(no subject)
TITLE: The Hands of Lazarus (3/?)
RATING: R. Just to be safe.
FANDOMS: The Coldfire Trilogy.
SPOILERS: All three Coldfire books. Big spoilers at that. Be warned.
NOTES: *hides* My Damien wants to smite me.
_________________________
The fever came before nightfall.
Damien resolutely held on to struggling consciousness just long enough to see the brief, relieved look cross Gerald’s face, before pain and the pulsing heat of his body’s defences drove him into darkness.
It was like a suffocating mantle around him. Blankets and coverings snared his limbs, and no matter how he struggled to free himself, no matter how much he felt like he was smothering in heat and shelter, he couldn’t break free.
Gradually, even the awareness of his surroundings faded, leaving him in nothing but the trap of his own fevered delirium.
a figure silhouetted in the heart of the fire, spread in a cruciform position. He could feel the heat in the air, stealing the moisture from his throat, the air from his lungs, even from that distance. Moving closer, waves of warmth lapping out over him, he could see the face. Blackened meat peeled away from white bone. Over the crackle of the flames, he could hear the screams and the lidless eyes stared at him through the shimmering sheet of flame
Voices overlapped, maybe real, perhaps only figments of memories, deafening in a world that had gone silent for longer than he knew. Couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t tell who the speakers were. All that he could feel was the heat; heat of light, heat of covers, heat of anger.
cloaked, he stood at the top of the cliff. Damien approached on legs that felt leaden, remembered dread weighting his feet, saw the cloak slip aside, saw the peeling, burnt skin on a hand stripped to mere tissue, red meat beneath, fresh blood dripping, black by the moonlight
Burning, always burning. Bile and vomit choked in his throat, stifling the screams, hot hands grabbing, emptying his helpless throat, pushing, pressing, forcing him back, binding him with warm cloths, stilling him, imprisoning him.
Weak struggles rose from limbs that felt too cold, too numb, but they were forced down, beaten back and the blackness came again.
the storm had screamed itself hoarse and above them, the clouds parted. Sunlight streamed over the tempestuous sea and at the fore of the ship, tangled in the lines on the mast, a figure burst into flame
Wrong. That was wrong.
No flames. No fire. No burning.
A memory of a falling shadow, of a burden carried, of stumbling, of shade, of amber eyes watching with concern...
He forced his eyes open, dry as they were, but was dazzled by bright, pure light, golden, streaming in, burning, scorching, making him writhe and cry from a throat red-raw from screaming.
A voice swore and a heated touch pressed over his eyes, shielding him.
“We should close the shutters, Mer Meyers!”
“Leave them.” Tarrant. Damned vulking Tarrant. Sounded cold, as always. Lucky bastard. “We need all the light and heat we can get.”
Damien tried to swear at him, tried to lash out, tried to recoil from the light playing across his face. His skin felt like it was trying to crawl away from him, felt like it was bubbling, ripping, burning. The pain swelled like a wave, crashing over him with more power than he had believed possible.
cruciform on the ground, naked but for breeches, boots and that necklace, waiting for the dawn. The golden light touched the edge of the horizon and he was cut free, dragged into the shade, away from the scorching touch of the sun, his skin so cold
“... can hear me, can’t you, Vryce, you stubborn son of a bitch...”
Something poured against his lips, seared his throat like acid, making him gag and choke. His eyes snapped open, staring wildly. Formless shapes moved over him and he felt hot hands. More fluid was forced into his mouth and he retched, convulsing and coughing.
“God damn it, Damien! You, hold his head.”
Again, searing liquid burned his throat, but something, someone, was at his head, trying to restrain him. With a moist yell of pain, he thrashed blindly at his assailant, heard something crackle, heard a scream that wasn’t his, felt something impact with his skull, then merciless oblivion for a time.
Cruelly, it didn’t last nearly long enough, shapes emerging out of shadows, taking on familiar and sickening forms.
bound by living chains, writhing, scorching between bones and tendons, the scent of seared skin everywhere. Blood red surroundings closed in and the body fell, limp
“His body can’t sustain this level of pressure for much long.” Unfamiliar voice, quiet, serious. “I apologise, Mer Meyers. This is beyond my skills.”
Was that a sigh or the whisper of the wind.
“This, Mer Jakobs, is beyond the skill of any man.”
as human forms that weren’t human moved closer, watching. He stretched forth his hand, a beckoning gesture with so much power that Damien felt himself begin to respond. The sacrifice. The sword. Then, he screamed, screamed until his lungs were torn apart and blood soaked his tongue, screamed as he felt the connection ripped asunder, the soul burning away
“Damn.”
“That isn’t very comforting, Karril.”
“You know I can’t intervene here. Even if I want to.”
Tarrant swore, so softly, so eloquently that Damien wanted to laugh, wanted to reach out of the hellish black heat wrapped around him and just laugh. “What can you suggest, then?”
“There is one way...”
There was silence and to Damien, it felt eternal.
stepped out of the keep. Despite himself, Damien moved closer, though he remained in the shadows. He was close enough to see the tracks of tears in the grime coating Andrys Tarrant’s white face, close enough to see the blood on his sword and when he lifted his hand, close enough to see the empty silver eyes of the Hunter.
Only now, they weren’t silver and the hair clutched and tangled around Andrys Tarrant’s fist was no longer light brown.
Like snakes of black silk, long strands coiled around the man’s bloody wrist, and dark brown eyes reflected the deceptive warm flicker of the flames, almost alive, but not, not any longer.
It felt like his heart had stopped in his chest.
