Interlude V: Chapter Six

Never once had Nevalle failed report to Lord Nasher.

Until that morning.

An irrational hatred had overtaken him for the city, and the lord that represented it, that allowed Axarthys Saintrowe to be exiled to Ruathym. Neverwinter marred her in the holy water cast across her back, Neverwinter marred her in the cruelty of the words spat at her, Neverwinter marred her in the blade Bishop drove into the flesh of her hand, Neverwinter marred her in the hood she cowered beneath for fear of assault, Neverwinter marred her in the extinguishing of her honor's flame. Once she had been noble, a princess of demons and an esteemed emissary, naught but the voice that translated the words of mortals to demons, demons to mortals. The innocence of her duty as ambassador vanquished, her face no longer that of a woman but a criminal, no, he could not stand a knight today at court that morning. He had done little to save Axarthys Saintrowe the disgrace of what Neverwinter had dealt her, and though this day he hated Neverwinter, he spared some hate for himself. The thoughts hinted as his failure to uphold the very chivalry his knighthood embodied, to defend the nobility of a woman, and today, today he was no knight.

His suggestion of exile preceded Neverwinter's mistreatment of her, so he could not despise himself wholly. The abhorrence Nevalle reserved for himself was for not intercepting her departure, declaring the injustice of punishing her when already the city itself had done so to an extreme. Exile was too much. How could he have abandoned Axarthys as Bishop had, to suffer a cage in Ruathym? How could he have left her to those miserable tears, to the pitiable breakdown aboard a foreign ship, her poise and her faith drained of her? His obligation to Axarthys transcended that of a captor to his prisoner. Duty would have had him serve her as a knight to a lady.

Nevalle never reported to Lord Nasher that morning.

The past two days' time he'd squandered, unable to care about Neverwinter, distracted by the fear eclipsing his heart that Axarthys suffered needlessly. She swore her love to him, an oath he dared not take lightly. Only weeks prior love betrayed Axarthys at the Docks, rendering her proclamation of love to him a thousand times more sincere. Now, divided by the vastness of the sea from the love she desperately sought in her most trying hour, surely her happiness was forfeit. Her lips would not soon submit to the reticent upturn of her lips in smile. That he was the reason for her sorrow chewed on his heart strings.

Nevalle couldn't report to Lord Nasher.

He failed to dispel her melancholy from his mind. He could not erase the imagined visage of her face, her pink eyes bleeding tears as if from a wound he somehow inflicted upon her. Guilt disabled his ability to reason, shame the barrier that kept his hands from reaching for the tunic of the Nine that lay limp across the pressed linens of his bed. For once, he would not go to Lord Nasher. For once, he would acquiesce to his heart and recover from the emotional trauma caused by the loss of Axarthys Saintrowe. He allotted himself one day to grasp the handles to the doors of his memories of her, one day to close shut the chapter of the tale when he, a knight, had in the circumference of his arms comforted a demon, and in the pads of his lips, kissed the hand of a woman to seal his devotion to the order of chivalry.

-

The vessel swayed in the siege of the ocean, waves crashing upon the hull of the ship to thrust its wooden weight to and fro across the cobalt glass of the water's surface. The sails howled with wind trapped in their fabric, the creak of doors blown from their hinges the battle cry of the ocean at war with humanity, a vengeful and formidable foe. Sailors lurched cross the starboard, merchants clinging to jingling sacks of gold secured on their belts, the captain of the ship staggering before the helm. What exquisite anarchy it was. The night sky overhead denied any starlight to the unlit path of a most perilous journey below, moon shielded by clouds that threatened the downpour of a worse storm.

Then, the heavens were spliced by lightening, and the cleaved clouds bled. Rain drowned the ship's deck. Forth from the grey storm above thunder heralded nature's fury and lightning sliced the sky in blazing gashes. Merchants who ambled upon the deck now had reached the doorway into the lower decks, retreating to their sumptuous quarters to listen to the muffled yelps of the storm outside. Wealth bought them this ignorance. But no wealth in the world could have saved Axarthys.

The storm's intensity strengthened, the cauldron of the ocean stirred into a bottomless whirlpool of rain, hail, chill and wind. The sails creaked, the men screaming over the strident cry of the gale as the sails shuddered, their masts' poles groaning wildly in their stressed wood. Axarthys faced the masts, witnessed sailors plummeting from the crow's nest. Her eyes narrowed, sinking to the base of the pillars. The wood was splitting, and the sails like the wings of some terrifying bird of prey swooped onto the deck, enveloping the crazed seamen working the vessel below. Axarthys's eyes widened, her gasp silenced by the crash of the mast into the deck. Immediately she was aware the ship would capsize, and dashed between sailors to dive beneath the upper deck, racing to her room to thrust open the lid of the chest. She ripped the clothes from their folded neatness, pulling a wooden board out the bottom of the box to take the two items stored there: the blue ribbon Nevalle had tied her orchids in, and a sturdy, frightening whip crafted of red leather. Axarthys longingly clutched its handle, uttering, "I am sorry to have awakened you, Legion."

Planting a kiss at the base of the weapon's handle, she tucked it in the belt of her gown to secure the ribbon around her wrist. As the sea filled the careening vessel, Axarthys leapt over the port side of the ship into the treacherous waters. She battle the waves to remain afloat, huffing for air as the curl of sea foam at the crest of the water cascaded over her brow. Thrashing desperately to swim from the vacuum of the sinking boat, Axarthys cried out weakly for aid, hopeless and horrified.

