Nacreous and Dead

Chapter 1: “We shall pay for everything… ”

- We must return to the Crossroad Keep at once! – Casavir insisted again.
- Don’t worry, we’ll be there in time, - said Neeshka, embracing crying Elanee’s shoulders.
- We must report…
- Shut up, paladin, - Bishop snapped, - the only thing we must do now – is to revenge Shandra’s death… or maybe it hasn’t touched you at all, huh?

The sand lying near the Heaven’s walls sang it’s song, and Amon Jerro, bound, with his eyes shut, kept on repeating his granddaughter’s name…
The Squire of Neverwinter was standing on that very hill where they killed the meditating shaman… now she took his place, looking at the sand-colored sky, and the wind was drying every single tear dropping on her armor…
- Shandra…
The air caught the name and carried it away to the geyser…
- Forgive me, girl…

***
The road back eased the grieve for the loss a little, but they still looked at each other with awareness and mekancholy.
Neeshka said that there’s going to be a fair at Highcliff soon, and they should be there by all means. She said it will help to distract from the grim thoughts… she said that Neverwinter doesn’t need rag-doll heroes, and soon they will be obliged to forget this pain in order to go further…
Noone argued, except for Casavir…
To Highcliff then…

***
Some days after, the sea and the familiar houses appeared on the horizon.
As soon as she entered her room at the tavern, she shoved her sword to the farthest corner and took off the pressing armor.
Then she dug Shandra’s portrait out of her bag and peered at her yellow hair and gentle features until the evening came…

***
It was quite noisy in the main hall. Peasants were drinking and dancing, resting after a hard-work day.
Two bards were tuning their lutes, preparing to sing. Grobnar was going to join them but Neeshka along with Khelgar held him still, having sat him at the table with a mug of ale.
- You’d better rest, my dear, - the tiefling purred, - you had a hard day.

***
How much she had already drunk? She didn’t notice. After the third mug Shandra’s face has lost it’s mournfully-suffering expression and became quiet and even smiling slightly. After the fifth it became alive and flew away somewhere to the left, to the roaring sea of human hands, legs and laughter.

“They’re so cheerful” – the warlock thought with envy, - “And all what’s left to me – is just to sit here and drown my fears in this disgusting ale…”

- More ale! – she shouted and, turning her glance away from Elanee and Casavir, finally dropped her head on her hands, apparently gathering to burst into tears.
“No. No… no-no-no-no… Damn, I’m strong, these people are following me ‘cause they believe me to lead them to a victory… but I’m only able to lead them to the green fairies’ glade born from that damned ale…”

She looked around helplessly and, having wiped the tears with a sleeve of a dress, dropped her head again.
Her slightly green hair scattered on her shoulders, closing all those pieces of the outer world she still was able to see.
“Wish I could return to my good old West Harbour just for one day… to have fun at the fair and to explore the Mere with Amy and Beevil…”
Behind her closed eyes the past was reviving itself… there were no responsibility, no doubts and… no fear. Fear, yes. In that very fear, so animal-like and primitive, she gains her powers and strikes the orcs and skeletons. It’s the fear, that gives her courage and a sharp ordering voice:
“Attack!”
And then –
“Gods, I will survive! I will survive, will I?.....”
And she’s the first, always the first with the The Nightthief's Claw in one hand and the Eldritch Blast steadily gaining it’s power – in another. Save the gods even to touch the pale-skinned Sand or silly Elanee, which being now at the form of a badger or a bear, is actually out of help in a real battle, but still she does her best assured that she stands for all that’s good and  just, what’s even worth… dying?
Her whole body shivered, when the last word was interrupted by a silent insinuating voice:

- Milady, would you be so kind as to dance with the poor humble tracker?
She felt the cold creeping around. As cold as a touch of two Bishop’s ice swords, for each of which all merchants of the Sword Coast were ready to give at least twenty thousand gold.
She shook her head.
It’s not only death she was afraid of. To open up her soul to this impudently beautiful derisive man for her was as terrible as death. And she will open up ‘cause she’s all now like a bared nerve covered by Shandra’s ashes…
Stripped to the bones?
- Oh come on, milady, - he smirked, dragging her out of the table, - Our holier-than-thou friend is out for his important paladin-business and I have a chance to dance with a beautiful girl without the subsequent act of family jealousy.
She helplessly obeyed the force dragging her to the center of a raging crowd.
Two fat-belied bards standing on a small stage were splashing out their simple but touching music.
Memories and alcohol made her shiver again and again.
Bishop pressed her to himself simply and confidently, as if he has been doing it for all his life.
The wooden overlappings of a ceiling has turned to strange clumsy constellations which she observed so many times while they were spending their nights in the woods or a field.
The song was flowing into her head, making a resonance to her fear and power.

The twilight is creeping up again
The day didn’t pass in vain
We’re running away - you and me
Like two young beautiful steeds
The wind's blowing our manes
The grass is quietly whispering about us
We shall pay for everything
But not now…

Because the fields are shining like gold,
And our movements are so simple
And stones in the fields are silent as before
Hiding our traces…

- I’ve heard this song before, - Bishop suddenly spoke, - they were singing it in Sunken Flagon that night when you with the shorty and that slip of an elf appeared there for the first time… You made such a noise because of these damned shards, that I wasn’t able to listen to the song and seriously thought to slit your throats at night. However… my intentions about shorty haven’t changed much, - he added thoughtfully.
- I feel dizzy, - she moaned, not able to observe the endless run of the wooden constellations.
- No way, my dear Knight, you won’t get rid of me so simply, - he added rigidly and began whirling her even more fierce.
- Why did you say that…..., - at last she tore her glance from a ceiling and dropped her head on his chest. The touch of his armor was pleasantly cool. Unlike all of them Bishop hasn’t removed his heavy leather breastplate even here, in friendly Highcliff.
The ranger suspended his mad run.
- Afraid to lose the earth under your feet? But it’s already crushing not only under yours, but also under all the people’s feet of this blasted world.
She remained silent. Under her eyelashes the dead snow was melting and a huge fire rustling.
- Listen to me…, - he shook her up, - silly, don’t you see that everything’s going to Hells?
- Aaa… I’m just a weak drunk woman, who lost her friend a few days ago… what do you want from me?
He lifted her chin and forced her to look into his prickly cold eyes for the whole two infinite seconds. She would sober if she didn’t want to get drunk with them even more
- Let’s escape.

