Interlude III: Chapter Four

Soon the rhythm of hoof beats ceased, the hollow sound of their applause's end awakening Axarthys. Nevalle had dismounted, catching her in his arms as she dropped from the saddle. She braced for her burn to sear as she moved but a shooting pain never came. He'd been so vigilant in his treatment of her that her feather-light body cupped in his grasp as if he was fearful of her weight there, as if she was glass. His footfalls carried her from the drizzle outdoors to the pleasantly thick, warm air inside the castle. When they began to ascend the staircase the motion pained her and she whimpered. He apologized in a hushed utterance.

Eyes closed, Axarthys knew not if her chambers they had reached until Nevalle had surrendered her to the cloud of her bed. Reposing on her stomach, face resting on its cheek upon her pillows, she felt a gloved hand atop the crown of her white locks. She peered up at the knight, heard him say, "I'll be back soon."

"I-I'll be here alone." She shuddered.

He answered gently, "Then if you are brave, I will be fast."

And he was, fetching wine and linen bandages whilst she clung to her velvet quilt, numbering the moments of his absence. When he returned she breathed once more, her heartbeat's pulse eased into a weakened walloping inside her chest. He sat alongside her, freeing her arms of the sleeves of her dress and peeling it down to her waist as she laid on her front, unlacing the corset at the small of her back. Axarthys had thought him to be as prudish as knights and paladins were, regardless of necessity for her skin exposed. She admired his void of hesitance, supposing someone reticent was not inherently modest.

He examined the extremity of her wound, the leather of his gloves cool against her sides. He admitted, "I am no cleric. It appears as if a burn by fire though clearly it is more intense, marring deeper. I will do what little I can now. Later, we will need to find someone of more expertise. I only hope what I am capable of is enough to last us until then."

He uncorked the wine and poured it over her. Axarthys caught the rich smell of the liquid between gasps of air. Merlot. It stung in the splintered, scarlet flesh of her wound mightily, pressing a pitiable whine from her lips. Her fingers flexing not of her will, Axarthys felt her hand held in another of leather, downy and supple, engulfing the flimsy bones of her digits. The miniature embrace shooed the ephemeral anguish of the wine coursing her burn. Through the veil of leather and the pliability of flesh, the sturdy skeleton of Nevalle's hands impressed and confused the tanar'ri. It deeply perplexed a demon as her that something could be concurrently powerful and gentle. She had never known the two as simultaneous.

The same was true of his voice: a quiet and authoritative intonation that said, "I need to dress this burn so it stays clean. Are you able to sit up?"

"Must I?" she whispered. She heard the crinkling of the velvet coverlets as he moved, presumably for the bandages.

"No. I would not cause you anymore senseless pain." He replied. Where all the time she had been in his company his voice had the air of knightly detachment, an emotionless leadership unquestioned in its surety, now his voice leaked failure. Axarthys rotated her neck, her head resting on the opposite cheek to look to him. She permitted him to ready her dressings in quiet, reading the slight defeat written on the corners of his mouth.

"You are at no fault." She reassured after a while.

"I was selfish to have wanted your case over and to not have protected you." He said, "It is my duty to be selfless and I was not, and for that, I am greatly at fault. Forgive me, Axarthys. I would not have wished you such humiliation and pain."

She was wordless, allowing him to see to her as he did. He lifted her torso and slipped the bandages under her side and around her waist, wrapping her slender middle. His gloved hands brushed her skin as they worked upwards from her back, binding her breasts beneath the gauze as he finished dressing the burn. Part of the bandage he had tucked around the curve of her shoulder and under one of her arms, pinning it to discourage movement. Scooping her into his hands he readjusted her, stationing her back against the malleable, cushioning pillows for support. Axarthys's eyes met his, murmuring, "May I thank you?"

"No," he declined, "It was my penance to care for the wounds caused by my selfishness."

"Then I forgive you." She whispered. Surprise crossed his features, a temporary tensing of his lips following. Perhaps he was taken aback at hearing such phrases spoken from demons' tongues. Axarthys believed it was of less racial ignorance, and simply he was stunned anyone could pardon his actions. A breath of relief departed Nevalle's lips. He bowed his head in comprehending the sincerity of her forgiveness, standing to the floor to raise his chin, his eyes linear hers.

