Interlude IV: Chapter Five

Sulfurous columns of smoke and pillars of fire rose from the gargantuan chamber, the largest of the hollows of a system of caves. Pools of magma boiled and gnawed restlessly on the stone walks of the place, heating the cavern and fending off the subterranean chill deep within the Abyss. Glittering stalactites formed mineral chandeliers above a heaping stash of precious jewels and golden trinkets. The abyssal vault shimmered with riches, the vivid gold of the coins stacked at the center of the room mirrored onto a tanar'ri walking towards the treasure, casting metallic flecks onto the midnight of his hair.

He scaled the cache, his nimble reddish limbs supplementing his faded orange wings and the sway of his forked tail keeping balance in climbing the mountainous load. At its peak, he stood atop a chest, his rust-colored eyes scrutinizing the cave. Dissatisfied, he poised himself cross-legged on the chest, wings unfolded and draped across the hoard. A thunderous rumble brought a smirk to his sadistic lips, parting them to the glimmer of lustrous fangs. From the winding cave system leading into the antechamber, a massive demon eighteen feet in height, limbs scaled and scorpion-tail lashing, emerged. He straightened his posture, dual baboon heads' eyes locking on the perched demon with an arrogant disparagement.

"Ah, Dantalion, my wayward general. What brings your sorry hide into my private vaults? Perchance an offering of your black hand in my service, only to serve your own interests? A plea for control of another ten legions of demons?" His twin voices boomed. The seated demon laughed, a thick, deep noise reverberated from the pit of his throat. Raising his handsome face he rolled his shoulders back, outstretching his wings in predatory exhibition.

"I'm hurt, your highness Demogorgon," He mocked, stressing the syllables of the Prince of Demons' royal title, "I thought you held me in higher esteem than a supercilious mercenary."

"Silence your sarcasm. Thank your talents in war; they are all that keep you breathing in this realm. Now state your business quickly or I will happily display your severed head on a plaque above my throne." Demogorgon demanded. Dantalion thrust his wings upward, hovering to land on the chest on the soles of his ebony boots, the thud of his step attesting to the weight of his armor. His orange eyes alit with proposition.

"Ah, what threats. Very well. Your majesty, I have been informed by the House Saintrowe that one of their daughters is imprisoned in Faerun, in the city of Neverwinter. Apparently there was quite the mess, because her crime was slaying the arch-succubus, Blooden, an agent of the Purging Duke Alvarez. Now, Alvarez could give a rat's ass for the Saintrowe daughter, but her family wants her returned, and requested my talents, as you so eloquently called them." Dantalion announced. Demogorgon's audible growl roared throughout the cavern.

"Alvarez was a fool not to employ a demon of less power." Demogorgon replied. Dantalion shrugged.

"Perhaps. But this daughter was long employed by him, and was a guardian of one of Alvarez's named mortal champions. He trusted her," Dantalion responded, hopping from the chest to surf the avalanche of gold coins of jewels as he adroitly surfed to the flat cave floor below, standing beneath the towering Prince of Demons, "Alvarez, blessedly, has little to deal with the matter at hand. I am here request you allow me to siege this city with the whole of my thirty-six legions and return the daughter of the House Saintrowe to her family."

Demogorgon hesitated, considering the proposition. He paced the cavern, the clamor of his steps vibrating in the earth beneath Dantalion. The tanar'ri faced him with both heads' eyes narrowed, saying, "The demoness Balimynah, leader of the Saintrowes, commands thirty legions of demons. That number does not include her immediate family of archdemons, a force mighty enough to return a single demon to the Abyss. She has adequate manpower to siege Neverwinter."

"Balimynah could take the city in a fortnight, I have no doubt. What she cannot afford is so directly tarnishing her reputation amongst the nobles of Faerun by attacking one of their cities. Emissaries have politics to concern over," Dantalion answered, smiling, "Besides, are we not demons, my liege? Would it not please you to beget the chaos of the Abyss on the mortal plane?"

"No. The Blood War demands our attention, and if not that, then the corruption of humanity concerns us. We have not the resources to splurge saving this Saintrowe daughter. A single demon could infiltrate the city and escape with her," Demogorgon persisted. He paused, a cruel grin spreading on his faces as he said, "Ah, I nearly forgot. Axarthys, she is your child, is she not?"