Andrys walked forward blindly, raising his hand and opening his fingers over the pyre and the severed head slipped from his grip, dropped. And in the heart of the flames, over the crackle and snap, Damien heard a scream
and was startled to realise it was his. He was sitting upright amid a heavy tangle of bed linens, shaking wildly, looking around with eyes that seemed unsuited for the task, his heart thumping so hard it felt like it was trying to escape.
“Damien?” A slender shape moved closer. Pale, dark hair, eyes that were reflecting flickering flame, but not blind, empty, staring, not here, not now, not dead...
Grabbing the figure’s arms, shivering, Damien clung to it, him, Tarrant? Meyers? Hunter? Him. “Not again... please...” he whispered desperately, pleading. “Saw it too many times already... not again...”
He heard the intake of breath as if it had been the crash of thunder.
Two hands, no longer so unbearably hot, but still making his skin prickle and sting, lifted his face, palms cupping his jaw. “Damien.” The body was closer too. Could feel the closeness, could feel the pressure, the warmth. “Damien, I’m here.”
Swaying unbearably, Damien squinted against the daylight pouring in through open windows, stared at the dark eyes, stared at the face that seemed overlaid by one paler. Should have silver eyes, lighter hair, but the expression was the same.
“Not again...” he whispered, felt his lips crack, tasted blood. His fingers tightened on the slim arms and his hands trembled, a painful convulsion wracking him as the chill of the air battled the burning in his flesh. “You... not again...”
The dark head nodded. “I’m here,” he said, his voice so quiet, so calm. It drew a shaking, laughing sob from Damien’s ragged lungs. After everything, after all the shit they had gone through, he could still be so calm. “I’m not going anywhere.” The thumbs smoothed against his cheeks, and he made himself look at that face, searching for the lie, searching for some sign that this was just another feverish dream. Gerald gazed back at him from behind the dark eyes. “I’m still here.”
Shuddering, Damien let himself be laid back down, but when Gerald started to pull away, he clutched wildly at one of the young-faced man’s hands, shivering as the other warm hand covered his, squeezing it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gerald repeated softly. “I’m here.”
His chest heaving with shallow, rapid breaths, Damien nodded. “Yeah... here...”
There was a brief silence and he felt the mattress shift beneath him, felt the slim body leaning closer.
“Damien, listen to me.” Unfocussed eyes tried to look at Gerald’s face. “A physician was here a few days ago. He informed me that unless this fever breaks, the constant pressure maintained by your body will kill you.”
His vision swimming, Damien laughed weakly, faintly. “Great news...”
Another hesitation, a different texture to it.
“I asked Karril if he would be able to help, as one of the Iezu...”
“Can’t interfere, right?”
Brown eyes sought his, held them, his expression deadly serious. “Unless you were able to utilise his symbiotic nature,” Gerald said quietly.
Damien stared at him, blinking hard.
Then, he started to laugh until pain made his body clench again.
“Damien, he can use the connection to infiltrate your defences,” Gerald’s voice was level, but there was a tremor underlying it, an urgency. “Once bound to you, he may be able to diffuse the dark fae, or even remove it entirely.”
Ignoring the tickle of sweat down his temples, Damien pressed his head back against the pillows, his hand tensing between Gerald’s. “You think...” he panted out. “I can even think of pleasure right now?”
Silence once more.
“It could be... arranged.” It almost sounded like a question, a hesitation.
Over the quiet wheezing gasp of his breathing, Damien went still. “How?”
“In any possible way,” Gerald said softly. “Any way that might allow Karril to help you.”
Damien stared at him. “Who?” he asked faintly. Brown eyes met his, so fleetingly, so haltingly, that he thought he might have been mistaken. Gerald’s narrow shoulders lifted. “You... you have got to be joking...”
“Let me phrase is another way, Vryce,” Gerald was looking down at their hands and Damien hastily pulled his free, into the warm recess of the blankets. “Would you risk accidentally breaking another stranger’s arm when they tried to touch you in the midst of your delirium?”
“But I...” A memory surfaced and Damien grimaced for a pain not his own. “Are they...”
“The boy is fine,” Gerald assured him. “It was a clean break, and he was tended well.” He sighed briefly. “Since then, I have let as few people near you as possible, in the interest of their well-being.”
Damien’s eyes closed, relieved. “I’m... conscious... aware now...” God. How could he be asking him such a thing? “Why not someone now...?”
“Who knows how long it will last?” Gerald said quietly, leaning closer. His expression was serious, his eyes grave and dark. “Damien, as it is a matter of life and death, I would be much obliged if you would choose to live.”
But this?
He had to look away, couldn’t look at that face, not quite his, but his all the same, the one he had given up his values, his morals, his position for, to use, then to help, then to come close to death for.
Fingers digging into the covers beneath him, Damien body went rigid as a painful wave of icy pain tore through him. His chest ached, his mind blurring back towards that darkness again and he knew, even without the fae, that he was tiring, that his body was being drained of everything it had in a futile battle with an enemy it couldn’t defeat, that if he didn’t do something, use some other way, then he would die, whether it be of sheer exhaustion or by the touch of the dark fae within him.
Death or this one thing, this offer, this gesture that Gerald was giving so tentatively, so warily, to save him. More intimate, more precious, more fragile than the blood-bond had ever been.
More terrifying because of it.
Gerald was willing to do whatever it took to save him.
It shook him to the core.
“Don’t want to hurt you.” he choked out, curling onto his side once more. He forced his wavering gaze to Gerald’s. “Do what you have to.”
There was a combination of relief, hope, trepidation and another emotion that he couldn’t quite recognise. “You’re sure?”
“Vulking hell!” he swore, his body jerking. “Now, you want to debate?”
