly, "No demon is exempt from the Abyss's will. I am a prisoner to the Abyss, to my immortality, to the chaos and unadulterated rage that burns inside my hollow heart. Despite my rank, I am no less chained to my plane than a common hezrou."
Nevalle wove his fingers through her loosely bound hair, brushing her cheek with his thumb. He scorned, "I knew an Axarthys who was a diplomat amongst mortals, not demons. She was perfectly content with a life lived in Waterdeep, presumably as well, a life spent in my company."
"I have aspired and obtained grander goals." She unabashedly snarled, her voice sounding serrated and uncharacteristically sharp. Nevalle stepped closer to her, unconvinced of her certainty, and stood between her knees as they dangled off the edge of the desktop.
"Whether fiend or human," he noted, "No one is willing to trade happiness for power."
"As if you are right to speak of trading happiness." She accused, though her tone had softened. Her knight lowered his hands to her shoulders, resting his chin atop her cloudy hair. He closed his eyes, listening as the scratching inside the walls intensified. A sense of dread rose in him, his throat tightening. He battled his body's detections of the supernatural, and focused entirely on the woman, rather than the demon.
"I've traded happiness for the hope to see you again," he admitted soundly, sighing with a growl, "Perhaps more correctly, I've traded happiness for the chance at happiness with you, to begin the very moment we were reunited."
"Such the risk." Axarthys uttered with the smallest measure of tactful regret.
"Risk?" Nevalle laughed. The sound was as bleak as it was morbid. His hand descended swiftly to Axarthys's waist, forcing her body against his torso. He grasped her jaw, lifting it so she was forced to look at him. He declared penetratingly, "I grew up the spoiled blueblood. Happiness at stake or not, I expect to get what I want."
Axarthys's resultant tremble was scarcely one of fear. She succumbed to his wishes and knotted her cold hands into the muscles of his arms, challenging, "Then why did you beg for me in the hallway, Nevalle, if you were so assured I would be yours?"
"My tactic succeeded, did it not?" He answered, his fingers tracing her bare skin down to her thigh. The knight lifted it, bringing her knees around his back. He caressed her lips with his fingers before his mouth, tasting the smoke on her fiendish tongue. In midst of their kiss, he lifted her off the desk and swung her legs around his torso, laying her on his bed beneath him. One hand remained on the small of her back, as the other rubbed the polished pink of her horn. When he broke their kiss, he propped himself on bent elbows overtop her. Axarthys's styled hair unraveled into hundreds of spiraling rivulets streaming across the pillows. Nevalle admired her snowy locks, her grey face. He'd nearly forgotten her slit pupils, but they were a shocking reminder that she shared no earthly blood. The knight's fingers tingled with the thrill of her, and he shivered.
"Have I made you cold?" Axarthys frowned. Nevalle shook his head.
"I'd forgotten how terrifyingly beautiful your eyes were," he answered, realizing how romantic the words sounded when they were spoken. Seizing the opportunity, he dipped his face lower for a kiss, kneading the small of her back as his lips gnawed sweetly on hers. When they drew away, Nevalle murmured, "I love you, my lady."
"Then send for a seamstress," Axarthys smiled, "For Abyssal finery is scarcely appropriate for a Neverwintan affair."
-
"The announcement ceremony is to begin in less than a half hour's time," Casavir mumbled to Sisserou. Seated next to him at the banquet table, she barely passed as the paladin she truly was; her immaculate skin, silken hair, and dazzling velvet gown hinted at the occupation of noblewoman, not warrior. Smitten as he was with his wife's resplendence, Casavir's mood was dampened by the absence of his noble peers. If his Luskan-bred paladin wife could coif her hair and appear on time for the event, there was little excuse for Neverwintan nobles- namely Nevalle- to be scrambling in late.
Sisserou sensed Casavir's distaste, noting quietly, "Only three seats remain unoccupied, over at the farthest tables. Look."
Casavir scoped the room, snorting inaudibly at the truth of her observation. But as his eyes returned to Nasher's empty throne, he noticed a platinum blonde seated at a nearby table. He curiously gazed at her, and Sisserou momentarily glanced over her shoulder. She explained, "Alice Reinhardt."
"A noble?"
"A locksmith, actually," Sisserou chuckled sweetly. The sound reassured Casavir that his wife's fears, for the time, were quelled. She was smiling faintly when she added, "And a spiritual medium whose aid I requested."
"Her work won't be difficult," Casavir mused, "There's no spirits she'll need to summon. They've already arrived."
"Hmm?" Sisserou posed. Casavir motioned to the entryway leading to the inner court of the castle. The guests' prattle diminished to an echo of whispers as Axarthys sin Saintrowe, sheathed in a slender orange gown that clung to every inch of her figure beneath; though the fabric was modest and covered every inch of her, it was as thin as paint. Sisserou tensed as Axarthys approached her table, slinking into an empty seat. Casavir observed his wife's expression vacillate between disgust and envy. Demon or woman, Axarthys's flawlessly knotted hair, manicured nails, and immaculately shaded eyes were easily envied. Casavir himself swallowed guilt for admiring her.
Regardless of the beauty, her veneer wore quickly; the paladin smelled the brimstone beneath her frankincense, heard the cacophony of demons beneath her silent sneer. Axarthys lightly expressed, "Let those most involved in this ordeal diplomatically convene at one table."
"May I suggest, my lady, that you keep company with nobles of your stature? Surely you would not sully those painted fingers by sharing a table with a lowly Luskan." Sisserou scathingly remarked. Axarthys tilted her face upwards, revealing a collar entirely comprised of cut diamonds encompassing the length of her throat and extending beneath her neck and chin.
