(no subject)
TITLE: The Hands of Lazarus (1/?)
RATING: PG
FANDOMS: The Coldfire Trilogy.
SPOILERS: All three Coldfire books. Big spoilers at that. Be warned.
NOTES: Yet again, bwinter can be blamed for this particular fic, because she suggested I read the books and she has since been my instigator. And there might be slash. Eventually. If the boys are compliant.
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How long he had stood at the edge of the cliff, he wasn’t sure. Coreset had long since come and gone, and he was still standing there. He should have felt the chill, should have gone indoors, but for reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but stand and stare blankly at the forest.
It had to be impossible.
No matter what that young man, so familiar yet so strange at the same time, had said, it couldn’t be possible, wouldn’t. Or was it that he just didn’t want to have to deal with that all over again?
What if it was true?
He turned sharply away from the forest, pulling his coat tightly around him, his features tight as he walked towards the Inn. Why here? Why now? If it wasn’t true, why would someone do that? What purpose did it have?
He exhaled a tired sigh. As if he didn’t have questions enough already.
Approaching the inn, Damien hesitated outside the door. The main lobby and halls were full of tourists, morbidly curious visitors, talking, laughing, recollecting, and he found that suddenly he didn’t want to be near them and their amusement. He had come here for a reason, the only reason he had left, and now even that had been thrown into question.
The stables then. The small, simple stone building was attached to the Inn, sheltered and secure, but without the people. Somewhere quiet, somewhere isolated, somewhere that he might be able to bring the whirling kaleidoscope of his thoughts back into some semblance of order.
As he pushed open the door, the warm, musky scent of the animals washed over him, the dried out grass adding a sweet strain to the air. One of the mares whickered softly, but otherwise, his entrance was ignored.
There was a low bench against the wall, below one of the two windows which flanked the doorway, so he sat, slipping his sword from his back and propping it against the wall. Behind him, a lamp flickered on the sill, warding away the darkness through the thick, dimpled glass.
Leaning back, he sighed, closing his eyes, running his hands over his face, the light prickle of stubble rasping against his fingertips. Prayers took shape in his mind, seeking support, answers, help, guidance, anything, but none came to be fully formed, as thoughts and concerns were overlapped by emotions that he struggled to rein in.
How was it that, even in death, vulking Gerald Tarrant could get inside his head and leave him feeling even more lost and confused than he already did? That wasn’t even starting on the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, if that… boy had been telling the truth.
Boy.
Was he even that?
“Damn it.” Damien whispered, dropping his hands into his lap.
It was over, had been over, and he was okay with that. At least, he’d been getting there. Couldn’t deny that he had been missing Tarrant’s company. After almost two solid years with him, how could he not? But yeah, he had been dealing with what he had felt, moving on, putting it behind him, finding a new direction.
And now this?
“Damn it,” he swore again Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t surprised to realize he was shaking. Anger, hurt and confusion were a potent combination.
It wasn’t possible, couldn’t be. Not after everything that had happened. Gerald had made his greatest sacrifice on the slopes of Mount Shaitan. That fragile mortal life had been all he had left. How could anything more have happened? It was impossible.
But then, this was Tarrant. The Hunter. The Prophet.
Uttering a curse under his breath, Damien rose, pacing back and forth across the floor, frustration, fatigue and that damned grief creeping back up on him. The horses shied and stamped nervously, but he ignored them.
That was why he had come here, as the forest had started to burn; to finish it, once and for all, to say a final farewell to the man, the myth, the figurehead, the legend, the unexpected and impossible friend.
As the forest had burned, he had mourned, watched the remnants of what Tarrant had been and what he had built so lovingly reduced to ashes and dust, mortal traces of an almost immortal life, faint sparks blowing in the wind. He had watched until the heart of the flames had dulled to a throbbing red glow, watched until his eyes were dry, watched until…
It had to be impossible.
From the inn, the sound of voices rose in volume, the sign that a door had been opened, that someone else was roaming.
Glancing through the dimpled windows, Damien felt his jaw clench. It was the youth, and of course he would just have to be coming towards the stables. It wasn’t enough that he had kicked Damien’s emotions sideways. Now he had to intrude again and it wasn’t like Damien could avoid him; one entrance, one exit and a limit to the places he could hide himself.
Shit.
Folding his arms over his chest, he stalked to the far end of the stalls, leaning against the wall. Maybe if he just stayed out of the way, maybe he wouldn’t be noticed and the damned boy would be oblivious to the fact that his hands were itching to wrap around that slim neck.
God damn it.
It had been weeks, months since he had wanted to lash out at someone. Maybe it was too many nights of waking dreams, memories of fire and illusion and of that severed head, those empty, blank silver eyes. A shudder ran the length of his spine and he forced that image away for the hundredth time.