He heard the faint, mirthless laughter, then a hand slipped beneath the blankets and he recoiled with a stifled groan from the sheer, scorching heat of that hand against his ice-cold chest.
“What...”
“Too hot,” Damien panted out. “Hurts. Can’t stop myself fighting it...”
Dark eyes gazed at him speculatively, then Gerald moved from his line of sight. He tried to follow the other man with his eyes, but winced and doubled over under the blankets as another pain lanced his belly.
COLD!
The cover had been pulled away and he felt something snare one wrist, felt his arm wrenched away from his body, cried out aloud as the air - so much colder than his over-warm cocoon - lashed at him. Eyes pressed shut against the blaze of brightness, the light of day burning his eyes, tears stinging across his face.
In his struggle to pull his wrist free, the other was captured, pulled in the opposite direction, stretching his arm taut, and he felt the texture of the bonds scraping against his over-sensitised skin. Rope. Where the vulk had Tarrant found rope?
Squirming, tugging futilely with what little energy he had left, he felt the warm hands on his ankles, restraining, stretching his legs out, despite his tensed muscles, his body spread and bared mercilessly.
Oh God. He was serious.
For some reason he couldn’t and didn’t dare to try and understand, that sent a wave of panic through Damien so fiercely that he shied back against the bed, as much as his bonds would allow. “Maybe you shouldn’t...”
“Now you want to debate?” In spite of the worry in his voice, Gerald managed to retain a level of sarcasm that made Damien wish his hands were free. “Don’t go anywhere,” the voice was a warm breath in his ear.
His curses muted by sounds of pain, Damien forced his eyes to open, squinting around the room. Darkness was edging onto his vision, perhaps natural, perhaps caused by the fae within him, and he tried to fix his eyes on something, anything, to allow him to see, focus, stay conscious, made himself breathe evenly.
How long he laboured, he couldn’t be sure, but then, a figure was approaching the bed. It was the same, but... different and he tried to focus, saw the hair was loose, swaying in silken waves over slender shoulders. Dark eyes met his and he saw pale lips turn up in a faint smile.
“I would suggest that you relax,” he said quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over Damien’s chest, not quite touching, but the heat still made Damien gasp aloud. “But I fear that may be asking the impossible.”
Damien wanted to retort angrily, to snarl a curse at him, to break free of his bonds and throttle the man and wipe that quiet, sardonic little smile off his lips, but the hand drifted higher over his sternum, and his body arched in response, muscles screaming out in protest as his heart felt like it was being seared over flames.
A gasped curse slipped from his lips, his head pressing back against the pillows. He could feel the tendons stretching throughout his body, could feel the tension almost as fiercely as he could feel the closing distance between his own skin and Gerald’s.
Then, another sensation, as the hand seemed to withdraw.
Slowly, slowly, he felt the mattress shift, felt the nearing warmth and then, a touch so light it made him shiver. Soft as silk, gentle as a breeze, it caressed his bare ribs, making the muscles beneath twitch and quiver.
The dark cloak of Tarrant’s hair slipped against his torso more sensually than it should have and he felt a slow, maddeningly calm puff of warm air against the sweat-slicked skin of his throat, so cold, yet drawing such heat.
Stifling a groan, he turned his face away from Tarrant, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists, felt the heated brush of fingertips, brief, teasing fire over the curve of his rapidly rising and falling ribs.
The pain was almost unbearable, blood scorching through his body, following the tracks of those touches, liquid fire making him gasp and tremble. And yet...
And yet, within him, as much as he tried to ignore it, deny it, tried to cling to the knowledge that this was the Hunter, something deeper, more primal, was responding to these foreign touches, these hands, this situation.
Even with his eyes pressed closed, he could see in his mind’s eye the flicker of a sardonic smile barely touching pale lips, silver eyes gleaming and the hair that swept against his skin was golden-brown once more.
Gasping, his eyes snapped open and he stared wildly at the headboard, nails driving into his palms.
He felt the lightest of brushes of lips against his jugular, trembled fiercely. The blood surged hotly to the lips of the Hunter at the recollection racing through him, the power, the remembrance of that bond, their bond.
As if reaching into his mind, into his senses, he felt the lips part, felt teeth scrape his skin, a shudder that was shock, revulsion and desperate, shameful longing running through him with a speed that made him whimper through his closed throat.
Gerald moved, closer. He felt the warmth of a body that had been so cold, so distant, so gone.
Knees pressed on either side of his hips, and he whined, trying to shy away as warm hands slid up towards his hands, never out of contact with his skin, unfolding his fists, palm-to-palm, then slipping back down his arms as if chasing the chill, dragging it back from the tips of his fingers.
Like lightning, pain jabbed at him as the icy touch of the dark fae retreated, pulling away from Gerald’s heat, from his touches. Black light blazed behind Damien’s eyes and he cried out as those palms pressed flat to his chest, searing, an invisible brand on his skin.
“No...” His voice cracked in pain. His heart felt like it was contracting within his chest, ripping away from living flesh, a knot of ice. Desperately, his spine arched outwards, trying to pull away from Gerald’s hands. “Oh God...”
“Stay with me, Vryce,” he heard the whisper as if it had been molten lava against his senses. “Trust me.”
Nodding tightly, his arms shuddering against his restraints, Damien drew gasping breaths, every one feeling as scorching and toxic as the air had on the slopes of Mount Shaitan.
Above him, Gerald’s body stretched out against his, covering him as heatedly as the blankets had and wherever that biting chill tried to retreat to, lips and hands touched, caught, chased it back, making Damien shiver from pain, from the heat, from...
“Oh God...”
