FIC: Vessel (Coldfire: Tarrant & Vryce) [PG-13]
fandom_stocking, the second: This one was cheating a bit - liz_mo didn't actually have Coldfire listed in her stocking. But I'd been meaning to write her a treat for her yuletide request and didn't manage (for reasons best described as "UGH DECEMBER"), so I picked it up for this. Better late than never, right? *g*
Title: Vessel
Characters: Gerald Tarrant, Damien Vryce
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tarrant prepares Damien as bait for the Master of Lema.
A/N: Set between chapters 43 and 44 of Black Sun Rising. Not-very-subtle subtext.
Originally posted here at AO3. Comments welcome in either place.
~*~
"Could you trust me, priest? Without reservation?
Could you give yourself to me, for the lady's sake?
Entrust your soul to me, for safekeeping?"
(Black Sun Rising, Chapter 43)
~*~
"Wait, Gerald."
Damien thought Ciani's voice was almost preternaturally calm; perhaps that was why the Hunter actually stopped, examining her with cool, glittering eyes.
"Blood production can be accelerated, can't it?" Ciani continued. Her eyes moved from Tarrant to Damien, then back to Tarrant, a terrible plea in her eyes. "You can use it, Gerald. You'll need your strength for this."
"No." Tarrant's tone was categorical, unrelenting. But the usual malevolence in his voice had been reduced to a mere undercurrent, overshadowed by determination and pain, and Damien knew Ciani was right.
"What you're intending isn't going to be an easy Working, even for you," he said quietly. "She's right, Hunter. I don't want your Workings to fail and everything we've done to be in vain just because you're too proud to accept strength when it's offered."
Tarrant's glare turned on him. "Rest assured, Reverend - my Workings will not fail."
"It's my soul," Damien persisted. He'd agreed, but that didn't mean he wasn't shivering at the very thought of what he'd be subjecting himself to. "I'd rather stack the odds if it's all the same to you."
A smile appeared on Tarrant's face - thin and strained, but the amusement in those pale eyes seemed genuine. "Perhaps you can be taught after all."
Damien didn't let himself react to that. Learning from the Hunter ... that was a taint worse than the Worked channel between them, worse than anything wrought by external force. It meant accepting something of the Hunter's into his very self, making it his own.
Damien shook off the thought. This wasn't the time. He could worry about the state of his own soul when the Master of Lema had been defeated.
Tarrant had turned to Ciani again. "Very well, my lady. If you insist." He was clearly holding himself back, but the look he gave her was full of hunger. Damien's insides clenched. Ciani, on the other hand, merely smiled in relief and lifted the knife to her arm.
Damien flinched when he saw Tarrant take her wrist - he hadn't thought Tarrant would drink from her directly. The risk was real, after all - what if he couldn't stop himself from becoming too fully what she feared most? What if he harmed her? It was such a needless ...
No, Damien, realised with a breath of relief, not needless after all. It was a self-test. In advance of the delicate Working their plan depended on, Tarrant was proving to himself his self-control. He couldn't afford less than full confidence when the time came.
Damien turned his attention to Ciani again. Even as Tarrant drank from her - and damn it, how did she stand the cold, how did she not freeze to ice at the touch of the Hunter's lips? - all she gave away was a little discomfort that seemed to be purely physical.
Loremaster, Damien thought, unsettled. She may not remember, but it's what she is. Ethics don't come into it. Corruption is irrelevant. It's easy for her.
That wasn't quite fair to Ciani, he knew. Still ...
Then Tarrant's eyes met his, his mouth still attached to her wrist, his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. He held Damien's gaze, steadily, cold silver eyes boring into him with something deeper than hunger, and Damien shuddered to realise that the Hunter found his own revulsion far more appealing than Ciani's easy acceptance.
What had he let himself in for?
~*~
"Are you ready, Reverend?"
As if you could be ready for something like this.
"Just do it," Damien ground out as he followed Tarrant's example and sat down on the uneven floor of the side cave they had retreated into. He reached for the earth fae, thin as it was here, and formed the patterns of a Working in his mind. This was a compromise. Tarrant hadn't wanted him to watch, but he needed to See, as much as that was possible with what they were going to do.
