Still resting his aching head against the water trough, Bishop heard a clattering. He turned round, just in time to see his backpack flying out of the tavern door, right after his swords and bow, already lying in the yard. Then the rest of his possessions followed, and the door closed with a bang.
Bishop's jaw clenched, some of the old fury rising again. That arrogant son of a bitch. If he thought Bishop would just run, tail between his legs, he was sorely mistaken. He would...
Wait a moment. Something's wrong here.
Why did the prick want him gone so desperately? It just did not add up. That he did not kill him made sense in a way, it was against the law, wasn't it? Bishop sneered. That wimp.
Maybe you should have been a bit more subtle with the provocations. Even the thick-skulled fool could see through that.
But as a good, law abiding upstanding citizen, he should be expected to try and drag Bishop in front of a court. Bishop was the nasty Neverwinter traitor, after all. So why did the paladin just let him go? Tell him to run, even? Oh yes, something was definitely wrong here. And Bishop was going to find out. At least, that would keep his thoughts occupied.
So he collected his stuff and found a nice hideout in the thicket across the path. Rolling out his blanket, he lay down on the soft ground, getting comfortable while watching the inn. This could take some time.
But he did not have to wait too long. After about an hour, the door of the inn opened and the paladin stepped outside. And behind him...
Bishop's heart stopped for a second, then started to pound in his chest. Breathing hard, feeling like a horse kicked him in the guts, he stared, not believing his eyes, at the woman now taking the paladin's arm, smiling up at him. Her white-blue hair gleamed in the sun, and he could hear her happy laughter like the tinkling of a chime. He had always liked her voice, smooth and soft as velvet.
She's alive. She's alive. She is not dead. She's alive.
Completely dumbfounded, the thought spinning like a wheel in his head, he stared after the two as they walked down the path, arm in arm, still laughing merrily together. A wild medley of emotions warring in him, Bishop lay paralysed as disbelief, joy, anger, need, frustration, hate, relief, longing, and finally rage coursed through him.
Still happy in the arms of that pillock!
Well, what did you expect? That she would renounce all men, because of the unforgettable way you knifed her?
Shut up. Shut! Up!
Clenching his fists, nails digging into his palm, repressing the urge to scream in frustration, he jumped up, sat down again, jumped up, and at last drew his swords and started hacking away at the surrounding foliage in blind fury, needing to vent his wrath by destroying something, anything, until he sagged to his knees, panting, exhausted and soaked with sweat, blood still roaring in his ears.
After his breathing returned to normal, he slowly came to his senses again. His rage subsiding, he felt empty and numb as he took in the destruction around him. Well, his hiding place was not so hidden anymore, he thought dully. He better was gone before they came back. And they would be back, because they did not carry anything, so their things must be still in the inn. He must get away. He needed time to think.
Grabbing his backpack, blanket and weapons, he quickly disappeared deeper into the woods. Weaving swiftly through the trees, he approached a little lake in a hidden clearing, away from all the paths. No one would disturb him there. Arriving at the small green body of water, he quickly threw off his sticky clothes and jumped into the cool liquid, feeling it close over his head. He let himself sink to the bottom, closing his eyes, enjoying the water cooling down his heated skin, washing off the dirt and the sweat, wishing it could wash away his thoughts and memories as well.
His lungs finally demanding air, he broke the surface, turned on his back, just letting himself float, gazing up into the blue sky.
What do I do now?
That was the crucial question, wasn't it? What did he do now? She had haunted him for nearly a year, the memories of her; the thought of never having her close again driving him slowly mad, while self-loathing for his weakness was eating away at him. That was not him. He never felt guilt. He never got close to anyone. He never needed anyone. And he never, ever let anyone in. He used people and went on. That was the way it ought to be.
So what had the bitch done to him? Why could he not just forget her and go on? He had gutted her like a pig, thinking her death would set him free. When he realised that even though she was dead, the longing still plagued him, the need for her still burned in his blood, he had tried everything he could imagine to get her out of his mind. He had laid every woman he could get, which were quite a lot. Women seemed to find him fascinating. He snorted derisively at the memory. Gods, they all were so stupid. A long glance and a smile was mostly all it took. Unfortunately it was much harder to get rid of them afterwards.
So he had drowned himself in bodies, hoping to erase the memory of a specific one. It had not helped. Night after night, after he was done, he would get up and leave in disgust, feeling the urge to wash. They were all so insipid, so useless. No spirit, no brains, no strength.
Not like her at all.
After he finally admitted to himself that all he did was somehow search for her in every woman he picked up, he stopped. It was pointless. So he started taking on every reckless venture he could find, drowning himself in blood instead. That had worked a bit better. Violence was something he understood, and killing things served to vent the rage and frustration in him. Feeling the flesh and bones of his enemies rend under his swords made his blood sing with elation, and the frenzy of battle allowed him to forget for a while. But he still had to sleep. And the dreams were still driving him crazy.
So in the end, he went to sleep with a bottle of the worst stuff he could get his hands on every night. At least, that kept away the dreams. It had been like this for longer then he cared to consider.
And now – she was alive.