Dantalion's features stiffened with a quiet horror, lips tensing as he nodded. Demogorgon mused aloud, "And so demon-kind tears at the seams. The very love that would compel you to save your child, how… unlike the cruelty the tanar'ri are feared for. This love is a sign of-"

"-My interest to protect a powerful asset of the House Saintrowe." He assured. Demogorgon chuckled.

"Certainly," he replied, "Very well. Take your thirty-six legions and siege this city. If it satiates your bloodlust or halts the breaking of your heart, I will grant you permission. However, it is my stipulation that if she is rescued, you must surrender her to me. I lack a worthy consort to amuse me with their beauty, and I have been told of this Axarthys's loveliness and grace."

"It would be an honor to give you my daughter." Dantalion answered, words untainted by sarcasm. Demogorgon smiled wretchedly.

"Excellent. Now go, Dantalion, and prepare your forces. Your presence sullies these vaults." Demogorgon said. Dantalion's fangs ruptured the interior flesh of his mouth as he choked on a satisfied smile. He collapsed into a bow, departing to say:

"A pleasure doing business, your highness."

-

There were screams from the cell.

Bishop's very limb was rotting. One week of the damp, grimy cell had aggravated his wound, infecting the carelessly wrapped injury. Congealed blood and blackened, decaying flesh worsened the spectacle, instantaneously transforming him into a grotesque celebrity for the guards to watch suffer. The ranger ambled about the cell on a single leg, the shattered femur of his opposite limb rendering that appendage useless. He rattled the prison bars as he grasped them for support, begging for a reprieve, for medication to dull the pain and cure the infection that threatened to course up his leg and sicken his whole body. Endless, hoarse screams emanated from his cell, splitting the eardrums of the guards stationed by his cage. They ignored him, accustomed to the racket.

Wasting away, feeling the life seeped from him, he wept for death. It was as if his private Red Fallow's Watch, his singular condemnation. Again, he wished to die, again, the weight of humanity smothered him, again, agony claimed him. But this time, there would be no Axarthys. There would be no savior. She had driven the blade through his leg and caused his wound. She had promised to defend him in life, and she would be the death of him.

Didn't he want it, though? Death? Hadn't she given him his wish?

No. There would be no death, only pain. Hi fury refueled, Bishop shrieked, "Axarthys, you lied! You lied to me and told me you'd protect me, and you abandoned me! I trusted you, Axarthys! I trusted you, you bitch!"

He sunk to the bottom of his cell, sodden with the moisture of a puddle there. The fragile, remaining faith he'd had, he'd invested in Axarthys Saintrowe. All of his love, his trust, his honor, his morality, whatever existed of his inherent human goodness had been ruthlessly devastated. She had once offered him the chalice, and he drank from it. Now he realized the wine was merely water, if not poison. Bishop had been bested by a woman, a demon. His faith had been her tool, her plaything.

And she would not live while still he breathed.

-

The first day, hope failed. The pain was unbearable, the wound an undefeatable foe he could not bear to vainly battle, surrendering to the efforts of Neverwinter's healers, drained of his own will. The second and the third days were both voids- sleep had stolen those days from him. The fourth, the pain had been halved, inspiring him to prop himself up to swallow the foul-tasting potions offered to him. The fifth, the wound had closed, the pain whittled to a numbing throb. The sixth, he walked once more, revived yet weary. And the seventh, he stood on the bridge outside the Merchant Quarter, the evening briefly descended. His black boots and breeches blended with the evening, green tunic emerald in the lantern light. The burn of sherry diluted his senses, distracting him from his pain.

Now that the week was complete, Nevalle had awakened into a cruel reality. The Docks swarmed yet with the discontent of Axarthys's survival, aggravated by her appearance at the masquerade. The investigation had done little for justice's sake. All that would quell the restless Neverwintan populous was the tanar'ri's death, and that could only lead to war, one his people would surely lose against demons. The city was too weak. Neverwinter had only just recovered from the Plague and battle. Nevalle's childhood had been spent in these darkest days of the city- it was, he supposed, a part of why he chose to become a knight, then one of the Nine, and then their captain. To him, Neverwinter was not worth the price of a tanar'ri's head.