-

Had he been well, creeping about the Docks and weakening the vessel's mast would have been akin to a stroll cross the shores of Black Lake. On a single leg, his wound unhealed and numbed by a nearly lethal dose of sedatives, the ranger had blended with the night's shadows about as well as a jester donning full motley in a crowd of drably-dressed peasants. Crippled by his shattered femur, Bishop relied on the guise of his hat and roquelaire to shelter him from the Watch's probing gaze. He cursed himself for ever allowing Adelaide Cryhart to smuggle him from his cell, pleased only by the ingenuity of the mast's destruction. He'd carved a narrow tunnel into the center of the wood, pouring a miniature vile of acid into the hollow. Sealing the opening with a sliver of a wine bottle's cork, the minute pond of acid trapped inside the mast would gradually destroy the structure. Bishop banked on a storm to aggravate the collapse of the masts. Ultimately, the memory of his task summarized in his mind, the night was no complete failure. However to his displeasure, his injury had hindered enjoyment of the task severely, leaving him in a cantankerous mood.

Returned to his cell, Bishop watched as the priestess sent to heal him arranged the contents of her linen pack on the stone floor and opened a bottle that smelled strongly of rosemary. Her alabaster hands, the prelude to white-sleeved arms, complemented the reddish chocolate of her hair and brightened the spheres of her grey eyes. The fearsome mischief in her gaze provoked Bishop's aroused amusement of her, his eyes meaningfully tracing the outline of her body. Ignoring him, she finished stirring the last ingredients of his medicine, offering him the carafe she'd prepared of it. He extended his hands for it, but she drew the bottle back, wagging a finger to say, "Drink slowly. While I'm sure no one in Neverwinter would mind if you gagged on this, I won't be responsible for it."

"Yes, mother." He mocked as he jerked the contents from her grasp. She crossed her arms, a brow arched.

"Camryn Nyx." She corrected, proffering her name. Gulping the potion, Bishop dropped the empty flagon to the stone floor with a clatter and wiped his moist lips, leaning up on his elbows.

"So, when will I be walking again?" He asked. She packed her herbs as she shrugged, a grimace passing momentarily over her features.

"I suspect in a day's time. Walking well, however?" she answered, her eyes meeting his with a professional regret clinging to her stare, "The bone was split straight through. While the flesh can be restored, the bone will re-grow at the angle the sword penetrated. If I risked re-shattering the bone and setting it, I could only damage your leg more. You've suffered much enough already that I fear I wouldn't have the heart to do such a thing. With that, I can reasonably, and unfortunately, foresee that you'll walk with a permanent limp."

The healer's words returned his misery to him. The remainder of the day he sulked on his bedroll, furious with Adelaide for bribing him to do her bidding while returning his success at her mission with a half-witted healer who swore he'd never walk straight again. If that was true, and the horror bubbled in his throat at the thought, then he could never track again. Like injured, defenseless prey, any predator now would seize and devour him as easy quarry. Bishop's self pity intensified, worsening his anguish as the healing potion revived dead, rotted skin atop the deep crevice of the wound in his leg. Axarthys had inflicted this upon him. She had hindered him so, turned predator to prey. His life as a ranger she had squelched. Unlike his prior rage, though, there was satisfaction in knowing he'd been the harbinger of her demise. Axarthys was surely dead, hundreds of leagues sunken beneath the ocean tides.

Adelaide Cryhart frequented his cell that night, the rapping of her armored hand quickened in its rhythm on the cage bars. Bishop stretched across his bedroll casually, hands behind his head. Flambeau at hand, the paladin stopped halfway between the sides of the cell bars, her profile a charred shadow amidst the glow of the firelight. She uttered, strangely quiet with words mechanical as if the veneer of the fiercest of rage, "I am glad you find the accommodations of your cell comfortable, for you may very well remain here quite a long time."

"Considering how long it took you to bring me a healer, yes, I think I will be here a while. In fact, I'll wager my soul that you haven't even spoken to Nasher of my pardon." Bishop snapped. Adelaide smiled at his ferocity, a haunting gentleness evident in her speech.

"Nothing is working as planned." She whispered. Bishop sat up, fists formed from his hands.

"What?" He glared in question. Adelaide's face rotated, the whole of her countenance visible. The impassiveness of her features was the mask for the severity of the news it delivered through its porcelain lips.

"So much you need to know, too much. The vessel sank as intended. Our scouts reported it," she mouthed, "And all went to hell. Suspicions arose. I blackmailed the wizard Sand, threatening to accuse him of the crime, to report to Nasher he wished to spoil relations between Neverwinter and Ruathym for the bitterness he felt as Nevalle's forced agent. His punishment I devised soundly and we may hope it will lead to your freedom, but there is more. Neverwinter's finest scouts report intensified demon populations in the Neverwinter Wood. Open war with the Abyss looms."

"Didn't you consider that could happen? You killed a valuable archdemon." He mumbled. A tense pause ensued. Adelaide outstretched her arms, grasping the furthest bars she could reach in the palms of her armored hands. Her cheekbones rested against the cage, her breath a balmy fog on the frosty dungeon air. Sarcastic, once detached eyes blazed with uncontrolled internal fury. Adelaide flexed her fingers, a rhythmic legato of raps on the iron bars entailing. The longsword swinging from the steel-tipped scabbard at her hip struck the bars in a metallic ring, echoing as the backdrop to her frighteningly composed, metallic lullabye. The storm of the blue of her eyes settled into a drained emotional blankness, her maw forming around the words:

"Axarthys Saintrowe survived."

