Title: Not Yet by Lightning
Chapter: Eighteen
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: I like this chapter. I like Bishop. These two facts may or may not be related.
Thank you so much for all of the reviews! We're hitting the end stretch now—there are only a few more chapters left—only a few more chances to leave more greatly appreciated, highly cherished reviews.
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.
18
Bishop's first visit to West Harbor had been indescribably boring. His second had been brief, but amusing (he could still see the barely-suppressed rage on the paladin's face, and the consternation in his favorite cleric's eyes, when her old commander mistook him for her husband), and his third had been too eerily reminiscent of another village, lifetimes before.
So when Nolaloth told them they needed to find a "scar," and they spent the entire trip back to Crossroad Keep arguing about what that meant, while Laura and Zhjaeve had their own private conversation that resulted in Laura announcing to the group that going back to West Harbor was the only way to reforge the sword, he was extremely vocal with his displeasure.
"You've got to be kidding me," were his exact words, from where he stood in a corner of the room, to the Captain, standing at the head of the table in the middle of the room.
Laura, looking tired and as if she were longing for a bath (if you knew the signs), said, "I'm not. The scar Nolaloth mentioned is in West Harbor, near the Starling farm. That's where we have to go."
Bishop opened his mouth to reply and was horrified to discover that the words on his lips were Are you sure you can handle it? In an attempt to mask this grievous faux pas, he said, "Are you sure we can trust some giant dead lizard?"
"Know that the words of the spirit were true, and that it too knew the truth of what it spoke."
Neeshka and Qara immediately jumped on these limitations, protesting with lines such as "It was obviously senile" and "I could've done better against the King of Shadows than that lame dead thing," which of course brought Sand and Ammon into the conversation, both trying to assert themselves over the sorceress. Bishop, for his part, sent Zhjaeve a nasty look, partially because he hated her and partially because he hated the idea of going back to the stupid swamp village. He knew Laura would let him stay behind—and Elanee knew the Mere better anyway—but he wanted to go, partially because he hated the thought of Laura being alone with the paladin, and partially because he hated the idea of Laura going back to the stupid swamp village. These internal revelations only served to make him mulish.
"We leave in the morning for the Ruins of Arvahn," the lady in question said, in her quiet, steely tone of leadership, forestalling further argument. The others quieted and turned to her, waiting for instruction. "We take the Song Portal into the Mere and proceed from there. Who's coming?"
Zhjaeve immediately blathered something about "Know that I must be there," while Casavir unsurprisingly volunteered. Neeshka nervously asked if she was going to be needed. After another brief discussion with Zhjaeve, Laura shrugged, replying that she doubted the King of Shadows would have bothered to trap the town. The rogue, relieved, asked to stay behind; Bishop watched enviously as Laura agreed. There but for the grace of idiocy go I…
Fuck it. "Count me in, Captain," he said, not moving from his favored corner.
"I do not believe your presence will be necessary." Funny, but the paladin was awful quick to jump on him these days. "Elanee's familiarity with the Mere—"
"Actually," the druid interrupted, her pretty pert features looking as though every word was costing her, "I don't know if I should go back there unless it's absolutely necessary. My connection to the land makes me vulnerable."
"Exactly," the paladin said. "The dark taint of the area—"
"—will obviously be more of a problem for you." Sneering, Bishop said, "Besides, someone's got to catch the swooning lady if she faints like she did last time."
Casavir flushed at mention of his failure; Laura merely said, "I suppose that makes you obligatory," and that was that. Khelgar volunteered for extra protection; the dwarf was almost as reluctant to leave his captain and Bishop alone as he was to leave the captain alone at all. From what he could tell, she was grateful for this fraternal protection; he thought putting up with the dwarf was more effort than it was worth.
The party thus decided, everyone departed to get some sleep. Bishop stalked Laura all the way to her room—he knew she knew he was following her, even if she couldn't find him exactly, and she wore a tiny amused smile the whole way—and refused to let her alone once inside, though the sex was tired and brief. They rarely talked business, and he wouldn't have asked her about West Harbor anyway; it didn't do to appear too concerned (as if he was concerned in the first place—and he had the faintest inkling that he was, and that made him surly, and she was too tired to put up with that), and they needed their rest.
He woke up to find her clinging to him, pressed up against his back with her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her fingers digging into his arm and a frown on her face. Her frown deepened when he eased himself out of her grasp, her hands clasping at nothing. Unnerved, he woke her up with a long kiss; once she was aware enough to figure out what was going on, she pulled him close again, only to release him almost immediately, embarrassed. She turned on her side, facing the other wall, while he sat on the edge of the bed and got dressed, slowly.
He pulled on his boots and stood, going and getting his cloak from where he'd thrown it on her desk the night before, caring more about obliterating any and all thoughts from his mind (and hers) than where it landed. He looked at the door, then glanced at her over his shoulder; her hair fell over her face, her shoulder the only exposed skin he could see. As if she sensed his gaze, however, she turned onto her back and sat up, holding up the sheets and drawing up her knees, staring at him. He turned without meaning to, caught by her skin rosy in the sunlight, and her hair a tangled mass tumbling over her shoulders as a flush came to her cheeks, and her eyes dark and round, betraying none of the uncertainty that he saw in the way her fingers curled against the sheet.