"Your company is preferable to the medium's," Axarthys piercingly uttered, and then grinned lethally, "If I can sense her spiritual powers from the other side of the chamber, one can only imagine how overwhelming her powers would be in proximity."
Sisserou's face grew frighteningly pale, and her composure threatened to unravel. She leaned into her husband, grounded herself, and coiled her hand around his as she responded, "I would hardly wish that, Lady Saintrowe. Plenty of seats are to be had at our table, and it would be a pity not to fill them with willing guests. Does Sir Nevalle plan to join us?"
"I doubt a legion of planetars could keep him from pursuing me here." Axarthys ominously replied, laughing musically under her breath. To Casavir's ears, the noise sounded like a thousand fiends clamoring. He clenched Sisserou's hand under the table.
"It appears that may be true." Casavir managed through gritted teeth. The knight, clad in a black leather surcoat studded with silvery spines and matched gloves, stalked into the chambers with a half-finished glass of merlot secured in an upturned palm. He exuded an air of self-indulgent aristocracy. Casavir suffered a pang of self-consciousness. He'd earned his lauded position through sweat, blood, and tears, not through birth.
On the second thought, so had Axarthys.
"I never envisioned such an affair for a single announcement" The demon said, drawing Casavir from his thoughts.
Nevalle wrinkled his nose, "Nasher can be apt to pomp. A spectacle usually diverts curious eyes from the empty throne."
"That will not longer be the case after tonight's announcement." Sisserou countered, adding with a superficial smirk, "Though I'd be careful to envision either of our children with a crown atop their heads. Regents will be named to rule in either one's stead, after all."
"I shall heed those words, wise lady," Axarthys purred, leaning into the table with her chin tucked elegantly down, her ethereal eyes glimmering, "And envision myself adorned with the crown of Neverwinter."
"I wonder, would it fit around those horns, my lady?" Sisserou snapped. Casavir snatched his wife's wrist under the table as if to rebuke her, though he battled the victorious grin spreading over his lips. Nevalle's chocolate eyes narrowed.
"Shall Casavir and I leave you to your catfight, my ladies?" He groaned. Casavir's resounding snigger was genuine and unsuppressed this time. Nevalle swirled the wine in his glass and cracked a smile, drinking a swig to numb the frustration with the women. Sisserou shot Casavir a glare, and Axarthys glanced to Nevalle with a plucked brow raised.
"I am accustomed to the diplomatic customs of the Abyss, sir knight. In our system, these ferocious word games are perchance the… foreplay to the culmination of our political resolutions, when physical means are resorted to." Axarthys explained. Nevalle stole a final swig from his glass, setting the finished vessel on the tabletop.
"Perhaps Lady Sisserou had best watch her back, then," he snarled. All lightheartedness drained from his voice as he finished, "lest she coax her Ladyship Emissary's champion into a battle she could not possibly win."
Axarthys's face went momentarily blank. Sisserou squeezed Casavir's hand suspiciously, but her husband responded to Nevalle instead, noting, "Now, now, sir knight, don't be a hypocrite. If we forbid Her Ladyships from a skirmish, we must follow in suit."
"I was addressing Lady Sisserou, not her husband." Nevalle clarified darkly. Casavir's steady, nonchalant expression thinly masked his fury.
"In matters concerning my wife in a trial by combat, I will be the one addressed, Sir Nevalle." He managed furiously. Nevalle's shoulders hardened as he grasped the armrests of his seat and withdrew irately into the upholstery, as if prepared to lunge forth and assault Casavir. It was Sisserou who stroked her husband's hand calmly beneath the tablecloth, discouraging any retaliation. The softening of the fellow guests' voices and the colorful silks of bards gathering at the front of the hall provided enough distraction to disband the quarrel, at least in that moment. Sisserou sighed gratefully as a throng of gypsy women jingled their tambourines to a popular Neverwintan dance, their feet gliding independently of their music-making hands. The distraction was a welcome antidote to the anxiety between Sisserou and Axarthys, Casavir and Nevalle. As the gypsies' act concluded, Sisserou pleaded in her thoughts for another act to quickly consume the makeshift stage.
Her wish was granted as a regiment of guards, toting a prisoner dressed half in jester's harlequin and half in leather plate mail to the front of the hall, just as the gypsies danced into the shadowy backstage of the castle corridors. The guards shoved their chained prisoner into the center of the hall, and Sisserou saw the man for what he was- a devil, and the prisoner she'd transported from Crossroad Keep. The guests gathered gaped and gasped in dread, their eyes affixed on him with sick curiosity.
"In homage to our beloved guest, Miss Saintrowe, we'd like to present her with the performance of a fellow fiend," one guard announced sardonically, commanding his peers, "Fetch the knives, so he may juggle!"
Another guard scurried from the squad, collecting a handful of knives from his tabard pocket. He offered them to the devil, who did not accept them. The fiend stared blankly into the guard's eyes, motionless.
"Entertain, you worthless bastard." He ordered.
The devil responded with a crazed grin, pointing at Axarthys, "Perhaps I may be unchained, so that I may entertain these humble mortals with a Baatorian dance, shared fittingly with the demon."
The guests applauded excitedly, thrilled with the prospect of witnessing their loathed enemy sully her demonic hands in a dance with a lowly devilish prisoner. Hesitant, the guards heaved on the chains binding the devil, drawing him back from the hall's center. A handful of rowdy guests booed at the response. The orchestra gathered at the back began to play a waltz, as if to goad the guards into permitting the devil his freedom. Persuaded, the guards freed the devil. He immediately dashed to Axarthys's table, sweeping her into his arms as he spun wildly away with her, thrashing her so that her neatly bound hair loosened, and stray locks fringed her forehead. The crowd howled and whooped as their loathed villainess was made a fool of.