The wicked lick against the smooth flesh that curved between hip and groin made him shudder for reasons he had never dared contemplate, the silken caress of Gerald’s hair against his thigh making his hips jerk.
Pain slipped from his mind for a moment as teeth scraped against the same spot, the blackness behind his eyes giving way to something else, something warmer. The light bite turned into something more intimate, making him moan faintly.
“Don’t...” he whispered.
Too much, too far, somewhere they had never gone before, somewhere they should never have gone, somewhere he didn’t... didn’t want... no... shouldn’t want...
“What I have to, Damien,” the whisper felt like a shout of defiance to his ears.
“No...” Damien choked out, struggling in earnest. “Please...” Too far. Too much. If taken, never returned. If touched, never without mark. If consumed, never able to break free. Not again. Permanent. Forever. And if he lost that again, if he felt it sheared away, like a part of himself, like a part of his own soul... “I-I can’t...”
A face swam before his, pale, paler than it should be, but not as pale as it had been. The tips of fingers touched his cheek, smooth, light. “You have done more than this to preserve me.” Gerald’s voice was as soft as his touch.
Shaking his head, shying from that touch, Damien was shivering violently. “No...”
“Damien.”
“No!”
Damien.
It was... unspoken. Unsaid. And yet, it rang in his mind with all the clarity of a bell.
Turning a wild-eyed stare back to Gerald, Damien tried to gather breath to speak, his whole body shuddering, sodden with perspiration and exertion. “Wh-what...”
“Until one of us dies,” Gerald whispered, his eyes locked onto Damien’s, showing him the truth, making him understand, see, feel. A part of my soul will always be within you.
“No...” Damien felt scalding tears break from the corner of his eyes, slipping down his temples. “No... it... gone. I felt it...”
A sharply as the lash of a whip, emotion struck him, emotion that wasn’t his, that made his eyes widen. As if the link had never been severed. Shock, awe, wonder, fear, concern and...
“You vulking bastard...” He half-sobbed, half-screamed it, fighting against the ropes like a wounded animal. “You... you were alive... and it was there... any time... you could have... and you didn’t...”
Hands caught his face, ignoring his struggles, holding him, Gerald’s brow touching his, dark eyes fixed on him. “I know,” Gerald whispered, his voice so close Damien could feel the breath against his cracked and bleeding lips. “I know.”
“Bastard... son of a bitch...” He didn’t care about the tears, didn’t care about the pain, didn’t care about anything. “I thought you were dead!” He was choking on sobs now, shaking with the force of his emotion. “You bastard! I trusted you!”
There was a weak laugh, warm and soft against his skin. “Always told you not to.” Gerald’s voice was little more than a breath, shaking, tremulous.
He felt one of Gerald’s thumbs swipe the tears, felt the smear of the fluid against his skin, tried not to gasp when he felt that warm mouth touch his, when he felt the surge of emotion. His or Gerald’s? Or both?
The name came to his lips as easily as breathing, a longing, wanting sigh, what he craved, what he needed, what he had missed so painfully. “Gerald...” he whispered faintly against the other man’s lips, felt him tremble.
What had been a chaste, innocent brush of their mouths was no longer. With a sound of hunger, of desperation, Gerald kissed him, hard, possessive, fierce. Slender fingers wove through his matted hair, cradling his head, and Damien felt rather than heard the groan slide from his lips.
And then, heat.
Pure heat.
Heat enough to push all else from his mind, pain, grief, fear, anger, all pushed aside as the heat took him entirely, washing through him like a tide, and the blackness was washed away in the fire.
Was it him that sobbed out, screamed aloud, cried out almost desperately, his whole body out of his control, arching, tensing, the white pain shooting through him so intensely, his heart so tight in his chest? Was it pain that laced it or something else?
Panting, shaking, he sagged against the bedding, his throat and lungs burning. Over him, Gerald sprawled, panting as fiercely as he was. One hand braced by Damien’s head, his dark eyes were fixed on Damien’s face, so intense, so hungry.
“Vulking hell...” Damien whispered dazedly, too exhausted and stunned to protest, shaken and trembling.
“It’s done,” a new, but familiar voice murmured.
Damien’s head whipped sideway, making his temples throb painfully, then focussed on the wavering figure standing by the bed. “K-Karril?” he rasped, his mouth drier than it had any right to be.
With a growl, Gerald looked around, his eyes flashing dangerously.
Raising near-transparent hands in a warding gesture, Karril looked past Gerald, at Damien. “You’re clean,” he said. “The dark fae is gone.”
With a shudder of relief, Damien nodded, grasping at this one fact, this little bit of solid reality. Ha! Reality. Being spoken to by a see-through embodiment of a demon whose symbiotic relationship with pleasure had just exorcised dark fae from you while you were being molested by the formerly undead Prophet of your old church...
Oh God.
All at once, he became sharply aware of the fingertips still pressing against the nape of his neck beneath his hair, of the press of a lean, smooth chest against his own, of the creases in the fabric of the pants that were brushing against his thighs.
He should push Gerald away, push him off, find some reservoir of energy and move away, protest, say something.
His body, though, felt spent.
“Untie me,” he whispered wearily, closing his eyes. He felt the movement, felt the brush of Gerald’s hair which drew another shudder of something that really, really wasn’t pleasure. Really.
He felt the tension in the ropes at his ankles slacken and exhaled a quiet, relieved sigh. Letting himself collapse fully against the blankets, he could hear and feel Gerald moving around the bed.
“Thank you,” he whispered as he felt a hand tugging at the cords around his right wrist, then let the pure, clean exhaustion borne of physical exertion claim him. Not before, however, he let the words spill from his split lips, “You bastard.”
