Title: Not Yet by Lightning

Chapter: Fifteen

Author: Jade Sabre

Notes: I cannot write this Casavir. I read everyone else's Casavirs and think "oh, wow, this is so good!" And then I try to write Casavir—canon Casavir, as adapted to these circumstances—and I have the worst time trying to do it. I have one more chapter that I'd like to write, because I think it would round out this subplot, and yet getting into Casavir's head is so very difficult…

Anyway, y'all aren't here to hear me complain. I'm mostly satisfied with this chapter, even though I relied on the in-game dialogue probably a little more than I should have. Also, I love Sand to death. But y'all knew that already.

Reviews, as always, would be AWESOME.

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.

15

Sand was taking a break from potions and sorceress-sitting and enjoying himself at the pub. There were potions brewing overnight in his workroom, and Qara was safely with the other companions, sulking amidst their light and laughter. Enjoying himself, of course, meant sitting at a side table with a pint of the best ale available (and not too shabby at that, considering the innkeeper's humble origins) and roundly defeating Sir Nevalle at chess.

"Check," he said lazily, setting down his knight and enjoying the irony as Nevalle's brow furrowed in frustration.

Nevalle's hand hovered over the pieces, and finally he gave in and took the most obvious move, sliding his king a space to the right. He wasn't a bad chess player by any means, otherwise Sand would have stopped playing him years ago; while the wizard preferred a more subtle infiltration strategy, the knight tended for a mixture of subterfuge and brute force, which always made for an interesting game.

In the case, however, he was sadly mistaken if he thought he would come away with a victory. Sand moved his bishop three spaces and sat back in his chair, smirking. "And mate."

"I know," Nevalle said, resting his chin on his hand as he studied the board.

"Oh, no need to be grouchy," he said. "Best two out of three?"

Nevalle sighed and rubbed his face. "I wish. I have to meet with the Knight Captain again before I return to Neverwinter. I think," he said in a conversational tone, "she's been avoiding me."

"No doubt about it," Sand said. "I don't think she likes you very much." Nevalle looked at him. "And who can blame her, really?"

"It's my lord she doesn't like," he said. "But I should be able to persuade him to send more money after this report. The Keep is rebuilding just as he hoped."

"Oh, yes, be sure to tell her that. I'm sure she'll fall at your knees from sheer excitement."

Nevalle narrowed his eyes, the closest he ever came to a dirty look. "I thought she was too young for me?"

Sand glanced at the Knight Captain, sitting at the next table with Khelgar and a few others, patiently enduring Casavir's steady attentions. "Our dear paladin doesn't seem to share your opinion."

"Casavir—"

"Better you than him, in my opinion." Better you than what she's chosen, gods help us all.

Nevalle couldn't stop a snort of laughter, barely covering it up with a cough. "I'm sure the lady can form her own opinions and has little need of your advice."

Sand felt his lips curl and tried to turn it into a smile. "That's what she thinks. Everyone would benefit if they received my advice."

"Right," Nevalle said dryly, taking one last look at the chessboard. He finished off his own pint of ale and stood. "Until next time. Weekly reports, wizard."

"As you wish," Sand said, sketching a wave and watching the knight go. Nevalle approached his Knight Captain and said a few words to her, words Sand could have understood if he had put his mind to it, but her displeasure was strong enough to reach her face (and Sand's nose) before she masked it and departed with him. The conversation dwindled as they left, only to explode with curiosity once she was safely gone.

"I hope it's nothing serious," Elanee said.

"I hope it involves burning this place to the ground."

"No one asked what you thought," Sand said, though Qara wasn't listening.

"I'm sure it is nothing serious," Casavir said to Elanee.

"What d'you think he wants?" Neeshka said.

"The same thing every man wants," Grobnar said. The others stopped and stared at him; he said slowly, as if this were an obvious truth, "Her advice on how to make a daisy chain."

Bishop's low laugh floated—no, crawled—over from the bar, where he stood as always, not quite a part of the proceedings but not entirely detached, either. "That's what the man wants, all right."

"Oh, indeed!" Grobnar said. "I understand that our Knight Captain is quite the expert on daisy-chain-weaving—"

"Sure she is," Bishop said, leaning with his back against the bar, his tankard dangling from one hand. "I'm sure she's very good."

"Bishop," Elanee said, trying to play the mother—whose mother, Sand could never quite guess.

"Oh, fine," he said. "I'll just be a good boy and go, then."

He set his tankard down on the bar and was clearly about to leave—and he always left early, and Sand was quite sure he was the only other person who knew why—when Casavir suddenly stood and said, "No."