He was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact. After all that, she was alive. The paladin must have healed her. But Bishop had been so sure he had been thorough, that she was as good as dead, too late for anyone to save her. He had not been trained by Luskan as an assassin for nothing. If there was anything he was good at, it was killing. He knew his trade. And he had been sure she was finished.
But why she lived was not the really important question, wasn't it? The important question was: How did he get rid of her, once and for all? He had to get her out of his mind, had to get her out of his life, had to get her out of his blood. Gods, how he hated her for doing this to him, for getting under his skin like that.
I'm just gonna kill her for good this time.
Oh yeah, that worked real well, did it?
Shut up. She wasn't dead.
But you thought so, and it near killed you, stupid sod.
Groaning in frustration, he swam to the edge of the pool, leaving the water, sitting down on the bank to let the sun dry him, his mind still in overdrive. He had not felt this helpless for a long, long time, and he did not like the feeling at all. Anger rose in him, black and suffocating. Anger at her, anger at the paladin, anger at himself. Anger and fury had always been his reaction to every problem, and killing what angered him usually an easy solution. It had done very well for him up to now.
But with his usual approach not working, he just did not know what to do.
He threw his head back and screamed his rage into the silent woods.
xxx
After taking a long, nice stroll in the warm morning sun, Chantal and Casavir returned to the Boar's Head. Chantal had her arm through Casavir's while they walked in amiable silence. Then she sighed.
"This is so odd. I'm used to having hordes of enemies at my heels, I just don't know what to do with myself if there is no battle to prepare for. Having two long days ahead and nothing to do – what am I going to do with all that time?"
Casavir chuckled. "Well, you could start cleaning that very dirty sword of yours. Or your equally dirty armour. How about that?"
Chantal considered, then shook her head. "That's just boring. I hate doing that."
"As I can see", Casavir replied, eyeing her equipment.
Chantal gave him a disapproving glance. "Well, that's insubordination, talking like that to your fearless leader. For punishment, I command that you clean my stuff. So unfortunately, it is out of the question as a pastime for me, since I need all that dirt for disciplinary measures." She smiled up to him beatifically. "You'll have to find something else to entertain me."
"What?" he replied. "I am not only your squire, but also your jester, my lady? I don't think I can cope with the demands such a double occupation will make on me. So I'm going to resign on both, only keeping my third employ as your personal bodyguard. That's enough to give a man grey hair prematurely."
Chantal eyed his raven hair searchingly. "Seems like you're not doing your work properly, then. So we're back to the disciplinary measures. Cleaning my equipment it is."
He gave her a threatening look. "Better get used to the dirt."
"Oh well", she said philosophically. "Some of these spots have become quite dear to me. In fact, I've named a few. I would hate to see them ended brutally by cloth and oil." Looking at the face he made, she could not hold back her laughter any longer and gave him a friendly peck on the cheek.
She really was lucky to have friends like him, she thought. The last year had been a hard one, and she would not have made it without their help. Not only would she never have been able to defeat the King of Shadows without her brave and loyal companions, she also would never have been able to deal with… the other thing. Especially Casavir had always been there for her. She would never have made it without him. They had grown much closer over the last year than they had been even when they were together. He had become something like a brother to her. A big, brooding brother, but he always looked out for her. And Neeshka had been good for him, he was much more relaxed and fun to be around these days.
Lost in her thoughts, Chantal did not notice Casavir surveying the surroundings with a suspicious eye as they neared the inn. He could see no trace of Bishop, but his eyes found a spot in the foliage that seemed strangely damaged. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. Had that been there before? If only he could remember. But he could not go and have a closer look without drawing Chantal's attention.
So he entered the inn after her, already thinking of ways to keep her inside, out of eyeshot of a certain ranger.
xxx
Bishop was still lying in the grass by the lake, staring up in the blue sky, trying to decide what to do next, when his stomach started growling dangerously. He sighed, got up and started to dress. That decided his first course of action. He had to eat something.
Can't live on air and booze alone.
Pity. Well, at least he would get to kill something. Something small, but anyway.
Later, he was sitting by a small fire, wolfing down roasted rabbit, feeling more like himself, his mind working properly again. Something was definitely off. How come he did not know she had been still alive? When the King of Shadows had not risen, he had just assumed the rest of the illustrious troupe had managed without her. The whole destiny thing had been a load of bull anyway in his eyes.
But if she was still alive, hero of Neverwinter, how come he had never heard?
Maybe I should try talking to people sometimes.
Nah.
Still, even if he kept to himself and tended to kill people who offended him by talking too much, he should have heard something. In the time after... well, most of these wenches had been regrettably talkative. And he could not simply kill them outright, because he still had uses for them alive. So he was forced to listen to a lot of rabble. But none had ever mentioned the return of the lady knight of Neverwinter. How come?
His curiosity was piqued. There was something mysterious here. And what were they up to, in that miserable inn in the middle of nowhere? Not only passing through, but obviously staying? Were they waiting for someone? Something? Pensively chewing on a rabbit leg, he decided he'd like to find out. And determine how to go on afterwards. So he would return to the Boar's Head. Wait outside. Follow them when they left. And take it from there. No need for rash action.
Calm now, after finally coming to a decision, he finished his meal, covered the fire, and went back to the inn, to observe. Somehow he had the feeling he would not need any bottle tonight.