Chapter 2: "The Lilac Midnight"
Close my eyes by a white silk ribbon,
Take me by the hand and lead me
Along the bridges and canals,
Through a field full of tulips…
- There is death in the air this night… - Casavir stands beside her, hands behind his back.
- You sound calm, despite it, - she steps closer, leaning on a fortress' wall. A delightful sight is opening below: squares of fields, rectangulars of farms, and orange flames of several torches…
- I am here with you, there's little that could touch me in your presence, - he turns to her, his eyes full of devotion radiate such admiration, that she feels awkward. - And although it is dark, you shine brightly to me. I've been following you all this time… and I shall follow you further, wherever your path leads us. My sword, and my heart are for long yours, milady. - The paladin intends to kneel, but she doesn't allow him.
Holding his strong, sinewy hands, she looks at this embodiment of fidelity and humility, and her heart twitches, pending the words she's obliged to say.
- Casavir… It's… a great honor for me, but… I do not love you… - His face, a quintessence of firmness, shivers for the first time. He closes his eyes, sighing deeply.
She lowers her hands and parts from him. Looking at the armor, still stained with blood from the last battle, at his huge two-handed sword, at which he's clinging as if it's the only tangible thing in the whole world, at his bent figure and his raven-black hair, that has already been lightly strewn with the first gray hair, and understands, that she feels absolutely nothing to him. Except for pity. Pity, similar to her pity for Shandra when she became homeless, and for the villagers of Highcliff, torn from their only home.
- You... - she falters, but finds a strength to continue, - I'm not tying down anyone to stay here, you know. If you want, you... you can leave.
- Leave? - the paladin asks bitterly, - I have no place to go, milady. You're everything I have, And I shall die for you, and your Keep.
He turns away and leaves. She watches him for a few seconds, then turns her eyes to a painful moon.
Blood, battles, powerful artefacts and ancient secrets - all this have fallen upon her for the last months. To rise so high - and for such a short time. The Knight of Neverwinter, the last hope of the Sword Coast... Who'd thought...
Wonder if anyone tried to look deep into her eyes under a golden magic circlet? Is there anyone who saw her hands trembling while squeesing the ceremonial sword, raised upon the next vampire? And on her neck covered by amulets, the thin vein dispersing the blood with the taste of fear and wyrmsage. No, certainly...
They tell their children fairy-tales about her and teach them to be like her... Ha! Teach them to become a ball of strained muscles, squeezed by a painful magic power and a fear that she won't succeed and the whole world will fall to the nine Hells, and become a feast to those demonic friends of Ammon Jerro. And only some noblemen, hiding in the cellars of their magnificent manors, spread gossips that this warlock that became the Knight of Neverwinter, may cause even more troubles than The King of Shadows.
Her dream that from the North... or even from the East a Hero will come and deal with all this - it's unrealizable. She is that Hero. And there's noone to whom she could shift her duties...
She peers at a pale moon. The absence of bright color oppresses her. The wind becomes colder with every minute, but she doesn't want to return to her apartments. The huge cold bed, endless stone walls and her soldiers' glances full of hope... no-no-no... it's better she'll freeze here... and on the morrow the army of undead will be faced by such a tiny ordinary-looking statue - in comparison with this wall - that their bones themselves will become ice and sunlight will thaw them and throw to a courtyard by a harmless steel rain...
- Sooo... And what do we see here? Milady dreaming the whole Neverwinter to fall before her and... o, such a heresy!.. Lord Nasher himself, - Bishop appears suddenly as if from nowhere... - I understand you, milady. If I were you, the one second-grade paladin wouldn't be enough for me too...
"Oh gods..." - she closes her eyes, - "he again... has come to torture me again..."
- Stop calling me "milady", Bishop, - she says, not turning to him.
- My dear, even YOU can forbid nothing to me, I'm still a free bird – this is the first. The second is: the paladin can say so and I cannot?
- From your lips it sounds like... an insult, - she frowns.
- It is an insult, - he steps closer, still holding his hands on the hilts of the swords, - this title and this keep - is an insult to your freedom.
She sighs.
- You said all you wanted? Then go away.
- Don't dare to order me!
