Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

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
- 5
- 6
- 7
Chapter 6
Bishop stood up, covered in dust and spitting curses. The last thing he remembered was the gods-buggering temple boy grabbing him and throwing him into the room. He had slammed into the dwarf and the impact left him dazed. There was so much dust in the air that he could barely see, and someone was yelling “Go!” over and over in a voice gone hoarse. He turned slowly, dizzy, and saw the paladin standing in the archway trying to support a chunk of masonry on his shoulders.
“Get her,” the paladin croaked, and Bishop turned again. The Captain was sitting against the wall, her eyes closed. Bishop started to go to her while Casavir urged him to hurry. Stone groaned as Bishop stumbled to her, nauseous and disoriented. She was not moving, and she was cool under his hands as he struggled to lift her.
“Bishop!” His head turned in time to see the massive weight force Casavir to his knees. “I cannot hold!”
“Damn you, hold on!” Bishop tried again to lift her. He couldn't see any blood or bruising, but she was still unresponsive. “Come on, love, just a little help,” he muttered, fighting the urge to vomit. Stone ground against stone, and Casavir shrieked in agony as the weight crushed his shoulders. Bone splintered and erupted from tortured muscles, and the immense chunk of masonry impacted the floor, shattering itself on top of the paladin.
Bishop did vomit then, a thin bile that burned like acid. Tears streamed from his eyes as he continued to retch. Spent and trembling, he crawled away from the small puddle and curled up like a child, weeping. The combination of exhaustion and emotion left him so drained that he surrendered to sleep.
He had no idea how long he slept. In the gloom of the antechamber, time had no meaning. He sat up, aching from having slept on bare stone and with a sour taste in his mouth. He reached into his pack and took out a water skin, limiting himself to a scant mouthful. Somewhat revived, he began to look around. It hit him again like a hammer blow. She sat exactly as he remembered, leaning against the wall, her eyes closed.
“Captain?” His voice was uncertain. He reached out to touch her, and flinched. He could feel coldness radiating from her as though she were made entirely of ice. She was breathing, her breast rising and falling with glacial slowness. It was something to hold on to, though, and Bishop did. He began to move slowly around the room, looking for anything the others might have left behind.
Someone had left a cloak behind, and he snatched it up, thinking to wrap it around her. Casavir's pack was there, with a full water skin and some rations. Sand had left behind the unused healing kits and Bishop tucked those into Casavir's pack. He returned to her side, and gently covered her with the cloak before opening her pack. He found more rations and a nearly-full water skin, a slightly battered chalice of Lathander which he set to glowing immediately, and another cloak. He wrapped the second cloak around her as well, and took another mouthful of water from his skin. He knew he should eat, but his stomach was still unsettled enough to make that unlikely. He dug out his bedroll and set it up beside her instead.
Although he knew it was futile, he crossed over to the archway, carefully avoiding the paladin's remains. He probed the massive stone gently at first, then with increasing force. There was nothing he could use as a lever to shift the blockage unless he wanted to try using the sword that lay beside her. He quickly dismissed that idea, remembering the pain he'd felt every time he touched the cursed thing.
Frustrated, he slumped down on his bedroll. “Wonder if anyone made it out,” he mused, his voice echoing oddly. “Hope they send help if they did.” He gave a rough laugh. “First time in my life I'd be glad to see a dwarf or two.”
Bishop looked over at her. Her face was serene, her hair framing her cheekbones. Her full lips were slightly parted as though awaiting a lover's kiss. If it was not for the chill of those lips, he might even have tried a kiss. I was supposed to die first. I can't lose her like this. I don't know how to let go anymore.
“Fine mess we're in,” he told her. “If we're careful with food and water, we might last a tenday.” He sniffed. “We're getting air from somewhere, which means we're not completely buried. That's something positive.” He rubbed his face, absently registering the stubble that roughened his jaw. He reached over and smoothed back a lock of her hair with a small smile.
“Knew you were trouble the minute you walked into the Flagon,” he said. “You were a sight, with your motley collection of friends, putting Duncan right on the spot and staring him down.” He chuckled at the memory. “Didn't fall for my act, either. Saw right through me every time, and I'm not ever going to thank you for that.” He felt a stinging in his eyes. “This is the final straw, though. Going someplace I can't follow? That's as good as telling me not to be here when you get back, and you know what? I'm not all that good at following orders, so hurry back or by the Hells, I'll come after you.”
She woke, disoriented and alone, in an endless, featureless plain of grey. None of her companions were in sight. She stood and realized she actually felt fine. Confused, she looked down. Her mithral chain was whole, although she knew it had been torn in the battle. She was also unarmed, and that was so unlikely that she spun around, looking for her sword on the ground. Nothing...
“Where am I?” she murmured. “Is this the Fugue Plain? Am I dead?”
There was a low chuckle from behind her. She had just looked behind her for the sword and there had been nothing but yawning, empty grey. She turned again, her heart pounding in her chest.
He was human, or at least he appeared so. She judged him to be about Bishop's age, with blond hair that curled around a face that was not strictly handsome, but was appealingly boyish nonetheless. His eyes were a radiant blue, a shocking blaze of color in this monochromatic landscape. His lips quirked in a wry grin.
“This is the Fugue Plain, but I assure you, you are not dead,” the man told her cheerfully. “I was most specific about that, although I was responsible for your coming here. I wanted to meet you.”