Oh, my. Sand settled back in his chair and took another swig of ale, watching with narrowed eyes, calculating the conversation's potential directions, the moves each man would need to make if he wanted to secure any kind of victory over his opponent.

Bishop seemed to be just as amused, from the way he stopped with his back to them and said, "No?"

"I would speak with you, first," Casavir said, his face set, his lower jaw almost jutting out with determination.

He turned around, mocking sneer firmly in place. "And what's got you so troubled up to your halo that you want to talk to me?" Elanee opened her mouth to speak, but Bishop went on before she could say a word. "Jealousy, maybe?"

"It has nothing to do with her," Casavir said, almost too quickly. Sand wondered if there was a special circle in the Hells reserved for lying paladins.

"Uh-huh." Bishop crossed his arms. "What else could you possibly—"

"I do not trust you, Bishop—"

"Oh, that's a surprise," Neeshka muttered.

"—and neither should she."

Bishop looked as nonplussed as Neeshka. "Sounds like good advice to me. In fact," and he let the introduction linger for a moment, "I told her the same thing about you."

That rocked the paladin back on his feet. "What?"

"You can distrust me all you want," Bishop said, spreading his hands wide. "You probably should distrust me all you want—but I'm a sight more honest with myself than you. You," and he drawled, but there was a hint of anger in his voice, too, "a paladin who can't even figure out how he feels about a woman."

"I follow my leader wherever she goes. My blade is hers. There is nothing more." He sounded as if he was reciting a mantra; Sand wondered if it helped him sleep at night.

"See, but you're damn useless on the battlefield," Bishop said, his grin turning decidedly malicious. "Trying to release all your frustration in battle only makes you sloppy. There's only one cure for that, but you're so busy in your quest to forget you're a man that you forget something very important."

"And what," Casavir said, his face losing its determination, drawing into tight lines, but his voice quiet, "is that?"

"You forget she's a woman."

Casavir looked downright confused. "She's a girl, a knight—"

"She's a woman," and Bishop caressed the word like he would no doubt caress the subject later that night, and for the first time Sand had an inkling of why, perhaps, a woman might find him attractive, "and a woman needs a man—"

"Like a fish needs a wagon train," Grobnar said, though no one paid him any attention.

"—to keep her…satisfied. Happy." He stepped closer to the paladin and cocked his head. "And you want her to be happy, don't you?"

"I—"

"Then you know what to do about it, don't you?" Bishop smirked as if he had been born to it. "Make her happy. Take her like you've taken any of the other whores in your past—"

"Do not speak of her that way!" Casavir thundered, his voice suddenly loud and the air suddenly full of pain. Sand straightened in his seat, intrigued. "My lady is not one of your cheap tools for pleasure. Her noble bearing far surpasses anything you've—" He stopped, as if not trusting himself to speak further.

Bishop laughed. "What, defending her honor? She can do it herself, you know." Casavir pressed his lips together, gathering for a new attack, but again Bishop preempted him. "And unlike you, paladin, I know she can. So there's no need to clench your jaw and make a fist. What would you do, hit me? Force me to apologize? Don't tell me you think my apologies are worth something."

"There is not a word that comes out of your mouth, Bishop, that is worth anything to anyone," Casavir said, his voice quiet and deadly.

"Then why do you care what I say? It can't be because I'm speaking the truth."

"It's not."

Really, Sand thought to himself, there wouldn't need to be a special circle in hell. This paladin seemed quite capable of creating a hell on earth for himself.

"Uh-huh." Bishop looked him up, and then down, and said, "You better watch your step with all those lies. I would hate to see you trip over your tongue and fall."

The room went utterly still; a muscle in Casavir's cheek twitched as he fought for control. "You speak of what you do not understand, and could never understand," he said, his voice low and quiet. He had the ranger, there, but then he continued, "As for the Knight Captain—"

"Spare me your platitudes, paladin," he drawled. "You've made your point. It's obvious that I'm more honest than you—and yet you tell Farthing to trust you, and not trust me. Forgive me," and Sand applauded his burning sarcasm, "if I don't quite follow your logic."

"At least she knows where I align myself."

"So she's got all the facts at her hands. Excellent. Now get out, and let her make her own decisions." He turned and took two steps to the door, then stopped to make his parting remark. "I do."

And he was gone, no doubt straight to the lady's bed, and Casavir, tight-fisted and jaw-clenched and pale, and radiating anger and despair (two suffocating scents), was left in the inn, alone.

Sand pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head, and released his breath in a humorless chuckle. Check, and mate.