Even if what the boy said was true, it wouldn’t change the fact that he had seen that, that he would never be able to forget it, not even if he could perform a thousand Workings to ensure it.
He gritted his teeth together, his fingers digging into the meat of his upper arms, as he watched the door open. With the natural grace of one so slender, the youth crossed the threshold, lifting a hand to automatically smooth back wind-tossed strands of his hair.
That gesture, that simple little motion, was enough to force Damien’s nails through his skin, his knuckles white. His throat constricted and he tried to stifle a faint sound, but whether it was distress or fury at this unnatural usurping, he couldn’t say.
Apparently, he wasn’t successful enough and the youth whipped around warily, a dagger in his hand. The dark eyes squinted at the shadows where Damien stood, then he seemed to relax, lowering the blade and slipping it into a sheath at his hip.
Lucky for some, Damien thought bitterly.
“Still here?”
“Apparently,” he replied coolly.
Those dark eyes continued to watch him, and it took all his frayed restraint not to look away, not to move. If it had been any other place, any other time, he would have suspected a Knowing, but not now. Now, he was being watched, nothing more.
“Didn’t see you inside,” the youth said.
Damien nodded curtly. “Haven’t been in,” he said, using a shoulder to push himself off from the wall. He approached the bench, bending to retrieve his sword and lashing it back onto his back. Turning bleak eyes on the boy, he gazed at him for a moment, then asked, little more than a breath, not strong enough to be a whisper, “Why?”
The boy gazed back at him, brows twitching slightly, as if not quite understanding the question. “Why?”
“Why tell me what you did?” Damien’s voice was taut, sharp, clipped with anger, with emotion, with the faintest edge of grief. “What was the point?”
Narrow shoulders lifted, but those damned dark eyes stayed on his face, watching intently, keenly, like a hunt... no. No. Not like that, not like him. “Speculation?” he offered mildly. “A possibility?”
A moment after his body had reacted, Damien realised he was watching his hand squeezing that wretched throat, realised that warm hands were clutching his wrist and dark eyes were staring at him, wary, fearful, but without recrimination or anger.
“Why?” he demanded, his voice trembling more than he would have liked. He felt flesh shift beneath his hand as the boy struggled to swallow, his olive skin darkening by the moment.
He saw the tip of a pink tongue touch the lower lip, felt the trembling breath. “You, of all people, deserved to know,” the boy’s voice was raw, choked.
Pushing the boy from him as if burned by his words, Damien turned away, his hands clenching into fists by his sides. “Did you even wonder,” he whispered, not trusting his voice. “If I would want to know?”
Staggering against the edge of one of the stalls, the boy was watching him again, rubbing his throat with one hand. He didn’t say anything, and when Damien glared at him, he averted his eyes.
With a curse, Damien walked towards the door.
“Vryce.”
He didn’t look back, but he hesitated.
“I’m sorry.” The young voice had an intonation that seemed out of place. A sincerity and softness. So familiar, so damnably and painfully familiar. “Truly.”
His eyes stung bitterly, fiercely. Blinking hard, Damien drew a sharp breath, forcing his body back under his control. “Yeah.” he muttered, stepping out into the smoke-wreathed night. “Well, that’s great for you.”
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When dawn came, he moved on.
Even if he had planned to stay to the end, watching as the last of the towering trees crumbled to nothing, he couldn’t face it any longer. Even if the boy was lying, even if he was just playing on Damien’s emotions, it didn’t matter any more.
Remaining would only remind him how much he still had not been able to accept and that made his throat close up and anger take hold again. Anger which he clung to, anger which he cherished. Better that emotion than others that could leave him vulnerable and distracted.
Anger was definitely what he needed, and that damned boy was the target of every vicious thought crossing his mind.
Of course Tarrant had died! Of course he had!
Their bond was gone. Had been cut.
Death was the only explanation.
Yet, as he rode down the valley, away from the Black Ridge inn, daylight warming the greys of dawn, Damien couldn’t help but be aware of how his doubts had doubled, trebled since the previous night. The whens, wheres and what-ifs were running through his mind, repeated, overlapping, argued with then countered by his mind’s own exhausted frustration.
Sleep had become a rare acquaintance since his last visit to the forest, and now he sat on the back of his horse, staring blindly ahead, rocked and lulled by the swaying of the saddle, only sheer instinct forcing him to react.
Descending from the valley on a path he had barely noticed, the change in the air temperature roused him a little and he nudged his mare towards the south. Where he was going, he wasn’t quite sure, but as long as it was away from that constantly coiling cloud of smoke, that was fine by him.
