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Judas	By : BronxWench Category: +M through R > Neverwinter Nights Views: 438 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Neverwinter Nights 2 and I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
Chapter 10
Bishop looked around the room, more than a little surprised at its austerity. Not what I expected from the high and mighty Nasher Alagondar. He looked at her, seeking reassurance. She took his hand, holding it tightly for a moment.
“Be strong,” she murmured. “I will need you to get through this.”
More cryptic crap, he thought to himself. Aloud, he asked, “Are you sure this is where we're supposed to be?”
“I asked Lord Nasher if we could speak in private, and he agreed to meet us in this room,” she answered. “He'll be here. I only hope he's alone.”
Bishop felt an icy chill creep up his spine. He had seen her slide the Sword of Gith, dull as it was now, into a bag of holding and then onto her belt. Although she seemed calm, he could feel the tension both in her grip and in her voice.
“And if he's not?” he asked.
“It will depend on who he brings,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “This is hard enough, Bishop. Do not make it harder by doubting me, not now.”
Better anger than fear, he thought, not entirely satisfied. Anger keeps you alive.
The door opened, forestalling any reply he would have made, and Lord Nasher walked in. Nevalle was behind him, saying something too low for even Bishop to hear, but Nasher frowned.
“Enough, Nevalle. I do not require your presence, nor do I desire it.” The liege of Neverwinter closed the door, pointedly cutting off Nevalle's continued protests. “I apologize for the delay, but as you can see, Sir Nevalle believes I should not be alone with the pair of you.” Nasher was dressed simply, no armor or weapons. He looked rather tired, as though he had not slept properly for weeks.
“Good of him, I'm sure.” Bishop did not bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice. “I'll sleep better at night with him around.”
Nasher glanced at Bishop, a very faint smile on his lips. “I'm sure you will. Now, Knight-Captain, I have heard a great deal from your companions about the battle with the King of Shadows. I do not need to hear that from you. What I do not know, and want to learn, is what happened after the battle. You were trapped in the ruins with Bishop. Tell me all that occurred–leave nothing out.”
“It will require both of us, my Lord. I was–not there for most of that time, at least not entirely.” She winced. “My consciousness was on the Fugue Plane, although my body remained in the ruins.”
Nasher looked startled, turning to Bishop. “Is this true?”
“I had no idea her consciousness was anywhere,” Bishop replied. “She hasn't told me anything either. I can tell you that I sat with her, thinking she was dying. I could barely tell if she was breathing.” He paused, aware that his eyes were stinging. “I had to deal with Garius, pretend to be his tool. I heard what he did to Neeshka.” Bishop's voice broke on the tiefling’s name. “I'll hear her screams for the rest of my life. All I could do was hope that the Captain hadn't been dragged down into some Illefarn hell with that Luskan bastard chewing on her soul. I couldn't do anything. Couldn't even pray–what god would hear me?”
Nasher crossed to his desk, and returned with a small flask of whiskey. He handed it to Bishop, dropping his other hand on Bishop's shoulder.
“Drink, man. It doesn't cure a damned thing, but it lets you catch your breath.” Bishop took a deep swallow, the liquor burning its way down. He took a deep breath, shuddering, and offered the flask to Nasher. The older man pushed it back. “You may need it again.”
Bishop cleared his throat roughly before continuing. “So, I sat, and watched, and cursed the gods while she got colder. Started talking out loud to drive away the silence, and Hells take me, she answered.” Bishop looked up at Nasher with a wry smile. “Was about to welcome her back when Sand arrived. The rest you know.”
Nasher nodded. “Thank you, Bishop.” He smiled slightly before turning to the Captain, his expression returning to careful neutrality.