If only they'd known that they were the fools.
"I apologize for the ridiculousness, my lady," the devil spoke levelheadedly to her in the ancient Baatorian tongue. So loud was the music that it drained the sound of their voices out, to the fiends' benefit. To the audience, the two were merely swirling about frantically in humorous dance.
"Apologize not for such ingenuity," she replied in his devilish tongue, "I doubted we would ever rendezvous incognito, and yet here in Neverwinter we both are, seemingly each with personal quarrels to solve. Well done, my Absanoch."
"There is no time for congratulations," he rebuked, "We have too little time to speak, my Lamb."
Axarthys frowned, "You have surely grown callous."
He responded coldly, "Play the role Graz'zt instructed you to play, and permit no distractions, including so foolish one as love. Axarthys-"
"-Sir Darmon, messenger of Lord Nasher Alagondar, has arrived with news from our lord that the heir to the throne of Neverwinter has been named." A guard bellowed. The orchestra's music ended succinctly, and the crowd's interest shifted from the dancing fiends to Darmon, who waited by the entry. Absanoch leaned into Axarthys's shoulder, a hand wrapped around her head gingerly.
"Above all things, you must trust me." He commanded. Before Axarthys replied, he melted into the crowd, disappearing into the darkness.
"Citizens of Neverwinter and humble guests of Lord Nasher," Darmon announced, "His Lordship wished me to inform you that though by all stipulations of the declaration of succession Rialnah sin Saintrowe should be named heir, that Neverwinter is not a kingdom ruled by documents, but by the good will of the people. And because we are a good and decent people, we must betray the documents that bind us, and forbid a demon from ever inhabiting our throne. Thus, Lord Nasher has named the successor to the throne as Sir Rodric, and Casavir as his son's regent."
Relieved, jubilant applause and cheers resounded powerfully in the hall, as friends embraced and families hugged. Axarthys fled the chamber, tugging her hair free so that it hid the shame scribed on the features of her face. She began to bolt for the exit, praying she was swift enough to reach Absanoch as he escaped. Nevalle caught a glimpse of her orange silks fleeting, and jumped from his seat, racing towards her. Inside a winding castle stairwell, he pinned her to the stone wall. She writhed beneath his grasp, declaring, "I will not watch your people celebrate an heir who has been named outside the declaration they have penned!"
"Axarthys…" He cooed. She broke from him, lifting her skirts to dart up the stairwell. Nevalle followed her slowly, discovering her at a tall landing in the castle overlooking the estates of Blacklake and beyond beneath. Cold zephyrs blew through the opened panes, and the drapes fluttered. Axarthys's tangled tresses danced about her suddenly tranquil face.
"My lady?" Nevalle asked.
"Let us retire to your chambers." She softly answered. Nevalle nodded dutifully and collected her in his arms, guiding her to his quarters. Axarthys peered over her shoulder as they rounded the corner, once more glancing at the opened window that had undoubtedly acted as his escape route.
Above all things, you must trust me.
The words resounded in her mind, but hardly rang true.
-
"Praise Tyr." Sisserou sighed into Casavir's tunic, her hands clamped on the small of her husband's back. Though the Neverwintan crowd surrounding them jubilantly celebrated the naming of Rodric as heir to the throne, Sisserou felt only immense relief. She would only know joy when Axarthys departed Neverwinter, and a demon was permanently barred from the throne.
Casavir shared her sentiment, saying, "For the moment, we are safe."
"I suggest we use this bought time to formulate a new strategy, should Axarthys devise a different plan of attack," Sisserou snorted, wrinkling her nose with a soft smirk, "Two paladins can surely agree that demons are pesky creatures bound to strike continuously until permanently disbanded."
"It is good to see the glaze of fear in your eyes replaced with the sparkle of levelheaded cunning," Casavir chuckled, ruffling her black locks, "But I suggest we savor the night and enjoy two fine ales from the Flagon, before the whole city runs afoul with the good news and the kegs are drained."
"My lord, my lady?"
It was Alice. Though she was perfectly composed, distress filled her grey eyes, and her calmly folded hands stiffened unnaturally. Her voice strained, masking some truth she only wished to share with her audience, and not the crowd gathered, as she whispered, "The baatezu prisoner has escaped. You must return to your son."
"Is he-"
"Please," Alice begged, "Go."
Neither paladin wasted a moment in sprinting to the stables, where their saddled horses waited.
-
Rodric's nursemaid retired long before her charge would curl into his sheets that night. The boy convinced his keeper that he slumbered by snuggling deep under his coverlets, where the woman couldn't see the smile on his lips as he clenched his eyes shut. Believing he was already immersed in his dreams of knighthood and Neverwintan court life, she descended the staircase and rounded the corner into her own bedroom. Certain that she was gone, Rodric peeked his head from under the blankets and sat at the edge of his bed.
A mischievous grin beamed on his boyish face, his eyes glittering playfully. Now, he had plenty time to watch the stars from his window and spread the multitude of his toys cross the carpet at the foot of his bed. Rodric lowered his dangling feet to the floor.
Before he stood, a cold hand cupped his mouth. His scream muffled, the boy could all but squirm in terrified protest as he was dragged back onto his bed. Has his nursemaid caught him trying to evade his bedtime? Rodric expected to see her familiar face above him, but when he was securely back in bed, he glanced up to a face half-concealed by shadow, but clearly with curved horns and eyes- hideous eyes, serpentine eyes- that glowed orange in the night.
