Title: Not Yet by Lightning
Chapter: Eleven
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: This was the first chapter I ever wrote, you guys! I wrote it…last August. That being said, it's probably a little rougher than all the other chapters—I spent some time revising it, and making it fit more with everything else I've written, but it still feels a little, well, like the first chapter I wrote. This marks a minor deviation from the OC—nothing too big, but it establishes the tone for the rest of the fic in several ways. I hope y'all like it…or are, at least, gentle in expressing your displeasure. In either case, write a review and let me know!
Disclaimer: I don't own Neverwinter Nights, or any of its sequels or expansions, or any of the characters contained herein, aside from my PC, who was created on a Bioware engine and thus probably therefore partially belongs to them too.
11
"Wait a minute…she's waking up!" someone said. "She's alive, we've got her, we can go now,"and she felt herself being picked up and carried in the arms of someone running the hell away from wherever they were. Slowly the pieces of memory fell into place—Zhjaeve and Qara, and Sydeny Natale and the True Names, and facing the Shadow Reaver and oh. She must have died, then. Or almost died.
She was slung into a horse's saddle and someone got up behind her and rode like hell and the bumps were so jarring she decided it would be less painful—because the pain was catching up as she remembered all the hits she had taken—to pass out again.
o-o-o
o-o-o
When she woke up the first thing she remembered was that she had died, and she organized her thoughts around that fact. It was odd, knowing that you were the only one who could do a task, and yet occasionally were overwhelmed in battle. She had crossed the line a few times before, and every time it was remarkably disconcerting to come back and realize that everyone else had, for a few moments, been paralyzed by the sense of doom that came with knowing all your hopes for stopping the ultimate evil of the day had just fallen. She thought it was ridiculous that so many hopes were often singular, and was somewhat grateful that Ammon Jerro had completed the last part of the Ritual of Purification. Though they were useless without each other, and though she hated the man, it lessened some of the burden on her.
She opened her eyes and realized that she was lying in her bedroll around the fire circle, and that dawn had just come and therefore Zhjaeve was praying her prayers and she really ought to as well. She struggled to sit up and discovered Neeshka on watch, grinning at her.
"Welcome back, Captain," the tiefling said, her expression relaying none of the fear Laura had expected.
"It's good to be…back," she said, wincing horribly as she put her head in both hands.
"She up? She moving?"
Bishop appeared from the surrounding woods, carrying what was probably supposed to be breakfast, but Laura's headache nauseated her, so she sat back and watched while the others ate, trying to concentrate on healing spells for herself. She felt a little better as time went on, but she didn't lift her head, preferring to listen to how her companions interacted when she wasn't really around. It was unsurprisingly quiet, aside from good-natured quips between Neeshka and Khelgar (she once again thanked all the gods involved in helping the two reconcile their differences). Zhjaeve wasn't particularly talkative, and Bishop wasn't either. After a few minutes of observation, she gathered that Bishop was in a bad mood, and none of the others knew why, or particularly cared to brave the surly ranger's rhetoric to find out.
They mounted up again once breakfast was over; the place where the Shadow Reaver had been wasn't more than a day's ride from the Keep, but apparently they'd made camp for the night, probably for the sake of her convalescence. To her surprise, it was Bishop who casually picked her up and threw her into the saddle before mounting up behind her, his manner and expressions all calm and caustic indifference, his grip on her waist unusually tight. They rode straight for the Keep and were mercifully unhindered—Laura wasn't sure she would be able to stand up yet—and she sent them to gather the others at the Phoenix Tail Inn while she reported to Nevalle.
The other knight was suitably excited to hear of the Shadow Reaver's defeat and quickly left to dispatch a letter to Nasher, leaving Laura alone in her courtyard. Despite the months she had spent at the Keep, it was still difficult to absorb the fact that this was really hers, totally and completely, and that she was in charge of every life that pledged itself to her walls. She had never envisioned herself with that degree of responsibility towards any one thing, and truthfully she wasn't sure she wanted it; it was at once gratifying and terrifying to walk amidst her people and see them bow to her, looking to her for answers when lately she wasn't sure she even had questions anymore. And it was lonely, keeping that lack of certainty to herself, because her people needed a leader who was confident and sure.
She entered the Inn and Sal, upon seeing her, immediately ordered a round for everyone in the building. Her companions had gathered chairs near the fireplace, settling into their usual factions: Zhjaeve and Jerro at either end, aloof and unconcerned, while Neeshka and Khelgar took up the middle, jostling with each other and complaining loudly about the kind of business Sal allowed in his establishment, and Elanee stood to the side, watching over them with good-natured exasperation. Qara tried to sit away from Sand, although this usually ended up with her sitting next to Jerro, as no one wanted to get close to either of them, and Sand sat next to Zhjaeve, inching away from Khelgar and settling his robes like a mildly disgruntled cat. Casavir stood on his other side and Bishop, his indifferent expression toying with a smirk that promised trouble, casually dropped into the available seat next to the paladin. Grobnar sat in the chair between the ranger and Khelgar, an oversized quill and pad of paper in his hands, childishly excited as he always was to be included in these meetings. As for herself, she took her pint and leaned against the mantle and waited for them to quiet down, smiling a little to herself but otherwise too tired to show any emotion.