When the day gave way to the afternoon heat, he had slipped from the saddle, removing the pack and letting the horse roam for a while. It trotted to a nearby stream, drinking deeply and tugging roots from the bank, while he sat in the shade, his sword laid across his lap, his eyes gazing - unseeing - at the decorative pommel.
Maybe he dozed, or maybe he just hadn’t realised how late it was, but all at once, darkness seemed to be creeping upon him and he looked up at the smoke- and cloud-threaded sky, a frown creasing his brow. Dusk, already?
Struggling onto his feet, he whistled softly, calling his horse back to him.
Splashing back from the other side of the stream, the mare was less than a dozen paces from him when a motion in the bushes behind it caught Damien’s eye, his sword drawn instantly.
With a chittering cry, a demon erupted from the bushes, large, built like some kind of scaly reptile, with long claws and a whipping tail. Black eyes glittered as it lunged into the shallow river.
The mare uttered a whinny of terror, rearing up and kicking out at this abomination, but the demon evaded the stamping hooves, its tail and claws slashing with vicious precision. The horse shrieked again, blood spattering the swirling surface.
Rushing forward, Damien slashed out at the demon, shearing away one of the deadly limbs, adding smoky spirals of black fluid to the cloudy tendrils of scarlet already dulling the clarity of the water.
With a hissing cry, the demon whirled on him, that prehensile tail whipping out and catching him across one arm. A raw strip of scarlet ripped open down his forearm, but he had managed to catch the tail with his hand when it had struck. Gripping it hard, despite its struggles, he brought his sword down, driving the point into the creature’s back, skewering it to the riverbed.
Thrashing and flailing, claws lashing at his legs beneath the water, the demon’s thick, black blood congealed on the surface, and gradually its struggles waned and it sank, limp and unyielding.
Panting, Damien disentangled his arm from the wiry tail, wincing as fresh blood trickled down his fingers. A quick glance told him that the sharp scales had grated up his palm nicely and he curled his fingers against the ripped flesh, wiping his sword on his pants. Slipping it back into its sheath, he stepped over the body, letting the current snare it, and approached his mare slowly.
Staggering away from him, the horse stumbled, uttering plaintive squeals. Her chestnut coat was slick with blood and he could see at least half-a-dozen wounds on her limbs and belly. Dark eyes were rolling in terror, her ears flattened against her skull and foam flecked her lips as she shied away.
“Easy, girl, easy,” he said softly, managing to snag her reins. “Its gone.”
The mare shrilled another fearful cry, wrenching away from him and rearing up, ripping the reins from his fingers. Staggering in an unsteady circle, she whinnied weakly. Around her legs, the water was a cloud of rose-pink, spreading ominously.
When she fell to her knees, the cloud bloomed deep-red for a moment and her head sagged under the water.
Damien swore softly, wading closer. There was no way she was going to be getting up again, he knew. Despite her struggles as he approached, she could barely even hold her head above the water.
Pulling a dagger from his belt, he squatted closer to her, his own blood adding to the deep redness of the water, and dispatched her as swiftly and mercifully as he could, her shuddering ribs going still in instants.
Forcing himself back to his feet, he waded back to the bank sitting down heavily on one of the boulders littered by the water’s edge, leaning heavily on his knees. “Damn it to hell,” he whispered faintly.
It wasn’t often he was caught off-guard and now...
Damn it!
Injured and horseless in the middle of the valley, with no idea how far he was from anywhere. Goddamn Tarrant and his vulking influence still hanging around. It could only be his fault. Yes, you, Tarrant, you vulking bastard!
A rustle made him look up, and he forced himself onto his feet at the sight of more of the same kind of demon swarming from the bushes. Several of them scrambled onto the mare’s body and he watched them ripping into the beast’s flesh, knowing that fate waited for him if he didn’t pull his shit together.
Forcing down the emotions he didn’t need, he clung to his anger, his pure fury, his sense of betrayal and outrage. He felt his heart pounding against his ribs, could hear every aching throb of his pulse in his ears, felt the adrenaline rushing through him and yelled a challenge at the demonlings.
They... there was no other word for it... they swarmed, lashing their way through the water and straight into the range of his sword. Instinct carried the blade, his muscles moving without conscious thought, one arm shielding him from those whip-like tails as his other arm lashed out, but even then, even when the bodies were piling around him, he knew it.
There were too many.
Even if there weren’t, he was physically and emotionally exhausted, wounded and stranded in their domain.
Still, he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.
Half a dozen more demons were sliced apart, falling at his feet before he felt claws sinking into his flesh, before he could smell the stale blood and feel dripping fangs raking his skin.