Petrified, Rodric could never have noticed Absanoch Shaddonhale removing the needle of poison from his belt. He felt only the sudden sting of metal beneath the skin of his wrist, and heard the emotionlessly croon of the devil's voice, as he explained emptily, "By the order of Asmodeus and the will of Graz'zt, you life is forfeit for your unlawful claim to the Neverwintan throne."
The boy wriggled under the devil's grasp, to no avail. He knew not what the monster's words meant, and as he contemplated what 'forfeit' was, felt his eyes flutter shut. His heart wrenched in his chest, his throat tightened, and he faded. Before his heart gave out, Rodric wished he'd gone to bed like his nursemaid had told him, and considered the punishment he'd never receive the coming morning.
-
While Nevalle slept soundly under the blankets, Axarthys lingered at the bottom of the bead. Tentatively seated at her knight's feet, she chastised herself for not slumbering soundly next to him. Surely, he'd stave off the chill of her skin, and chase away the thoughts that churned in her mind with the physicality of his touch. But demons needed no sleep and chose to only with deceitful intent. It felt a lie to sleep beside him, to partake of something so exceedingly human, without further dark intent. Axarthys listened to the peacefully rhythmic inhales and exhales of Nevalle's breaths. Mortals, she scathed mentally, with a pang of guilt.
She fleeted the bed and paced the chamber, gliding to the windows. The night was undoubtedly lovely, like a black cloak frosted with snowflakes. Axarthys reached to the glass above the opened window, resting her hand against the surface. Immediately, the chill of the glass stung on her already frigid flesh. She recoiled, withdrawing from the scenery apparent outside.
"Cold?"
Axarthys scarcely needed to face the voice to know it wasn't Nevalle's. She shuddered, terrified at how he'd entered so silently. She breathed his name, as if in fear, "Absanoch…"
"You heeded my words," he stated, crossing the room from the entry. He'd torn the jester's harlequin away, leaving only the monotone black leather of his armor. Absanoch brooded, "Had you pursued me, you would have been falsely accused of the plot which is about to unravel."
"Abs-"
The devil explicated, "The knight is your witness; a night in his chamber, your alibi. I should hope that shall be obvious in the crisis to come."
Absanoch's expression didn't change. He advanced, standing inches from her. Axarthys expected his grasp to be fierce, but his gloved hands cupped her jaw with more amorous tenderness than Nevalle had shown her. Releasing a calm breath, Axarthys leaned into the cold armor of his chest, hesitant and wary.
"Graz'zt's alliance with Asmodeus depends on the accomplishment of this task. Whatever fate that unravels here shall dictate the political tide of the Blood War." He reminded her, as if to comfort her, tense in his arms. Axarthys snorted.
"That is hardly consoling."
"Ah, pardon my devil's logic. I should have appealed to your emotion, and not to your ambitions. Such is the way of the Abyss- chaos over order, passion over success," he rebuked himself. Though the sound of his voice fell flat, Axarthys read the sincerity in his diction. Absanoch murmured, "If it comforts you, my consort, I have remedied our concern. Asmodeus ordered Rodric's elimination, and I return to you having effectively carried out my duty."
Axarthys released a lengthy, frustrated hiss. Absanoch continued, his tone returned to its chilling nonchalance, "Perhaps it was a drastic measure, but Asmodeus's plans are thorough and we are best to place our faith firmly in them."
"I fear that you will be indicted for your political tactlessness." She corrected penetratingly. The devil scoffed.
"I fell from Heaven alongside Asmodeus and into the pit, my Lamb," he noted morbidly, "There are worse fates than the judgment passed on me by mortals. In fact, I urge your frankness in handling this matter. If you are interrogated by the knight, do not hesitate to note my involvement."
"Asmodeus is a fool to think so ill-advised a plot will achieve Graz'zt's goals," Axarthys replied, "Demons are not renowned for their diplomacy, but we are intelligent enough to recognize tact from recklessness, and discretion from such blatant stupidity."
"If Asmodeus's plan is followed through, time will ultimately disprove that notion. Graz'zt will go to incredible lengths to secure such a pointless throne, and Asmodeus's plan suits that," Absanoch jeered. He gathered her fingers in his, kissing the back of her hand. Despite his physical gentleness, however, his eyes glowed with primitive ferocity.
"I have loved you these precedent years," Axarthys responded, "But I cannot quell the unease in my heart at such statements."
"Then you do not heed the tenet I insisted you place your faith in. What did I instruct, my lady? Ah, that above all things, you must trust me," He withdrew and passed her, standing in the frame of the window as he uttered, "Heed my instructions as dutifully as you have thus far, my little Lamb, and I shall take you to Baator alongside me when this is finished."
Absanoch sat on the window seal and tumbled intentionally out of the opened glass. Axarthys sauntered to the window. But when she peered down, there was no sign he'd ever fallen, and she growled. She hoped to see him dangling vulnerably from a window pane on the castle wall beneath her, to see him swinging from a flag mounted on the exterior stone. Her love for Absanoch was failing, and her allegiance to Baator through his consortship wearing lethally thin.
-
For the second time in his life, Casavir's world fractured, and utterly collapsed to ruin.
The Knight Captain-
"Casavir!" She shrieked as she tumbled to the floor.
In the bare light the crest of Axarthys's white hair glittered like fresh snow, the pink of her eyes a glow. The Knight Captain's body hung flailing weakly in the assailant's arm. The Knight-Captain bled from inside her mouth, her lips opened as if to make a sound though no noise came. Axarthys, her gaze inhumanly callous with expression as cold and hardhearted as stone, murmured in explanation, "Her vocal chords are severed."