RATING: R. Just to be safe.
FANDOMS: The Coldfire Trilogy.
SPOILERS: All three Coldfire books. Big spoilers at that. Be warned.
NOTES: *hides* My Damien wants to smite me.
_________________________
The fever came before nightfall.
Damien resolutely held on to struggling consciousness just long enough to see the brief, relieved look cross Gerald’s face, before pain and the pulsing heat of his body’s defences drove him into darkness.
It was like a suffocating mantle around him. Blankets and coverings snared his limbs, and no matter how he struggled to free himself, no matter how much he felt like he was smothering in heat and shelter, he couldn’t break free.
Gradually, even the awareness of his surroundings faded, leaving him in nothing but the trap of his own fevered delirium.
a figure silhouetted in the heart of the fire, spread in a cruciform position. He could feel the heat in the air, stealing the moisture from his throat, the air from his lungs, even from that distance. Moving closer, waves of warmth lapping out over him, he could see the face. Blackened meat peeled away from white bone. Over the crackle of the flames, he could hear the screams and the lidless eyes stared at him through the shimmering sheet of flame
Voices overlapped, maybe real, perhaps only figments of memories, deafening in a world that had gone silent for longer than he knew. Couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t tell who the speakers were. All that he could feel was the heat; heat of light, heat of covers, heat of anger.
cloaked, he stood at the top of the cliff. Damien approached on legs that felt leaden, remembered dread weighting his feet, saw the cloak slip aside, saw the peeling, burnt skin on a hand stripped to mere tissue, red meat beneath, fresh blood dripping, black by the moonlight
Burning, always burning. Bile and vomit choked in his throat, stifling the screams, hot hands grabbing, emptying his helpless throat, pushing, pressing, forcing him back, binding him with warm cloths, stilling him, imprisoning him.
Weak struggles rose from limbs that felt too cold, too numb, but they were forced down, beaten back and the blackness came again.
the storm had screamed itself hoarse and above them, the clouds parted. Sunlight streamed over the tempestuous sea and at the fore of the ship, tangled in the lines on the mast, a figure burst into flame
Wrong. That was wrong.
No flames. No fire. No burning.
A memory of a falling shadow, of a burden carried, of stumbling, of shade, of amber eyes watching with concern...
He forced his eyes open, dry as they were, but was dazzled by bright, pure light, golden, streaming in, burning, scorching, making him writhe and cry from a throat red-raw from screaming.
A voice swore and a heated touch pressed over his eyes, shielding him.
“We should close the shutters, Mer Meyers!”
“Leave them.” Tarrant. Damned vulking Tarrant. Sounded cold, as always. Lucky bastard. “We need all the light and heat we can get.”
Damien tried to swear at him, tried to lash out, tried to recoil from the light playing across his face. His skin felt like it was trying to crawl away from him, felt like it was bubbling, ripping, burning. The pain swelled like a wave, crashing over him with more power than he had believed possible.
cruciform on the ground, naked but for breeches, boots and that necklace, waiting for the dawn. The golden light touched the edge of the horizon and he was cut free, dragged into the shade, away from the scorching touch of the sun, his skin so cold
“... can hear me, can’t you, Vryce, you stubborn son of a bitch...”
Something poured against his lips, seared his throat like acid, making him gag and choke. His eyes snapped open, staring wildly. Formless shapes moved over him and he felt hot hands. More fluid was forced into his mouth and he retched, convulsing and coughing.
“God damn it, Damien! You, hold his head.”
Again, searing liquid burned his throat, but something, someone, was at his head, trying to restrain him. With a moist yell of pain, he thrashed blindly at his assailant, heard something crackle, heard a scream that wasn’t his, felt something impact with his skull, then merciless oblivion for a time.
Cruelly, it didn’t last nearly long enough, shapes emerging out of shadows, taking on familiar and sickening forms.
bound by living chains, writhing, scorching between bones and tendons, the scent of seared skin everywhere. Blood red surroundings closed in and the body fell, limp
“His body can’t sustain this level of pressure for much long.” Unfamiliar voice, quiet, serious. “I apologise, Mer Meyers. This is beyond my skills.”
Was that a sigh or the whisper of the wind.
“This, Mer Jakobs, is beyond the skill of any man.”
as human forms that weren’t human moved closer, watching. He stretched forth his hand, a beckoning gesture with so much power that Damien felt himself begin to respond. The sacrifice. The sword. Then, he screamed, screamed until his lungs were torn apart and blood soaked his tongue, screamed as he felt the connection ripped asunder, the soul burning away
“Damn.”
“That isn’t very comforting, Karril.”
“You know I can’t intervene here. Even if I want to.”
Tarrant swore, so softly, so eloquently that Damien wanted to laugh, wanted to reach out of the hellish black heat wrapped around him and just laugh. “What can you suggest, then?”
“There is one way...”
There was silence and to Damien, it felt eternal.
stepped out of the keep. Despite himself, Damien moved closer, though he remained in the shadows. He was close enough to see the tracks of tears in the grime coating Andrys Tarrant’s white face, close enough to see the blood on his sword and when he lifted his hand, close enough to see the empty silver eyes of the Hunter.
Only now, they weren’t silver and the hair clutched and tangled around Andrys Tarrant’s fist was no longer light brown.
Like snakes of black silk, long strands coiled around the man’s bloody wrist, and dark brown eyes reflected the deceptive warm flicker of the flames, almost alive, but not, not any longer.
It felt like his heart had stopped in his chest.