Everything seemed suddenly sharper, clearer. The trees were black silhouettes, stark against the silvering sky. He could hear every splashing ripple of the water around his knees, over the pebbles. Every rasping hiss of demonic breath was a roar. Even the rapid thumping of his heart seemed to slow, every moment dragging by.
And in the eerie stillness that came when he took a breath, the explosion of sound behind him was deafening.
And time moved as swiftly as ever once more.
The demons shrilled and chittered as one, two, three were picked off him with astonishing precision by blasts of what sounded like gun fire. Staggering, he lashed out weakly with his blade, taking out the final trio, before he sagged to his knees in the water, swaying unsteadily.
“What do you think you’re doing, you idiot?” a voice hissed close to his ear, and he felt a warm arm grabbing him around the ribs, dragging him towards the water’s edge and pushing him onto the shale.
Falling onto his side, Damien was panting heavily and he could taste blood on his lips. His sword slipped from his grip, clattering on the stone, and he drew a slow breath, his chest aching. Wounds throbbed for attention on his torso, upper arms and thighs, but had no doubts he didn’t have a limb that was uninjured.
The same warm hand gripped his upper arm and he was pulled onto his back, a face swimming into his line of sight.
His upper lip curling, Damien turned his face away, spitting a mouthful of blood on the ground beside him. “Should have known,” he muttered, forcing himself to sit upright, despite pain the screamed through him.
The young face stared at him with more anxiety than he had expected. “You should sit still.”
Glaring at the young man, Damien defiantly stumbled to his feet. He didn’t dare look down at his body yet, knowing that if he did, his adrenaline-fuelled brain would catch up, realise it shouldn’t be upright and probably drop him on his face on the ground.
“Vryce!”
The look he threw over his shoulder was venomous. He took laboured steps towards his pack. “Don’t you even try to talk to me,” he whispered, sinking to his knees beside the pitiable bundle.
With shaking hands, he managed to negotiate the straps, clenching his teeth as the ripped skin of his hand caught against the fabric. Pulling out a medi-pack, he tore it open with his teeth, scattering equipment over his bloody lap, and picking up a strip of anti-biotic bandage.
The shadow fell on him, but he didn’t look up, tugging at the pack with teeth and undamaged fingers.
The youth knelt beside him, grasping his wrist. “Don’t be an idiot, Damien,” he said with that damned familiar impatience. “Let me help you.”
There is was again, that tone, those words, that expression.
He looked up at the boy, saw him recoil from the mistrust and loathing that was apparently written all over his face, but still, one of those elegant hands reached out and snatched the bandages from him, opening the pack with an ease that made Damien want to lash out at him even more.
“Your hand, first.” The boy’s voice was quiet and Damien could hear the uncertainty. Ha. That wasn’t a familiar thing for this character, he knew.
Turning his wounded hand palm-up, the flesh hanging in ribbons, Damien forced himself not to recoil when the medicinal strip was laid over the bleeding skin, his teeth grinding together.
Dark eyes darted to his face. “If it is painful...”
“I’ve had worse,” Damien said curtly, his voice tense. Oh, how much meaning laced those words. He swallowed down bitter bile, his throat working fiercely, and glared at his hand, as if that could dull the sharp pain.
He heard the quiet sigh that sounded like it was part-frustration, part-amusement, part-disbelief. “Your stubbornness is astounding,” the young man murmured, gently smoothing the strip of bandage into place.
Damien made a noncommittal sound, drawing a breath between his teeth.
Undaunted, the young man reached for the strips of his tunic, only for Damien to grab his wrist with his good hand, his eyes flashing. “I didn’t ask for your help,” he said quietly, coldly.
Those dark eyes met his and there was a flicker of something, something abundantly familiar. “If you think I intend to leave you bleeding and horseless in these woods, you are very much mistaken,” the boy said evenly.
One side of Damien’s mouth twisted wryly. “And what,” he rhetorised, releasing the thin wrist dismissively. “Have I done to deserve such goodwill from a stranger?”
For a moment, those dark eyes stared at him with such intensity it made his insides clench, yet another piece of confirmation, overlaid on a delicate structure of doubts, fears and a thousand faltering emotions.
“I owed you one,” the boy said, so quietly it was barely audible over the stream.
What it was about those words that made his anger dissipate, he didn’t know, but something forced his grief and the aching hurt to the surface, stealing his breath and forcing him to avert his face, his eyes gleaming brightly and, this time, it was nothing to do with the blood sluicing his torn skin.
Ignoring the protests of his torn and gashed body, he forced himself upright, swaying. He had to go. Had to be on his way. Had to be away. Had to be away from the familiar words, the gestures, the motions, had to be away from him. Couldn’t take that, not again.
“Vryce!”
The startled cry rose as suddenly as the blackness did and, with a muffled curse at his treacherous body, Damien fell.