"I would leave you to your sleep now." He said. She shook her head.

"Company fills where my heart was pitted as if a plum by the hunter. I implore you remain with me where he has strayed." She requested. He surrendered, regaining his seat by her. Axarthys said, "Let it be known that the physical and mental pains are incomparable to the misery I feel when I think of my champion's betrayal. It was he designated to defend me, to stand as the protector you should not have been made to fill the role of."

"Bishop could not have known you would suffer. I am sure when Sir Darmon returns him to you, his heart shall be broken and he will console you. He loves you, does he not?" Nevalle asked, immediately apologizing, "I should not ask such things of you."

"I have naught to conceal from you," She uttered, "He does, but as close as he prowls in the Neverwinter Wood, surely he would have known of my imprisonment and would have come to my defense. Surely he would have not left me to-to… die."

She trembled with tears, realizing how suddenly alone she was. Abandonment had struck down her emotional strength, leaving her mentally as exhausted as her body. She had loved Bishop so blindly. He was a ranger, a transient of the social world where love was so very much a part. His love, as so he was, was unstable and fleeting, akin to his support. She thought that once she had loved him with a passion unmatched of anything in all of Faerun, and here she lay doubting the foundations of her faith in that world. Hopelessly she began to weep.

Her lamentation sang in tears. Nevalle had never heard a more sorrowful noise, and never one as dulcet and as melodious as it. Moved, he collected her shuddering body in his grasp. Axarthys curled her arms on the level surface of his chest. Her burn ached when she throbbed with tears. Too distressed to sleep and yet exhausted, she replayed memories of Red Fallow's Watch in her mind. The thoughts worsened her sobbing. She had loved him too much. She had longed for him too many months. The anticipation of their first meeting had afforded her such happiness, such inspired joy, that she eagerly had gone with the Nine to Neverwinter, compliant in her bliss. Now she was trapped there without cause.

Axarthys slumped into Nevalle's lap, her head genuflected on his leg as she cried. She heard the creaking of the door and footsteps yet she could not bear to focus on them. A white-robed woman had entered with a metal tray, setting it down on the nightstand to mouth quietly to Nevalle, "Sir Casavir requested I see to her. For now, have her drink this. It should suffice to sedate her until someone of more skill in these things comes."

"Thank you." He replied to the woman, continuing to pet the tanar'ri's head. She mewled for long a time, tears damp on the knight's breeches. Nevalle sympathized with her so. He leaned over her, sheltering her between the bend of his thigh and the recess of his neck into his stalwart shoulder. She cried her eyes of their tears, shivering as their lasting chill froze her cheeks. When at last she had crawled from Nevalle's lap to repose on the pillows, his fingers swept along the curve of her jaw, saying, "If you sleep, I promise I'll be here when you wake."

"I can't," she quivered, "Too many thoughts plague me."

"Then it is good the cleric delivered this," He said, gathering the vessel in his hand to offer her. She reached for it, taking it between both of her fragile hands. He warned, "You'll be sedated a day or two should you drink it. That may be best if you are to recover from tonight's trauma."

She gazed into the pitcher, looked back to him, and swiftly downed the contents. Taking the empty vessel from her and setting it on the tray, Nevalle tucked the blankets around her and sat in a chair by the fire, fingers loose over the hilt of the sword at his side in the case of intruders. Axarthys called weakly as she coiled into the mass of covers and pillows, "I will miss you as I sleep."

He tried not to smile when he responded, "Goodnight, Axarthys."

-

Atop the volcanoes of the Abyss's treacherous geography existed halls of obsidian, pillars and towers carved from rock to perch over the bubbling lava in the calderas beneath it. From the cliff side the palace was a projection, one large balcony whose corridors extended far into the reaches of the mountainside. Light emanated from the hell fires flickering from flambeaus mounted on the wall. Their blazes cast shades citrine and ruby, translucence of their colors imprinting distinctive illuminations on the mirror of the black marble floor. In the vacant halls a tanar'ri, her breath hasty and her steps, rhythmic tapping of her heels upon the floor, alerted her presence. Her dusky blonde curls bounced in the wake of her stride, her green skirts lifted so her pace would not be so hindered by her garb.