-

Lord Nasher never sent for Nevalle. Morning had long passed into late afternoon, and slim a chance it was that his lord would ever send for him that day. Perhaps Nasher had recognized from the emptiness in the knight's eyes or the silent solitude of his speechlessness the two days following Axarthys's exile that his right-hand needed a day's worth of reclusion to anesthetize his guilt. Grateful for his Lord's absent intrusion, Nevalle soaked his throat with the remainder of the bottle of sherry at his desk, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as even the wine's placid poison could not erase the poignant visions of the weeping Axarthys. His guiltiness tired him. Maybe Lord Nasher would have done better to send someone for him, to divert Nevalle from the clarity of the image of the tanar'ri's face in his mind.

Moseying to his feet, he sauntered towards the fireplace to crumple into a plush seat there. The crackling flame before him recalled images of Axarthys, burned not by fire but holy water, sprawled across coverlets and bare from the shoulders to her waist, his touch against the grey of her skin so real he could feel its smoothness countless days later. Groaning, he muttered aloud, "Axarthys, go away."

The memories of her strengthened again. He wasn't drunk enough to forget her, and it would take an eternity to become completely inebriated on weak wine. Consciously attempting to become drunk was daft, he knew. Recalling ten years' past, at the age of twenty-two, he'd vomited two days straight from a round of whiskey after a particularly trying battle, he winced painfully, some guilt reserved for himself. He'd avoided drinking ever since, feeling a fool even now for repeating history and skirting the decorum of sober knighthood. Desperate, he aimlessly fumbled through the stacks of papers atop the table adjacent him, growling to realize the bottle of sherry he'd sought he had already downed. Stumbling out to the chair he swore aloud as he caught the corner of a wall for support.

Maybe Darmon would take up on his previous offer of a drunken duel, he considered, thinking, Tyr knows, maybe another sword through the ribcage is precisely what I need right now.

Guiding himself against the wall towards the door, he groped for the door handle and flung it open, peering around the door frame to shout for a chamber maid. When a red-headed and apron-donned woman poked her brow round the edge of an opposite hall, Nevalle muttered, "Bring me a bottle of amontillado sherry."

The woman, surprised, cocked her head to inquire, "Sir Nevalle? Why, I saw you downstairs not a moment ago."

"I haven't left this floor today." He replied, shaking his head. The maid's lips quavered, questioning.

"But, you were just in the throne room, my lord" she said, "You reported to Lord Nasher at daybreak. I saw you there. You spoke of the fate of the ranger Bishop. You were asking for his freedom. You… you defended him. 'Twas strange, after the wound he dealt you, to have spoken of him so favorably."

"I don't think you understand," he responded, a hand kneading the swell of a headache pounding in his skull, "I never reported to Lord Nasher today. Please, bring me a bottle of sherry, and leave Lord Nasher to his business."

"No, no, I cannot, my lord. There is something wrong, I swear it, out of place. You could not be here and there, not at the same time." She insisted, clutching her apron with palms damp in trepidation. Nevalle sighed, collecting his sword belt from the hanger by the door. He stepped from the room, buckling the weight of the weapon at his hips.

"I will see to it. Return to your duties." He ordered. She curtsied.

"T-thank you, my lord." She stammered.

Nevalle staggered down the length of the corridor past the maid, vision blurred in the slightest. The one day he'd taken voluntary leave from his duties, and still he ultimately served his city, tromping to the throne room half-dazed from wine and fatigue. Unarmored, in all but a linen shirt and breeches, not even boots, Nevalle stumbled to the first series of rooms towards Nasher's throne. Two guards halted him, crossing their halberds in an X to block his path.

"A doppelganger," one guard hissed, "Sir Nevalle had already reported to Lord Nasher! Who are you to try and enter Neverwinter's court?"

"Caution, I would urge," the other noted, "Demons have been flooding our forests. This could be one, a shape shifter."

Nevalle groaned, irritably snapping, "If there is a doppelganger in our castle, it is the one who stands beside Lord Nasher now, and you fools let him in. You require proof of my identity? My mother hails from Waterdeep and my father died when I was fifteen years of age. My steed is a palomino stallion, some seventeen hands in height. I have a recent scar between my two lowest ribs on my right side. Now allow me passage or I will have you both tried for insubordination to your superior."

The guards shuffled swiftly to the sides of the gateway, withdrawing their weapons. Nevalle stormed in, drawing the sword at his belt as he entered the throne room. Standing at Lord Nasher's side was a replica of Nevalle, the exact same chiseled features and tunic of the Nine, his great sword's hilt comprised of dual demon's wings centered with a circular emerald that gazed up from behind the man's back. Nevalle extended the point of his blade at him, Nasher holding a hand in pause to the blue-garbed knight at his side, saying to the unarmored Nevalle before him, "Who are you to approach my throne as an imposter of my captain?"

"I am you captain, Lord Nasher." He exclaimed, wagging his sword, frustrated, "This impersonator dares to free the very man who drove a blade through my chest."

Nasher glanced from the Nevalle at his side to the Nevalle standing at the base of his throne, eyes discriminating. He finally said to Nevalle, "Cut the tunic from this knight, and see if he is indeed the illusion of the two of you."