"What's the occasion?" Sand asked, his look one of long-suffering. Understandable, as he was usually stuck babysitting Aldanon and Qara; she made a note to find something more interesting for him to do, and to hand over the scrolls she had found on the Shadow Reaver's body.
"Victory," Zhjaeve said. "Know that we have won this day—"
"Aye, and what a victory!" Khelgar broke in, immediately launching into a description of the battle for Grobnar, who took notes, practically bouncing with excitement.
"Don't forget the part where our noble leader bit the dust," Bishop said, leaning across and using the gnome's head for an armrest.
"What?" Casavir said, far too quickly for his own good. Laura directed her gaze at the portrait over the fireplace as Bishop said, "Oh, yeah. Took a good hard hit from one of the blade golems. Went down like—"
"But we rescued her," Zhjaeve said, "and she lives still. Know that this is what truly matters."
Bishop's mouth twisted in an ugly parody of a smile. Casavir said, anxiously, "You are all right, my lady?"
She managed a thin smile in return. "Hale and hearty, as always, Casavir." She hoped he couldn't see how her legs were trembling with the effort of keeping her up; she would have to sit down soon.
"Thank the gods."
"Oh, I doubt they had anything to do with it," said the ranger. "More like Zhjaeve noticing before it was too late to do anything. Not that she's much help, either." He took a deep swig from his tankard and scowled down into it. He leaned across Grobnar again, provoking a "Hey!" as he said, "Oh, and don't forget the devil-girl—"
"Demon," Neeshka protested.
"—tripped over her own two feet—"
"I did not!"
"Bishop," Laura said, and from the way everyone stopped and stared she was uncomfortably aware of how they were keyed to her voice. He looked at her and she realized she had spoken without a suitable follow-up, and so she steeled herself and said, "A word with you when we're finished here."
"Certainly, Captain," he said.
She returned her attention to Zhjaeve. The githzerai nodded and said, "This victory strikes a great blow against the King of Shadows. We should focus our efforts on finding as many Shadow Reavers as we can while we wait for the results of Aldanon's search for Nolaloth."
Jerro, of course, had something testy to say about his own knowledge concerning the dead wyrm, but as far as Laura was concerned the meeting was essentially over. She concentrated on standing up and finishing her ale, drinking it slowly and using it as an excuse not to speak. She wasn't quite sure what she was going to say to Bishop—something along the lines of perhaps not abusing every single one of her companions every single day, although ultimately she knew such a conversation would be pointless and would probably only steel his determination to increase the number of future insults. Slowly everyone removed themselves, either to other parts of the common room or to other areas of the Keep, and she caught Bishop's eye and nodded to the door. He downed the rest of his drink and stood, the ugly smirk still on his face. She ignored the expression and left the common room, assuming he would follow.
She intended to lead him back away from the buildings to talk, but she had only gotten around the back of the Tail when he suddenly slammed into her, pressing her back against the wall. She opened her mouth to speak and suddenly his mouth was on hers, his lips insistently parting hers when she clammed up, frozen with shock, tugging and pulling, his hands cradling her head as if he could pull the skin right off the skull, long, needy kisses that immediately removed what lingering ability she had to stand on her own two feet. There was no way for her to break away; her head was back against the wall, his body weighing down against hers, keeping her in place, her arms trapped by her side and curling instinctively, her legs buckling. And he was kissing her and she'd never really been kissed before and she had no idea why he was kissing her except she knew this was perhaps what came of making talk with strange men over tankards late at night.
He pushed her into the wall as he pushed himself away, turning and ending up in a similar position to her, breathing heavily but otherwise completely expressionless. She was sure he could hear her heart beating a thousand times too fast, but mostly she was afraid to look at him, to say anything, to figure out—
"What in the Nine Hells was that?" Her voice found itself and took over.
There was a long pause, and then he said in his lowest, most spine-tingling drawl, "You died, and I didn't get the chance to fuck you."
She processed this for half a second, half a second in which to interpret and decide and act, and she turned so she was the one pushing him into the wall, and she said, "What do you want?"
He stared straight at her, as impassively as she knew she was looking back at him, and then he kissed her again, his lips leaving her mouth and tracing her jaw, down her neck, then back to her lips again. "I want to fuck you," he said, "and as sure as I'm going to hell I don't want you to die again."
She considered this for another half-second and said, in a moment of brilliant abandon, "Done."
"You're serious."
"I'm the one with an entire suite to myself," she said. "You coming or not?"