The chase won’t get us
The city burns its lanterns in vain
The night will rise behind our backs
Do not look back, do not.
The unseen strings are torn, -
Everything will ache then
We shall pay for everything
No regrets… why should we regret?

Because the fields are shining like gold,
And our movements are so simple
And stones in the fields are silent as before
Hiding our traces…

- What?!.. I… umm…
- I know every track in the Mere and in the woods to the north from here. I shall lead you away to absolutely different world, where stupid dirty farmers won’t spoil the night’s silence with their croaking laughter, and idiotic paladins won’t teach you how to live. When the King of Shadows overruns this land - and it will happen anyway - you see how powerful he is, - we shall leave the overrun land, and the fresh wind that hadn’t been touched by elvish magic, won’t carry the shouts of dying peasants any more. I’ll show you the ruins of an ancient realms lost in virgin woods, and the old caves in which the cold air itself could likely remember the creation of this world. At night the fire will tell us fairy-tales, and wolves will eat from your hands - the hands that will never know the weight of a sword again. And you’ll show the sun the greenish glitter of your hair, standing under OUR marble sky. And all stuffy taverns together with human stench will become the past… Perhaps, when all calms down, we’ll even find the remains of YOUR friends. Nobody’s gonna force me to say a farewell speech to Casavir or Elanee, but you can do it. And when everything, that kept you here, will finally be finished, we’ll get lost on the invisible paths of the woods forever… come on, warlock! I’ve never offered this to anyone before, that’s why you must give a proper answer…
- I… I…, - the words were hitting her not worse than alcohol, and he didn’t release her glance so that she couldn’t even take a breath.
To betray Nasher? And the Greycloaks that trust her selflessly? To betray Khelgar and Neeshka, Casavir and Sand? To betray her distressed village? And Shandra’s memory?
But if she refuses to fight, then… then this girl died in vain… But these eyes… She would willingly believe this man was related to demons…
Bishop peered at her face tensely.
At last she managed to turn her glance away and squeeze the words out:
- I… I can’t… I must…
- Must? - the ranger laughed cruelly, - you even mustn’t pay that innkeeper for the ale, understand? The one who has the power is the master. Somewhen I’ll pull that paladin’s tongue out and push it back to his own throat so as he won’t act himself a fool and confuse the others… Listen… - he leaned closer, - you must choose: duty or freedom. Soon, when things get really bad, I shall repeat my question. And don’t you dare to give the wrong answer…

The twilight is crawling again
The day will end, for certain
We’re running away again
The two free young archers
The city will shut its doors
It will remember us for a long time
We shall pay for everything
But not now…

Because the fields are shining like gold,
And our movements are so simple
And stones in the fields are silent as before
Hiding our traces…

Casavir entered the tavern and noticed them, casting a look around. His face’s expression became mournful and stony, and Bishop grinning impudently squeezed her even more and began whirling her through the hall almost tearing her off the floor. She had no strength to push him away, and in fact she didn’t want to. Tomorrow… tomorrow they’ll head to the Crossroad Keep to search for allies and prepare for war, which was forcing her heart to tremble with in horror for its inevitable conclusion. Bishop knows how much she’s afraid now. More than she could imagine. But tomorrow everything will be different. Having put on her armor, she’ll gather their little group and lead them straight ahead. And they will follow her. Because they believe. She also would be glad to believe in someone strong and reliable, but, alas, there’s noone of that kind around here, and so it’s necessary for her to be strong so that someone else could feel himself a hero.
In that distant tomorrow Highcliff will be ruined by the lizardfolk, the air will choke with screams of Greycloaks dying on the fortifications, the Ironfists will find the new king, the Mere of Dead Men will cover them with suffocating web, and the ancient dragon at last will achieve his long-awaited rest…
All of this will be tomorrow, and for now she has forgotten even Shandra’s death and gave in to the music, alcohol and the hands whose scars don’t prevent their owner to sow death and pain with his ice blades.

***
Yesterday’s ale obviously wasn’t making her existence a holiday, but she somehow came to senses having taken a bath in the ice-cold sea and feeling the weight of the Nightthief's Claw in her hand again. Their small group kept on joking, trying not to remind each other of Shandra; Bishop went forward, far away from them, searching for the shortest road to the Keep; Casavir was throwing gloomy glances at her, and Grobnar was discussing yesterday’s bards performance.
She felt herself confident and easy again. They will revenge Shandra. They will destroy the King of Shadows. They…
But if not?
Brrr…
No. No doubts.
She won’t give up.
No way.
Never.
No.
…
No?...
She walked looking at the ground beneath her feet and listening to Sand familiar’s complaint miaowing.
If only…
Maybe…
Though…
She shook her head, trying to get rid of Bishop’s voice.
“And you’ll show the sun the greenish glitter of your hair, standing under OUR marble sky…”
From a dark smoky tavern she took the brightest memories for the last months.
She struggled inside her cage, and only Khelgar, whose heels she kept on stumbling, could notice something…
“You must choose: duty or freedom…”
Oh gods, that piercing Neeshka’s laughter… somebody… make her shut up…
“And the fresh wind that hadn’t been touched by elvish magic, won’t carry the shouts of dying peasants any more…”
Mom? Mommy… what should I do…
The crystal-pure skies weren't reflecting absolutely anything. Sand was talking to Elanee enthusiasticly about how to make a potion of Barkskin. She was smiling and looking in his eyes trustfully.
Qara observed them grimly, playing with a small piece of a flame on her palm.
- … perhaps… But sometime we shall pay for it, - Casavir replied gravely to Khelar’s retort.
She shuddered and lifted her head.
Shall we pay for it? Yes… no doubts, we shall… But not here… And not now.
And her glance, not touching the tops of Casavir's and Khelgar’s heads, flew forward, trying to find Bishop’s cloak among the thick foliage…

The invisible strings are torn, -
Everything will ache then.
We shall pay for everything
No regrets… why should we regret?