"It is sacrilege to desecrate the symbol of the eye of Neverwinter." Nevalle replied guardedly. Yet Nasher persisted, motioning to the knight at his side. Cautiously scaling the steps towards the throne, the doppelganger retreated, trembling fingers encircling the hilt of the blade at his back. Nevalle approached slowly, then suddenly dipped and caught the hem of the blue tunic. The fabric dispelled, fading into an azure smoke that reformed into a robe of a similar color. Still lunging towards his target, Nevalle, overwhelmed at the illusion, drove the blade further as the man backed into the wall. Nevalle's weapon crashed through the center of the doppelganger accidentally, impaling the man on the wall as the two collided into the stone behind Nasher's throne. The whole of Nevalle's duplicate dematerialized into a fog, the great sword twisting and re-hardening into the shape of a wooden staff, the emerald at the hilt shrinking into a sphere that embedded itself at the crest of the new weapon. The body itself reassembled from the ethereal smoke, the blonde hair lengthening into black coils hanging limp about elven ears. Nevalle pulled his sword from the man, sinking to his knees.

"Sand?" He called, crawling to the fallen wizard, "Sand?"

Nasher's voice echoed the chamber, his guards trotting off to the noise of plate mail clapping to the rhythm of their guards' accelerated pace. Nasher stood over the elf, eyes closed at the gruesome sight. Sand choked on blood rising in his throat, a crater in his abdomen that opened through his back. Nevalle cupped the wound with his hands, promising, "I will bring you a healer. Wait here for me; hold on a few moments longer."

"No," he hissed as he struggled to sit up. Nevalle lifted him under the arms to seat his back against a wall, hands left on his shoulders in support. Sand coughed, a fresh stream of blood trailing down his chin as he murmured between wheezes, "There is no time. Know….know Adelaide did this. She needed me to bargain for Bishop's freedom, to bribe him to kill Axarthys."

"But Axarthys is safely on her way to Ruathym." Nevalle replied anxiously. Sand shook his head, bowing on one shoulder with a long moan of pain.

"She sent Bishop to destroy the mast… it sunk the ship. Adelaide, she intercepted the words from scouts who saw the wreckage wash ashore. They, they saw Axarthys… the south, they found her south, towards Waterdeep. The scouts feared recapturing her and instead ride now back to the city. Adelaide will kill her, the demon." Sand coughed. Nevalle trembled, drawing in a hasty and agonized breath.

He twisted his face to glance over his shoulder, "Lord Nasher, I ask for permission to ride south and recover Axarthys."

"No. You are to remain here and investigate these claims against Adelaide." Nasher responded. Nevalle's teeth clamped onto the inside of his lip, eyes clenched momentarily as he gathered himself to his feet.

"I have served you unquestionably, my lord, since the hour I became a squire. Not once have I doubted your orders, nor questioned your tactics, or hesitated in the face of the greatest enemies that would threaten Neverwinter. I've honored my pledge as a knight. I stood at Crossroad Keep in the direst hour, led Neverwinter through the gates of that fortress against the King of Shadows' allies. As a servant to a master, I would humbly ask for once, in all my years of absolute servitude, you would acquiesce in your humility to my request," Nevalle implored.

Nasher's chin rose, tilted in a subtle motion indicating his authority. His eyes fixed on Nevalle's as the Royal Guard moved through, the cleric Camryn Nyx at their forefront. Her serene, alto voice filled the stale, nervous air like the warmth of merlot's rich aroma, subduing Nasher's usual roar to a softened sigh, "What you suggest, Nevalle, is that the protection of a demon is priority over the justice of one of your peers, a knight of the Nine."

"And so we are to put a price to justice?" Nevalle countered, shoulders tightening with head bowed as the acuteness of his words' disobedience became evident to him. Chastised silently, he continued, "Three years ago I swore to deliver justice to Axarthys Saintrowe, to defend her with my life until Tyr judged her. I cannot forget that oath, not now."

"You would have me honor your request after you abandoned your duties today?" Nasher mused aloud, glancing to Sand with a frown. Gaze hardened, it returned to Nevalle as Nasher sternly responded, "If you go to the tanar'ri, it will be for yourself, not on the behalf of Neverwinter."

"Then let it be known," Nevalle said over his shoulder as he strode towards the exit, "That for once, I was a selfish man."

-

Adelaide did not believe her luck could have unraveled and decayed any more until she had been summoned to the throne room. Nearly half of the Nine surrounded Lord Nasher, a semi-circle of solemn eyes and frowns. Adelaide eyed them sharply, a hand on the longsword weighing at her belt.

"Replace your weapon-hand," Nasher demanded, sharper in tone than he had ever addressed her before. The paladin shifted her hand to her waist, still poised.

"I do not understand why I have been summoned to meet with the Nine." She stated.

"You haven't. We have assembled to try you for conspiracy, treason and murder against the states of Ruathym and Neverwinter." Casavir, at Nasher's left hand, announced. Adelaide chuckled, pacing before the throne as she cast her black locks back in a thrust of her head, overtaken with a fit of calculating, cruel laughter. Like ice it heartlessly froze the decency of the souls gathered. Like zinfandel it whittled at their morality like some potent, saccharine poison. As the noise dissipated into the now psychologically glacial chamber, Adelaide drew her sword, twirling it wrathfully in her palm. Nasher's grim face had contorted into the very expression of rage.

"How appropriate that you speak those words, Casavir. Do you recall what was planned for the Docks? Do you remember fleeing to Old Owl Well? Twice a traitor to Neverwinter, and you would accuse me of conspiracy, of treason? As I know it, did not you conspire with me one of your two betrayals, to organize the incident at the Docks?" Adelaide asked. Casavir closed his eyes, conviction etched in the lines of his face.