She entered a lengthy hall, vertical and narrow to extremes. At its end the hall burst into a room as tall as it was wide, sumptuous in curtains of purple and red. Armored succubi flanked the entry, their visors shielding their wary eyes. Beyond them, upon an elevated stage, reclined a score of demons about the base of a throne, their matron seated there. The blonde tanar'ri dipped in curtsy, proceeding to speak reverently, "Ladyship Balimynah, beloved Lamb's predicament is dire."

The matron tanar'ri turned towards the distressed demon, a comforting smile upon her face, and truly beautiful it- and she- was. Balimynah owned a hundred times more colors in rare silks and damasks than the colors of her albino palette. Her skin, hair, eyes, horns, wings and tail were as stark white as the very snow itself, and equally as luminous. She was the Queen Saintrowe, mother of the first Saintrowe intermediaries Nonah and Nantyglo seated beside her, and as archaic as her origins were, she in appearance did not exceed fifteen years. Her colorless eyes were wide and framed in icicle lashes, her brow camouflaged against the backdrop of her skin. Her garb was a gown that swathed her in fabric red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple and indigo, her chains of precious stones in colors according.

She faced the girlish demon and nodded, cooing, "Have you as well felt it, my precious Fawn? Our Lamb's heart has broken, shattered under Neverwinter's boot. Fire and holy water have marred her where their hearsay could not, her voice weeping in the tongue of exorcized demons. I feel it, my sweet."

"But the hunter, he left her to die," the Fawn began to sob, her wide rose eyes narrowed with tears in their almond shape, "Surely you will save my dear sister Lamb?"

The Bird, seated at Balimynah's right hand, peered up fearfully, her lips glossed and gossamer tightening worriedly. Her Ladyship lifted her hand, palm forward in beckoning for their distress to cease, saying, "Where once there stood a man of the earth of origin most un-noble and unbefitting of her station, the Lamb will walk independent of any human hand's brutality. And for her suffering, my dearest Fawn, the Lamb will not go unrewarded."

The Bird uttered fearfully, "My daughter, my beloved firstborn Lamb…"

The Fawn wept in her mother Bird's words, crying, "She is in such pain. Can not I see her, care for the burns that so mark her in human cruelty? My adored sister Lamb-"

"-Shall not march alone," Balimynah consoled lovingly, kissing the Fawn's forehead, "For she is a princess of demons, Lady of the House Saintrowe, Lamb of the Emissaries, but foremost she is our sister and she is our daughter. My sweet child, depart in peace now and polish your blades."

When the Fawn had bowed and exited the room, Balimynah motioned to the Bird to be seated before her. She opened, folded, and reopened a hand to have a mass of canary silk and a mask encrusted with stones the colors of the abyssal hellfires materialize there. The Bird took them to Balimynah's words, "My Bird, stay your blades. Let our wealth flourish unhindered by blood and sword. For you, my adored daughter, need only know the armor of politics is the garb of royals."

-

Adelaide stomped back and forth before the altar of Tyr, the church still as the night was drawing to its end. The pews lined in front of her acted as the wooden audience to her displeasure, marked only by the thick scowl on her face, staring in their oak grains unblinking. Sand, who'd taken his seat at the middle of the temple, was pensive, and that bothered the paladin. She was furious anyone could be so unmoved by the night's events, more specifically the disastrous arrival of the royal guard and Nevalle. That noble-born, city-bred fool would have mopped the floor at Nasher's feet with his tongue, she thought, and his righteousness was a nauseatingly shallow front.

Like Casavir's, Adelaide darkly considered. As she lingered over the resonance of his name in the soundlessness of her thoughts, he strode through the doors of the temple. He wore the tunic of their order with a certain air of justice she loathed. Adelaide hissed, "You traitorous bastard. Where were you when we rallied the people of the Docks against the demon? Where were you when she was tortured? Did you have a change of heart, Casavir?"

"Yes, Adelaide. And I pity that you did not." He replied.