RATING: PG
FANDOMS: The Coldfire Trilogy.
SPOILERS: All three Coldfire books. Big spoilers at that. Be warned.
NOTES: Yet again, bwinter can be blamed for this particular fic, because she suggested I read the books and she has since been my instigator. And there might be slash. Eventually. If the boys are compliant.
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How long he had stood at the edge of the cliff, he wasn’t sure. Coreset had long since come and gone, and he was still standing there. He should have felt the chill, should have gone indoors, but for reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but stand and stare blankly at the forest.
It had to be impossible.
No matter what that young man, so familiar yet so strange at the same time, had said, it couldn’t be possible, wouldn’t. Or was it that he just didn’t want to have to deal with that all over again?
What if it was true?
He turned sharply away from the forest, pulling his coat tightly around him, his features tight as he walked towards the Inn. Why here? Why now? If it wasn’t true, why would someone do that? What purpose did it have?
He exhaled a tired sigh. As if he didn’t have questions enough already.
Approaching the inn, Damien hesitated outside the door. The main lobby and halls were full of tourists, morbidly curious visitors, talking, laughing, recollecting, and he found that suddenly he didn’t want to be near them and their amusement. He had come here for a reason, the only reason he had left, and now even that had been thrown into question.
The stables then. The small, simple stone building was attached to the Inn, sheltered and secure, but without the people. Somewhere quiet, somewhere isolated, somewhere that he might be able to bring the whirling kaleidoscope of his thoughts back into some semblance of order.
As he pushed open the door, the warm, musky scent of the animals washed over him, the dried out grass adding a sweet strain to the air. One of the mares whickered softly, but otherwise, his entrance was ignored.
There was a low bench against the wall, below one of the two windows which flanked the doorway, so he sat, slipping his sword from his back and propping it against the wall. Behind him, a lamp flickered on the sill, warding away the darkness through the thick, dimpled glass.
Leaning back, he sighed, closing his eyes, running his hands over his face, the light prickle of stubble rasping against his fingertips. Prayers took shape in his mind, seeking support, answers, help, guidance, anything, but none came to be fully formed, as thoughts and concerns were overlapped by emotions that he struggled to rein in.
How was it that, even in death, vulking Gerald Tarrant could get inside his head and leave him feeling even more lost and confused than he already did? That wasn’t even starting on the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, if that… boy had been telling the truth.
Boy.
Was he even that?
“Damn it.” Damien whispered, dropping his hands into his lap.
It was over, had been over, and he was okay with that. At least, he’d been getting there. Couldn’t deny that he had been missing Tarrant’s company. After almost two solid years with him, how could he not? But yeah, he had been dealing with what he had felt, moving on, putting it behind him, finding a new direction.
And now this?
“Damn it,” he swore again Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t surprised to realize he was shaking. Anger, hurt and confusion were a potent combination.
It wasn’t possible, couldn’t be. Not after everything that had happened. Gerald had made his greatest sacrifice on the slopes of Mount Shaitan. That fragile mortal life had been all he had left. How could anything more have happened? It was impossible.
But then, this was Tarrant. The Hunter. The Prophet.
Uttering a curse under his breath, Damien rose, pacing back and forth across the floor, frustration, fatigue and that damned grief creeping back up on him. The horses shied and stamped nervously, but he ignored them.
That was why he had come here, as the forest had started to burn; to finish it, once and for all, to say a final farewell to the man, the myth, the figurehead, the legend, the unexpected and impossible friend.
As the forest had burned, he had mourned, watched the remnants of what Tarrant had been and what he had built so lovingly reduced to ashes and dust, mortal traces of an almost immortal life, faint sparks blowing in the wind. He had watched until the heart of the flames had dulled to a throbbing red glow, watched until his eyes were dry, watched until…
It had to be impossible.
From the inn, the sound of voices rose in volume, the sign that a door had been opened, that someone else was roaming.
Glancing through the dimpled windows, Damien felt his jaw clench. It was the youth, and of course he would just have to be coming towards the stables. It wasn’t enough that he had kicked Damien’s emotions sideways. Now he had to intrude again and it wasn’t like Damien could avoid him; one entrance, one exit and a limit to the places he could hide himself.
Shit.
Folding his arms over his chest, he stalked to the far end of the stalls, leaning against the wall. Maybe if he just stayed out of the way, maybe he wouldn’t be noticed and the damned boy would be oblivious to the fact that his hands were itching to wrap around that slim neck.
God damn it.
It had been weeks, months since he had wanted to lash out at someone. Maybe it was too many nights of waking dreams, memories of fire and illusion and of that severed head, those empty, blank silver eyes. A shudder ran the length of his spine and he forced that image away for the hundredth time.