Chapter 2: “The Lilac Midnight”

Close my eyes by a white silk ribbon,
Take me by the hand and lead me
Along the bridges and canals,
Through a field full of tulips…

- There is death in the air this night… - Casavir stands beside her, hands behind his back.
- You sound calm, despite it, - she steps closer, leaning on a fortress’ wall. A delightful sight is opening below: squares of fields, rectangulars of farms, and orange flames of several torches…
- I am here with you, there’s little that could touch me in your presence, - he turns to her, his eyes full of devotion radiate such admiration, that she feels awkward. - And although it is dark, you shine brightly to me. I’ve been following you all this time… and I shall follow you further, wherever your path leads us. My sword, and my heart are for long yours, milady. - The paladin intends to kneel, but she doesn’t allow him.
Holding his strong, sinewy hands, she looks at this embodiment of fidelity and humility, and her heart twitches, pending the words she’s obliged to say.
- Casavir… It’s… a great honor for me, but… I do not love you… - His face, a quintessence of firmness, shivers for the first time. He closes his eyes, sighing deeply.
She lowers her hands and parts from him. Looking at the armor, still stained with blood from the last battle, at his huge two-handed sword, at which he's clinging as if it's the only tangible thing in the whole world, at his bent figure and his raven-black hair, that has already been lightly strewn with the first gray hair, and understands, that she feels absolutely nothing to him. Except for pity. Pity, similar to her pity for Shandra when she became homeless, and for the villagers of Highcliff, torn from their only home.
- You... - she falters, but finds a strength to continue, - I'm not tying down anyone to stay here, you know. If you want, you... you can leave.
- Leave? - the paladin asks bitterly, - I have no place to go, milady. You're everything I have, And I shall die for you, and your Keep.
He turns away and leaves. She watches him for a few seconds, then turns her eyes to a painful moon.
Blood, battles, powerful artefacts and ancient secrets - all this have fallen upon her for the last months. To rise so high - and for such a short time. The Knight of Neverwinter, the last hope of the Sword Coast... Who'd thought...
Wonder if anyone tried to look deep into her eyes under a golden magic circlet? Is there anyone who saw her hands trembling while squeesing the ceremonial sword, raised upon the next vampire? And on her neck covered by amulets, the thin vein dispersing the blood with the taste of fear and wyrmsage. No, certainly...
They tell their children fairy-tales about her and teach them to be like her... Ha! Teach them to become a ball of strained muscles, squeezed by a painful magic power and a fear that she won't succeed and the whole world will fall to the nine Hells, and become a feast to those demonic friends of Ammon Jerro. And only some noblemen, hiding in the cellars of their magnificent manors, spread gossips that this warlock that became the Knight of Neverwinter, may cause even more troubles than The King of Shadows.
Her dream that from the North... or even from the East a Hero will come and deal with all this - it's unrealizable. She is that Hero. And there's noone to whom she could shift her duties...
She peers at a pale moon. The absence of bright color oppresses her. The wind becomes colder with every minute, but she doesn't want to return to her apartments. The huge cold bed, endless stone walls and her soldiers' glances full of hope... no-no-no... it's better she'll freeze here... and on the morrow the army of undead will be faced by such a tiny ordinary-looking statue - in comparison with this wall - that their bones themselves will become ice and sunlight will thaw them and throw to a courtyard by a harmless steel rain...

- Sooo... And what do we see here? Milady dreaming the whole Neverwinter to fall before her and... o, such a heresy!.. Lord Nasher himself, - Bishop appears suddenly as if from nowhere... - I understand you, milady. If I were you, the one second-grade paladin wouldn't be enough for me too...
"Oh gods...” - she closes her eyes, - “he again... has come to torture me again..."
- Stop calling me "milady", Bishop, - she says, not turning to him.
- My dear, even YOU can forbid nothing to me, I'm still a free bird – this is the first. The second is: the paladin can say so and I cannot?
- From your lips it sounds like... an insult, - she frowns.
- It is an insult, - he steps closer, still holding his hands on the hilts of the swords, - this title and this keep - is an insult to your freedom.
She sighs.
- You said all you wanted? Then go away.
- Don't dare to order me!
It seems to her, that there's not a man standing before her, but a bristled red wolf. What happened to him there, in a distant past, that makes him so jealously protect this word?.. freedom...
- Bishop, it isn't an order, - she closes her eyes wearily, - it's just a request. Leave me alone.