"Obviously the Knight Captain doesn't mean a half-copper to you," she snapped, "Sand and I threaten our very existences here in Neverwinter if we are found responsible, and you, who were just as involved in this plot, aren't even going to have to face Nasher's wrath."

"Indeed. Are you letting us take your revenge out? Because as it stands the tanar'ri suffers in her chambers for her crime and you did nothing to see that through." Sand hissed.

"My refusal to join your effort is no reflection of my fear to involve myself. If the price to avenge my beloved was involvement I would have paid it long ago. I realized walking from Castle Never to the Docks that revenge is not equivalent to justice," Casavir stated firmly, "And it is justice, not revenge, that the Knight Captain represented."

Adelaide pilloried him with a mocking cackle. She leaned against the altar, head shaking purposefully slow, chuckling, "My, my, I feel as if I'm talking to Nevalle. Did his idealistic visions infect your capacity to reason? If so, allow me to readjust your moral compass; know that chivalry is not dead, it never existed, that justice is never just, oh, and for further reference, that blondes in truth have much less fun."

"You mock me because you know you are at fault." He sternly replied.

She grinned, "As are you, Casavir, and if I am discovered, I swear you will sink with this ship."

"Then tell all of Neverwinter that I am at fault. Tell them we conspired hand in hand. Be both our downfalls. You will find that I will not cower from the truth as you would." Casavir answered, facing the wizard, "Sand, stand with me. You feel the pain of the Knight Captain's death; surely you would be compelled to honor her memory through justice, not through this senseless torture."

"The Knight Captain's death was senseless torture," Sand corrected, "And I prefer to think an eye is paid for an eye than to think justice in favor of vengeance. Such a slight difference to have our trio shattered, isn't it, Casavir? But I suppose subtleties are enough to splinter any group united."

"You see, Casavir? Even the usual defector wizard stands true to the cause. We stand strong in the face of this crime." Adelaide said.

"Then I will leave the both of you to your beliefs." Casavir replied, nodding in grim farewell as he plodded back through the temple to exit. As the doors closed Sand faced Adelaide, a lax concern tainting his countenance. Adelaide's expression had not been altered in the slightest.

"And so what are we to do next?" Sand asked.

"The tanar'ri still lives," Adelaide answered, "And that must be remedied."

-

Bishop skirted the city walls, his black hood drawn up around his face. Dawn had risen and the guard would be switched. It was his slim margin of chance to enter the city, a risk he would play if it rewarded him with even the opportunity to glance upon Axarthys's face. As the armored soldiers of Blacklake left their posts, the ranger slinked around the wall and directly behind a building, his heart jumping in his chest. It wasn't so much his effortless success that thrilled him but the thought of so simply outfoxing Neverwinter's supposed elite warriors. Life was his gamble, his game, and winning had a way of fueling his already super-inflated ego.

He came dangerously close to forgetting entirely about Axarthys as he rejoiced in his entry, coursing the alleys and walks of Blacklake. But he convinced himself how much she meant to him, how long their company had lasted, tried to recount the number of times he'd bedded her. He conjured her face in his mind and wondered if it was still as beautiful. The memories filled the hole of her being in his mind, and recalling them was an immediate fix to the times he felt lonesome or especially detached.

Bishop crossed the street to scan the stores opening- a bakery, butchery, a clothier. Deciding on the later, figuring the endless racks of fabric would provide adequate cover, he opened the door to the chiming of a bell. A robust woman flounced towards him at the sound, smiling, "Welcome, dear. Are you looking for anyth-"

"Browsing." He beamed transparently enough. The woman must not have noticed, for she simply bobbed her head hurriedly and returned to her station at the back of the store without concern. Assured she had gone Bishop turned a corner around a rack, pretending to take interest in the exorbitant garb folded on shelves at the corner of the place. As he fingered the silk of a radiantly yellow dress, sickening sunny in his opinion, he heard the ringing of the door opening. He turned his gaze over his shoulder. It was Darmon and a handful of knights. Bishop nearly boomed with victorious laughter- the fool; he was not even yards away and was completely unaware the ranger was present! Bishop listened as Darmon's familiarly drunken voice permeated the store.

"We are in need of four particularly outlandish masks." He drawled. The woman giggled in glee.