Just as the paladin heaved his mace upward the slightest inch, the sword's point at the Knight Captain's back crashed through her upper chest. Before he could attack the tanar'ri, she had finished sawing the woman's lower abdomen.
The Knight Captain, lost forever, so violently had she been slain.
And now, now he was lost with her.
"Sisserou, Sisserou, I heard you scream from downstairs. Sisserou, what's-"
"Ca-Ca-Cas-"
"Why do you weep, love?"
"Casavir…"
"Come now, my love, and we'll speak in our chambers. You'll wake Rodric."
"Cas, Casavir, He'll never wake."
"Sisserou…"
"Rodric is dead, Casavir, dead."
The heartbreak he felt for the Knight Captain's death was tenfold suffered in Rodric's loss. The news hit him so suddenly, so hard, that no words or tears escaped him. Unexpectedly, his happiness became indescribable sorrow and insurmountable rage. As the rush of emotion crashed down upon him, Casavir realized he grieved his son, but toiled with his inaction more. He'd been enjoying fine drink and performance at court, while his son was dying. His son, who died alone, who died at all, the brightest light in the paladin's world extinguished. And he'd done nothing to stop it.
What parent could ever imagine returning home to their beloved child dead, his body the image of slumbering tranquility, flesh sapped of color and warmth?
"She has done this, Casavir."
"We cannot know, my love, we cannot-"
"Casavir! Listen to me! Rodric, Rodric was poisoned."
"Sisserou, my love, my Sisserou…"
"This is Abyssal poison, Casavir!"
"How can-"
"Because I am a paladin, Casavir, and you should know well as I that this is unnatural! Can you not smell the sulfur on him, Casavir, can you not see the greenish tint to his sweet cheeks, to his dear, sweet, dead face, oh, Casavir! My Rodric is gone, my son, my only child, my baby is dead, Casavir! And she has stolen him from me!"
He could not weep. He was her pillar.
"We cannot blame demons on all the ills of the world, my love."
"Then who would have done this? That damned Nevalle? What would he not do in the name of that wretched fiend, what sacrifice would he not make in her evil cause! He has sold his soul to her, and sealed the pact with the blood of our Rodric!"
"Sisserou, it is not the time for justice."
"Shall it ever be a ripe time for vengeance, Casavir? Are we to allow this atrocity?"
"No," he cooed, "We must mourn it first."
And with those words, Sisserou's world shattered, abandoned her, and left her to the icy reality of the loss of her only child.
-
For five consecutive days, it stormed. On the first day, a perpetual sheet of rain caused a drapery of water to fall from the roof, casting a misty sheet to glaze the estate's windows. It was but one of the excuses Sisserou armed herself with to stay locked in her chamber, head bowed into her knees as she silently questioned how Tyr could have stolen her son from her, how he could have abandoned Neverwinter to the hands of a tanar'ri. All that broke the strings of her thought were the smacks of raindrops on the roof when the rain intensified, the muffled sounds of Casavir and the temple sexton discussing her son's burial, and the weeping fits that overcame her when reality returned to her.
The second day's rain fell gently, like rivulets of tears coursing quiet paths down the bricks and stones of the estate's exterior, with a backdrop of muted thunder booming in the heavens. Casavir, dejected as he was, comforted Sisserou with the tender gravity of his words, consoling, "Tyr mourns Rodric alongside us, my love."
"How can you know?" Sisserou wept. Casavir cupped her jaw in his hand, lifting her chin upwards.
"Because Tyr is crying," He cooed. Sisserou parted her lips, but Casavir hushed her, and nodded towards the window, "Raindrops are the tears of heaven."
He departed Sisserou when his housekeeper arrived at the chamber door, somberly informing them that the priest waited downstairs. Casavir kissed Sisserou's forehead soothingly and walked downstairs, making certain to close the door inaudibly behind him. Sisserou gazed out of the window longingly, into the emerald expanses of the fields Rodric once frolicked in. She imagined the blind Tyr weeping from the empty sockets of his eyes, and began to bawl again, as she realized no one but Tyr would comfort her upon returning to Neverwinter. With Rodric's loss, there were pressing matters of the state far more important than soothing her sorrow. For the remainder of the day she cried, until no tears remained, and she was left to cough and hack the sadness from her body. Exhaustion overcame her, and she fell into a restless sleep before Casavir was finished accepting the sympathies of nobles that had caught word of Rodric's death and descended onto their home to offer their condolences.
On the third day, Sisserou awoke to the steamy scent of peppermint tea. The warm aroma goaded her from the ignorant bliss of her slumber, and she slipped from bed to pour a cup of it. Nestling into one of the seats by the window, she held the scorching cup in her hands, allowing its heat to chase away the chill of her heart. Casavir joined her, having brought a tray of fruit from the kitchens. He set the platter on the table between the chairs, silently offering Sisserou the food. When she turned her cheek from it, Casavir did not press her. He instead uttered softly, "I see my words yesterday did little to soothe you, my love."
Sisserou frowned, shaking her head, "I am never ungrateful for your words."
"No, that is not what I meant to imply," Casavir murmured, settling into his chair with a sigh. His grief was suffered within, but the mask of his solemnity fleetingly shifted to sorrow. Once he again spoke, only his tone indicative of his anguish. He faintly explained, "As a fellow paladin of Tyr, and as your husband, I feel… as if I am responsible for your recent loss of faith."
"My son is dead," Sisserou replied bleakly, and at that realization felt tears swelling in her eyes. She sobbed, "Is it so horrible of me to have lost faith in my god, who has permitted such tragedy to occur to his most devout followers?"