He stands now so close, slightly brushing against back and hair. She feels the stupefying heat emanating from his body... has he really been climbing up the wall?.. His scent tickles her nostrils, expelling all thoughts from her mind... Oh gods, he smells like thousands of grasses born in the Duskwood on a lilac midnight under the airy rain of pine needles and crumbs of a thousand-year rock. And, it seems, there is no such will in the world that could resist this scent...
The pale moon still pursues its shadow, the farmers' dogs sing it about the green fuzzes lost in a deep riverbed, the torches engender fiery elementals, and his hands slowly clasp her waist so as to draw her closer with one jerk.
- I... came... to repeat... my... offer, - he whispers and his breath tickles her ear.
She moans something, frozen on her place, so as not to spook the tiny yellow butterflies whose sharp legs cling to every nerve, forcing her to blink and pray Bishop not to notice it...
- So... what, - his lips slide up to her temple, - ... does... - his hand slowly moves on a smooth fabric of her tunic, - ... my... - the pale moon, keeping a paw on its mouth, nevertheless listens attentively to the dogs’ howl, - ... lady... think? - his lips touch her skin and thousand butterflies at the same time stick their stings into each her cell.
"My God”, - by a flame it is burnt in her eyes, - “I must do something! Immediately. Try to get my sword? Prepare an Eldritch Blast? Oooh... thousand demons..."
... but not a thousand demons - a thousand grasses born on a lilac midnight still hold her and whisper, whisper, whisper...
"Turn to him..." - silently, - "Come now, turn and touch his hair, burn his skin with fire that dances in his eyes like a wild shaman... you desire it so much... "lady" ..."
Whether it's a sob or a groan that escape from her lips while she's trying to get out of the circle of his hands, but he only grins, forcing the moon to turn even more pale, and holds her even tighter.
- My dear, while you were spending time studying your warlock art, I was gaining strength in two-swords dancing... I doubt you can match me...
He jerks her, forcing her to look in his eyes.
She wants to scream, because two sticky marsh snakes are rising inside her, squeezing her throat, but still she snaps with the same impudent and courageous glance.
- I am the strongest warrior of the Sword Coast, remember it!
He knows these words are not hers and observes what may come next.
She still tries to escape, but after these seconds her back feels a cold stone behind.
- Let me go! - she hisses, trying to muster all her self-control.
- And what for? - he asks floutingly. - Just look how funny: minutes ago the paladin was standing here, frozen, waiting for your high answer, not daring to touch you. And now I press you into a wall, and you can do nothing, because, certainly, you know whom of us you really need...
The birds are shouting at the left and Bishop turns to this sound, a skilled eye of a scout searching for uninvited guests, a smirk appears in a corner of his lips as he notices the fireball blossoming inside of the warlock when his stubble brushes her cheek.
- You... you overheard!
- And even peeped, - the ranger smirks, - it was such a temptation to watch how you'll reject our paladin-friend. If I were you I'd also ask him to cut himself in the name of his love, of course, but simple "no" satisfied me as well.
- Shut up! - she shouts at his face angrily. - How dare YOU to humiliate a man, capable of such... fidelity and such... acts. A man so kind and so merciful, that in comparison with him you are a Devil himself!
- Ha! - he laughs cruelly, - you do not know of what I'm capable, my dear. Beware to compare a wolf and a sheep, - he leans closer to her, almost touching her face. Perhaps so that she could be convinced how really wolfish his eyes are.
Hundreds of butterflies, already calmed, shake their wings again awkwardly, clinging at cells' thin skin..
- Come... we shall discuss it... but not here, - she mutters, trying to merge with the wall.
- Why? Here's well enough. Or you're afraid of something? - he smirks sarcastically.
Frightened, she looks in his eyes, in which the two shamen continue their wild dance around a huge fire, striking a drum with stupendous strength, calling to ancient pagan gods. Transparent white feathers in their messed hair are shivering with pale lilac light.
- So... what? - he asks again, feeling her trembling.
Between their faces - no more than a few inches, she gulps, trying to press herself into a wall even more. The cold of grey stones clings to her clothes unpleasantly and demands to let it inside.
"Come on”, - the butterflies whisper, - “forget all he said. Just a few inches - and you'll touch him. Words doesn't matter, look - he's so warm, and HOW he's looking at you. Touch... touch... touch..."
"Touch him!” - the body screams, - “isn't he the one you've been waiting for? You won't make him a hero, but just for one night you'll feel yourself weak and... human. Has the dark energy finally burned you? Touch him! Now!"
"Touch...” - the grass rustles, tickling her nostrils, - “and all the rest won't matter any more. Touch, touch, tooooouch..."
She sobs, weakening every single muscle, falling into his hands, and gives him such a long and restless glance that Bishop grins and says:
- Well... good girl...
His embrace, once iron, turns into a warm air, miaow of a cat and force of a rock. Tears, transparent like a wind and warm as blood, stream down her cheeks as the ranger touches her lips with his. His scent envelops her, blocking all ways to escape.
He kisses her, silent and still, and she blinks from pleasure, trying not to think about Casavir, the King of Shadows and tomorrow's battle. Tears freeze her cheeks, and from its inaccessible height the moon looks at them grimly, swinging its pale light discontentedly.
- Don't cry. Defeats make us stronger, - he whispers, collecting her transparent blood with his lips.
She nods awkwardly and - at last - does of what she's been silently dreaming for the last months: she runs her fingers through his rigid hair, touches his cheek, slides her hand down his neck...
Butterflies, already gathering to fly away, remain still, watching with interest how her blood starts boiling and lips turn pink.
- It becomes too cold... - he whispers, - and at your room is much cosier...
She nods awkwardly.
Bishop tears her hands from his neck and leads her, charmed, downwards, easily dodging the posts and inhabitants of the keep. Not turning ahead, he leads her there, where the moon could not any longer observe them, discontentedly rolling sideways, and where in the twilight of her bedroom she'll count all his scars with her lips...

***
When at midnight the guard ran to her room, he hadn’t been here any more. She was silently listening to the report about an approaching army, swallowing the tears...
When she, along with Casavir and Sand, was destroying the towers, her face was still burning and lips were whispering his name...
When Garius has let out the Shadow of the Guardian on them, she splashed out all her rage in a form of spells... a rage on her answer, she gave him yesterday night...
When her feet touched the stones of the Vale of Merdelain covered with web, she still believed Bishop didn't betray her...
When she saw him standing near Garius, the cold and bitterness flooded her, suppressing screams and tears...
When he had chosen his own way and left, spitting on this war, on her, the King of Shadows and all their civilization, she watched him leave, no longer constraining her tears...
When she was killing those who betrayed her - Qara and Neeshka - her hands were trembling...
When she was destroying the statues one by one, she felt not the stench of the Guardian and powerfull spells, but the smell of a wood and morning rocks...
When she was standing above the slain King of Shadows, she no longer felt anything...