"I have made my guilt known," Casavir said, "This trial is yours, Adelaide, not mine."

"Our agent Sand died here today as a result of the idiocy of your vendetta," Nasher boomed heatedly, "The justice Neverwinter would have given Axarthys Saintrowe has been made a display of brutality no better than that of Luskan. I would have expected such mindless cruelty from thieves and beggars, not one of my own bodyguards. Had Casavir and Sand not both attested and admitted to their involvements I would not have suspected you. I am ashamed to have ridden beside you in battle, Adelaide Cryhart, and want nothing more than to give you the death you brought to the many that died aboard the vessel bound to Ruathym. Tyr is merciful to assure Axarthys did not die with them. Had the tanar'ri died and in so doing caused sudden war, I would have you buried alive in the Tomb of the Betrayers. You are blessed that she lives."

"How could you wish it that a murderer would live?" Adelaide hissed, "How is it a blessing, because it saves us war? If war is the cost of the preservation of justice then I will pay it. I will not sacrifice my morality in cowardice."

Casavir replied, "There are times, Adelaide, when our ethics must take second place to survival. All the knights standing before you now believe in the ideals you speak, but these priniciples, they are idealistic, and regrettably not realistic. Not all Neverwintans share your courage and desire peace over war if that is what slacking on their morals will guarantee them."

"As if you, who fled to Old Owl Well over the controversy of a woman and hid there for the better part of a year, would know anything of courage. Speak not to me of valor, Casavir." Adelaide rebuked, "Lord Nasher, this has precious little to do with my case. I will not stand to be judged without the whole of the Nine present. Where is Darmon, and most importantly, where is Nevalle? Am I to be tried without my captain present?"

"He is on business exterior to Neverwinter's orders. His return is not mine to judge." Nasher bitterly said, "Likewise it is not of your concern. You ultimately answer to me, not Nevalle."

"He went to rescue the tanar'ri, didn't he?" Adelaide snapped.

"His leave is his own." Nasher sternly persisted.

"On the contrary, my lord, I believe any matter involving Axarthys Saintrowe is a matter of the Nine. What secrets have we to hide?"

"Apparently conspiring against Neverwinter." One of the Nine muttered. Casavir lifted his hand to motion for silence.

"We have no secrets. Yes, it is true that he left to find Axarthys." He announced.

"Then he too has fled Neverwinter for the sake of a woman. We can only assume it was his prolonged exposure to you that caused it." Adelaide responded.

"Fleeing to Old Owl Well was imprudent of me. Clearly you mistake Nevalle's mercy for foolishness." Casavir replied. Adelaide smiled piercingly.

"Mercy," she lowly snarled, "Is what Nevalle shall scream for when Axarthys has disposed of him in the Abyss, weary of her human pet. Because demons, Casavir, demons do not reciprocate samaritan benevolence. Yet fear not, Casavir, when Nevalle lies dead at demon claws, I think you will make a fair Captain of the Nine."

"This does not concern your case in the least, Adelaide," Nasher thundered, "Nevalle's character is not the one under question. You have his whereabouts, as well as Casavir's honesty. Be thankful he has been considerate of you after your traitorousness. On the morrow, you will stand in this court to face Tyr. Leave, Adelaide, and dare not show your treasonous face in my city. You will remain in this castle."

"Most certainly, my liege," she cooed, bowing shallowly with longsword replaced in its sheath, "I take my leave."

Adelaide veered left from the throne, passing the spiral staircase to her own chambers in favor of descending into the narrowest, darkest, dampest hollows of the dungeon hallways. Sauntering down the steps and deliberately ramming her shoulders into the departing guards to slide a hand into their belt hooks to steal their key rings as they left to exchange shifts, she trudged to Bishop's cell, her fingers noisily and rapidly chiming on the bars as her armored hands rapped on the iron. She leaned into the metal, talons frozen predatorily on the bars.

"Nevalle rides from the city gates to rescue Axarthys as I speak. You will ride ahead of Nevalle and intercept his path. You will reach Axarthys before he does or your life will be extinguished on the cold steel of my blade, impaled through your worthless heart. You will kill her as clearly you failed to do so before, and slaughter anyone who sees you do so, Nevalle included." She hissed with eyes widened in anger as she rattled a cell key before him, throwing it to the stone at his feet within the cell, "The guard shifts now. You are to be off immediately, south of Neverwinter, taking my saddled steed from the stables. Go or your life is forfeit."

Somehow threats were useless with the proposal of bloodlust, for it was the imagined taste of Axarthys's blood on Bishop's lips as she died in his arms that empowered him to hobble to his feet, unlocking the cell to step out and into Adelaide, breathing in her ear as his hand quested the flesh at her side to draw her longsword from her belt, "I think I'll be needing this."

-

A thunder of hooves, a flurry of heartbeats, a hiss of falling rain. Nevalle's sight blurred with the onslaught of wind, tears forming in his eyes that surely derived from sorrow as well. He'd galloped endlessly from Neverwinter atop his cream steed, the stallion's golden coat matted with sand and sullied with dirt. The horse thrust his magnificent head into the air, his breath a puff of fog on the cool, autumnal breeze that lingered outside Neverwinter's perpetual summer. Grey in overcast ran the sky, night darkening the cloud cover and shedding shimmers of stars over the canvas of the earth's ceiling.