It seems to her, that there's not a man standing before her, but a bristled red wolf. What happened to him there, in a distant past, that makes him so jealously protect this word?.. freedom...
- Bishop, it isn't an order, - she closes her eyes wearily, - it's just a request. Leave me alone.
He stands now so close, slightly brushing against back and hair. She feels the stupefying heat emanating from his body... has he really been climbing up the wall?.. His scent tickles her nostrils, expelling all thoughts from her mind... Oh gods, he smells like thousands of grasses born in the Duskwood on a lilac midnight under the airy rain of pine needles and crumbs of a thousand-year rock. And, it seems, there is no such will in the world that could resist this scent...
The pale moon still pursues its shadow, the farmers' dogs sing it about the green fuzzes lost in a deep riverbed, the torches engender fiery elementals, and his hands slowly clasp her waist so as to draw her closer with one jerk.
- I... came... to repeat... my... offer, - he whispers and his breath tickles her ear.
She moans something, frozen on her place, so as not to spook the tiny yellow butterflies whose sharp legs cling to every nerve, forcing her to blink and pray Bishop not to notice it...
- So... what, - his lips slide up to her temple, - ... does... - his hand slowly moves on a smooth fabric of her tunic, - ... my... - the pale moon, keeping a paw on its mouth, nevertheless listens attentively to the dogs' howl, - ... lady... think? - his lips touch her skin and thousand butterflies at the same time stick their stings into each her cell.
"My God", - by a flame it is burnt in her eyes, - "I must do something! Immediately. Try to get my sword? Prepare an Eldritch Blast? Oooh... thousand demons..."
... but not a thousand demons - a thousand grasses born on a lilac midnight still hold her and whisper, whisper, whisper...
"Turn to him..." - silently, - "Come now, turn and touch his hair, burn his skin with fire that dances in his eyes like a wild shaman... you desire it so much... "lady" ..."
Whether it's a sob or a groan that escape from her lips while she's trying to get out of the circle of his hands, but he only grins, forcing the moon to turn even more pale, and holds her even tighter.
- My dear, while you were spending time studying your warlock art, I was gaining strength in two-swords dancing... I doubt you can match me...
He jerks her, forcing her to look in his eyes.
She wants to scream, because two sticky marsh snakes are rising inside her, squeezing her throat, but still she snaps with the same impudent and courageous glance.
- I am the strongest warrior of the Sword Coast, remember it!
He knows these words are not hers and observes what may come next.
She still tries to escape, but after these seconds her back feels a cold stone behind.
- Let me go! - she hisses, trying to muster all her self-control.
- And what for? - he asks floutingly. - Just look how funny: minutes ago the paladin was standing here, frozen, waiting for your high answer, not daring to touch you. And now I press you into a wall, and you can do nothing, because, certainly, you know whom of us you really need...
The birds are shouting at the left and Bishop turns to this sound, a skilled eye of a scout searching for uninvited guests, a smirk appears in a corner of his lips as he notices the fireball blossoming inside of the warlock when his stubble brushes her cheek.
- You... you overheard!
- And even peeped, - the ranger smirks, - it was such a temptation to watch how you'll reject our paladin-friend. If I were you I'd also ask him to cut himself in the name of his love, of course, but simple "no" satisfied me as well.
- Shut up! - she shouts at his face angrily. - How dare YOU to humiliate a man, capable of such... fidelity and such... acts. A man so kind and so merciful, that in comparison with him you are a Devil himself!
- Ha! - he laughs cruelly, - you do not know of what I'm capable, my dear. Beware to compare a wolf and a sheep, - he leans closer to her, almost touching her face. Perhaps so that she could be convinced how really wolfish his eyes are.
Hundreds of butterflies, already calmed, shake their wings again awkwardly, clinging at cells' thin skin..
- Come... we shall discuss it... but not here, - she mutters, trying to merge with the wall.
- Why? Here's well enough. Or you're afraid of something? - he smirks sarcastically.
Frightened, she looks in his eyes, in which the two shamen continue their wild dance around a huge fire, striking a drum with stupendous strength, calling to ancient pagan gods. Transparent white feathers in their messed hair are shivering with pale lilac light.