The huge energy that was now unleashed twirled them in a mad whirlwind and the ancient stones of a ritual sanctuary let out a long groan. They were crumbling and falling on their heads as sharp yellow sparks.
They knew they wouldn't get out of here alive, but the will to live was driving them forward in search of shelter.
In one of the rooms in which the stones were already trembling but not yet scattering, they fell on the floor and threw away their weapons now useless.
Casavir sat near her, looking at the floor, ready to cover her her from the falling stones in any second.
"I shall die for you, milady..."
Death. In a few minutes. Or seconds. They fulfilled their mission and this world needs them no longer.
So stuffy here.
They will die...
But somewhere... on the forgotten paths of a dense wood Bishop will still remain. When they no longer exist, he'll still be walking on a silk grass and live with wolves, searching for somebody’s traces, but not leaving his own nowhere... Free and needless to anyone... but... will live...
When someone's shape covered her from the first falling stones, it seemed to her she smelled the scent of wood in a sanctuary...

Let the stars explode for the criminality of our desires
If only you were here with me
one second
prior
to death
...


Chapter 3: "Nacreous and dead"

I know, that all my dreams proceed from you,
Yes... from you, and me, and your voice tears me into pieces,
Your ocean's flooded me, the winds blow hard,
Love, when the last petal became a victim of the flames!

- Milady, If you wish, I shall tell you a fairy tale.
- What is it about, Casavir?
- About hope and light.
- I know this fairy tale. There will be lots of pathetic sweetness and pathos. And in the end some heroes will find hope, taking it away from the others.
- But those, the others, they're evil!
- But they too have a right to hope.
- You're wrong...
- Why?
- Because they've been murdering other people, trying to seize power.
- They gave a purpose to your kind heroes. After a victory they won't have this purpose any more. Boring.
- There will be a silent, peaceful life.
- Yes, certainly. Men will remove their armor and plow in the fields all the day, getting drunk in a tavern in the evenings and beating their wives.
- If they don't plow, people will have nothing to eat.
- I understand.
- And, still, do you really assume violence and murders?
- No. I wish for the perfect world, that will never exist.
- And it will never become real?
- Never.
- It's... sad.
- Yes.

***
The stones became still, sated on heroes' blood, the lonely banshee immured within the walls of this fortress thousand years ago, became silent, the bowstring is torn and the fire arrows scattered, the powder is flickering with green sparks and the staff is broken, still reflected in Sand's dead eyes as if in the mirror.
The severely injured captives lay near the wet wall, and their wide pupils absorb the serenity of stones.
The little spark of light flies between their chains and shining broken steel blocking the pass. Chopped and burned armour lay somewhere behind as if a dead shadow.
Casavir groans, feeling the life feeling the life flowing from his wound, looking around thievishly. The Knight of Neverwinter sees the sleeping volcanoes in her slumber  and sometimes lets out a scream, when the death of one of her friends smirks at her tired pale face.
The sound of waterdrops falling is being replaced with the most violent scream of a banshee.
The Hammer of Ironfist left without his owner is flickering in the corner.
Somewhere far away in the mountains the clan perishes, having lost its king.
The broken blades rust, the invisible lute decays, and potions flow on a rough stones out of their bottles.
The chestnut hair become covered with a stardust.
Measured and wide are the King of Shadows' steps walking through the Faerun.

***
- Casavir, I'm scared.
- I shall break your fear, milady.
- You can't. It's inside me. You can't reach it.
- I'll manage.
- Why such confidence?
- Your fear lies between my palms.
- A piece of stone?
- Yes. You will never become such.
- Why?
- Because you wish to be a light. I wished the same, but all I could become - is your shadow.

***
Oh, Neverwinter! The Fantastic city, of that the bards of the nine spheres sing and the poets of the nine realms write their odes. The thieves hidden deep in your slums play their dark blue melody at nights. The coin flows and the gold sparkles at your shops and hidden rooms! Your women smile seductively and your men are strong, protecting every your stone.
Oh, Neverwinter! The city of hopes, the city of the whispering bright sea, and sweet secrets teasing a soul! The city, in which the stars descend from heavens at nights to inhale a full breast of your delightful air and leave a little part of other realms upon your roads. The city, in which the sages stroke their beards sedately and conduct slow conversations about secrets of life and invisible essenses, quietly sipping their wine. The city, where the grasses sprout through stones and caress your feet with the last year's tender sun. The city, where the little red demons and the pink pixies, transparent fears and iridescent dreams, eyes wide opened and smiles are flying around, presented to a lover at midnight. Around your high strong walls the thin webs and the green wings are soaring.
Oh, Neverwinter! The poet's heart cries about your narrow streets and wide stone roadways, burning in flames. About your dogs, cats and a nice little kobold, that could not carry out his dream of a small house with a warm roof. About your women smiling seductively and strong men, disappearing from your face. About the rivers of blood, that extinguished your eternal light and the fumes flowing  after the King of Shadows. The poet's heart cries about the children, their glassy eyes and burnt toy-tigers, torn into pieces by ghouls' and vampires' claws. It cries about the majestic castle of Neverwinter's Lords crumbling into dust, accompanied by the howling of zombies and the glance of the Guardian, that expresses nothing. Neverwinter groans, calling to her heroes, but the leaves has already fallen and the smooth mist can not carry her groan up to the Vale of Merdelain, where in its claws the doomed and weakening warriors choke. The dying city shouts, cries its bloody tears, prays Tyr and Lathander to heal her rotting wounds, but the gods are silent, observing with horror how once mighty stronghold perishes from the face of Faerun.
Neverwinter cries, choking in a black smelly smoke, embracing her crippled stone bridges and destroyed empty temples. The city dies, losing the memory of her heroes and lords, of secrets hidden in the vaults, and of the white birds that every spring sat down on the roofs, announcing the revival of the sun with their sonorous songs.
The Neverwinter's autumn came to an end.
And the city that had never known winter, now is slowly covered by indifferent red snow...

***
- I feel the cold's creeping closer...
- Are you really happy?
- O yes... I'm so tired of burning...
- And I... I hate the cold...
- You simply haven't yet learned to appreciate it...

***
The last Book of this world was silently burning in Guardian's flames, recollecting...
... the tree of which it was made, the ink by which it was written, the feathery skies, the table, the smoke from the fireplace, and the soft fleecy carpet on which it fell once...
... the yellow wrinkled fingers carefully thumbing through it, bringing the highest pleasure...
... the thin white fingers with bright red nails, that only fingered it aimlessly, causing irritation...
... the huge torch that shone as brightly as forty candles, beating the eyes with its light like the good forty strikes...
... the mad pencil that saw the world in black-and-white color, sometimes staining its pages with its dirty boots...
... and the fly having sat on it...