Alongside him, the ocean coursed endlessly, a body incomprehensible in its vastness. Overwhelmed by its size, Nevalle dug the heels of his boots in the cylinder of the horse's sides, demanding the full stride of the animal as if to outrun the tide itself. Thrashing in his saddle as the stallion's hooves quickened pace, his sword walloping against his spine as its scabbard pounded him in rhythm with the horse's gait, his cloak fluttering vainly in escape from his shoulders, Nevalle surveyed the white sands ahead. Their blankness terrified him.

Then, something compelled him to halt his steed and dismount, and pursuing the suggestion of his instinct, he reigned the stallion as the muted applause of hooves clapping on the sand ended in a shuffle of legs and a thump on the beach as Nevalle lowered himself from the saddle to the ground. The tide had risen; waves brushed against his boots, the leather caressed by the coarseness of the salty water. The echo of the ocean heightened the awareness of his senses, afforded him a peace that calmed the tension in his nerves. He listened to the hiss of trees blown in the wind, savored the downpour of rain as it cooled the heat of his brow. Eyes focused past tears, ears heard beyond their ringing. There was movement in the dunes, he realized. The tall grasses had shuffled, wet sand crumpling. Departing his horse's side, Nevalle walked towards the sand dunes, a hand across his waist as to pose over his sword belt. Kneeling into the pliable earth he swept aside a patch of tall grass.

Slumped in a defeated mound of diaphanous cream chiffon, soaked, disheveled white locks of hair tangled about two pink horns. The mass shivered uncontrollably, eyes clenched as the rain pounded on their lids. Lips once healthy in their color were blue, skin pale in its grey. Axarthys surrendered amidst the sea grass, a discarded heap of less than a hundred pounds of demonic flesh. Afraid to touch her, as if fearful of realizing the scene was existent, Nevalle endeavored to rest his fingers atop her frigid, bluish ones. The tanar'ri's eyes parted, narrow with tears.

"Axarthys," he said, steadying the quiver in his voice at seeing her so pitiable. He untied his cloak to bring over her fragile shoulders, sitting her upright against one of his knees to tie it closed. His line of sight fell from where her skin disappeared beneath the translucent fabric of her gown, drenched as to cling to her bare breasts beneath. Polite enough not to allow his gaze to linger there, his stare descended. There was red leather tethered at her side, a blue ribbon secured around one wrist. That sight brought him the most joy.

Lifting the hood of his cloak over her wet tresses, he faced the realization that the diminutive, frail Axarthys would die of hypothermia in a matter of hours if he was unable to reach Neverwinter in time. Raining and cold as it was, the weather worsened her chances of survival. He felt his heart race and he suppressed his emotions. Knighthood dictated so. Cupping her cheeks he looked directly to her, calmly instructing, "I must take you to Neverwinter. I will ride fast, so you must remain conscious. If you feel you are falling asleep, don't. Keep your eyes open. Do you understand?"

"No." She choked. Her speech was slowed, hesitant. The fear in her eyes exacerbated pity of the sight. Shivering intensified, her hands groping for his arm yet unable to grasp it. She quavered, "I am… I know not. I am cold. Will I die?"

Collecting her into his arms he supported her in his lap, dipping her neck downwards to examine her face. Her mouth was completely blue, her grey skin almost white. Her pink facial tattoos contrasted the freshly frozen palette of her countenance. Leaning closer to her, his warm breath on her cheek, he embraced her hand. She no longer fumbled for his, eyes closed as she shook in ceaseless fits of shivering. Death became her, to his fright. Drawing the hood closer to her brow he dared to stroke her icy nose with his, replying to her, "I won't let you die."

He lifted her face towards his, considering how ignoble it would be to kiss her then. Not when she could not consent to it, he thought, not when she was barely conscious. Victimizing her seemed a mortal sin. Yet her lips, blue and arctic, if he could combat their chill. As not to distress the dying flesh, he allowed their kiss to be a mere meeting of lips, prolonged as he sapped some of the cold from her. Her body in his arms momentarily paused in its trembling, her hand's rigid and useless muscles still seeking to embrace him in return.

When he at last lifted his visage from hers, he stood with her blue-draped branch of a body cradled in his arms. He carried her to his horse, mounting the palomino with Axarthys's forcibly heaving chest pressed into his torso, her nose buried into the tunic at his shoulder. Heels pressed deep into the stirrups Nevalle signaled his steed, cantering the galloping north, bearing Axarthys tenderly in his embrace.

As his form became a specter on the autumn grey of the horizon, a shadow emerged from the forests facing the oceans, materializing atop an ebony charger. The ranger halted the horse on the sand of the beach, ignorant of the falling rain. He gritted his teeth, cursing himself. He'd watched Axarthys wither with hypothermia, wallowing on the beach and stumbling to cower in the dune's grasses. She could never have made it to the supposed safety of the woods in her state; had she, the ranger was sure he'd killed her, likely after he'd made love to her, consented or not, not necessarily to slake his sexual thirst but to prolong and aggravate her misery. He would let her waste away on the dunes before gathering her corpse, pleased to have watched Axarthys suffer in the most pathetic moments of her earthly existence. Now liberated and outside Neverwinter's gates, he wouldn't return the body to Adelaide, instead keeping it as a token of his cruelty and conquest of Axarthys Saintrowe, carting the cadaver to whatever city he fled to.