"Tyr did not allow this to happen, Sisserou," Casavir whispered, frowning. He set his cup down and reached over to her chair, weaving his hand around hers. The strength of his grip made Sisserou's weak, exhausted grasp seem all the more frail. She turned her face from him, but felt the tender stroke of his fingers brushing the disheveled locks from her face, seeing the tear-stained cheeks of his beloved wife. He murmured, "The priest told me that Tyr does not allow any evils to befall his faithful, Sisserou. It is the demons that allow it."
"I cannot consider revenge while sorrow yet dominates my heart." Sisserou mewled, her fingers trembling as she held her cup. Casavir sighed, crestfallen.
"I had hoped inspiring your sense of justice would have renewed your faith in Tyr," He admitted, his brow furrowed. He allowed a silent pause to pass, and a sip of warming tea to soothe his dry throat, before he spoke again. The paladin voiced, so softly that Sisserou scarcely heard the words between sobs, "Forgive me, Sisserou. I have fought so hard to remain as stoic as I can for your sake. I've endeavored to be your anchor, but I can only stave off the tears so long. I… I pray you may regain faith and emerge from your sadness, so perhaps I may mourn my son aloud without upsetting you any more, my love."
"You ask me to cease my tears, so you may weep?" Sisserou bawled. Casavir's gaze sunk to the floor, and his wife began to wail, "You, who have endured the death of the Knight Captain and are practiced at overcoming such misery, expect me to simply end my anguish of my own accord, and in so such a time? I, unlike you, have never known sorrow so great."
Stung by her words, Casavir winced visibly. He rose from his chair, abandoning Sisserou and his steaming tea by the window in silence. Alone, Sisserou curled her knees against her chest and cried into the fabric of her dressing gown. Her hands quivered so intensely that the cup fell from her grasp, dropping to the floor with a ceramic shatter. Only after she could weep no more tears did she feel the stinging of her bare shins. The steaming tea had burned her, leaving oblong blisters down her legs. Sisserou stroked the inflamed skin delicately. The pain distracted her enough from her distress to tiptoe between the cup's sharps and into the safe haven of her bed sheets, where she spent a sleepless night staring out onto the soaked landscape outdoors, dreading the morning to come.
Casavir never joined her in bed.
On the fourth day, Sisserou waited until the meek light of dawn illuminated the damp morning until she pushed aside her coverlets and paced the room, at a loss for how her mourning could persist. For three days, she lived in blessed ignorance of Rodric's funeral. With the copious rain, there was no way a grave could be dug. Sisserou braced for that truth to ache, but instead it offered her heart much-needed solace. Closing her eyes placidly, Sisserou released a long, restful breath from her lungs. The only despair that plagued her was the regret she felt for treating Casavir callously. Cringing as having been pierced by an arrow, a strong pang of guilt struck her. It motivated her legs, burned as they were, to carry her to the door, and guided her feet down the stairs and into the dining hall, where Casavir wiled away many a rainy morning. At the farthest end of the table, he sat, breakfast untouched. Sisserou ambled towards him, the thump of her feet against the wood like claps of thunder in the silence of the household.
"Casavir?" She uttered. He motioned towards the seat across from him, but his eyes remained downcast. Taking her place parallel her husband, Sisserou laid her hand atop his hesitantly. She confessed mellifluously, "I have mourned Rodric at the expense of those I love, and for that, a spoken apology is not enough to grant me back the decency of my character. I beg for your forgiveness, and whatever acts of mercy you would command me to do to regain your love and favor."
Casavir lifted his gaze, and Sisserou saw that his eyes were red and damp with tears. He embraced her hand in his, and clutched it as if letting it go meant certain drowning amidst the stormy seas of his suffering. He cried in response, "I ask only that you weep with me, my wife."
Sisserou swung her arms across the table and embraced him, crying into the fabric of his shoulder, and he into the crook of her neck. A wave of welcome relief descended, and the rain outdoors began to pound once more on the roof.
-
It was the fifth day of consistent rain, and not even the blazing hearth could dispel the chill of his chambers. The thinly-sealed window panes hardly barred the damp, cold weather outside from affecting the conditions within. Half-dressed and hunched over his desk, the knight shivered, his body quivering from the top of his neck to the base of his spine, and down his arms to his wrists. He clasped a tabard and tunic in one fist, hesitant. The matte black of the linen fabric wrinkled in his trembling grasp, the very color of the fabric boding ill. How would his attendance at the funeral of his peer's young son not seem repentant, whenever the knight had so obviously consorted with Axarthys sin Saintrowe, the culprit of the crime? However unstained his hands were of the murder, he could not bear to be the cause of more whispered gossip at the funeral than reverent mourning. To not attend and remain in the midst of the demon, perhaps the murderer of both Casavir's lover and son, felt sorely blasphemous. And though his allegiance to Tyr wore thin with the completion of his penance in the Abyss, and though he was often vain and seething, his heart was yet merciful enough to desire prayer and closure on so dim a prospect for his peer.
Rodric's death was tragic to Casavir and Lady Dianarca, certainly, yet Nevalle could not help feeling inadvertently chastised by it, as if his jadedness for toiling ten years' time in the Abyss seemed unjustified when compared to the anguish his fellow knights faced. When first he'd spoken of his conviction to Axarthys, she merely furrowed her narrow brows in bewilderment as she pondered softly.
"But he shall ascend to heaven. He is not perpetually lost, and so I struggle with why you mourn and bear such remorse."
"If I died, would you not mourn for me?" Nevalle asked. She tipped her head to the side, frowning as if to emulate his sorrow, as it seemed the polite and human response to the ordeal.