Bishop looked at her closely. She was very pale, her lips almost colorless, the inky wings of her hair casting odd shadows across her eyes. “I remember defeating the Guardian. The ruins were damaged, and we sought refuge in that antechamber. Then I heard yelling, and stone collapsing. Everything went dark.” Her voice was soft, no emotion creeping in to give color to her words. “I woke in greyness. It was endless, without landmarks of any kind. A man was there, and he told me he was the one who had volunteered to become the Guardian.” She fell silent for several moments, contemplating her hands as they lay folded neatly in her lap. “He was grateful that we ended his existence. I've never been thanked for killing someone, at least not by the person I killed. It was unsettling.” She stopped again, looking up at Nasher. “I am assuming you read Balaur's books?”
“I did, Captain,” Nasher responded. “Please continue.”
“He laid my soul bare, this man who had been my enemy. He exposed every petty emotion, every irrational shred of guilt. He brought forth the shades of my mother, of Shandra, of Casavir. That is how I knew, Bishop. I saw Casavir on the Fugue Plane.” She lowered her head. “He showed me how I had built my life around hatred, letting it fester within me to feed the shard I carried in my chest. Gith's Sword remembers, and it fed on teaching me to hate as fiercely as she did. I hated Neverwinter, with its pretty nobles bickering over who got to sit where, live where, sleep where. I hated its knights, with their perfect courtly manners, and rigid standards of behavior. I hated its liege, who saw fit to send me to certain death over and over again. Most of all, I hated myself for not being strong enough, good enough. People died for me, because of me. He knew all that, and he knew what I had planned to do when I returned to Neverwinter.”
Bishop made a small sound of protest, and she turned to face him, a ghastly shadow of a smile on her lips.
“It's why you could never touch the sword without pain. It hated you, because you would have stopped me had you known what I really planned. I let you wear the name of traitor–such a fine way to show you that I loved you, no? But really, would you have stood there and let me plunge the sword into Lord Nasher's chest? No, I think not, for all your protests to the contrary.”
She stood, and began to pace, sudden agitation driving her on.
“I had a choice to make, there in the endless grey. I could return to the Prime and do exactly what I had planned. I could resist the call of the shard within me, willing it to silence. Finally, I could have chosen to remain there, on the Fugue Plane, giving up my life. The last choice felt like cowardice, and I refused to even consider that.”
“You silenced the sword,” Bishop said. “That's why it went all dull in the ruins.”
She smiled at him, her eyes hooded.
“Thank you, Captain,” Nasher said. “I can see that was not easy for you, neither the experience nor the recounting. I have been a poor liege indeed. I plucked you up after that farce of a trial, and set you against Garius, Luskan, the King of Shadows, you're right. You were ill-used, but every time you returned with a victory.” He spread his hands in a rueful gesture. “My debt to you is boundless. Ask of me what you will, Captain, and by every god and his mother, I will see it granted.”
Her smile grew wider, and she held her head high, her eyes flashing like deepest night. “Anything?”
“I have said it.”
“Then die!” With a graceful motion, she pulled the shimmering sword from the bag of holding at her waist, advancing on Nasher with grim purpose.
“No!” Bishop lunged forward, and the sword sank deep into his shoulder. The waves of pain that rolled from his arm throughout his entire body left him gasping, but he managed to stand in front of Nasher. What in the Hells is happening here? I can barely focus through the pain. It's more than the wound, it's the damned sword itself!
She tugged on the sword, trying to pull it free, but Bishop turned away from her, and it snagged on bone. Her snarl was nothing human as she tried again, and for a sickening moment, it seemed like she would take his entire arm as well as the sword. She froze, as Nevalle held his greatsword at her back, between her shoulder blades.
“Move, even flinch, and I'll drive this through you,” he hissed.
She laughed, a sound that froze what blood Bishop had left. “Oh brave and manly knight. Come to teach me the error of my ways?” She kept her hand firmly on the hilt of the sword.
“Release that weapon, and move slowly to the wall,” Nevalle responded. “Away from Lord Nasher and Bishop.”