Even if what the boy said was true, it wouldn’t change the fact that he had seen that, that he would never be able to forget it, not even if he could perform a thousand Workings to ensure it.
He gritted his teeth together, his fingers digging into the meat of his upper arms, as he watched the door open. With the natural grace of one so slender, the youth crossed the threshold, lifting a hand to automatically smooth back wind-tossed strands of his hair.
That gesture, that simple little motion, was enough to force Damien’s nails through his skin, his knuckles white. His throat constricted and he tried to stifle a faint sound, but whether it was distress or fury at this unnatural usurping, he couldn’t say.
Apparently, he wasn’t successful enough and the youth whipped around warily, a dagger in his hand. The dark eyes squinted at the shadows where Damien stood, then he seemed to relax, lowering the blade and slipping it into a sheath at his hip.
Lucky for some, Damien thought bitterly.
“Still here?”
“Apparently,” he replied coolly.
Those dark eyes continued to watch him, and it took all his frayed restraint not to look away, not to move. If it had been any other place, any other time, he would have suspected a Knowing, but not now. Now, he was being watched, nothing more.
“Didn’t see you inside,” the youth said.
Damien nodded curtly. “Haven’t been in,” he said, using a shoulder to push himself off from the wall. He approached the bench, bending to retrieve his sword and lashing it back onto his back. Turning bleak eyes on the boy, he gazed at him for a moment, then asked, little more than a breath, not strong enough to be a whisper, “Why?”
The boy gazed back at him, brows twitching slightly, as if not quite understanding the question. “Why?”
“Why tell me what you did?” Damien’s voice was taut, sharp, clipped with anger, with emotion, with the faintest edge of grief. “What was the point?”
Narrow shoulders lifted, but those damned dark eyes stayed on his face, watching intently, keenly, like a hunt... no. No. Not like that, not like him. “Speculation?” he offered mildly. “A possibility?”
A moment after his body had reacted, Damien realised he was watching his hand squeezing that wretched throat, realised that warm hands were clutching his wrist and dark eyes were staring at him, wary, fearful, but without recrimination or anger.
“Why?” he demanded, his voice trembling more than he would have liked. He felt flesh shift beneath his hand as the boy struggled to swallow, his olive skin darkening by the moment.
He saw the tip of a pink tongue touch the lower lip, felt the trembling breath. “You, of all people, deserved to know,” the boy’s voice was raw, choked.
Pushing the boy from him as if burned by his words, Damien turned away, his hands clenching into fists by his sides. “Did you even wonder,” he whispered, not trusting his voice. “If I would want to know?”
Staggering against the edge of one of the stalls, the boy was watching him again, rubbing his throat with one hand. He didn’t say anything, and when Damien glared at him, he averted his eyes.
With a curse, Damien walked towards the door.
“Vryce.”
He didn’t look back, but he hesitated.
“I’m sorry.” The young voice had an intonation that seemed out of place. A sincerity and softness. So familiar, so damnably and painfully familiar. “Truly.”
His eyes stung bitterly, fiercely. Blinking hard, Damien drew a sharp breath, forcing his body back under his control. “Yeah.” he muttered, stepping out into the smoke-wreathed night. “Well, that’s great for you.”
__________________________________
When dawn came, he moved on.
Even if he had planned to stay to the end, watching as the last of the towering trees crumbled to nothing, he couldn’t face it any longer. Even if the boy was lying, even if he was just playing on Damien’s emotions, it didn’t matter any more.
Remaining would only remind him how much he still had not been able to accept and that made his throat close up and anger take hold again. Anger which he clung to, anger which he cherished. Better that emotion than others that could leave him vulnerable and distracted.
Anger was definitely what he needed, and that damned boy was the target of every vicious thought crossing his mind.
Of course Tarrant had died! Of course he had!
Their bond was gone. Had been cut.
Death was the only explanation.
Yet, as he rode down the valley, away from the Black Ridge inn, daylight warming the greys of dawn, Damien couldn’t help but be aware of how his doubts had doubled, trebled since the previous night. The whens, wheres and what-ifs were running through his mind, repeated, overlapping, argued with then countered by his mind’s own exhausted frustration.
Sleep had become a rare acquaintance since his last visit to the forest, and now he sat on the back of his horse, staring blindly ahead, rocked and lulled by the swaying of the saddle, only sheer instinct forcing him to react.
Descending from the valley on a path he had barely noticed, the change in the air temperature roused him a little and he nudged his mare towards the south. Where he was going, he wasn’t quite sure, but as long as it was away from that constantly coiling cloud of smoke, that was fine by him.
