Bishop downed the next glass of rotgut, grimacing.

You should think I'd be accustomed to the taste by now.

He'd been slowly, methodically drinking himself through a bottle of the stuff for the last hour. Like he did nearly every evening, nowadays. Already the room started dancing nicely before his eyes. He eyed the bottle, trying to focus. Well, as far as his blurry vision told him, he was three quarters finished. If he kept up the steady work, he'd accomplish his goal soon.

Which was just plainly passing out. He reached for the bottle, managing to get hold of it at the third try, decided the glass could go to hell, and sucked the rest of the ghastly liquid down in one long gulp. Then, bottle falling out of his hand, he slipped from the chair, landing gracelessly on the tavern floor with a thump, and everything got mercifully dark.

The tavern keeper looked down at his unconscious customer with a wary eye. That one smelled of trouble, if he knew anything about people. When the man slinked into the Boar's Head earlier, hood still over his face and somehow radiating a quiet menace, he had feared for the worst. But luckily the stranger just coldly ordered a bottle of his strongest, waved away any offer of food impatiently, took the bottle to the darkest table in the room and started drinking with what one could only describe as determination. He must have the constitution of a bull, too. The barkeeper had expected him to fall from his chair half a bottle ago.

And what to do with him now? He had not even rented a room. Ah well, he'd just leave the bugger lying on the floor. He'd been neither friendly nor generous enough to deserve any special attention.

The sound of the door being opened made him look up, seeing even more strangers entering his humble establishment. His eyes got big - those two did not look like his normal clientele. The man was large, clad in gleaming plate armour, a mean looking hammer at his side and a shield on his back. He had short, black hair and piercing blue eyes. The woman looked even more unusual, very tall, with near white hair, pale blue eyes and darkish skin. She, too, was well armoured, a gleaming sword in her belt and also a shield on her back.

The barkeeper swallowed nervously and welcomed his new customers as politely as he could manage. The man bade him a good evening in a deep, resonating voice, and asked for a room for the night. The woman smiled up to him affectionately and said, her voice dark and velvety:

"Why, Casavir, only one room? What would Neeshka have to say to that?"

The man smiled back warmly and answered:

"She would say I had the right idea, not letting you out of my sight, my lady."

The woman laughed and punched him on the arm.

"Then let's go up to that room of ours, I'm so tired, I think I could fall asleep standing here."

She smiled at the tavern owner, thanked him and passed him some coins for the room. Making for the stairs, the man followed her, throwing one last glance through the tavern, when his gaze fell upon the prone figure in the corner. He stopped in his tracks for a second, a small hiss escaping his mouth. The woman turned, throwing him a questioning glance and asked:

"Everything all right, Casavir?"

"Yes, my lady. I'm just sore after all this walking", the man replied, quickly turning, as if to block her vision of the room. She laughed.

"You must be getting old, it seems. I never heard you complaining about a day's march before."

The man's answer was lost as they went up the stairs. The barkeeper thoughtfully polished a glass, putting it back into the shelf. He better made sure the man in the corner was gone when these two came back down in the morning, otherwise he might lose a lot of furniture, it seemed.

xxx

Bishop woke up, groaning, his head pounding, and tried to sit up. His stomach heaved at the sudden movement, his head threatened to explode. He groaned again, hands going to his head, and breathed deep and steady.

I'm not going to be sick. I'm not going to be sick.

Maybe you should consider eating something in the evenings...

The thought of food made his stomach lurch again, and he gagged, leaning back against the wall, closing his eyes, trying to force the bile down.

Another clattering and clanging like the one that had woken him came from behind the counter. He opened his eyes again, throwing the barkeeper a killing glance. What the nine hells did that cretin have to make such a ruckus for? The barkeeper, seemingly not noticing the danger in the corner, continued to sort his dishes with more force then seemed necessary. The sound felt like hot needles penetrating Bishop's skull, and he winced.

That's it. I'm going to wring his neck.

Bishop got up, staggered as stars exploded in front of his eyes and his stomach turned. A hand pressed in front of his mouth he stumbled to the door as fast as he could, the affronting barkeeper forgotten, threw himself out of the tavern and was violently sick in the bushes outside.

The barkeeper looked after the hooded stranger with relief. He had managed to get him up without having to wake him personally – a thought that had him shuddering. This one did not look like he took kindly to being disturbed. The relief lasted until he saw the black haired warrior move silently down the stairs, slipping out after the stranger. Damn. Then he shrugged. At least they were outside.

xxx

After the gagging stopped, Bishop leaned back at the wall, eyes closed, breathing deep. This was going to kill him sooner or later. He knew it. If the rotgut did not do the job, one of his many enemies would find him while he was in no state to fight back. Which, admittedly, was quite often these days.

He opened his eyes blearily, cursing the bright morning sun that sent a searing pain directly into his skull. Still not really steady on his feet, he carefully made his way to the water trough by the stable. He bent down and pumped ice-cold water over his head, swearing, but it helped to clear his thoughts a bit. He stopped pumping, resting both hands on the frame of the trough, head down, staring into the water.

