4.

(The Sunken Flagon, following the party's venture into the Tomb of the Betrayer)

There are many different ways of coming to terms with the things we've faced. But Casavir's best thinking is always done in battle. It is as if he comes out of the fury of combat more honed, more purified, like a sword on the forge that is hammered to perfection. His thoughts become more focused. He is somehow washed clean of all that troubles him for that time, and that time alone, and he comes forward from each battle changed in some small way. I have watched him when he is in this divine state of awareness many times. The glory of the gods comes upon his form and that of his hammer as if to say that they claim him as their own.

But now that enemy is one that will not be threatened by a charging paladin. It is something more sinister that turns a man's suspicious eye on every companion that walks beside of him. There's no reason for us to be visiting Neverwinter when we- and I do say we- have recently been given charge of Crossroad Keep. Still, we find our reasons. The Keep should be home to us, but this fire is so much warmer. Sand decides he desperately needs a scroll that he's left in his shop. Casavir reminds me that we couldn't possibly use all of the gold or treasure we've amassed, even after splitting it amongst ourselves, so it wouldn't do any harm to donate some of it to the Temple of Tyr. When we return to the Keep, we'll all do so with some measure of regret. There's something so soul-restoring about the Sunken Flagon. And after ducking cobwebs and traps and doing what amounts to little more than exorcising the tortured spirit of the ill-fated Fenthick Moss from the Tomb of Betrayers today, we could all use a decent rest.

And perhaps a bath.

I don't see Duncan around at the bar. He's probably digging around in the cellar for a keg of ale. Deciding he won't mind, I take one of the keys to the storage room where there's one precious tub for just that purpose. It's all very efficient. Inside of the room is a pipe where fresh water can be brought forth, and even a low stove and pot for heating the water. I thank Duncan with all of my heart as I gather myself some fresh clothing from my room and head over. For the moment, I'm thankful that everyone else apparently has some 'urgent' errand that pours them out over the city like anxious ants. And even moreso that Bishop has, for the moment, decided to continue to stay in the city instead of the Keep. That decision is right in order with my plans.

Don't you people bathe? I laugh to myself before stepping into the storage room.

I come to regret my sudden need for cleanliness almost immediately. The room is already occupied.

Allowing himself only the light from a single candle flame, Casavir is submerged up to his ribs in the bathing tub. He holds a white washcloth which he is using to scrub at himself vigorously. The attack on his shoulder and arm ceases the instant he sees me step into the room, and there we both are, staring at each other without a word. His face is unreadable. Dismay, embarrassment, annoyance? The light is too dim to truly tell.

"I, I'm sorry. I'll go. I'm uh, I'm going now. Sorry." Yes, I'm stammering. And repeating myself. It's more than I ever hoped I would see of him. The interruption of his attack had such a frenzied air about it that I hadn't even chanced a look at his bare chest or body long enough to remember the image. I had seen him half-sitting up in bed, and the assassin with her dagger up under his chin as she pinned him to the bed from the waist. But even if I had seen something of him, it wouldn't have been intimate like this. Perhaps he can tell that I'm half in tears from my mistake in interrupting him, because he stops me before I'm out the door. There's a splash of water before his voice goes after me.

"Wait. My Lady."

These are the words I've been aching to hear. I would not have dreamed that there was even the smallest possibility that he would speak them. But can he know that if I turn to look at him, truly look at him, it will be difficult to look away? That seeing those muscular arms so bare, so vulnerable and white does something to me?

There is an uncertain quaver when he speaks that catches me in the chest and grips my heart. "When we last spoke, you said that I.. that I..."

"Matter to me." I complete the sentence that he can not. I keep my hand on the doorknob but don't dare turn to look him in the eye.

"Please, My Lady," he says in a strangled voice, "will you turn and look at me?"

My own voice catches in my throat, but I do, very slowly, turn to face him. He has one arm up crossing his chest and over the opposite shoulder, and the other hand up in his hair as if in indecision. But when I had step into the room to look him full in the eye, I start to walk toward him, and something changes between us.

Casavir reaches out one hand to me.

"Una," he says, giving my name more reverence than it owns. "Are you telling me that you love me?"

My voice has grown incredibly weak. "Yes. I do. I do love you."

He seems not to have heard or to be thinking over my words. I can see as I draw nearer to his face that he makes no move- no smile, no answer, no reply. And it is torment to me. I can no longer stand the silence, and so I further unburden my heart. What I long to say is no longer just a phrase, but everything that needs to be freed from me. "I love you, Casavir. I love you. You can't know how I love you."

He watches silently as I remove my clothing and take his offered hand. The admittance of my love has changed the space between us into mere memory.

The warmth of the water swirls about my ankles. Standing nude before him for a few seconds, his gaze never leaving my own, I feel that for the first time truth has faced truth and found acceptance. Casavir at last bridges the gap between us as I settle into the water. His arms are slick and strong when he takes me into his embrace. I am unprepared for the effect that his pounding heart will have upon me or how firm and passionate his kiss is in every way.

He kisses me, and he holds me.

But that is all that he does.

The need to touch more and more of him is overwhelming, and yet still he holds me at bay on my knees inches from him in the water. I seethe with frustration along with the powerful pull to this man that I have secretly loved for so long. He strokes my hair, allows his arm to cradle me as he draws his fingers soothingly up and down my spine. And then he stops to bring my face directly to his.

"My heart has been yours alone for longer than you can imagine. But there is something that I must tell you."