"Oh, the masked ball! Tonight, is it, at the palace? Oh, what fun would it be to attend! Here, here, I have just the proper masks, too- these are velvet, and look, this plumage is truly superb, imported all the way from Calimshan," she presumably was showing the men her collection at the interested sound of their chatter, "I heard all the Nine will attend- good, good, they need some time to breathe will all the commotion here in the city. The ruckus last night at the Docks, my, truly quite the altercation as I've heard. Now, are these your final selections?"

There was a clatter of coins and some hushed jabbering, then the knights shuffled for the door. At their departure Bishop emerged from the shadows, striding to the counter at the end of the store. He leaned on its edge, the woman tilting her head in question, twittering, "Yes, my dear? What would you like?"

He smiled darkly, "To know if those masks come in black."

-

The afternoon sun was fearsome, roaring through the windows and beyond the drapes. Light purest white and transparent as water filled the room as if the chambers thirsted for the sun to stave off the cold quiet. Axarthys challenged her eyes to part in the brilliance, wincing even when they did finally open. With her sight followed physical feeling, then sound, taste, and smell. She braced for misery that was not as unbearable as she'd imagined would be. Her burn ached dully, her exhaustion replaced with mere malaise. She rose, sitting in a heap of blankets.

Axarthys saw a bouquet of flowers at the foot of the bed. She reached for them, gathering them to the numbed ache of her wound. The blossoms were radiant, yellow orchids bound in a pale azure ribbon of chiffon rimmed in gold. She lifted them to her nose, inhaling the saccharine aroma. They were exquisite.

"Nevalle told me they reminded him of you," a voice noted aloud, "He said they were rare, singular, and as smiling as the sun if only they would smile at all."

It was Casavir, standing by one of her windows. Axarthys cradled the flowers in her arms, uttering, "They are lovely."

"He sent them in his absence. Since the Docks incident he's been busier than Nasher himself, torn in a hundred directions all at one time while still finding the energy to sit by your side each night. It's been two nights now, three days. I fear he'll go mad with it all." Casavir said. The wistful sound of his voice pierced Axarthys's thoughts in a peculiar way, awakening her into the politics of her case.

"If not Nevalle why do you stand where the murderer of your love reposes?" She piercingly asked. He glanced at her, stabbed by the question as if through the core of his soul. There was melancholy where she expected rage, a sorrow he established in fury's lacking.

He answered, "You ask a good question, and I shall be as frank as you ask it. I orchestrated what occurred at the Docks, but I was a coward. I should have known what you did to the woman I loved would be avenged in more suffering. It is senseless to fuel violence, to spur more of it, then more, contributing to the endless cycle. That is when you forget what you fight for, and I couldn't bear to forget the Knight Captain.

"I told Nevalle of my involvement, explained my realization and my feelings. He told me he would speak not a word to Nasher if I promised him one thing, and that was to speak to you. He told me, Casavir, there is a woman behind the demon, and you must remember that, you must forgive her as if she is as human as you are. I've combated the thought of such action for two days, battled it… until I saw that there is a greater strength in mercy than in cruelty. And so, for myself and on the behalf of my love, I forgive you."

Axarthys looked away, dipped her head solemnly, "Demons do not hear those words."

"I speak the words to you as to another human being, Axarthys. Where your people have been blinded by their heritage I do not think you are so tainted. Neither does Nevalle. I trust him- we believe in much the same ideals, share a similar morality. Nevalle has such faith in you and his faith is not easily earned. So for that, I would hope my forgiveness you will value." Casavir responded. Despondent in her features the paladin shifted from the window, walking towards her vanity closer to her bed, glancing to her with a frown. She could not accept his forgiveness.

She explained, "My heritage does not permit me to completely understand human morality, and it is difficult to see through the veil of misery you have caused me at the light of the clemency you offer. But because Nevalle and you have invested faith in my character, I will try."

"Then that is all I may ask," He replied, comforted by the ordeal's resolution. The silence of the finished topic allowed closure to finalize, the moral verdict settling like sediment in a river long after the storm had passed. Axarthys inhaled a prolonged breath, the muscles between her ribs aching from the smoke inhalation she'd recovered from. Painful as it was, the air filled her and released in a tranquil exhale, a peace washing over her to conclude her emotional war with the paladin.

