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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Chapter 7
She woke to find Ivraneth watching her. She sat up, smoothing back her hair. He said nothing at all, just looked into her with those too-blue eyes.
“Did I sleep for long?” she asked, uneasy. She could not determine his mood, but she had seen how quickly it could change.
“Time has little meaning here,” he answered. His voice was soft, reflective. “This place is eternal and unchanging.” A sad smile curved his lips.
“Am I to stay here?” she asked, her heart pounding.
He sighed. “That is not known to me. I was only able to intervene this much because Mystra interceded for me with Kelemvor.”
She raised a brow, and stood. As she did, the structure faded away, leaving only the endless grey plain. He offered her his arm and with a shrug she took it and let him guide her forward.
“Are there more dead you wish me to see?” she asked, hearing the bitterness in her words.
“Does seeing the dead ease your guilt?” he replied, his voice even, almost serene. “Or do you prefer to indulge in meaningless grief? Your tears will not restore them, and tears certainly have not served to heal you. Perhaps they will serve to instruct, then. It seems you require a sterner approach.”
Stung, she stopped walking. “Speak plainly, then, and not in riddles.”
“And again you hide behind anger, deep in the shadows. Very well, plain speech you shall have. Let us talk about the dead.” He started walking again, his hold on her arm forcing her to follow. “Your mother along with Daeghun's wife Shayla died saving your life. Shandra died in Ammon Jerro's Haven, at his hand, seeking a way to free you. Casavir died in the ruins of my fortress as he tried to hold open a passage for you. I do not see your hand directly in these deaths, and yet you do. I believe it is because grief masks the anger you feel.”
“Of course I feel anger at those who caused their deaths. I also feel grief. Is that not to be expected?”
“You did not kill them, nor did you wish for their deaths. Such losses happen daily across Faerûn, and yet there are not raging hordes of bereaved seeking to kill their liege lords.” He turned his head to look at her.
“Nor have I,” she snapped.
“Ah, but that is what lies in your heart, that Nasher's blood would wash away your outrage at the injustice of their deaths,” Ivraneth said, his voice still serene.
With a snarl, she spun and slapped him across the face. He began to laugh, and she struck him a second time.
“Do not presume to know what is in my heart,” she spat, her eyes narrowed, “and never mock me.”
“Aribeth de Tylmarande no doubt felt the same when she chose to betray Neverwinter,” he said, his voice growing sharp. He caught her wrist in a firm grasp. “After all, Nasher gave her lover to the mob, to placate their thirst for vengeance. No matter that the false Helmite died as well. She decided to drown her anger in the blood of an entire realm. Perhaps we should be thankful you ask only for the blood of one man?”
“Nasher admitted he was wrong!”
“And Aribeth wound up in the Hells, abandoned by her lord, her city and her god.”
She shuddered and tugged her wrist free.
“Did the zerth who traveled with you tell you about the sword you wielded against me?” He turned and began to walk again.
“She did,” she said shortly, following Ivraneth.
“Gith's hatred of the illithid consumed her, to the point where she wanted to destroy all life across the planes. She wanted to ensure that her people would never be enslaved again. Yet Zerthimon believed her hatred was another form of slavery, and so he opposed her, and the people were split.” He sighed. “This story was ancient when I was a boy in Arvahn. And so, one people became two, and they remain in thrall to their mutual hatred to this day. I could never have threatened them had they united against me. They could have ended my existence easily.”
“I fail to see your meaning.”
“Untrue. You fail to acknowledge that the anger you feel is born of the hatred that still lives within Gith’s Sword.” His voice was serene again.
“The sword does not wield me,” she said icily.
“What color are your eyes?” he asked.
“Not that I see the relevance, but my eyes are grey,” she said.
“Are they?” He handed her a small looking glass. She took it warily.
Her eyes were black, the iris blending seamlessly with the pupil. She gasped and dropped the looking glass, grinding it under the heel of her boot.
“What does this mean?” she demanded.
“The hatred that so consumed Gith also consumes you. The anger that led Aribeth to betray Neverwinter rages within you as well. Did you not arrange for your lover to betray your Keep?” He took her face gently between his hands. “You stand on the very edge, my dear. Do not repeat the mistakes of others, mistakes that have echoed across the planes for millennia. I chose not to heed the lessons of the past. Will you find the strength to shatter what chains you?”
“I do not know how much strength I have left,” she said, her head bowed.
“And so we reach the truth at last.” There was satisfaction in his voice. “You found within you the will to remake the sword from mere fragments. As the zerth has told you, your will can create worlds if you can but focus it properly.”
“I do not think I can do this alone,” she admitted.
He smiled then, and lifted her chin. “You have never been alone.”
She looked at him, a solitary inky tear sliding down her cheek. “Will you guide me, Ivraneth?”
“I cannot guide you, but I can offer you the hand of a friend, and a shoulder to lean on,” he said, his smile brilliant. “Let your will guide you now, as it did then.”
She placed her hand in his and closed her eyes, turning her thoughts inward. He watched her, could feel the tension in her grip as she sought that moment when she had embraced the shadows. She stiffened, frowning, and then gasped.
“When the portal woke, it welcomed me. It recognized me, but it was not me, it was the sword. Gods be good, it was the sword, and the shard within me.” Anguish filled her voice. “I am the heart of the sword. Without me, it cannot exist.” Her eyes opened and she looked at him grimly. “Can I die here, in this place?”