She laughed again, but she released her grip on the sword, and moved slowly and carefully to the far side of the room. “Now what, oh stalwart one? Shall I be hanged, or burned? What is the punishment for stabbing a traitor?” She widened her eyes in a travesty of girlish innocence. “After all, Bishop did sabotage the gate of the Keep. You were there, brave knight, the eyes and ears of your liege.”
“Silence!” Nevalle pressed the greatsword to the tender skin at the base of her throat, a small trickle of blood disappearing into the neck of her tunic. “My Lord, are you unharmed?”
“I'm fine, Nevalle, but we need a healer for Bishop at once.” Nasher put Bishop's good arm around his shoulder, leading him to a padded bench and helping him to sit. He reached out to try and remove the sword.
“Don't,” Bishop rasped through the pain. “Too dangerous–wants you to touch it.”
“My Lord, I'd agree,” said Nevalle urgently. “'Cloaks! Send for healers! Now, gods take you!”
She laughed. “Such deadly sincerity,” she mocked. “What do you care if Bishop dies?”
“If he is not a traitor, then I care a great deal,” Nevalle replied. “You are beyond understanding the distinction, I think, but my honor is important to me.”
“You know nothing of honor, you worthless sycophant,” she sneered. “You spend your days clinging to your pathetic code, hoping against all hope that obedience will make you worthy, but worthy of what? Love? Respect? The throne itself? After all, Nasher has no heir.”
“And you are too blind to see the hubris of your own actions,” Nevalle said. “You made the exact mistake that the Guardian did, you know. You both clung to life. He should have died when the Weave failed, rather than open himself to the evils of the Shadow Weave. You should have stayed on the Fugue Plane, let your mortal self perish in those ruins. That was the only sure way to silence the shard in your chest, and you knew it.”
She spat at him, and raised her hand, calling the sword to her. It tore out of Bishop's shoulder in pieces, reassembling above the hilt that now rested in her hand. Bishop moaned, and sagged forward, Nasher managing to catch him before he fell.
“It was Sand who sensed it, you know. He could still feel the energy of the sword, although it looked like it was dull and lifeless. He could feel a lot more emanating from you as well.” Nevalle kept his eyes locked on her, even as a healer slipped into the room and rushed to Bishop's side. “Sand was my agent, or did you forget that?”
Bishop looked up at her as the healer's prayers took effect, and the warm and soothing magic spread through him. She's playing with him, getting him to let his guard down, he thought. The minute I open my mouth to warn him, I'll distract him, and he'll die. Carefully, moving with deliberate slowness, he slid his hand down to his boot top. His old hunting knife was tucked in its usual spot, and he gently eased it out of his boot, concealing it behind his thigh. His shoulder still hurt a bit, but the searing pain left with the sword, and he could move well enough. Nevalle doesn't know her like I do. He won't know what to look for, what she does right before she strikes.
“It really doesn't matter, does it?” she mocked. “I'll have to thank Sand later, in my own special way. Shadows have so much to offer, among them an appreciation of the subtleties of pain.” Bishop saw the almost imperceptible shift in her balance, the slightest tightening of her grip on the hilt.
If there's any god out there that gives a shit about what happens, this faithless ranger would appreciate it if you'd guide my hand and eye. None of us can afford for me to miss.
He snapped his hand up, letting his hunting knife fly to bury itself between her breasts. He could hear the metallic shriek as the knife, its power enhanced by some unknown force, pierced the shard and shattered it. Blood poured from her mouth as she fell to her knees, the sword collapsing into a pile of lifeless pieces. She looked at Bishop, the blackness fading from her eyes before they closed for the last time, the faintest of smiles playing about her lips. Someone began to scream, and it took Bishop a long time to realize that it was him.
The small chest, crafted of alchemical silver and scribed with runes of power, was carried into the Tomb of the Betrayers in the dead of night. There was no public record kept of its whereabouts, but each month a Tyrran priest paused before a nondescript alcove and recited a ritual of binding, renewing the divine wards on the shards of the Sword of Gith and the bare white bones of its last wielder, as tears filled his his amber eyes.
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Judas