Except the damn knight decided to play hero, the ranger mused. He would have intercepted Nevalle's rescue of the distressed damsel, save the knight was clearly in a better condition than he. Injured as still his leg was, being forcibly dismounted from his horse the ranger would have been rendered completely crippled. The ranger's own life was worth much more than Axarthys's, however much he craved it. He uttered aloud to the winds, "Let the demon be the price of my freedom."

"A high price to pay, Bishop." He heard the wind hiss past. Thinning his gaze in a glower the ranger looked about. Nothing. The voice continued, "Demogorgon is willing to allow his demons to siege a human city for her. She is valuable, worth more than Neverwinter's coffers in gold."

"Ah, so the Prince of Demons himself wants a piece of her. I can't blame him. She's as beautiful as a succubus and as cultured as a scholar. She makes for a wonderful fuck." The ranger scoffed, though inside, he felt an intense reverberation of jealousy in his heart for Nevalle. To see the knight's lips on his Axarthys infuriated him. Axarthys had been Bishop's. He despised seeing her happy with anyone else, and genuinely happy, not simply bound to another by duty as she was to him. Shaking the fury off his thoughts he added, "And what evil force am I speaking to now? A tanar'ri? One of the Saintrowes?"

"Your patron, ranger," the wind hissed, "The Purging Duke of the Abyss. I came to charge you with a task."

"You caught me at a dreadful time to demand chores." Bishop said.

"On the contrary, I reached you at the most ideal opportunity. Seeing as the Lamb is likely not guiding you to my seat in the Abyss, you'll need to reach me somehow. I offer you direct passage to my throne at the chance to become my right hand should you bring her to me." The voice called.

"And what do you want with her?"

"Demogorgon banks on the success of the Saintrowe campaign to bring him Axarthys. However, if during this siege you can capture her and through a hell-mouth deliver her to me, I may turn her over to Demogorgon, gaining an instant alliance", The Purging Duke explained, "Ah, and her unhappiness as the Prince of Demon's consort, seeing the new human she's acquired, should please you as well."

Bishop smiled.

"Well, then in that case, you have a deal."

-

The halls of the Saintrowe estate had echoed with utter stillness in the recent days, its demonic denizens withdrawn into the spirals of its construction, preparing for war. Balimynah reposed solitarily in her throne, the dense cushions arranged at her feet unfilled with the matron's spawn. Her white face was all that contrasted the black of her armor, coursing from her leather-encased toes to the claws of her fingers. Two claymores' hilts were woven into her grasp, their points etching puncture wounds into the marble floor beneath. She breathed in the anxiety of the room, a hushed wind of a noise emitted from her exhale. The drapes about her throne whisked, a sudden chill overtaking the warmth of the room.

Like the zephyr that had caused the drapes' motion, Nonah breezed past the throne, her entry absent in its manifestation. Her celadon chiffon dress swayed in step with her pace as she floated upwards toward Balimynah's throne. Fallen into a deep bow, Nonah said, "You requested my presence, Ladyship?"

"I have another delivery for you to make." She announced. Her hands framed the air before her as if to mime the presence of a box. Dark, fine wood began to form, leaving a fully materialized parcel in the tanar'ri's lap. Nonah retrieved it, harboring it delicately. Said Balimynah, "You commenced the soiree, Lady Bird. You ordered Dantalion throw a ball, and he has. Now you must carry through. War is a dreadful dance, but if we are to waltz, see to it the proper guests have been invited for the event. Lady Lamb's betrothal to our Prince should well be an event worthy of demonic memory, and that may only be so if the pet is no more. Take this to him."

Nonah smiled sweetly, "It shall be a lovely dance when the pet is dead."

-

It had been a long ride.

Nevalle was soaked, Axarthys drenched. The knight had ridden as hard as his horse could gallop, arriving in Neverwinter late into the hours of night. He'd immediately gone to his chambers, ordering blankets and robes from the maids. Axarthys's intense shivering could be heard in the clatter of her teeth, in the flutter of lips opened and closed repeatedly. By the time the linens were delivered to his door, he'd stripped Axarthys to the bareness of her pallid grey flesh and laid her on his bed. He paused a moment to admire the singular beauty of her naked, immaculately hairless form surrendered against his pillows before securing the plush velvet robe around her waist and rolling her into multiple blankets.

She stopped shivering.

Burrowing through the blankets Nevalle retrieved Axarthys's hand. He pulled it to the surface, into the light, to see it fully: the skin had grown bluer, inflamed. She attempted to flex her hand futilely, uttering meaningless strings of words. Her eyes glazed with incoherence, her breathing sparse. The hypothermia had fully overcome her as she pleaded in a gradual slur, "No more blankets… no more. I need, I need a tub."

"Axarthys, I can't," he vied to reason with her, "A hot bath, you'd only end up losing more heat in water. You would die."

She peered up at Nevalle, a minute frown on her face, one not formed in disappointment but in recognition of his words. She understood she was dying. Nevalle shook his head fearsomely, clutching the bundle of her body closer to his to insist, "You're not going to die, Axarthys. You're not."

"But I'm so tired," she mewled, "Please let me take a bath. Please, somewhere small. Somewhere I can… I can… somewhere small. Somewhere small. Like a bathtub, where I can sleep."

"Axarthys, no." he persisted. Yet he could not deny her. Not if her wish was the last one. Fearful of this, Nevalle laid her back in bed, screaming in a panic out the door of his chambers, "Maids! Maids, I need the tub filled, now."