Is any city? He mused. Nevalle failed to convince himself that the thought concerned his value of Neverwinter's well being. Somehow the thought was more rooted in his affection for Axarthys, in her pricelessness, than in his duty to the city. As much as it horrified him, he couldn't deny his fixation of her. Nevalle had summoned her to his chambers that week, claiming to his peers- and to himself- that he could not allow her case to rest stagnant as he healed. During their meetings it dawned on him that it was simply the sound of her voice, the music of her laughter and the lament of her tears that he wished to hear, not the facts of her case. Beneath the mask of her demonic lineage, there was a noblewoman, a princess of her people. She spoke eloquently, knew every element of royal culture, was thrice as civilized as most mortals. In a word, she was magnetic.

He'd invited her to join him at the bridge, to watch the stars rise on the veil of the night sky. Since Bishop's infiltration of Castle Never she'd been confined to her quarters and occasionally his. To hear the clap of her boots on the bridge and the shuffle of her burgundy velvet gown fluttering at her ankles brought him a happiness he'd never experienced. He lingered in the anticipation, pausing a moment before he glanced down at her diminutive, slender form leaning on the bridge's railing, her snowy tresses coiling down her back in large curls from beneath a scarf swathed over her shoulders and around her face. So petite and slim was she it was difficult to believe her a demon, let alone one of influence amongst her people. Her feminine minuteness juxtaposed her strength.

Nevalle expected her to wait to be greeted, as he'd invited her and such was courtesy. He was surprised to hear her voice, "I had toyed with the image of you reposing here along the bridge in full chain mail brandishing some dreadful weapon. To see you so detached from the knightly world saddens me."

"Then the next time we meet, I shall wear full plate armor, carrying the most fearsome of swords, astride the finest of Nasher's steeds." He smiled tenderly. She only frowned, gazing out to the river and the ocean beyond, eyes fixated on the ships fading into the horizon, the nighttime sky.

"Shall there be a next time?" She asked, and painfully he realized the day of her departure. On the morrow, the following night, she would fleet from Neverwinter, exiled far from the shores of his city. His hand rested atop hers in comfort, feeling the gauze of a bandage beneath through his glove. The picture of her, standing atop the fallen yellow orchids from her hair with blood streaming down the side of her golden gown, pierced his softened perception. The image penetrated the numb of the sherry.

"I am sorry the ranger inflicted this upon you." He uttered, lifting her hand to lay it between both of his. She stepped in close, setting her uninjured hand atop their fingers' embrace.

"No, it is I who must apologize. In my name you nearly died, and a week's time you suffered for naught but my honor. Do not dismiss your service as a part of your duty to Tyr; I will not have it. Regardless of motive you surrendered yourself for me, and I am thankful." She bowed her head, "I pray my sincerity may be recompense for all you have done in my name."

He lifted her hand, kissed the back of it. In the momentary touch her telepathy echoed her thought: joy, a sort of mournful elation that quickened the pumping of the beat of her heart. His jaw brushed her grey flesh as he withdrew, relinquishing her hand to avow, "It is a privilege to have defended you, my lady."

Axarthys fell into the trunk of his chest, the crest of her head reaching his shoulders. Her arms clung around his waist as she pressed her cheek against him. In return, he'd woven his fingers together, setting them at her neck aloft the cloud of her hair. His chin lowered to rest atop her head between the arrows of her horns, watching the harbor glitter with ships and vessels of innumerable flags illuminated by the lighthouses of Neverwinter. There was a part of Nevalle that desired nothing more than to live that moment for a hundred thousands years, and another part of him that reviled the first's yearning. Half of his heart was perpetually anchored to Neverwinter, corrupting the happiness he frantically sought to feel harboring the tanar'ri in his arms.