"I would, as you would be forever lost to me." She considered, "In the case of demons, we do not mourn our fallen brethren, because their essences are reborn again from the Abyss of which we demons are all equally a part. It is not dissimilar that one day, Casavir and Lady Dianarca shall pass, and ascend to heaven to meet Rodric again, and have eternity to spend in his company. You, however, I would never see again, regardless of circumstance, because I may never be permitted to heaven."
"I fear I'm not of the heavenly caliber, and as that's not where my soul is headed, you have no right to weep over my corpse when I've expired from this miserable earth." He scoffed comically at himself. Yet Axarthys shook her head somberly, her archaic and supernatural gaze tender. The charmeuse of her gown wisped against his skin, like the ghostly mist of a welcome apparition.
"Good men need not fear heaven." She replied.
Recalling those final words offered the resolve Nevalle required to stand from his chair and draw the tunic over his shoulders. The chill of his bare flesh was staved off by the soothingly thick velvet of his tabard atop his tunic. He gathered his ceremonial sword and a cloak to ward off the rain, and strolled from his chambers with reputable conviction. All codes of noble conduct dictated he abstain from the event, though human decency compelled him otherwise. Indeed, an innocent man- a good man- had no fear of rumor, if it was simply that. Departing for the stables and mounting his palomino charger, Nevalle began in the direction of Casavir's estate. So it was that the knight acted from the mercy of his heart at the words of a demon.
-
Though it drizzled, and the grave's base was a milky puddle of mud and twigs blown from the trees in the past storms, it was a pristine day. Intermittent dry spells between downpours left a frothy fog over the rolling emerald hills, and the sky drained of its blue was a refreshingly crisp, ashen grey. Rodric's burial could wait no longer for fairer weather, for his small body decayed quickly, leaving an overwhelming odor of death in the muggy air of the estate. So much as she could not bear to never see Rodric's face again, Sisserou thought allowing his beloved body to putrefy was no better than desecration of the dead. In respect, and the utmost love, she had her Rodric's casket sealed long before any mourners arrived. She could not bear to have her dead son be the object of sick fascination.
The waves of black-draped nobles floated into her home, their voices low and their eyes downcast as she passed, fearful of the extremity of her sorrow. Weeping with Casavir had eased her suffering, yet sadness remained. Each condolence she received tested her willpower to retain her tears. Persistent and composed, she greeted her attendants with the grace of a lady, and the gravity of a former mother. As she approached the oncoming wave of mourners, she saw through her gossamer veil a familiar face. Sighing with contentment, she wove through the pockets of people gathered in her home, and embraced him.
"Icarus," she breathed, "I had no indication you would come. You risk your life riding to Neverwinter."
"For my nephew's funeral, there is little I wouldn't do, sister. By virtue of my decency and your heart, it was my solemn desire to deliver my condolences personally. You have my sympathy, and my promise that Rodric dwells now in a far grander Eden than mere mortals could know," He assured, releasing her from his embrace. He faintly frowned, "You are fairing admirably well, yet that is no disguise for the pain beneath the sheer mask of stoic courtliness you wear. It is expected of a mother who loves her son to weep."
Sisserou bit her lip, and Icarus patted her shoulder, "You are too brave, Sisserou."
"I worry it is that I have cried all the tears I had to weep." She responded, dismal. Icarus nodded silently. From beneath his black hood he procured a wide, shallow parcel, entrusting it to her with a reassuring grasp on her arm.
"You will need this in the coming days. I pray it will inspire your decency of character when you begin to question the oaths you took as a paladin of Tyr." He said, "Now, if I speak with your husband, I shall leave you to the tender company of mourners who have not related their sympathies to you. Be fearless always, Sisserou, and come to me when your tears swell strongest in your eyes."
He departed, fading into the black ocean of gathered guests. Temporarily alone in a room crowded with people, Sisserou strolled amidst the throngs of mourners retelling old tales about young Rodric's childhood adventures and mischievous escapades. Sisserou momentarily grinned, and then remembered that she no longer had a son. After the guests left her, Sisserou's home would be silent of Rodric's laughter, and the thunder of his footsteps dashing down the staircase would be absent. Breathless, she retreated to an empty alcove, leaning her forehead into the wall. She gasped, catching her tears before they escaped her eyes. Choked with rising sobs, Sisserou lingered in the niche until she had regained authority over her composure, grasping Icarus's package to her chest. As she stole a final, thick breath from the air, one of the mourners had traversed the room and stood now at her corner. From beneath the dark layers of his cloak and tabard, Sisserou saw a shimmer of chocolate brown irises and the flicker of platinum blonde hair. He muttered faintly, "Pardon my guise, Lady Dianarca. If I were not unlawfully suspect in your son's death, I would not be so rudely concealed."
"Ever the egotist, who is called noble only for his knightly title," she replied caustically, her imagination weaving scenes depicting the knight and his demon rejoicing at the news of her Rodric's death, and soaking their throats with wine to the celebration of their daughter's ascendance to the throne. She hissed, "I figure you've no sympathy to offer me."
"I am here, am I not?" He frowned, eyes stained with exasperation, "Though you doubt my sincerity, you have my deepest condolences. Perhaps I am not amongst the most honorable of men, but I am not unsympathetic to a mother's loss."
"I shall treasure your decency," She replied bitterly.
"It will last so long as you need consoling, my lady." He responded, as politely as could be spoken through a tightened jaw. He bowed, taking his leave into the crowd. Sisserou closed her eyes, clearing the spite from her thoughts. This was Rodric's day, not hers or Nevalle's. Matters of the court could wait until her son was laid to rest.
"Sisserou, my love?" The sound split Sisserou's eyes open, as she parted them to see Casavir plodding towards her. He struggled worse than his wife to remain composed. His red eyes and swollen cheeks were indicative of tears likely wept in private between condolences and greetings. Casavir murmured, "The priest wishes to begin, my love. I must go to carry Rodric's casket."