“It is possible,” he replied.
“All things carry risk,” she said. “So be it.” She closed her eyes again, and a faint glow appeared along her breastbone, where the scar marked the resting place of the shard. The glow intensified, becoming a painful radiance in a matter of moments. She gasped, and her grip on his hands tightened sharply. She cried out in agony, and the light faded.
She opened his eyes. She was trembling, and the changeless grey under her feet had been scorched. He looked at the scar on the land, and gathered her into his arms.
“It is done,” she whispered. “I cannot feel the magic of the shard within me any longer.”
“Can you feel this?” he murmured into her hair. “Can you feel the breeze? It smells of springtime.” He lifted her chin, and smiled down into her clear grey eyes. “The shadows are lifted, and I have done some small part to atone for my part in bringing them forth. It is time to go home, my dear.” He kissed her brow and led her to a shining portal. “Sweet water and light laughter,” he said, gently propelling her into the portal.
Her sword had flared a few minutes earlier, and then as quickly dimmed. It lay there now beside her, dull and quiescent. Bishop sat next to her, her hand in his. He ran his fingers lightly over the calluses that marked her training with a blade. The silence in the antechamber was oppressive, and he found himself speaking aloud just to hear something more than his own breathing, to cover his fear that she was slipping away.
“This is not what I planned. Truth is, thought I'd slip away after the Guardian was dead, leave you to the paladin.” He let out a harsh laugh. “He'd have been better for you than a former Luskan assassin who betrayed the Keep and the one person who'd ever believed in him.”
“You always were an idiot, Bishop.” Her voice was faint and she had not opened her eyes, but the hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
“Hells take me!” he spat, spinning around to cup her face in his hands. “Next time, could you cough, or moan, let a man know you're awake?”
“Hells don't want you,” she said, laughter in her voice. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “I do, though.”
“And you call me an idiot?” He stroked her face, his hands trembling.
“Let me look at you, Bishop,” she said. “I have missed the sight of you.” She smiled, her eyes dancing.
“Easy on the eyes, I told you,” he said as lightly as he could. “I don't have a lot of good news to share.”
“I know about Casavir,” she said gently. “Don't ask me how, not now.” She looked around. “The others got out?”
“Don't know for sure, but some of them could have made it. I've just been waiting for some fine, upstanding folk to come dig us out.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, leaning forward to kiss him. “Let's hope they don't come for a few more hours.”
He looked at her, speechless, then began to chuckle. “We're trapped in a room deep in the heart of a buried ruin, with no idea if anyone even knows we're alive, you've been unconscious for the Hells know how long, and you want to–” He broke off, grinning.
She had been rummaging in her pack, and pulled out a flask he had overlooked, a fine elven wine by the markings on it. “We are alone, for once, and unlikely to be interrupted. Unless, of course, you're afraid...” She let her voice trail off as she opened the flask and took a deep drink before passing it to Bishop.
“Of you? Always,” he said, taking a drink and putting the flask aside to gather her in his arms. They sank back onto his bedroll as he kissed her with increasing urgency, his fingers working through buckles and lacings. She responded with equal passion, her own fingers busy.
“I could come back,” a voice drawled from behind Bishop.
“Oh, Hells,” Bishop muttered. From beneath him, she began to laugh, peering out around his bare shoulder.
“Hello, Sand. Remind me to have you teach me some privacy wards,” she grinned. “You're early.”
“And you are mostly undressed, but really, let us not quarrel, shall we? Aldanon, after a great deal of tedious discussion and impenetrable metaphor, was able to scry your location, and open a new portal.” Sand paused to examine the cuff of his robe, flicking away an invisible speck of dust with an expression of distaste. “I suggest we make use of it, sooner rather than later, given Aldanon's attention span.” He stooped to retrieve Bishop's tunic from the floor, tossing it to her. “Try this. Your armor is hopeless, and there is barely enough left of your tunic to cover a mouse.”
“Hey, that was mine!” Bishop said, trying to shield her with his body as she slipped the tunic over her head. He laced his breeches hastily.
“Oh, I am quite sure we can all contain ourselves in the presence of your unclad torso,” the elf smirked. “I know I can, at least. I am not sure I can vouch for the Captain's good sense.”
She slipped her arm around Bishop's waist, grinning at Sand. “I have excellent taste, I'll have you know. I chose this from your stash, after all.” She dangled the flask of elven wine, uncharacteristically mischievous.
“Little banshee,” Sand muttered. “I will be sure to send you an accounting of the cost so you can reimburse me. Now, shall we return to the Keep? Oh, and Bishop? You will be pleased to know you are not facing imminent death, by the way. Khelgar was remarkably eloquent, in his unique fashion, in your defense.” He waved toward the portal. “I am certain Veedle has repaired the damage from his testimony by now.”
“Age before dishevelment,” she said, bowing to the wizard.
“If that is an example of the level of wit you have been reduced to, gladly,” Sand drawled, and disappeared.
Bishop put an arm around her waist, and she looked up at him curiously even as she snuggled closer.
“Don't want you disappearing on the way,” he said. “Too much trouble breaking in a new Knight-Captain.”
He pretended not to notice that she was still trembling as they stepped together through the portal. He wondered if she knew he had seen her slip the now-dull sword into her pack. With a mental shrug, he resolved to deal with the issue only if he had to, and the consequences could sort themselves out.
- 6
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- 8
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Judas