When the day gave way to the afternoon heat, he had slipped from the saddle, removing the pack and letting the horse roam for a while. It trotted to a nearby stream, drinking deeply and tugging roots from the bank, while he sat in the shade, his sword laid across his lap, his eyes gazing - unseeing - at the decorative pommel.
Maybe he dozed, or maybe he just hadn’t realised how late it was, but all at once, darkness seemed to be creeping upon him and he looked up at the smoke- and cloud-threaded sky, a frown creasing his brow. Dusk, already?
Struggling onto his feet, he whistled softly, calling his horse back to him.
Splashing back from the other side of the stream, the mare was less than a dozen paces from him when a motion in the bushes behind it caught Damien’s eye, his sword drawn instantly.
With a chittering cry, a demon erupted from the bushes, large, built like some kind of scaly reptile, with long claws and a whipping tail. Black eyes glittered as it lunged into the shallow river.
The mare uttered a whinny of terror, rearing up and kicking out at this abomination, but the demon evaded the stamping hooves, its tail and claws slashing with vicious precision. The horse shrieked again, blood spattering the swirling surface.
Rushing forward, Damien slashed out at the demon, shearing away one of the deadly limbs, adding smoky spirals of black fluid to the cloudy tendrils of scarlet already dulling the clarity of the water.
With a hissing cry, the demon whirled on him, that prehensile tail whipping out and catching him across one arm. A raw strip of scarlet ripped open down his forearm, but he had managed to catch the tail with his hand when it had struck. Gripping it hard, despite its struggles, he brought his sword down, driving the point into the creature’s back, skewering it to the riverbed.
Thrashing and flailing, claws lashing at his legs beneath the water, the demon’s thick, black blood congealed on the surface, and gradually its struggles waned and it sank, limp and unyielding.
Panting, Damien disentangled his arm from the wiry tail, wincing as fresh blood trickled down his fingers. A quick glance told him that the sharp scales had grated up his palm nicely and he curled his fingers against the ripped flesh, wiping his sword on his pants. Slipping it back into its sheath, he stepped over the body, letting the current snare it, and approached his mare slowly.
Staggering away from him, the horse stumbled, uttering plaintive squeals. Her chestnut coat was slick with blood and he could see at least half-a-dozen wounds on her limbs and belly. Dark eyes were rolling in terror, her ears flattened against her skull and foam flecked her lips as she shied away.
“Easy, girl, easy,” he said softly, managing to snag her reins. “Its gone.”
The mare shrilled another fearful cry, wrenching away from him and rearing up, ripping the reins from his fingers. Staggering in an unsteady circle, she whinnied weakly. Around her legs, the water was a cloud of rose-pink, spreading ominously.
When she fell to her knees, the cloud bloomed deep-red for a moment and her head sagged under the water.
Damien swore softly, wading closer. There was no way she was going to be getting up again, he knew. Despite her struggles as he approached, she could barely even hold her head above the water.
Pulling a dagger from his belt, he squatted closer to her, his own blood adding to the deep redness of the water, and dispatched her as swiftly and mercifully as he could, her shuddering ribs going still in instants.
Forcing himself back to his feet, he waded back to the bank sitting down heavily on one of the boulders littered by the water’s edge, leaning heavily on his knees. “Damn it to hell,” he whispered faintly.
It wasn’t often he was caught off-guard and now...
Damn it!
Injured and horseless in the middle of the valley, with no idea how far he was from anywhere. Goddamn Tarrant and his vulking influence still hanging around. It could only be his fault. Yes, you, Tarrant, you vulking bastard!
A rustle made him look up, and he forced himself onto his feet at the sight of more of the same kind of demon swarming from the bushes. Several of them scrambled onto the mare’s body and he watched them ripping into the beast’s flesh, knowing that fate waited for him if he didn’t pull his shit together.
Forcing down the emotions he didn’t need, he clung to his anger, his pure fury, his sense of betrayal and outrage. He felt his heart pounding against his ribs, could hear every aching throb of his pulse in his ears, felt the adrenaline rushing through him and yelled a challenge at the demonlings.
They... there was no other word for it... they swarmed, lashing their way through the water and straight into the range of his sword. Instinct carried the blade, his muscles moving without conscious thought, one arm shielding him from those whip-like tails as his other arm lashed out, but even then, even when the bodies were piling around him, he knew it.
There were too many.
Even if there weren’t, he was physically and emotionally exhausted, wounded and stranded in their domain.
Still, he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.
Half a dozen more demons were sliced apart, falling at his feet before he felt claws sinking into his flesh, before he could smell the stale blood and feel dripping fangs raking his skin.