***
- Casavir, do you remember that spring?
- Which one, milady?
- That one... When there was so much light and almost carefree. When we were walking this earth not being afraid to lose it under our feet.
- I remember that spring.
- It was beautiful...
- As well as you...
- It was flying above us, showering us with petals and white feathers...
- We paid it little attention then...
- A pity... there's so little left of that spring...
- Nothing left...
- Memories, Casavir... memories...
- I do not like to recollect. It only pains me.
- Memory is a kind of light.
- But we're now in the Vale of Merdelain. This place absorbs all the light...
- But we?
- You know, what will become with us...
- Oh yes...
- Are you afraid?
- No already. I recollect. That spring... Ah, how it sang to us...
- No, it was you singing to us... and it was... beautiful. But in fact you sang not to us all... but only him... him alone...
- Yes.
- It pained me.
- But the spring carried your pain away?
- No, only strengthened it. Could you sing once again... only... for me now?
- I cannot, Casavir. Though I want it so much. I've forgotten the words and messed the tune. This song died along with that spring.
- In the end all the roads lead back to that spring...
- But not our.
- Yes... but not our...

***
He slowly follows the King of Shadow - it's more likely a habit, than a necessity - holding his two ice blades. The burnt wings of dragonflies cling to his black and silver clothes, the dirty water of dead Illefarn is dripping from his boots, in his eyes - emptiness and the reflection of a starlight. He walks through the worlds and spheres, following his new master, and the skulls of  the githyanki and githzerai, the humans and gods crumble into dust under his feet. With every destroyed world his eyes become not the sharp blades but the dead butterflies with torn off legs, and his hair lose their brightness, being covered with a stardust. He looks at a lilac smoke of an ancient spell, weaving around the King of Shadows. He's laughing when another defenders on another world are falling before them as a deformed heap of flesh. He tramples their blood into sand. He remembers perfectly, that miracles do not happen. He pretends being lifeless. It doesn't surprise him, that he's here, with the Guardian. But in his eyes - is that nacreous spring, screaming and scratching with bleeding nails, that very spring which scent was a yellow pollen in the transparent air and which sun was cautiously touching his rigid armor with its soft paws...

... it was so warm. There was green, brown and a lot of yellow. At nights the violet velvet crept on the ground instead of a rain. The sun danced a waltz in the sky bowing politely to the clouds. The earth was filled with spring and, sitting round a fire in the evening, everyone in their group believed in light. Even he. They were laughing, putting trophies taken in a fight into their bags. Their leader was looking at the flame thoughtfully, smiling hardly noticeably. He admired her profile and graceful fingers furtively, not letting anyone to notice. Grobnar was silent and strummed a gentle melody on his lute. He wanted to sing. So tender. But he didn't dare to give in to this weakness. And then, as if reading his thoughts, their leader started to sing, and everyone shuddered, including him.

The time stopped between a fairy tale and reality
I stand on a cold stones, covered by a stardust
There's a bridge above a foggy gulf, the feelings are so painfully familiar
I close my eyes and fall into a weightlessness again...
The sea dreams of a thunder, the soft grasses - of a dew
The free wind dreams of wings and sails
And only I can not fall asleep - I am a captive today
Of these bittersweet memories that bring me back that spring...

His heart was beating like a drum, muffling all the external sounds, forcing his blood to stream in his veins in a mad rhythm. He wanted to jump on a back of a wolf and rush through an endless field, picking handfuls of red tulips, crackling their tender green. He wanted to wash his hands and face under a shy spring rain, to catch the drops with his lips and inhale the scent of a wet ground. He wanted to burn in the sun. He wanted... to live.

The sounds and colors rushed in an uncontrollable stream
And the extreme limit of nervous tension is broken
The strong whirlwinds forbid me to stay on my feet
They tear me from the ground, breaking the law of gravitation
Miles of wild grasses, the fire burns brightly
The honeycombs are filled with nectar and the wine overflows
And the strings of roads interwind into a necklace of sleepless nights
Only so as I could fall asleep on your shoulder for once...

Elanee shifted uncomfortably on her place casting shy glances towards Sand who was moving his fingers thoughtfully under a rhythm of music. Then as if making her mind she put her head on his shoulder and it seemed her red hair have made his grey clothes brighter. The wizard shuddered for a moment, but then relaxed, having covered her hand with his.
If only Bishop wasn't so much consumed by the sight of those two, he would have noticed the warlock occasionally throwing him glances obscured with spring and how her cheeks were burning. But he, touched by Elanee’s sincere impulse and spring, didn't see anything. Even how the ice of his blades started melting, dripping on a young grass...

The volcanoes doze in the mist, the clouds drown in a water
The immense world, reflected in your eyes, is full of secrets...

... that is what that spring was like. A small piece of an animal freedom and tender music, forever remaining in the past. A small piece of clouds drowning in the water and volcanoes dozing in the mist... of an endless roads, joyful sky and companions' blades protectively covering his back... And eyes. In which the whole world was reflected and something more...
... where had all this gone...
... oh gods... why have you drawn the eyes on my face...
... so as they could reflect something too?

***
- How do you think, how soon...?
- Soon. I feel magic strings vibrate and all the connections of the world are now being broken. He destroyed even the books so as no memory of the former world would come to any of his followers...
- Any of his followers...
- I know of what you're thinking...
- Bishop...
- It seems to me he is already dead. Even if he follows the Guardian...
- Oh great Tyr, how I hate him...
- Do not appeal to dead gods... paladin... they're all gone...
- As long as I still can breathe, they're alive... inside me... But... it's so cold... My God, how cold...
- Casavir... Casavir! Don't die! Don’t leave me alone... don’t...
- I am still with you, milady. As long as I have strength, I won't leave you, you hear me? We shall leave this world together, so as to revive in the other.
- We shall not revive. Never. For our awful defeat we shall sink into darkness forever…
- No! Don't think so...
- ... or... or you'll become something so senseless and stupid that you wouldn't even recollect your past... You don't want to become a smoke of a funeral fire of some ork shaman after death, don't you? Or a flicker of sunset on a bracelet of a dying githyanki? Casavir?
- Oooo...
- Casavir?
- It's... it's all right... It's just... so cold...