They lingered in one another's embrace an hour's time, speechless with sorrow as they watched the ships, a potent reminder of Axarthys's exile. The demon clung to the knight, the final fortress of her internal war with the human world, the ephemeral symbol of her fleeting faith in humankind. Where Bishop's abandonment emptied her, the knight had filled the void, and where once she had tirelessly defended Bishop without cause, now the knight defended her, for naught but the sake of her honor. The knight clung to the demon, the withering rose of his dying garden, the vanishing symbol of the half of his soul not sold to Neverwinter. Where Tyr's demands emptied him, the demon had filled the void, and where once he tirelessly defended Neverwinter with too much cause, now the demon he defended, for naught but the sake of her honor.

And together, they clung to one another for hope, for love, for sorrow.

-

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Bishop's eyes parted, darting about the pitch-blackness of his cage. Restless sleep finally washed over him, only to have him wakened. He rolled on his side, cursing as his limbs writhed against the stone to move his body. The bedroll assisted little in warming the chill of the stone, nor did it combat the stiffness of the surface, rendering sleep unattainable. The ranger drew the flimsy sheet from his face, listening.

Tap. Tap.

Absent of guards, sounds in the dungeons had dissipated to a low drone of moans and cries. And yet the noise was metallic, as if a weapon striking the bars of his cage. No, not a weapon, something smaller. Armor, perhaps, gauntlets. He struggled, sat upwards. Bishop snapped, "Who the hell is it?"

The noise stopped. A flambeau was drawn, held to the intruder's face. The light cast definite shadows over the war-hardened visage of a paladin, her eyes so crystalline a shade of blue they turned red in the presence of the flame, her lips pressed into a dismal contour. She answered in a protracted hiss, "Your worst nightmare should you not accept my offer."

"Adelaide Cryhart. Well, I'm sure whatever the offer, I'm not about to take it. I recall you instructing a certain paladin, Casavir, to leave me to die." Bishop retorted.

"How hypocritical of you, Bishop. As I recall, you wanted death at Red Fallow's Watch. You wished to taste it, to go with the demon to the Abyss. Indeed, I remember. You were the reason my family died, Bishop, you and the demon. I'm not sure I could forget," Adelaide rejoined, "Though, I could find it in my heart to forgive you if you help me. I could wipe the slate clean, sever what binds you to Red Fallow's Watch and have your involvement pardoned."

"A pardon for what? Officially, Neverwinter believes Luskans burned the city." Bishop returned. Adelaide chuckled. She knelt to the stone floor, knees outstretched, her metal-plated hands clasping her thighs, confident and poised.

"Maybe you will aid me of your own free will, then." She proposed, leaning against the bars, her fingers winding around the iron, "Help me kill the tanar'ri Axarthys Saintrowe."

Bishop snorted, falling back into his bedroll, "Adelaide, let Red Fallow's Watch rest. Besides, if you in all seriousness intended to kill Axarthys, you should have done it before now. I know what happened at the docks; the other prisoners have been buzzing with the story. You are a fool to think you can kill the demon now, while she is kept under carefully guarded lock and key for fear of the very assassination attempt you plot."

"Then we'll have to kill her when she is defenseless." Adelaide responded. Bishop's brow arched, and she explained, "She was exiled to Ruathym. Tomorrow night, she will board a ship and be sailed far off to sea. A perfect opportunity."

"To what, sink a ship's full of people to ensure her death?" Bishop mocked. Her silence affirmed the absurdity of the plot, as if he'd read her precise thoughts.

"Should Axarthys alone die aboard the ship, suspicions will be raised. A tragic… accident is simply that, a tragedy, senseless and without cause. And this, Bishop, is where you will shine, should you join me. With the simple treason of unscrewing a hinge, you flooded Crossroad Keep with Garius's forces. I would employ a similar subtlety in this case." Adelaide explained. Bishop, curiosity prodded, shifted on his bedroll to peer at her from the rims of his eyes.

"And what 'subtlety' did you have in mind?"

"It is not uncommon for ships' hulls to thin. Perhaps you could aggravate the process, sanding the base of the ship until, on the open sea, the strain of cargo and human weight would splinter the wood, sinking the vessel." Adelaide proposed. Bishop shook his head against the bedroll.