Sisserou flinched, the emotional pain brusque. She uttered in a wheezing reply, "Then I shall lead the mourners outside, my dear."
-
Fort Nessus was the only notable bastion of civilization on the ninth layer of Baator. From the scarred, barren red landscape, it rose from the earth like a mighty tyrant over nothingness. Its bare halls, as elegant empty as they were, provided little solace for the lonely, devilish seekers of knowledge and adventure that wandered their corridors. Absanoch was intimately familiar with each subtle bend of the hallways, and navigated the citadel with impressive ease. Stalking to the very center of the building, he passed a winding maze of passages, and passed a battalion guarding twin wrought iron doors. The legionnaires opened the gates for the devil to pass, and he crossed the threshold into the golden hall of Asmodeus, Lord of the Nine Hells.
"You are doing well, Absanoch," his lord commended. His ruby robes spilled like silken blood down the armrests and sides of his throne. The green-grey of Absanoch's skin echoed in the polished, metallic walls, casting occasional shimmers of mint green to reflect on all surfaces of the chamber. The thump of his boots and the jingle of his studded armor echoed throughout the room and into the remarkably vaulted ceilings.
"I do as you command, my lord." Absanoch replied blankly. Asmodeus chuckled.
"Then I shall be served well in the coming days," his lord replied, leaning forward in his throne, eyes fixed on Absanoch intently. Neither flinched, and after a moment's pause Asmodeus stated flatly, "Rodric's death is the ideal pretense under which we can distract Graz'zt from seizing Neverwinter's throne."
"And then the Abyss shall be plunged into the pits of Elemental Chaos," Absanoch responded mechanically, "Sealing victory of the devils over the demons, ending our Blood War."
"Are you prepared to lose her Ladyship Emissary?" Asmodeus asked. There was a glint of ferocity in Absanoch's eye.
"I lost her Ladyship Emissary," he brooded, "the moment she bedded the knight again."
Asmodeus's laughter was fuller and louder that time. He settled back into his seat and waved towards the exit.
"Assure that the proper revenge is taken," Asmodeus commanded, "and return to me, so that these events may unfold as I have strategized."
Absanoch sunk into a low, purposeful bow of submission. His orange eyes never left his lord's, his expressionless face twisting in diabolical determination as he responded in a deep, soul-chilling growl, "As you will it, my lord."
-
Sisserou clenched the package, grasping it throughout Rodric's burial. His tiny coffin was lowered into the earth with wide, white ropes by Casavir, Icarus, Darmon, and Nevalle, whose aid she neither expected nor desired. What discretion, she mentally mocked. No cloak could conceal the man laying her son to rest. She wished she'd banned him from attendance. Having imprisoned herself in her chambers for days upon end, Sisserou missed the arrangements for her son's funeral, having resigned all the power to Casavir.
Casavir…
A fresh wave of guilt overcame her. He could barely retain his grasp on the rope, so overtaken with sobs he was. Sisserou abandoned him to make the preparations for the burial alone, and now, whenever he should have found a small measure of peace, he was at his emotional worst. When the mourners had dropped their white lilies into the grave and the sextons began to shovel damp dirt atop the coffin, he stooped to his knees beside Sisserou, weeping. Sisserou, silently crying, stroked his hair soothingly. Her emerald eyes angrily stared into Nevalle's eyes from across the grave, accusingly and scathingly. His demon had done this to Casavir, to her. All those days in sorrow, spent in emotional hell, all those tears wept and sorrows declared, were the fault of his demon.
It drizzled then, and there was no distinction between tears and raindrops. Both soaked the green fields of the estate, and coursed in rivulets to the mud of Rodric's grave. A chorus of thunder signaled the mourners to retreat indoors, and Casavir quavered to rise to his feet. He leaned on Sisserou as they ventured back towards their home. As she passed Nevalle, who lingered at the grave, she snatched his upper arm, forcefully clutching him to lean and snarl into his ear, "You return to Neverwinter, knight, and tell your demon of what misery you witnessed today, because I will not cease to avenge Rodric until she has suffered it in kind."
-
Sisserou and Casavir peeled the soaked, black clothes from their bodies and donned warm linen shifts for bed, dressing in silence. Casavir crept to the bed, settling under the coverlets as he sat upwards against the headboard, awaiting his wife. She loomed over her vanity, a grey parcel set on the otherwise empty tabletop. Sisserou slowly, warily opened the box, unwrapping the item within from layers of charcoal silk. Her hands procured from the package a black, pointed witch's hat, decorated on its base by two Tyrian purple feathers.
"Icarus…" she whispered. Her hands brushed the hat's silky, frothy plumage.
"Sisserou," Casavir said, and she met his gaze in the mirror. His visage was grave but empowered, and he motioned at the hat. Sisserou fingered its fine fabric delicately, and then draped it over her brow. She turned fully towards Casavir, the feathers in her hat swaying. He murmured, "Perhaps it is time to renounce your role as paladin, Lady Dianarca."
"To battle this demon-"
"-Requires a Black Canary instead." Casavir uttered in response. She smiled fiercely.
"My love, my husband," she answered, glancing at her reflection in the mirror once more, her emerald eyes from beneath the hat's brim shadowed and vengeful, "Tonight I take my station as witch again."
-
A Quick Note: I did not have a chance to extensively edit this chapter for grammar, but wanted to get it posted as soon as possible. Please be understanding; remain cognizant that this was written late at night in a college dorm, and mechanics were not top priority!
Regards-
Valah