“I would say that I was flattered, but you have me at a disadvantage,” she retorted. “You seem to be acquainted with me, but I do not recall a prior encounter.”
He chuckled again. “You did not meet me at my best, shall we say?” He reached out and took her hand. His was quite warm, without a swordsman's calluses. He bowed gracefully. “My name is Ivraneth, although you knew me better as the King of Shadows.”
“That cannot be,” she said flatly. “I killed you, with the aid of my companions.”
“Indeed, and that is why I asked to meet you.” He chuckled again, a warm and very human sound. “It's not every day one gets a chance to thank one's savior.”
“You brought me here to thank me?” She knew she must have sounded quite addled.
“Please, walk with me?” he asked. “I find it helps me to focus, and there is something I wish to say to you.” She eyed him rather dubiously, but nodded, and he tucked her arm in his.
“It is always awkward to do so, but I find I need to begin with a question,” he continued as they strolled through the grey sameness. “What now?”
“Before or after I return to the Prime?” she responded.
His rich chuckle rolled out across the empty plain. “After, my dear. What do you intend to do?”
“I had not given it much thought,” she began, but he stopped and laid a gentle finger on her lips.
“You look at me with the eyes of my shadow self, and speak falsehoods.” He looked sad for a moment. “I suppose it is to be expected. I would not shout out my plans either, were I you.” They resumed walking.
“I can feel the anger that boils within you, an anger toward what you feel has been injustice. You feel the death of every innocent soul along your path, and you carry that weight upon yourself. You burn with the need to avenge them, these hapless multitudes.” He looked at her again, his eyes dark with grief. “I understand that anger more than you could know, because I felt the very same thing when the people of Netheril threatened bright Illefarn. I agreed to become the Guardian out of my righteous wrath.”
She bowed her head under the weight of his words, her hair hiding her eyes. His words had the sting of truth, and she felt shamed by the desire to deny them. A single tear fell, and he caught it with careless grace on the tip of his finger.
“Do you weep for those lost, or for yourself?” His voice was harsher now. “They do not need your tears, any more than they need your vengeance. You would be better served to weep for what you have become.”
“And what have I become?” she asked, reaching for defiance to mask her shame.
“Under all that anger lies contempt, does it not? Why are they all so weak, these sheep that you are charged with defending? Should they not be standing beside you, armed with whatever they can find, instead of hiding in their homes? Instead of dying in their multitudes, leaving you awash in blood and guilt?” He watched her as he spoke.
She flinched, his indictment pressing on her, crushing her as surely as the stones of the Illefarn ruins.
“You gladly assume the role of judge,” he continued. “You do not care that your standards are far higher than even you can meet. You are implacable, and your judgments carry the ring of doom about them. You stand in the shadow of a fallen paladin, one who betrayed her lord and her land because she judged them guilty of the murder of her lover, and you find kinship with her. What hubris is this? She struck at Neverwinter itself, but you? Where will you strike, I wonder?”
“Please,” she whispered, choking back the rest of her protest. Every word bared her soul a little more, and what she saw in herself, she despised.
“What does the shadow in the blade you wield advise you, that Sword of Gith which carries the deathless hatred of an entire race within it?” Relentless, he lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “Does it beg you to quench its fire in Nasher's blood?”
She gasped, and tried to turn her head. His grip was adamantine, and she could not look away. His eyes drew her in, and under those blue flames her soul stood bare before him.
“It tells you that Nasher has betrayed the people of Neverwinter, of West Harbor, of Ember. After banishing Luskan and arresting Torio Claven, he welcomed Sydney Natale, a Hosttower mage, and she tried to kill you. It tells you that Nasher sent you to kill me in the hopes that you would not return.” He paused, observing her dispassionately. “Shadow is so very persuasive, isn't it? It is so easy to hide from oneself in the depths, and you have so many reasons to hide from yourself. Those who love you must die, mustn't they? So much blood on your hands.”
He turned her head away from his gaze, and she saw another person approaching. A woman, slender and graceful, half-elven, long black hair pulled into a careless braid.
“Veluthil, my child, my beautiful daughter. So like your father,” the woman said, and drew close enough to reveal the ruin of her chest.
“Mother,” she said softly, but the woman continued on.
Another woman approached, blonde and lithe. “Did it work, did we win?”
“Oh, Shandra,” she sighed, her voice heavy with grief.
A man stepped forward and she longed to close her eyes, but she steeled herself. “Please...” It was a plea rather than a prayer, and she sobbed when she recognized him, but she could not tell if it was from grief or relief. “Casavir, dear friend...”
“My lady,” he said with grave courtesy.
She turned on her erstwhile nemesis. “Why do you show me this? I know I am responsible for their deaths!” Great, wracking sobs shook her entire body. “I would give anything–Lathander's light, I did not want them to die!” Tears as black as night coursed down her cheeks.
He took her into his arms, then, as the grief overwhelmed her. He stroked her hair and held her close, and when her knees gave way, he caught her and lifted her in his arms. A structure appeared, and he entered it, laying her on a softly padded bench. He sat on the ground beside her and took her hand in his.
“It's nearly over, my dear, and I am so very sorry to have spoken to you so harshly,” he said, his voice gentle once again. “Rest now, and we will talk again when you awaken.”
- 5
- 6
- 7
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Judas