Andrys walked forward blindly, raising his hand and opening his fingers over the pyre and the severed head slipped from his grip, dropped. And in the heart of the flames, over the crackle and snap, Damien heard a scream
and was startled to realise it was his. He was sitting upright amid a heavy tangle of bed linens, shaking wildly, looking around with eyes that seemed unsuited for the task, his heart thumping so hard it felt like it was trying to escape.
“Damien?” A slender shape moved closer. Pale, dark hair, eyes that were reflecting flickering flame, but not blind, empty, staring, not here, not now, not dead...
Grabbing the figure’s arms, shivering, Damien clung to it, him, Tarrant? Meyers? Hunter? Him. “Not again... please...” he whispered desperately, pleading. “Saw it too many times already... not again...”
He heard the intake of breath as if it had been the crash of thunder.
Two hands, no longer so unbearably hot, but still making his skin prickle and sting, lifted his face, palms cupping his jaw. “Damien.” The body was closer too. Could feel the closeness, could feel the pressure, the warmth. “Damien, I’m here.”
Swaying unbearably, Damien squinted against the daylight pouring in through open windows, stared at the dark eyes, stared at the face that seemed overlaid by one paler. Should have silver eyes, lighter hair, but the expression was the same.
“Not again...” he whispered, felt his lips crack, tasted blood. His fingers tightened on the slim arms and his hands trembled, a painful convulsion wracking him as the chill of the air battled the burning in his flesh. “You... not again...”
The dark head nodded. “I’m here,” he said, his voice so quiet, so calm. It drew a shaking, laughing sob from Damien’s ragged lungs. After everything, after all the shit they had gone through, he could still be so calm. “I’m not going anywhere.” The thumbs smoothed against his cheeks, and he made himself look at that face, searching for the lie, searching for some sign that this was just another feverish dream. Gerald gazed back at him from behind the dark eyes. “I’m still here.”
Shuddering, Damien let himself be laid back down, but when Gerald started to pull away, he clutched wildly at one of the young-faced man’s hands, shivering as the other warm hand covered his, squeezing it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gerald repeated softly. “I’m here.”
His chest heaving with shallow, rapid breaths, Damien nodded. “Yeah... here...”
There was a brief silence and he felt the mattress shift beneath him, felt the slim body leaning closer.
“Damien, listen to me.” Unfocussed eyes tried to look at Gerald’s face. “A physician was here a few days ago. He informed me that unless this fever breaks, the constant pressure maintained by your body will kill you.”
His vision swimming, Damien laughed weakly, faintly. “Great news...”
Another hesitation, a different texture to it.
“I asked Karril if he would be able to help, as one of the Iezu...”
“Can’t interfere, right?”
Brown eyes sought his, held them, his expression deadly serious. “Unless you were able to utilise his symbiotic nature,” Gerald said quietly.
Damien stared at him, blinking hard.
Then, he started to laugh until pain made his body clench again.
“Damien, he can use the connection to infiltrate your defences,” Gerald’s voice was level, but there was a tremor underlying it, an urgency. “Once bound to you, he may be able to diffuse the dark fae, or even remove it entirely.”
Ignoring the tickle of sweat down his temples, Damien pressed his head back against the pillows, his hand tensing between Gerald’s. “You think...” he panted out. “I can even think of pleasure right now?”
Silence once more.
“It could be... arranged.” It almost sounded like a question, a hesitation.
Over the quiet wheezing gasp of his breathing, Damien went still. “How?”
“In any possible way,” Gerald said softly. “Any way that might allow Karril to help you.”
Damien stared at him. “Who?” he asked faintly. Brown eyes met his, so fleetingly, so haltingly, that he thought he might have been mistaken. Gerald’s narrow shoulders lifted. “You... you have got to be joking...”
“Let me phrase is another way, Vryce,” Gerald was looking down at their hands and Damien hastily pulled his free, into the warm recess of the blankets. “Would you risk accidentally breaking another stranger’s arm when they tried to touch you in the midst of your delirium?”
“But I...” A memory surfaced and Damien grimaced for a pain not his own. “Are they...”
“The boy is fine,” Gerald assured him. “It was a clean break, and he was tended well.” He sighed briefly. “Since then, I have let as few people near you as possible, in the interest of their well-being.”
Damien’s eyes closed, relieved. “I’m... conscious... aware now...” God. How could he be asking him such a thing? “Why not someone now...?”
“Who knows how long it will last?” Gerald said quietly, leaning closer. His expression was serious, his eyes grave and dark. “Damien, as it is a matter of life and death, I would be much obliged if you would choose to live.”
But this?
He had to look away, couldn’t look at that face, not quite his, but his all the same, the one he had given up his values, his morals, his position for, to use, then to help, then to come close to death for.
Fingers digging into the covers beneath him, Damien body went rigid as a painful wave of icy pain tore through him. His chest ached, his mind blurring back towards that darkness again and he knew, even without the fae, that he was tiring, that his body was being drained of everything it had in a futile battle with an enemy it couldn’t defeat, that if he didn’t do something, use some other way, then he would die, whether it be of sheer exhaustion or by the touch of the dark fae within him.
Death or this one thing, this offer, this gesture that Gerald was giving so tentatively, so warily, to save him. More intimate, more precious, more fragile than the blood-bond had ever been.
More terrifying because of it.
Gerald was willing to do whatever it took to save him.
It shook him to the core.
“Don’t want to hurt you.” he choked out, curling onto his side once more. He forced his wavering gaze to Gerald’s. “Do what you have to.”
There was a combination of relief, hope, trepidation and another emotion that he couldn’t quite recognise. “You’re sure?”
“Vulking hell!” he swore, his body jerking. “Now, you want to debate?”