***
The northern wind was blowing the Guardian's cloak grimly, while he transformed the green woods and soft grasses into grey ashes, weaving behind him in a silly cheerful whirlwind. The lilac clover and tender edelweisses bowed before him in hope for a life but their ashes was mixed with the howl, the red tulips of Highcliff were whirling behind the King of Shadows together with the wells of West Harbor and a pack of Duskwood wolves that protected their three, just born children until the last blood.
The Western and The Eastern winds were colliding under the heavy skies, challenging each other the right to dance with red snowflakes on a streets of a lost city.
And the Southern wind was crying silently with a sticky drizzle, obstinately searching for his mother lost at the world's birth.
Oh, dead Neverwinter!

***
- When I fall into eternal sleep you will come to me in an image of a sun.
- I'll be in your dreams?
- Or maybe I'll be in yours.
- And you're a big butterfly. I can burn your wings.
- Already.
- I'm sorry.
- It's easier for me without them, milady. I can speak of my love, not being afraid of silly hopes. Even at this horrible moment, at the edge of death, I am at peace because you're with me. It's not the dying or maybe already dead Neverwinter that matters to me most of all, but that you can see the same I see in Elanee's dead eyes. I have already told you, that my love has long ago eclipsed all other duties.
- It doesn't matter now...
- No, it's very important... Love shadowed my mind so much, that before the assault of your keep I... I spoke with Bishop. I... I lied to him... told him my dreams pretending they're real. It's after our conversation he betrayed us and left for Garius. He... he told him about our weak places. After that it was easy to defeat us... We lost because of me, milady...
- Casavir...
- I am ready to pay for everything.
- Casavir... you...
- I... I shall find a strength to live till the Guardian comes, and then stab the traitor in the guts.
- If only you weren't looking at me like that, I'd have done it myself.
- Milady...
- Oh my God, that spring...
- Milady...
- He was ready to die for me...
- Milady, I...
- So that's why... Everything... Everything could be another way...
- Milady...
- Oh Gods...
- Milady...
- And his tired glance when he...
- Milady...
- I didn't know... Bishop, I simply didn't know...
- Milady...
- Shut up!

***
"Oh, mommy-mum, why I feel so strange..." - the Southern wind howled in melancholy, flying above the lifeless ruins of Amn and Luscan, the dried riverbeds, destroyed mountains and active volcanoes.
The only sound - is the dusty air flying through fingers...
The only color - is bitter-brown with specks of madness born on a celebration of death...
The only taste - the taste of emptiness that has found its home...
The sun - like a huge hole in the dead sky, the henceforth nameless land twitches in pain and groans silently in its personal night, throwing out ice-palps wrapped in a fur of dead animals.
Once there were wild horses rushing through the prairies.
Now - only the fuzzes of fear and lifeless shattered light, growing from the warped drunk stars like crystals.
"A pain - is not an insult, my son. It hurts at first, but then leaves..."

***
- Forgive me! I lied to him, but still he would have betrayed us, all the same! Just look at Neeshka, milady. Overcome the pain and turn your head. Do you remember what she was? How sprightly she was smiling, how touchingly she cared for you? How she brought you potions before the fight with Lorne and how she was defending you? Look at her! Perhaps you didn't see, but I did! I heard her scream, when Bishop's sword pierced her armor, and saw how much pain there were in her eyes. Look at her! Open your eyes! Understand at last, what a monster you've given your heart to!
- ...
- I... die... And do you know of what I was afraid of above all else when I met you? Oh, you won't believe... Milady, above all else in the world I feared that your beauty would obscure my mind and I would howl like a wild animal... I feared that sometime I could no longer resist your scent and your grace when you dance in a circle of enemies with your silver sword. That your glance, devoted to him will drive me mad and I'll finally lose my will. That I shall betray my god, calling you a Goddess instead. That during our campings in the woods I could not restrain, and shout you name in my dreams. That I shall roll and howl at your feet and beg for just one kiss. I was ready to guard your keep like a lapdog... I...
- ...
- I followed you. I loved you. I idolized you. Dreamed. Adored. I saw you in my dreams. My... light... how cold... Don't be silent, please... I wish to hear your voice before death...
- ...
- So... Farewell, I part from you. But I leave on a road of flowers. I do not regret anything. My hatred for the traitor will give me strength in the next life. We shall meet again, milady. And then I shall give vent to my feelings and you will scream when I'll be tearing off your clothes...

All the songs will end at the edge of eternity
Flying like a white bird in the air growing colder
Through the misty roads, by the first snow
To be the first who will meet this dawn...

When the time counts the last springs
The shining space shall rush through the ashes
You'll recognize us in stars, we are - the flame of your faith,
We live in legends and songs, but no longer exist under this dawn...

... he was starry and snowy, furiously-thoughtful and very-very far. Noone, having looked him in the eyes, would not manage to tell what they saw, when somewhere far away from Faerun, but not further that the half-rotten cloak of the King of Shadows, the two crimson stars were dancing their last dance, slowly losing their warmth and their past in the claws of oblivion. In his eyes... oh, it seems the sparks of this bewitching dance were still decaying in them... there also was a yearning - a frozen statue of malachite... and the salt of the faraway lands... and the snow of dead Neverwinter, and... a pain?
As sharp as his beauty and as impudent as nakedness of a skilled courtesan, it was looking out of the stone statues and cold silence. Looking out with truly royal pride and a pleading glance of a beggar.