Everything seemed suddenly sharper, clearer. The trees were black silhouettes, stark against the silvering sky. He could hear every splashing ripple of the water around his knees, over the pebbles. Every rasping hiss of demonic breath was a roar. Even the rapid thumping of his heart seemed to slow, every moment dragging by.
And in the eerie stillness that came when he took a breath, the explosion of sound behind him was deafening.
And time moved as swiftly as ever once more.
The demons shrilled and chittered as one, two, three were picked off him with astonishing precision by blasts of what sounded like gun fire. Staggering, he lashed out weakly with his blade, taking out the final trio, before he sagged to his knees in the water, swaying unsteadily.
“What do you think you’re doing, you idiot?” a voice hissed close to his ear, and he felt a warm arm grabbing him around the ribs, dragging him towards the water’s edge and pushing him onto the shale.
Falling onto his side, Damien was panting heavily and he could taste blood on his lips. His sword slipped from his grip, clattering on the stone, and he drew a slow breath, his chest aching. Wounds throbbed for attention on his torso, upper arms and thighs, but had no doubts he didn’t have a limb that was uninjured.
The same warm hand gripped his upper arm and he was pulled onto his back, a face swimming into his line of sight.
His upper lip curling, Damien turned his face away, spitting a mouthful of blood on the ground beside him. “Should have known,” he muttered, forcing himself to sit upright, despite pain the screamed through him.
The young face stared at him with more anxiety than he had expected. “You should sit still.”
Glaring at the young man, Damien defiantly stumbled to his feet. He didn’t dare look down at his body yet, knowing that if he did, his adrenaline-fuelled brain would catch up, realise it shouldn’t be upright and probably drop him on his face on the ground.
“Vryce!”
The look he threw over his shoulder was venomous. He took laboured steps towards his pack. “Don’t you even try to talk to me,” he whispered, sinking to his knees beside the pitiable bundle.
With shaking hands, he managed to negotiate the straps, clenching his teeth as the ripped skin of his hand caught against the fabric. Pulling out a medi-pack, he tore it open with his teeth, scattering equipment over his bloody lap, and picking up a strip of anti-biotic bandage.
The shadow fell on him, but he didn’t look up, tugging at the pack with teeth and undamaged fingers.
The youth knelt beside him, grasping his wrist. “Don’t be an idiot, Damien,” he said with that damned familiar impatience. “Let me help you.”
There is was again, that tone, those words, that expression.
He looked up at the boy, saw him recoil from the mistrust and loathing that was apparently written all over his face, but still, one of those elegant hands reached out and snatched the bandages from him, opening the pack with an ease that made Damien want to lash out at him even more.
“Your hand, first.” The boy’s voice was quiet and Damien could hear the uncertainty. Ha. That wasn’t a familiar thing for this character, he knew.
Turning his wounded hand palm-up, the flesh hanging in ribbons, Damien forced himself not to recoil when the medicinal strip was laid over the bleeding skin, his teeth grinding together.
Dark eyes darted to his face. “If it is painful...”
“I’ve had worse,” Damien said curtly, his voice tense. Oh, how much meaning laced those words. He swallowed down bitter bile, his throat working fiercely, and glared at his hand, as if that could dull the sharp pain.
He heard the quiet sigh that sounded like it was part-frustration, part-amusement, part-disbelief. “Your stubbornness is astounding,” the young man murmured, gently smoothing the strip of bandage into place.
Damien made a noncommittal sound, drawing a breath between his teeth.
Undaunted, the young man reached for the strips of his tunic, only for Damien to grab his wrist with his good hand, his eyes flashing. “I didn’t ask for your help,” he said quietly, coldly.
Those dark eyes met his and there was a flicker of something, something abundantly familiar. “If you think I intend to leave you bleeding and horseless in these woods, you are very much mistaken,” the boy said evenly.
One side of Damien’s mouth twisted wryly. “And what,” he rhetorised, releasing the thin wrist dismissively. “Have I done to deserve such goodwill from a stranger?”
For a moment, those dark eyes stared at him with such intensity it made his insides clench, yet another piece of confirmation, overlaid on a delicate structure of doubts, fears and a thousand faltering emotions.
“I owed you one,” the boy said, so quietly it was barely audible over the stream.
What it was about those words that made his anger dissipate, he didn’t know, but something forced his grief and the aching hurt to the surface, stealing his breath and forcing him to avert his face, his eyes gleaming brightly and, this time, it was nothing to do with the blood sluicing his torn skin.
Ignoring the protests of his torn and gashed body, he forced himself upright, swaying. He had to go. Had to be on his way. Had to be away. Had to be away from the familiar words, the gestures, the motions, had to be away from him. Couldn’t take that, not again.
“Vryce!”
The startled cry rose as suddenly as the blackness did and, with a muffled curse at his treacherous body, Damien fell.