He heard the faint, mirthless laughter, then a hand slipped beneath the blankets and he recoiled with a stifled groan from the sheer, scorching heat of that hand against his ice-cold chest.
“What...”
“Too hot,” Damien panted out. “Hurts. Can’t stop myself fighting it...”
Dark eyes gazed at him speculatively, then Gerald moved from his line of sight. He tried to follow the other man with his eyes, but winced and doubled over under the blankets as another pain lanced his belly.
COLD!
The cover had been pulled away and he felt something snare one wrist, felt his arm wrenched away from his body, cried out aloud as the air - so much colder than his over-warm cocoon - lashed at him. Eyes pressed shut against the blaze of brightness, the light of day burning his eyes, tears stinging across his face.
In his struggle to pull his wrist free, the other was captured, pulled in the opposite direction, stretching his arm taut, and he felt the texture of the bonds scraping against his over-sensitised skin. Rope. Where the vulk had Tarrant found rope?
Squirming, tugging futilely with what little energy he had left, he felt the warm hands on his ankles, restraining, stretching his legs out, despite his tensed muscles, his body spread and bared mercilessly.
Oh God. He was serious.
For some reason he couldn’t and didn’t dare to try and understand, that sent a wave of panic through Damien so fiercely that he shied back against the bed, as much as his bonds would allow. “Maybe you shouldn’t...”
“Now you want to debate?” In spite of the worry in his voice, Gerald managed to retain a level of sarcasm that made Damien wish his hands were free. “Don’t go anywhere,” the voice was a warm breath in his ear.
His curses muted by sounds of pain, Damien forced his eyes to open, squinting around the room. Darkness was edging onto his vision, perhaps natural, perhaps caused by the fae within him, and he tried to fix his eyes on something, anything, to allow him to see, focus, stay conscious, made himself breathe evenly.
How long he laboured, he couldn’t be sure, but then, a figure was approaching the bed. It was the same, but... different and he tried to focus, saw the hair was loose, swaying in silken waves over slender shoulders. Dark eyes met his and he saw pale lips turn up in a faint smile.
“I would suggest that you relax,” he said quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over Damien’s chest, not quite touching, but the heat still made Damien gasp aloud. “But I fear that may be asking the impossible.”
Damien wanted to retort angrily, to snarl a curse at him, to break free of his bonds and throttle the man and wipe that quiet, sardonic little smile off his lips, but the hand drifted higher over his sternum, and his body arched in response, muscles screaming out in protest as his heart felt like it was being seared over flames.
A gasped curse slipped from his lips, his head pressing back against the pillows. He could feel the tendons stretching throughout his body, could feel the tension almost as fiercely as he could feel the closing distance between his own skin and Gerald’s.
Then, another sensation, as the hand seemed to withdraw.
Slowly, slowly, he felt the mattress shift, felt the nearing warmth and then, a touch so light it made him shiver. Soft as silk, gentle as a breeze, it caressed his bare ribs, making the muscles beneath twitch and quiver.
The dark cloak of Tarrant’s hair slipped against his torso more sensually than it should have and he felt a slow, maddeningly calm puff of warm air against the sweat-slicked skin of his throat, so cold, yet drawing such heat.
Stifling a groan, he turned his face away from Tarrant, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists, felt the heated brush of fingertips, brief, teasing fire over the curve of his rapidly rising and falling ribs.
The pain was almost unbearable, blood scorching through his body, following the tracks of those touches, liquid fire making him gasp and tremble. And yet...
And yet, within him, as much as he tried to ignore it, deny it, tried to cling to the knowledge that this was the Hunter, something deeper, more primal, was responding to these foreign touches, these hands, this situation.
Even with his eyes pressed closed, he could see in his mind’s eye the flicker of a sardonic smile barely touching pale lips, silver eyes gleaming and the hair that swept against his skin was golden-brown once more.
Gasping, his eyes snapped open and he stared wildly at the headboard, nails driving into his palms.
He felt the lightest of brushes of lips against his jugular, trembled fiercely. The blood surged hotly to the lips of the Hunter at the recollection racing through him, the power, the remembrance of that bond, their bond.
As if reaching into his mind, into his senses, he felt the lips part, felt teeth scrape his skin, a shudder that was shock, revulsion and desperate, shameful longing running through him with a speed that made him whimper through his closed throat.
Gerald moved, closer. He felt the warmth of a body that had been so cold, so distant, so gone.
Knees pressed on either side of his hips, and he whined, trying to shy away as warm hands slid up towards his hands, never out of contact with his skin, unfolding his fists, palm-to-palm, then slipping back down his arms as if chasing the chill, dragging it back from the tips of his fingers.
Like lightning, pain jabbed at him as the icy touch of the dark fae retreated, pulling away from Gerald’s heat, from his touches. Black light blazed behind Damien’s eyes and he cried out as those palms pressed flat to his chest, searing, an invisible brand on his skin.
“No...” His voice cracked in pain. His heart felt like it was contracting within his chest, ripping away from living flesh, a knot of ice. Desperately, his spine arched outwards, trying to pull away from Gerald’s hands. “Oh God...”
“Stay with me, Vryce,” he heard the whisper as if it had been molten lava against his senses. “Trust me.”
Nodding tightly, his arms shuddering against his restraints, Damien drew gasping breaths, every one feeling as scorching and toxic as the air had on the slopes of Mount Shaitan.
Above him, Gerald’s body stretched out against his, covering him as heatedly as the blankets had and wherever that biting chill tried to retreat to, lips and hands touched, caught, chased it back, making Damien shiver from pain, from the heat, from...
“Oh God...”