"Ruathym is an island. Their ships are the veins of their economy- they are kept in flawless condition. A weakened hull would appear careless on their part, so much so it could appear suspicious," he explained, "You would do better weakening the masts, so if they collapsed, the vessel would capsize. That may not appear as reckless."

"Good. Then I suppose you'll do it for me." Adelaide affirmed. He narrowed his gaze, shifting beneath the sheets with a muted groan.

"Certainly. I'll amble up the docks on a single leg, fumble with the masts as I yelp in pain, not only slowed by my injury but attempting to avoid the Watch as well, who would think it odd that a prisoner of Neverwinter was limping about the city." He snarled, teeth clamping onto his tongue to avoid shouting at her and to stifle the vocalization of his pain. Adelaide chuckled bleakly.

"I'll send you a cleric and offer you temporary freedom if you agree," she said, "Remedying both issues. When the task is done, I will see to it that you receive a full pardon and are sent on your way, a free man. I draw too much attention as a knight of the Nine to try and sink this ship; I need your talents. Would you accept?"

Bishop sighed, considering what she proposed. To cure his leg was enough of a payment for killing Axarthys, so intense was his suffering. Freedom was surely agreeable as well. But to work for Adelaide Cryhart? Even more, to kill the woman he had loved, maybe even still loved beneath his rage? Four years Axarthys had surrendered to him, served his every need, desire, whim and want, in addition to swearing his seat at the table of the Purging Duke. Could he betray that? Hadn't he already? No, Axarthys was lost to him, severed from the intimacy she and the ranger once shared. Their love was ash now, and what he thought a phoenix would never rise again. Bishop would submit to this woman, Adelaide. He nodded to the paladin, to her disturbed smile, watching her depart.

Tap. Tap. Tap, he heard. He tucked the blankets around his torso, closing his eyes for sleep. Now the noise bothered him little, for he knew it was but the resounding of his pact with the devil.

-

The day was a faded dream, milky in its sun's brilliance dimmed to a glow on the afternoon sky, creating a watercolor palette of the heavens. Sparse, sinewy clouds riddled the pale blues and greys above in slender stains. The fog of the day, along with the humid warmth, made each passing moment blend into the next. It morphed consciousness to sleepwalking, a waking daydream.

Axarthys seemed an extension of the day's vision, ghostly and ethereal, a canvas of greys, pinks and white as she packed her silks and velvets into their trunk. The intoxication of the ghostly lighting empowered the fluidity of her actions, prompting Nevalle to question if he was truly awake to witness the visualization before him. The tanar'ri glided between the bed of her chambers to the foot of her bed, stacking layers of rare fabrics and ropes of gemstones, her movement an angelic velvetiness the knight could not associate with reality. Her departure seemed false, as if Fate had not intended it. The event detached itself from the actuality he felt in his heart.

How could she leave, exiled to Ruathym? He drew next to her, taking a cloak from her to set into the wooden trunk, kneeling next to it. She gazed down at him, a spidery hand upon his shoulder. She uttered, "That is the last of it. I am prepared to leave."

"I am not so sure." He replied gently, more an inward thought posed to himself in exterior words. Nevertheless Axarthys beamed mournfully, closing the trunk to sit atop it, her gaunt legs crossed at their ankles beneath a mass of chiffon. She offered him her hand, beckoning him to sit before her feet, and he obliged her. He shifted his seat, fingers outreached to stroke the bare skin of her ankles. The thinnest sliver of touch had her thoughts, a simple sadness, echo through him.

"I fear there is truth in what you say," Axarthys submitted, her head replaced on a bare, willowy shoulder, "Though immortals have little to fear in punishment. Exile is not eternal, for humans have not the obstinacy to enforce it as long as I will live. Death, death would only have me reborn in the Abyss, and torture is fleeting- pain is blessedly not eternal. My hesitance to leave is for you, Nevalle, for there is not a single way I could find to repay what you have done for me while I exist here in Neverwinter."

"Your gratitude is thanks enough." He assured, and in his earnestness she believed him, standing from the trunk to venture towards the window, staring out onto the streets. She glanced at him, beckoned him to join. He followed, stationed at her side. The roads below bustled with aristocrats and mages, clogging the city's veins. Axarthys watched intently, curving her hand around the upper arm of his sleeve.

