Casavir sat by the fire, dagger in his hand, his thumb softly stroking the blade. His eyes were on the sleeping form of the ranger. He felt hate forming a bitter, acidic knot in his stomach.
I wish I had killed him when I had my dagger at his throat.
It would have prevented so much damage if he had done it there and then. Chantal would never have known. No one would have known but him. Sure, it would have caused him to fall, for a paladin, murder was out of the question. Tyr kind of frowned upon paladins who started murdering people.
But in hindsight, he thought it might have been worth it. Chantal would never have seen Bishop, and the cursed ranger would not have been able to work whatever spell he had on her again.
And I'm going to fall for what I will do now anyway.
He swallowed, trying to work up the courage to cover the few steps separating him from the bastard and do what needed to be done. His hands shook slightly.
If it had not been for him, Neeshka would be dead by now.
His hand clenched around the dagger, the blade cutting slightly into his thumb. He flinched and relaxed his grip. Indecision battled in him. He wanted to do it. The hateful knot in is stomach demanded that he slit the ranger's throat, rejoicing at the thought of seeing the hated face twist in pain, of seeing the worthless blood seep into the ground. Rejoicing at the thought that Casavir's face, watching him die, would be the last thing the bastard saw in this world.
But his scruples, his conscience, everything that was him, screamed at those images, holding him back with the same force his hate propelled him forwards, until he felt he would be ripped in half. He groaned silently, torn between those two so contradictory urges.
In his mind, he saw Chantal and the ranger in the alley. He saw them squatting by the cold fireplace, staring at each other. He saw the ranger lying in the dirt after she kicked him down, throwing her a look of pure hate. He saw him, bent backwards over the water trough, Casavir's dagger at his throat, spewing vile words.
And at last, he saw Chantal, dying in his arms, after the godsdamned son of a bitch sliced her open.
The last image did it. He would not risk that happening again. He could see Chantal's watchfulness slipping, could see her letting her guard down. That Bishop had not turned against them until now did not mean he would not soon. And it did not make up for his deeds before. The bastard was going to die.
Now.
He wished there was another way. Wished he could just walk up at the bastard, tell him to get his weapons out and bash his brains in a fight one on one. But he could not do that. Chantal would never let it happen.
So, this was how it was to be.
Steeling himself, Casavir got up and took the few steps separating him from Bishop as silently as possible. He knelt down next to the sleeping man, clutching the hilt of his dagger between his suddenly moist fingers. He could feel his breath quickening and tried to force himself to breathe steadily, silently. He looked down at the ranger, lying on his back, an arm thrown over his head, hand open and fingers curled upwards, his breathing deep and even, face relaxed in sleep. Practically offering his throat to Casavir.
Go on, do it!
He gritted his teeth, the sane part of his brain still screaming at him that this was madness, screaming at him to stop, but he shut it out, conjuring the image of Chantal, dead in his arms, again. It did a lot to mute his conscience.
He slowly drew back the hand with the dagger, preparing for the killing strike.
The sound of a throat being cleared made him whirl around.
Neeshka was standing by the fire, hands on her hips, eyebrows drawn so high they practically vanished in her hairline.
They stared at each other for some endless moments, then Neeshka indicated to the edge of the camp with a sharp movement of her head.
Not knowing if he felt relieved, guilty or disappointed, Casavir got up to follow her, throwing one last hateful glance at the still sleeping ranger. Then he moved over to Neeshka, who awaited him with a watchful expression on her face. When he reached her, she turned and stepped farther into the forest. He swallowed and went after her.
Behind them, Bishop's eyes opened, the firelight reflecting in the amber of his irises, as he watched them go.
xxx
"What the hells do you think you are doing?", Neeshka hissed as soon as they were out of the imminent earshot of the two still sleeping at the camp.
"Putting to rest a murderous, bloodthirsty animal!", he replied, angrily. Even if that anger resulted primarily out of the guilt he felt.
"Have you lost your mind? You can't do that!"
"I can, and I will.", he said, trying to sound more sure of himself than he actually felt.
Her face went soft and she put a hand on his arm.
"Please don't", she said, her voice full of sorrow.
"Why?", he asked, hurt. "Don't tell me that you are a victim of his – to me inconceivable – charms as well? I thought you hated him! Don't you want him dead?"
She giggled. "His charms? Hardly. I'm a victim of that – very conceivable – paladin charm, remember?"
He could not help but smile a bit. "I should hope so. But then, why don't you want him dead? He deserves to die!"
She shrugged. "Oh, he sure does, no question. And I could care less about what happens to him, after all he did to Chantal." She stepped closer, putting her arms around his neck, looking up into his face. "But I care what becomes of you, stupid. And if you do what you tried to do – it will kill you as well. You won't be able to live with yourself afterwards."