Axarthys lifted her chin, considering her current condition, asking of Casavir, "May I ask you something?"

"By all means."

"How was I healed so quickly? You tell me it was three days' sedation, yet already the pain has become but a strong ache and a slight fatigue, as if the last days of a fever." She said. He leaned against the edge of her vanity, arms crossed.

"I wish to say in part, the cleric I sent for you helped, but there was little Neverwinter's clerics could do. In truth an exceptional cleric from Amn was summoned. He'd been traveling north from Baldur's Gate and came upon Neverwinter's request. He knew a great deal about your people and tailored specific treatments for your wound, spending all day and night working to heal you. He left for Icewind Dale this morning." Casavir answered. Axarthys shook her head.

"Neverwinter's taxes would not have paid to have me healed." She said. Casavir nodded.

"They didn't," He said, "Nevalle saw to it."

Axarthys averted her eyes, face turned away in a contemplative, humbled manner. The rare orchids, their ribbon exquisite, the merlot wine he'd cleaned her wound with, the palomino steed whose gait was silken enough to rock her to her slumber, now his paying for her care, the thoughts assembled. These subtleties divided him from his people, designated him of the pure noble blood they had not. Her cheeks warmed with an abruptly piqued curiosity in him. She stifled it as best she could, saying, "I must thank him for his kindness."

"I will relate your thanks to him tonight at the masked ball." Casavir said.

"My thanks would only be sincere if I spoke them to him." Axarthys insisted. He shook his head.

He replied, "Between your case and the Docks, then tonight's activities and your injury, he is too engaged to see you now. If I tell him of your wishes, perhaps tonight he'll come to visit you."

Axarthys closed her eyes, opening them to smile, "In that case, tell him that if he comes fast, I will be brave."

-

The sun had ducked beneath the furthest reaches of the horizon, the sunset marking day's sleep in a vivid canvas of pinks, purples, oranges and reds. The weathered, pale light shed the colors across the white of Axarthys's robe. She lay sprawled before her fireplace, the wood there lit by a stroke of her finger and an utterance of a spell. The crackling of the flames ebbed at the soundlessness, allowing for a balmy quiet that urged peace to wash the blood from her heart's wounds. The scene proposed to her a meditative ambiance, as surreally serene as the moonlight reflected on the surface of a lake or an evening meal eaten over candlelight.

Axarthys adjoined her chamber's mood with the hum of a melody she'd recalled from long ago, when her matron Balimynah would cradle her and knot her fingers in her hair, singing epic tales of knights at war and castles and damsels. Her song she hummed until the words became evident, backed by the echo of her words in the room.

At its closure she heard a snivel, the most nominal of breaths. Axarthys rose up, supported by one hand on the floor, gathering her legs beneath her. It had been a demon that echoed her song, not the walls of her room, the demon's chiffon robes mirroring the early night's arising in its hues. She roosted on the sill of the window, a mournful grin across the smallness of her lips. Axarthys stood, leisurely walked to her to see the brilliantly colored fabric in her lap.

"You linger here when there is a masquerade downstairs, my daughter," The Bird said, standing. She took the Lamb's hands and folded them over the oranges and yellows of the silk and mask she offered, embracing her in turn, "There is someone you must thank there. Go, my child, and be beautiful as you are."

-

Author's Notes:

Mini-scene MANIA!! I had fun writing all these snippets leading up to one of the most vital events of the story, the masquerade. As that scene is to me the climax of all the character's entwinement in one another's plots, the chapter where all the loose ends meet, I decided to omit it from the end of this chapter and save it for the next. But it's coming, so stick around- much of it is written already and I am ecstatic to share it with you!

As far as this chapter, Casavir fans, rejoice! He is not as crazed as he appears. Sand fans- Sand is still under Adelaide's wicked curse (she must be a Sand fan too)! Bishop fans, our beloved ranger finally got around to getting in to Neverwinter! Nevalle… fans…um, don't exist. But he's my favorite so loves spews for him any ways!

Peace out and happy reading,

Valah