The wicked lick against the smooth flesh that curved between hip and groin made him shudder for reasons he had never dared contemplate, the silken caress of Gerald’s hair against his thigh making his hips jerk.
Pain slipped from his mind for a moment as teeth scraped against the same spot, the blackness behind his eyes giving way to something else, something warmer. The light bite turned into something more intimate, making him moan faintly.
“Don’t...” he whispered.
Too much, too far, somewhere they had never gone before, somewhere they should never have gone, somewhere he didn’t... didn’t want... no... shouldn’t want...
“What I have to, Damien,” the whisper felt like a shout of defiance to his ears.
“No...” Damien choked out, struggling in earnest. “Please...” Too far. Too much. If taken, never returned. If touched, never without mark. If consumed, never able to break free. Not again. Permanent. Forever. And if he lost that again, if he felt it sheared away, like a part of himself, like a part of his own soul... “I-I can’t...”
A face swam before his, pale, paler than it should be, but not as pale as it had been. The tips of fingers touched his cheek, smooth, light. “You have done more than this to preserve me.” Gerald’s voice was as soft as his touch.
Shaking his head, shying from that touch, Damien was shivering violently. “No...”
“Damien.”
“No!”
Damien.
It was... unspoken. Unsaid. And yet, it rang in his mind with all the clarity of a bell.
Turning a wild-eyed stare back to Gerald, Damien tried to gather breath to speak, his whole body shuddering, sodden with perspiration and exertion. “Wh-what...”
“Until one of us dies,” Gerald whispered, his eyes locked onto Damien’s, showing him the truth, making him understand, see, feel. A part of my soul will always be within you.
“No...” Damien felt scalding tears break from the corner of his eyes, slipping down his temples. “No... it... gone. I felt it...”
A sharply as the lash of a whip, emotion struck him, emotion that wasn’t his, that made his eyes widen. As if the link had never been severed. Shock, awe, wonder, fear, concern and...
“You vulking bastard...” He half-sobbed, half-screamed it, fighting against the ropes like a wounded animal. “You... you were alive... and it was there... any time... you could have... and you didn’t...”
Hands caught his face, ignoring his struggles, holding him, Gerald’s brow touching his, dark eyes fixed on him. “I know,” Gerald whispered, his voice so close Damien could feel the breath against his cracked and bleeding lips. “I know.”
“Bastard... son of a bitch...” He didn’t care about the tears, didn’t care about the pain, didn’t care about anything. “I thought you were dead!” He was choking on sobs now, shaking with the force of his emotion. “You bastard! I trusted you!”
There was a weak laugh, warm and soft against his skin. “Always told you not to.” Gerald’s voice was little more than a breath, shaking, tremulous.
He felt one of Gerald’s thumbs swipe the tears, felt the smear of the fluid against his skin, tried not to gasp when he felt that warm mouth touch his, when he felt the surge of emotion. His or Gerald’s? Or both?
The name came to his lips as easily as breathing, a longing, wanting sigh, what he craved, what he needed, what he had missed so painfully. “Gerald...” he whispered faintly against the other man’s lips, felt him tremble.
What had been a chaste, innocent brush of their mouths was no longer. With a sound of hunger, of desperation, Gerald kissed him, hard, possessive, fierce. Slender fingers wove through his matted hair, cradling his head, and Damien felt rather than heard the groan slide from his lips.
And then, heat.
Pure heat.
Heat enough to push all else from his mind, pain, grief, fear, anger, all pushed aside as the heat took him entirely, washing through him like a tide, and the blackness was washed away in the fire.
Was it him that sobbed out, screamed aloud, cried out almost desperately, his whole body out of his control, arching, tensing, the white pain shooting through him so intensely, his heart so tight in his chest? Was it pain that laced it or something else?
Panting, shaking, he sagged against the bedding, his throat and lungs burning. Over him, Gerald sprawled, panting as fiercely as he was. One hand braced by Damien’s head, his dark eyes were fixed on Damien’s face, so intense, so hungry.
“Vulking hell...” Damien whispered dazedly, too exhausted and stunned to protest, shaken and trembling.
“It’s done,” a new, but familiar voice murmured.
Damien’s head whipped sideway, making his temples throb painfully, then focussed on the wavering figure standing by the bed. “K-Karril?” he rasped, his mouth drier than it had any right to be.
With a growl, Gerald looked around, his eyes flashing dangerously.
Raising near-transparent hands in a warding gesture, Karril looked past Gerald, at Damien. “You’re clean,” he said. “The dark fae is gone.”
With a shudder of relief, Damien nodded, grasping at this one fact, this little bit of solid reality. Ha! Reality. Being spoken to by a see-through embodiment of a demon whose symbiotic relationship with pleasure had just exorcised dark fae from you while you were being molested by the formerly undead Prophet of your old church...
Oh God.
All at once, he became sharply aware of the fingertips still pressing against the nape of his neck beneath his hair, of the press of a lean, smooth chest against his own, of the creases in the fabric of the pants that were brushing against his thighs.
He should push Gerald away, push him off, find some reservoir of energy and move away, protest, say something.
His body, though, felt spent.
“Untie me,” he whispered wearily, closing his eyes. He felt the movement, felt the brush of Gerald’s hair which drew another shudder of something that really, really wasn’t pleasure. Really.
He felt the tension in the ropes at his ankles slacken and exhaled a quiet, relieved sigh. Letting himself collapse fully against the blankets, he could hear and feel Gerald moving around the bed.
“Thank you,” he whispered as he felt a hand tugging at the cords around his right wrist, then let the pure, clean exhaustion borne of physical exertion claim him. Not before, however, he let the words spill from his split lips, “You bastard.”