He drew her into his arms, resting his face in her hair, drawing in her scent. It helped to soothe his nerves a bit, and he sighed. "You're right", he whispered. "Of course you are right. But what am I supposed to do? I can't just stand by and watch it happen all over again!"
She laid her head back, so she could look into his face again, her hand stroking his cheek. "And do you think that Chantal will thank you, if you kill him in his sleep?"
He stared down on her, knowing very well the answer to that was no. "I thought I was supposed to be the wise one, here."
She giggled again. "You're rubbing off on me."
"So it seems", he said with a small, reluctant smile. "But there must be something I can do!"
"Pray?", she said. "You're supposed to do that, anyway, so I'm sure you can work in a few extra prayers easily."
"This is hardly a laughing matter, my love."
Her lips twitched. "No, I suppose not." Then her face went serious. "Chantal is very capable of looking out for herself. And she knows to be wary this time. I'm sure she won't let it happen again. But if she decides to trust him… I'm afraid there is nothing you can do. Murdering him will end much more than his life, think of that. Think what it would mean for your friendship with Chantal. And… think of what it would mean to us. To me."
He stared down, then sighed in defeat. "You really are the wise one", he said, bending his head, drawing her close, searching her mouth with his lips for a soft, tender kiss.
She snorted. "Who'd have thought?", she murmured into his mouth.
xxx
Come morning, Bishop thoughtfully collected his things into his backpack. Such a shame the demon girl had interrupted last night. He so had been waiting for the paladin to make his move; feigning sleep, waiting for that little intake of breath, that nearly imperceptible movement of air that indicated that the blow was about to be dealt...
Pity, really. I would have loved to punch his lights out.
He's much stronger than you, and he had a dagger. You should be thankful.
He shrugged inwardly. Maybe, but it still would have done him a world of good to throw a few punches into that oh-so-holy face, even if it meant receiving some himself.
Not so holy last night, though.
The thought made him smile cruelly. True, was it? Not so holy, trying to slit his throat while he was supposedly sleeping. An interesting development, that. Who'd have thought the wimp had it in him? Nearly forced him to feel some respect.
Nearly.
Still, it changed things. Made him think that maybe he should take his leave a bit earlier than expected.
Like today.
He frowned at the thought. Today? They were still deep in Luskan territory. Better to stay some more days, to see that she made it safely out.
Bright idea. You sure you are going to make it safely out, if you stay?
He snorted. The day that oaf managed to sneak up on him, he deserved to die.
Fair enough. But what with the other matter?
She's not with the paladin. She's free, as far as I know.
Makes it worse, it does!
His eyes sought the ice queen, gathering her stuff, talking to the demon, who giggled in that irritating way of hers. The by now familiar tightness built up in his chest while he watched her. He still could not believe that the walking tin was not her lover.
How? Since when?
As if she had felt his gaze upon her, her head turned and she met his eyes. She smiled. His heart stopped, then started to race.
Damn her!
How could she do this to him, with just a smile? He was not eighteen anymore! He forced his habitual scowl on his face and tore his eyes away, concentrating on packing his things. That decided the matter. He would leave them today. At the first opportunity.
Unfortunately, as usual, he had to take the lead. Even he found it hard to slip away unnoticed while people walked behind him, watching him. So he walked on, not talking to anyone, just grunting if the ice queen addressed him, biding his time. Luckily the other two were so engrossed in each other they left him alone. Not that the paladin would have talked to him in any case, but the demon could get downright annoying with her chatter. And with that thick hide of hers, even his best scowl could not shut her up.
To his relief, the ice queen was another matter. After receiving the third noncommittal grunt when she tried to talk to him, she shut up and trudged after him in silence.
It was late afternoon when they reached a small brook. The demon gave one of her galling squeals – how could the paladin stand that all the time? – and dashed forward, dropping to her knees beside the water, drinking greedily. The paladin followed, goofy grin on his face as he watched the goat girl.
Whipped.
The idiot. Letting himself be led around by his nose by the little demon brat. Bishop snorted.
The ice queen walked up to the other two, watching them with a wistful smile. Again, his chest tightened as he looked at her, finding himself wanting to move forward, to touch that gleaming white hair, to trail his fingers down the soft curve of her neck. He swallowed.
So, who's whipped now?
Me? Whipped? You're crazy!
If an inner voice could snicker, that one did.
Enough! This was getting beyond amusing. Besides, no one was watching him right now. That was his moment. He better not miss it. Clenching his teeth against the sudden heaviness of his heart, his eyes wandered over her graceful form for the last time, drinking in her sight, as if trying to memorise every detail. At last, he let his gaze linger on her face as she crouched down to drink herself.
Then he melted into the trees like a ghost, making not the slightest sound.