- So... what? - he asks again, feeling her trembling.
Between their faces - no more than a few inches, she gulps, trying to press herself into a wall even more. The cold of grey stones clings to her clothes unpleasantly and demands to let it inside.
"Come on", - the butterflies whisper, - "forget all he said. Just a few inches - and you'll touch him. Words doesn't matter, look - he's so warm, and HOW he's looking at you. Touch... touch... touch..."
"Touch him!" - the body screams, - "isn't he the one you've been waiting for? You won't make him a hero, but just for one night you'll feel yourself weak and... human. Has the dark energy finally burned you? Touch him! Now!"
"Touch..." - the grass rustles, tickling her nostrils, - "and all the rest won't matter any more. Touch, touch, tooooouch..."
She sobs, weakening every single muscle, falling into his hands, and gives him such a long and restless glance that Bishop grins and says:
- Well... good girl...
His embrace, once iron, turns into a warm air, miaow of a cat and force of a rock. Tears, transparent like a wind and warm as blood, stream down her cheeks as the ranger touches her lips with his. His scent envelops her, blocking all ways to escape.
He kisses her, silent and still, and she blinks from pleasure, trying not to think about Casavir, the King of Shadows and tomorrow's battle. Tears freeze her cheeks, and from its inaccessible height the moon looks at them grimly, swinging its pale light discontentedly.
- Don't cry. Defeats make us stronger, - he whispers, collecting her transparent blood with his lips.
She nods awkwardly and - at last - does of what she's been silently dreaming for the last months: she runs her fingers through his rigid hair, touches his cheek, slides her hand down his neck...
Butterflies, already gathering to fly away, remain still, watching with interest how her blood starts boiling and lips turn pink.
- It becomes too cold... - he whispers, - and at your room is much cosier...
She nods awkwardly.
Bishop tears her hands from his neck and leads her, charmed, downwards, easily dodging the posts and inhabitants of the keep. Not turning ahead, he leads her there, where the moon could not any longer observe them, discontentedly rolling sideways, and where in the twilight of her bedroom she'll count all his scars with her lips...
When at midnight the guard ran to her room, he hadn't been here any more. She was silently listening to the report about an approaching army, swallowing the tears...
When she, along with Casavir and Sand, was destroying the towers, her face was still burning and lips were whispering his name...
When Garius has let out the Shadow of the Guardian on them, she splashed out all her rage in a form of spells... a rage on her answer, she gave him yesterday night...
When her feet touched the stones of the Vale of Merdelain covered with web, she still believed Bishop didn't betray her...
When she saw him standing near Garius, the cold and bitterness flooded her, suppressing screams and tears...
When he had chosen his own way and left, spitting on this war, on her, the King of Shadows and all their civilization, she watched him leave, no longer constraining her tears...
When she was killing those who betrayed her - Qara and Neeshka - her hands were trembling...
When she was destroying the statues one by one, she felt not the stench of the Guardian and powerfull spells, but the smell of a wood and morning rocks...
When she was standing above the slain King of Shadows, she no longer felt anything...
The huge energy that was now unleashed twirled them in a mad whirlwind and the ancient stones of a ritual sanctuary let out a long groan. They were crumbling and falling on their heads as sharp yellow sparks.
They knew they wouldn't get out of here alive, but the will to live was driving them forward in search of shelter.
In one of the rooms in which the stones were already trembling but not yet scattering, they fell on the floor and threw away their weapons now useless.
Casavir sat near her, looking at the floor, ready to cover her her from the falling stones in any second.
"I shall die for you, milady..."
Death. In a few minutes. Or seconds. They fulfilled their mission and this world needs them no longer.
So stuffy here.
They will die...
But somewhere... on the forgotten paths of a dense wood Bishop will still remain. When they no longer exist, he'll still be walking on a silk grass and live with wolves, searching for somebody's traces, but not leaving his own nowhere... Free and needless to anyone... but... will live...
When someone's shape covered her from the first falling stones, it seemed to her she smelled the scent of wood in a sanctuary...
Let the stars explode for the criminality of our desires
If only you were here with me
one second
prior
to death
...