- Hi... - she whispers.
He silently drops to his haunches and studies her face.
She knows, that he sees her burnt skin, wounds and scars. She wants to turn away so as he could not see her. And while the tongue pushes the words through the dried throat, her mind is screaming and coiling inside its cage:
"Come on, look into my eyes! They reflect that very spring, you see? And our glances, and shivers running down the spine every time we touched, and the tenderness of our hands, and the campfires where we shared our temptation... don't you see..."
He saw.
They tried to tame the flame, but only inflated it...
But it was clear for both of them that it was too late to change anything. They won't bring back Neeshka's laughter as well as the shining sapphires on the Neverwinter's towers.
For the one who learned all the depth of falling...
Drops of her blood were silently counting the seconds remaining for her. Very soon she will follow on the smell of fires, walking on a soft velvet grass, full of concealed expectation and fragrant cool dewdrops.
She will never return, and he hardly will spend the eternity that was given to him, waiting for her silent steps and warm breath.
Annoying dead words are tickling the roots of her hair, but she madly wants the time and the place to be absolutely other. A pity, but the barrow is already destroyed, and the banners above it are trampled into the ground. The fabric has decayed, and the shapeless flame reached the heavens one last time to find there its final rest. She will find her peace under the ancient stone walls, surrounded by unknown language and the shining lost steel.
- Tell me... - she whispers hastily. - Tell me, Bishop... what had happened to us then? When the tulips were blooming along the paths you've been leading us... remember? ... we were smiling almost all the time... even you. When... when I saw how the wind played with your hair I dreamed of being on its place, and you...
- And I was ready to die for you? - the voice as if deaf, burnt.
- Yes... what had happened to us?
- I don't know. Perhaps we became just the casual victims of spontaneous impulses, nothing more.
- Nothing more...
- Yes.

That's it...
That, what lit a nervous shivers inside her and forced her to feel the night's cold even more - just a coincidence. A foolish combination of a weaving mist and a frightening darkness. Just another combination of runes. A butterfly flying to a light.
A dust without a right to its own mind.
Just a sudden blow of a winter wind.
- Black and silver suits you.
- Yes, many noticed that... before death.
She could, probably, have so much to tell him.
For example how she likes his voice. And that former one //like an agressive growl of a bristled wolf//, and today's //like a rustling whisper of autumn leaves//...
Or how she wanted to run away with him long ago. She even imagined how the wild horses carry them far away from Neverwinter, and they cling at their manes and look at the sleepy eyes of a born sun. But she didn't want to speak of what will be after, because she couldn't even imagine this "after" at all. But to live only for the present - isn't it that very happiness he once wanted to share with her? To cast away all the mistakes and the pain of the past, and not to look forward the misty future. Perhaps.
She could tell him about Casavir. About where the fanatical love can lead you, about lies and deceits, about treachery and her restless dreams, about the lilac mist and losses that force you to twitch in pain on a stone floor, in a pool of your own melted hopes, damning somebody's eyelashes.

We should free the dolphins,
We should clear the dark blood-red sea...

But that what mattered once, was now dissolved in the mirrors, and she says:
- Then... I was singing for you.
- Yes, I... I remember it.
- Want to bring that time back?
- The Neverwinter is dead. The temples are covered with snow, the remnants of the last defenders of the Castle Never are sinking under the ground. The spring will never come again, what are you talking about?
- You think you'll like to live in this new world?
- I'll adapt.
- You'll breathe the poisoned air, that you yourself infected with death...
- Yes...
- You'll never see the two butterflies dancing above a flower...
- Stop it...
- You'll be freezing all the time... as if the ice rocks scratching your heart, wanting to pierce it...
- Enough!
- That was your choice...
- Yeah. Whatever my choice was.
- Everything could be another way, you understand that, don't you? Just one incorrect word, one glance incorrectly interpreted, one edelweiss that didn't bloom and just one song that wasn't heard in time - and... that's it. Neverwinter is in ruins, and you... you're on the wrong side.
- I didn't betray you. It was just a response to your treachery...
- You believed Casavir.
- And what, when paladins became liars? Then I made a right choice, helping to destroy this world.

... I am a wounded heart on a torn soul...

- So, your heart must be such vulnerable...

... the broken life - a useless plot...

- Ha! Are you really trying to justify me?
- No, of course... You're a monster. And all that I once felt for you now is a burnt emptiness.
- Oh really?.. You speak lies, I see it.
- Wow... finally learned to distinguish the truth from the lie. What prevented you to do this when you listened to Casavir?
He was silent.
The King of Shadows was standing behind him, observing them indifferently. He was just a powerful but programmed machine. The dying human who tried to stop him, now has no power to threaten his empire. Is the mission completed?
One dead cities were changed to others.
Long live Great Illefarn!

- You're dying...

We shall become a dream of an infinite snow...

She felt it. The cold stone floor was absorbing her, concluding in its stone embraces. However... perhaps, her time has come. The eyelashes are damned, the spring is gone, and the music sounding somewhere inside her - is expelled.
And to allow the words flow infinitely - it's an inexcusable luxury for a piece of muscles which already almost stopped driving the blood in her cooling veins.
- It's so... so dark...
- The place is full of torches.
- Give me your hand, I'm so... so scared to be in darkness... alone...

She felt the burning heat of his fingers while flying somewhere downwards. And, dying, she was smiling and crying her tears, because her broken body no longer existed, and there was only the infinite freedom and the steel seemed to her a tender light of a dew.
The dirt became the inflaming fire along her new road, and her populous loneliness -  just a prelude before meeting with herself.
There, where the white crystals will sprout through her hands, the old friends will embrace her and, having left the road, will lead her into infinite light prairies, and she will smile at her new sun... or her new violet darkness, and will never recollect the nacreous spring, when the warm wind carrying the voice of the only one person was more dear to her than the shining sapphires on the Neverwinter's towers and her life, that had been given to her and taken away by this once beautiful land...

... he stood above her, fingering the velvet black fabric.
Starry and snowy, furiously-thoughtful and very-very far...

Bury my dreams, my sorrow,
But, Master, tell me why
Ah, why our angels fell first...

February, 5-11th 2007