Bishop lay on his side on the ground, still some dirt in his mouth, the cut in his cheek stinging nastily, his hands hurting like hell after his circulation started again, the rope choking him whenever he tried to get a bit more comfortable. But nothing hurt as much as the deep wounds his pride had taken in the last half hour.

Tell me why I'm here again?

You wanted to save her life.

Shows how much damage drinking all that foul stuff has already done to my brain.

Yes, brilliant idea, that. Lying on his side, watching the touching scene unfold before his eyes, with the quarrelling and reconciliation, and the hugging and the cuddling, fighting the urge to throttle them both, he wondered what had gotten into him.

I'm going to puke if I have to watch this any longer.

So he closed his eyes, trying to relax as much as possible in his uncomfortable position. He could not hear what they said, just a faint echo of their voices reaching his ears. Probably just as well. If he had been forced to listen to that dribble, it would definitely make him puke. Best try to catch some sleep. He sure as hell felt tired.

Of course sleeping was impossible, his mind in turmoil, his emotions a riot, his muscles protesting at the unnatural position he was forced to keep, the hard ground, covered with stones and twigs, digging into him. But he stubbornly kept his eyes closed. He was not going to watch.

After some time, he heard steps crunching up to him and stopping next to him, but he still did not open his eyes. A soft rustle, and someone knelt beside to him. Then water flowed over his face, dripping down his neck, and his eyes snapped open, his head reared back – nearly strangling himself in the noose still around his throat. He coughed, and tried to ease the pressure.

The ice bitch knelt before him, water skin in hand. "What the hells do you think you're doing?", he snapped.

"Trying to clean that wound!", she answered. "There's enough dirt clinging on it to grow vegetables on."

"Well, and whose fault is that? Just go to hell and leave me alone!"

There was a flash of anger in her eyes, but only for a moment. Then it was replaced by slight amusement.

"I promise it won't hurt", she said, primly.

"What? As if I care! I just don't want your paws on me, so get lost!"

Her lips twitched a bit. "Can't do that. The wound will inflame, and you might get ill. I need you, remember? So just shut up and let me do my job. I think I can refrain from touching you more then strictly necessary."

With that, she slipped behind him and started opening the knots of the rope. Relief coursed through him as his bonds loosened, and he even forgot to be angry. He gingerly stretched his arms and legs, not trying to hide his relief and not caring who saw. When his cramped muscles had relaxed enough, he sat up and started to massage his aching legs. Oh yes, this was so much better.

"Hold still", he heard her voice, originating quite near his face. He looked up and found her kneeling between his legs, sitting on her heels, water skin and cloth ready. Her face was so near...

He swallowed and closed his eyes again. Water trickled down his cheek, and tender fingers brushed the dirt away. He felt something tighten around his heart.

Oh no, not again!

But he could not help it, so he just kept his eyes closed, feeling her touch, trying to breathe evenly, to keep his face blank. Then the water and hand was replaced by the wet cloth, dabbing the last of the dirt out of the wound. It stung, and he inhaled sharply. There was the familiar scent, sweet and flowery...

He jerked his head away. "Enough already! Truss me up for the night, and then leave me in peace, will you?

He did not look into her face, and after a short pause she said evenly: "Very well. Lie down on your back, that will be a bit more comfortable. Tomorrow we will get your stuff, but today you will have to use some blankets of ours."

She pointed to some blankets on the ground, already spread out. Without another word he lay down, still not looking at her. He felt her hands again, tying him up, and he was covered by more blankets. Then the footsteps moved away.

Bishop lay still, trying to catch some sleep at last, but his mind would not stop racing for a long time.

xxx

After the discussion with Casavir, Chantal had returned to the camp. The paladin had stayed behind, wandering into the trees, head down. He obviously needed some time alone to think. Her eyes fell on Bishop, lying on his side, eyes closed. He looked beaten, and lost, and deceptively harmless and innocent. Though she knew very well how wrong that impression was, she could not help feeling a pang of... something. Probably some sort of errant mother instinct, she thought. He somehow looked like a boy, despite the wild stubble on his jaw and the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

There was so much dirt on his face, clinging to the blood. She had to clean that, otherwise it would get infected. He might even catch a fever and be useless to her. She could not risk that.

So she knelt down by his side. He did not open his eyes, but she knew he was awake. She could sense the tautness in his muscles. She splashed some water on the wound, and his eyes snapped open, his body tensing like some beast of prey, ready to pounce. Of course, that only made the rope around his neck tighten.

He coughed, and again she felt a stab of remorse about the way she had treated him. He was a murderous, traitorous bastard and deserved to die, but she had been deliberately cruel. He might have deserved that and much more, but acting this way was not like her at all. So what if she felt guilty for the way she had acted? It only showed that she was not as ruthless as he. He was the villain of the piece. She was supposed to be the good one. And the good ones had standards.

Which might have been the reason she did not simply grind his face into the dirt again when he started hurling insults at her. She just kept calm, what seemed to make him yet more furious. It even was kind of fun, goading him on like this. But still, she wondered. She had to admit that she did not understand him. At all. Why was he here? What did he want? Why did he suddenly revert to his usual scathing self again, after being so subdued before, and only because she tried to clean his wound? He had accepted her hitting him in the face with her sword, but trying to help him made him furious? She simply did not get him. He was a complete mystery.

Well, she was not interested in solving that particular mystery any more. He could keep his secrets, provided he really did help them to get Neeshka free. And for that, he had to be healthy. She had to get him to hold still, so she could clean that wound. Best to start with taking off his bonds.

It was a hazard, but she could not leave him lying like this much longer. It might start to do some real damage. She could not risk that. And, somehow, she did not think he would cause trouble right now, even if Casavir was not around. And even Bishop would take some time getting the full use of his limbs back after being bound for so long. So it probably was safe enough to give him some slack.

After she had taken off the rope, she watched him gingerly trying to move his arms and legs, and then slowly, very carefully bringing himself into a more natural position. It was clear how relieved he was to be able to move at last. He made a few hissing noises as he tried to sit up, and then sat, legs apart and bent, eyes closed, groaning slightly as he massaged his cramped calves.

She knelt between his spread legs, cloth in hand, to start working at the wound. She winced slightly as she regarded the nasty gash she had left on his cheek. That would probably leave a scar. Her eyes wandered a bit, taking in his face, so close to hers. Again, she noticed how tired he really looked, like he had been through a pretty rough time, and could not help feeling a tightness in her chest, and the urge to reach out and stroke his hair. She mentally kicked herself.

Stupid bitch! You have learned your lesson, or not?

She definitely had. No getting soft around Bishop. It was like trying to cuddle with a shark, and even more risky. So she just told him to hold still and started to work on cleaning the wound. His eyes opened for a moment, but he did not say anything, just closed them again, and did not move. She trailed her fingers over his cheek to help wash away the dirt. His eyelids twitched, but remained close. Her fingertips prickled, and it would be so easy to reach out and touch the soft hair, the smooth skin of his neck...

No!

She took her hand away, starting to use the cloth instead. That was better. No touching. But she must have hurt him with the rag, because suddenly he drew in a sharp breath, his eyes opening, jerking his head away, and he told her to stop in that special way he had. Oh yes, he surely was a charmer.

She complied, half relieved to get some distance, half disappointed for no obvious reason. She made him lie down on the blankets she had diverged for him, and bound him again, this time hands before his body. It was not as secure, but somehow she thought he really would not try anything. Then she covered him, and went to sit by the fire, her thoughts in a turmoil.