I have to stop this. I have to stop doing this.

Which was what he told himself every morning, really. And his firm resolution lasted every day until nightfall. That was because the days weren't that bad. A lot of things to do in the day. A lot of things to keep your mind occupied. The nights were the bad part. Because in the night, the dreams came. He had tried, tried going to sleep without drinking himself into a stupor first, but the dreams came every time. He could not stand those damned dreams any longer. They drove him insane.

There was the one where he saw her, lying by his side, smiling sweetly at him and telling him she loved him. He kissed her, feeling her soft lips, happier than ever in his life, when suddenly she choked and he tasted blood, and when he opened his eyes, blood was trickling from her mouth, and she whispered: "Why? Why did you do it?", and he was confused and panicked and did not know what she was talking about. Then his eyes fell on the handle of the dagger he just had driven into her belly. He always awoke from that one soaked with sweat, the taste of blood still in his mouth.

And there was the other one, the one where he dreamed about the night in the glade, and in the dream he still felt her nails digging into his back, heard her screaming for more, heard her screaming his name. Invariably, he woke breathing heavily, heart hammering in his chest, painfully hard, full of the old need, this hunger that would not be sated, never again. Because he had killed her.

He bit back a curse. He had killed her! What the nine hells had the witch done to him? He killed her and that should be that. Why wouldn't she leave him alone?

He heard footfalls behind him, and then a deep, menacing voice sounded out:

"I recognised your foul stench the moment I entered that inn, ranger."

Bishop whirled round, but his reflexes were still not really up to normal, and he found himself pressed back, the trough digging into his knees, his shoulders ground into the wall behind it. The paladin leaned into him, fixing him against the wall with his body, his face mere inches from Bishop's – and he had a dagger at Bishop's throat.

Casavir's blue eyes were hard, his mouth compressed into a thin line, his expression thunderous, his face promising death. For a second, Bishop's survival instincts kicked in, but then he thought better of it. Why fight? The road he was on, he was dead anyway. Better to get it over now. At least the paladin would make it quick.

So he relaxed back against the wall, as far as possible with the trough behind him, and smirked into the other man's face.

"Casavir", he drawled. "Of all the people to run into." He let his gaze wander to the paladin's mouth, so close to his own. "Are you gonna kiss me hello?"

The paladin snarled, his fingers clenching around the hilt of the dagger.

"You stinking swine, I should have bashed your head in a long time ago!"

Bishop chuckled lazily. "Yes, well, but you did not, you being the good little lapdog and her not wanting you to do it. Did you ever wonder why that was?"

"Because she trusted you! I could see plainly what you were, but she really thought you were a human being instead of the filthy piece of garbage that you are. She trusted you, and you betrayed her, and you killed her!"

Bishop sneered. "That I did", he stated, his lips curling derisively. "Wasn't really hard to accomplish."

Casavir clenched his teeth, looking down at him with contempt and disgust. "I did never understand what she saw in you. She should have sent you packing from the beginning."

Bishop grinned smugly. "Yes, but she did not, didn't she. She wanted me around. Maybe that was because I've been giving it to her good."

Casavir hat the distinct feeling of being punched in the gut. He stared down into the hated face, wanting to wipe the gloating smile from it once and for all. Bishop looked at the paladin's thunderstruck countenance and chuckled nastily.

"Oh yes, did not know that, did you? Her and me, we did the dirty. While she was with you, too. Had quite a temper, that one. Left my back looking like I had fallen under a bunch of harpies, always begging me for more..."

Casavir felt hot rage welling up in him, and his hand twitched around the dagger.

"You stinking, filthy, worthless..."

"Yes", Bishop interrupted him. "I've heard all that before. What, are you going to bore me to death? No wonder she came to me for entertainment."

Casavir gnashed his teeth, pressing the dagger harder into the ranger's skin. He was going to slit his throat, he was going to do it, the filthy piece of muck was going to pay for what he had done. His hand retracted a bit, preparing for the killing strike...

...when he saw something in the other man's eyes that made him pause. The ranger looked up at him, strangely calm, expectant even, and there was... resignation? And... relief? The realisation hit Casavir like a bucket of water. The bastard wanted to die! And he'd been trying to goad him into doing it.

Casavir smiled coldly into the ranger's face and stepped back.

"Well, that would be cold-blooded murder, wouldn't it? And that is more your line of work, Bishop." He spat out the name like something foul. "Besides, I think death would be too easy for you. I think the best punishment for you would be to force you to live with yourself. Because that is the one thing you can never run from, now, is it?"

He threw the ranger a last contemptuous glance, turned and started to walk away.

"Better see that you are gone when I come back out", he added without turning back.

Bishop watched the paladin leave and let himself sink to the ground, leaned his head back at the trough and closed his eyes. He just felt so damned tired of it all.