"We should make haste to the harbor." She noted.

"We should go, yes," he agreed, "but not with haste."

Axarthys tightened her grasp on his arm. Her cloud of hair pressed against the cotton, the arrows of her horns reposed on their blunt frontal surface upon his sleeve. He escorted her out, the maids scurrying in to the room as they left to gather the tanar'ri's possessions. The tanar'ri clutched to Nevalle as they ventured down the stairs and into the main hall. They walked the long stretch of blue carpet as if the plank, to fall into the ruthless open ocean of Neverwinter's Blacklake district. Axarthys released her anchor, in deference to the realization no knight of Neverwinter could be seen affectionate towards a demon. Sadly she turned her face from him, as if not to shame his public presence with the stain of her gaze.

Nevalle led her through the district, veering into the wrought-iron gateway of Neverwinter's gardens. One last stroll, one last memory. It was as if revisiting the sprawling lawns of flowers and hedges would circumvent their dalliance, beginning as their company would end in the same place. They wandered through the rose gardens, perused the fountains of blue lilies bursting in full bloom above their green leaves, meandered through the paths of violets run purple with regality in their blossoms. Once more, Nevalle and Axarthys reprised their chorus of remembrance, losing themselves in the twists of the hedge maze to grasp one another, hand in hand, where no Neverwintan eyes fell.

When the encore silenced, they found themselves standing at the docks, the ocean winds prying at the invisible embrace they shared in their stare. All had boarded the grand vessel save Axarthys, who listened tearfully to Nevalle's final words to her.

"You will be safe in Ruathym," He promised, "And I pray happy as well."

Axarthys uttered, "In these past months, happiness has only been where you have stood. Mortals will forever scorn me for horns mar my brow. All my faith I invest in you, Nevalle."

"Do not leave you faith here in Neverwinter," He instructed softly, clutching her shoulders. One hand strayed to rest over her heart, her palm reaching to lie atop it. He whispered, "Take your faith with you to Ruathymfor your faith is not mine to take from you. Now go; the ship waits for you."

"I cannot go." She silently bled tears. He shook his head, cupping the back of her neck.

"Once, you told me that walking to your trial, and I said to you, you must. Then I told you it was because I served Lord Nasher, and I was obliged to escort you to court. Now, I tell you because I could not bear allowing you to die in Neverwinter," He responded, "Sometimes for the better we must surrender what we hold most dear. Depart now, precious Lamb."

Axarthys's trembling lips signaled tears, though she did not sob. Tears sparkled on the rivers cascading down her cheeks. She nodded, one hesitant step taken backwards. Then another, and another. On the third step she mewled 'goodbye'. On the fourth, 'farewell'. And on the fifth, 'I love you'. With the words Axarthys suddenly wrenched her white hood over her face, shielding her weeping from his sight. She walked, then dashed, for the wooden ramp to the ship's deck. As the boat lifted its anchor and unfurled its sails, Axarthys clung to the balustrade of the vessel's rear, crying audibly as she watched the knight's form fade into the distant fog. When at last he has dematerialized from her sight, the Lamb crumpled to a snowy heap on the deck, her lamentation of tears a siren's song.

She had fruitlessly tried to retain her faith, to retrieve it from Nevalle. In her retreat Axarthys thought she had it, that it once more belonged to her. Now she realized it was not her faith that she abandoned on the shores of Neverwinter, but her happiness, and regardless of where she was in all the realms- whether Ruathym or her native Abyss- she could never be reunited with it in Neverwinter.

-

Author's Notes:

As I will be leaving for vacation this week, this may be the last update for a while. I should be well-rested and inspired when I return (in about a week), though, so the following chapter shouldn't take too long after that.

Now, for this chapter. Oh, dear. The bridge scene? That's certified guiltless fan-girl writing! Shameless, indeed. Heck, there aren't enough Nevalle shippers out there, so I can have fun in my own damn story! For my Bishop fan girls, I hope you enjoyed the angst. Emo Bishop is my favorite, muwaha.

So, until next post, happy reading always,

-Valah