As they scrambled to heave bucketfuls of near-boiling water to the resin bathtub at the center of his room Axarthys observed the women from the bed, a stupor transfixing her eyes in an unblinking stare, filled only with the shallow longing for the bath tub. Nevalle wordlessly begged the maids to work slower; the tub personifying death the water would assure the tanar'ri. He clung to Axarthys who struggled weakly to escape the mass of blankets and robes imprisoning, restraining her. The heat of the water emanated and warmed the air of the room, thickened it with humidity. Scented oils poured into the water turned mere steam to frankincense, a sweet-smelling fog tempting Axarthys, inspiring her restlessness. The maids finished, leaving Nevalle alone with the tanar'ri. He glanced at the bathtub, then Axarthys, and removed his own clothes before peeling away the layers heating her. Carting her to the tub he lowered her into the water. Though she smiled blissfully, Nevalle feared that moving her about would further damage her tissues, or worse, inducing the failure of her heart's organ.

Joining Axarthys he sat behind her, arms firmly locked around her hips. He buried his face into the mass of her snowy hair, smelling saltwater. His mouth strayed along her jaw, planting a kiss at the back of her throat as he murmured, 'I love you' into the cotton of her locks. She nuzzled her cheek against his neck, soaking in his presence more than the water's heat. Fumbling for his hand he bequeathed it to her, allowing it to graze the curvature of her waist, then her torso, chest and neck again, blazing the trail made by her fingers. It saddened Nevalle deeply that Axarthys was oblivious to reality in her hypothermia, content only to be secured in the tight space of the tub, as he caressed the sides of her body, feeling his own tingle with yearning. His hips involuntarily strained against hers as she parted her legs, his thighs cradled inside hers. Instinctually Nevalle reciprocated, repeating the movement as he swung her to lay supine in the water beneath him. Her neck arched over the rim of the bathtub, inviting him to kneel between her legs and replace his head in the cloud of her hair.

Nevalle swallowed the shame rising in him. How could he continue and make love to her? She loitered in a trance, unable to reason, unaware of her surroundings. Amnesia had stolen her memory of him, possibly herself, and he would take advantage of her when she was that vulnerable? Could he lay with his former quarry, his prisoner, a woman not his wife, and enjoy the most intimate moments of pleasure with her still? He could not bear to victimize her, kissing her to moan softly, "This is reckless."

"Then you must decide," Axarthys said, cocked her head against his, "if it is worth the risk."

When they had finished making love, the water was cold.

Nevalle lifted the exhausted Axarthys from the water, spreading out the blankets on his bed to swathe her in them once more. Sleep took her within moments, her cold body huffing scant breaths that battled his dread she would die in the night. Nevalle never fell asleep, opting to stay awake beside her. He prayed faithfully for Axarthys, beseeching Tyr for mercy. Late night became early morn, sapphire midnight became opal dawn. The first, palest lights of sunrise cast shades of pink over Nevalle's bed through the windows, casting warmth over the chill of Axarthys's face. The sun nudged and pried at her eyelids, causing her to part their white lashes. Nevalle sighed in sheer relief as she inhaled a long, weary breath, exhaling, "How pleased I am to see morning."

"How pleased I am to see you alive," Nevalle answered, winding one of her white locks around his finger. He dared not question the miracles of Tyr that surely preserved Axarthys's life, only relishing the present elation at seeing her alive. He stroked her neck- the skin had warmed. His thumb brushed her lips- cool, but not cold. He mumbled into her ear, "Do you remember anything of last night?"

"I may," she uttered, "I suggest you remind me."

A knock at the door ended their second rendezvous. Nevalle smothered her maw in his before rolling off the bed to fetch his robe. There was a package at his door. He hesitated for it, lowering himself to examine the polished mahogany of the box. The pragmatic simplicity of its construction would not have attracted much attention, he mused, concealing whatever rested within. Intrigued, he risked slinging it beneath an arm to carry it into his chambers. Depositing the package onto the plush linens of his bed beside Axarthys, her bare arms and shoulders revealed from beneath the coverlets' guise, watched. He stroked the lid of the box. The tanar'ri nodded to it, saying weakly through bluish lips, "It is yours to open."

He did not bother questioning her; her riddles were his to unravel. Flipping the latch open, Nevalle lifted the box's lid to a radiant flash of colored fabrics. Unpacking the contents, he collected a mass of exorbitant garb: a crimson surcoat of fine velvet, a tunic and feather chapeau of purple silk, a waist cinch of orange with a panel of sailor-striped damask on its sides, a pauldron of adamantine metal, a belt of leather sleek. Axarthys watched with countenance unfazed, a soundless awareness in her pink eyes Nevalle did not understand. He asked, "What is this?"

"An invitation." She whispered.

-

Author's Note:

I sincerely apologize for taking so long to finish and post this chapter. Though I completed 75 of the story within three days of arriving home from vacation, I ran into a handful of writer's blocks with the final Nevalle and Axarthys scenes. Then my teacup Chihuahua Sophie caught a virus as all the while I'm puppy-sitting three dogs in addition to my two. And still trying to get ready to move into college. It's been madness!

So, thank you very much for your patience. This chapter is five pages longer than normal, so consider the extra reading my official apology. Though honestly, any story with Nevalle tubsecks is worth the wait, right? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Enjoy the belated read, dolls-

Valah

PS- I did my research in stages of hypothermia, and found a darkly amusing condition of severely hypothermic people called 'terminal burrowing'. As a last ditch effort to stay alive the person attempts to crawl into small spaces- wardrobes, shelves, closets- like an animal burrowing for shelter. Hence, the bath tub. I chuckle.