In the next moment he was back at the bed, kissing her, and her hands crept up and stroked his cheeks—she was so shy sometimes, and so young, and he couldn't bring himself to cut her off like he meant to, because she would look at him with those big dark eyes and he'd be right back where he started. She was completely irresistible, and he hated how he gave into that fact.
o-o-o
o-o-o
West Harbor wasn't as bad as he'd feared it would be. He could feel the slimy slick darkness of the Mere in his mind, whispering to him the same urges it had when they'd come for the Circle, but he'd made up his mind and it was easy to push them aside. He kept a close eye on his leader, following directly in her footsteps as he always did, ready to act at the slightest hint of collapse. They'd approached from the north, coming to the ruined remains of the Farlong residence. Laura, now assured that her beloved (though how she managed that he didn't know, and he didn't want to know how she found it in herself to love such an unlovable freak) father was safe, only spared it a passing glance. She'd been a bit more unnerved by a trio of shadows disguised as her old rivals, but she never wavered.
They wasted a lot time trying to dig some logs out of the mud in order to make a bridge to cross the creek—the gith seemed to think that even looking at the water too long would cause them to turn on each other and start attacking. Bishop thought this was an overstatement, but he couldn't deny that as they crossed he felt himself, for a brief moment, turning, to dive in and follow the current—not yet, he told himself. Not yet.
It wasn't until they found a wandering child that they encountered real trouble. It looked just like all the other spirits they had encountered, except the paladin swore that its self-emanating light was brighter, purer than the ones they had seen. Laura recognized it—of course she did—and after a few minutes of speaking to it, it became apparent that it wasn't going to turn into a mass of shadows, so of course she immediately decided that it was under her protection. Bishop knew better than to try to dissuade her, and Casavir, Zhjaeve, and Khelgar all seemed to content to run after their leader as she chased the ghost, trying to figure out how to send it home.
Then the ghost of Retta Starling appeared, and it all went to hell.
"Come to Mama, little one," the ghost cooed, and Bishop, attuned to the darkness as he was, instantly sensed the connection between the phantom woman and the shadows growing around them. Standing directly behind Laura's shoulder, he turned his head to pass on this information, noting that she was shaking and that, more alarming, there were tears in her eyes.
He notched an arrow and said, "No good." The paladin and the dwarf fanned out to either side of their leader, while Zhjaeve stayed back, ready to cast spells at the slightest hint that she should.
"She's not your mother," Laura said, her voice surprisingly strong. Bishop said a mental thanks, available for any god that cared, for her strength. He was more deserving of this fate than she was, and he was quite sure he would have left long before it came down to something like this. It wasn't his style to get tied down to people and places; he didn't think it was particularly something Laura wanted to do, herself, yet once she bound herself to something she would fight for it as long as she was needed. He had been keeping himself, for longer than he cared to think about, from wondering if she would fight for him.
Laura's repeated negations of the spirit's statements drove the shadows to reveal themselves, multiplying at an alarming rate. Sheer number rather than difficulty prolonged the battle, though the fact that it was dark and shadows were damn hard to see even in the daylight didn't help. When all was said and done, he set about retrieving arrows—the only good side to fighting shadows was that they dissipated when they died, meaning the arrows were usually intact. He kept one eye on Laura, who knelt before the child-ghost-thing, explaining what had happened.
Then in a whisper of breath it was gone, leaving the captain kneeling alone. Bishop paused in his work, watching and waiting as precious shadowed seconds ticked by. Don't do it…
"Know that this threat has passed," Zhjaeve said, breaking the dark silence. "We can do no more."
"Yeh did well, lass," Khelgar said, hefting his axe. Don't do it…
Laura still didn't move. Casavir stepped forward, reaching out a hand. "You have done all you could, my lady. Mourning—"
Aw fuck. He was going to do it.
He realized this halfway through closing the distance between them. He berated himself as he shouldered past the paladin and reached her, grabbing her shoulder and shaking it until she looked up at him. And she was beautiful, covered in dirt and swamp muck and blood and sweat and dirty silent tearstains, and he resented her for that.
"They're dead," he said, his displeasure (but not his concern or his fear or his he wouldn't even think about it) coming through his voice. "They're dead, they're gone, and crying about it isn't going to help."
The paladin made a noise of disapproval but she didn't appear to have heard, staring up at him unblinkingly. He stared right back, trying to convey everything he'd said in his words, and wondered what she saw, or if he'd said too much.
Then she took a deep, steady breath, and nodded. Before he could pull away she reached up and covered his hand with her own, resting it for so brief a moment he could almost think he imagined it even as she slid out from under it. He firmed his arm and let her pull herself to her feet. They both wore gloves, yet the feel of her hand in his was so familiar he immediately felt the urge to squeeze hers. Instead he dropped her hand and said, "Go get your mystic forging done with so we can leave," almost surprising himself with the ferocious dislike in his voice.
"All right," she said, in her normal flat, even tones, and he stalked off to find a hill to keep watch from while she did her mumbo-jumbo. He resented her like hell—she chafed him with the most soothing touch imaginable—but he'd be damned if he'd let her die doing something she had no choice but to do.
He could give her that much, at least.