What Tarrant was going to do.
He looked around the dark cave. There was no fire here, no light, but to his Worked senses the dark fae provided ample if eerie lighting. The earth fae might be weak in this region, the movements of the very earth halted by the wards the Master of Lema had Worked, but the flow of dark fae was undiminished. It thrived here as it did in any place where sunlight couldn't reach, where the very air hummed with the power of absence, of death and darkness and freezing cold.
And the Hunter drew his power from this.
Damien could see it. He watched as Tarrant bathed in the thick purple power flowing all around them, as he drew the fae around him like a cloak, wrapping himself in corruption and malignance, absorbing it into himself.
And for once, he thought, Good.
The Hunter was preparing himself for the delicate, complex work on which their infiltration of their enemy's stronghold would rest. It would take hours to perform such a Working, and he would need every bit of power available to perform it as flawlessly as needed.
The plan was deceptively simple. Tarrant would break the quake wards, the earth would begin to move again, releasing the built-up pressure of a century in a devastating earthquake and burning the Master of Lema to cinders in the process - if she was Working the fae when it surged, if Damien did his part.
His part. Damien shivered. He had volunteered - not that there had been any option; it had to be him or no one; but he had said yes when the terrible suggestion had been made. And he would have to say yes again, and again, and again, for every step of the way, allowing the Hunter inside every last one of his defences, no matter how much every cell in his body might rebel in revulsion and fear.
He knew Tarrant would feed on every last bit of it.
~*~
"You're afraid." The Hunter sounded almost amused when he finally broke the silence.
"I'd have to be a fool not to."
A noncommittal noise. "If you feed me in the process, that will only make my task easier," Tarrant commented after a moment. "And so much more satisfying," he added so quietly Damien wasn't sure he'd actually heard the words, or if he'd merely sensed their meaning through the fae between them.
Damien threw him a look of pure hatred.
And yet, what choice was there? Their enemy had to be Working the fae at the right time, so she had to be given motive. A captured enemy, one Warded so thoroughly she could not break through, would do the trick - and Tarrant was certain his skill was such that she'd be forced into a slow, tedious unravelling, picking apart his Warding bit by bit. It was the only thing that could keep her Working long enough.
The thought was little comfort.
"The channel between us makes this easier," Tarrant continued quietly, his eyes meeting Damien's for a moment before they grew unfocused, his adept's vision concentrating on something beyond physical sight.
Damien watched with Worked senses as the Hunter's will shaped the dark fae, and his skin turned to gooseflesh at the first almost-touch of that malignant power, snakelike purple tendrils wrapping around his limbs.
But not yet touching: hovering, just above his skin.
The Hunter's eyes met his, a cold, cruel gaze full of malignance and hatred and a sardonic pleasure that was worse than the cruelty, asking a silent question.
Damien shuddered, but there was only one possible answer.
Yes.
The sigils of a Shielding sank into his skin.
~*~
Tarrant's gaze was intense, his brow furrowed with concentration. Damien could no longer See what he was doing; it was too deep already, beyond the physical, beyond the visible.
And we've barely even begun.
He'd broken out in cold sweat after the first Shielding, and that had only touched his skin. The second one had been no improvement. Now, the Hunter was working on his mind. The very outer limits of it, but still.
And we've deeper yet to go. These first Workings were only against the Dark Ones, the Master's rakh minions. The Soul-Eaters.
Damien tried to control his terror, to accept the inevitable, the necessary consequence of his own chosen strategy. This is needed; I'll never be brought before her if her minions can simply eat my soul and take my memories. It was becoming harder and harder to keep calm, the Hunter's very presence stoking his fear. But he had to accept it; he had to let him Work.
Tarrant's eyes were on him, hungry.
~*~
Deeper yet: this was the beginning of the Warding for the Master of Lema herself.
Tarrant painstakingly mapped the patterns of his thoughts, his memories; found each of his Shieldings and Wardings, each path Damien's mind might choose, and Worked himself around each.
"Try," the Hunter commanded, eventually. Damien hesitated -
But it must be done.
- and obeyed. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but the words slipped from his mind before they could form like so much sand, like air. He tried harder; tried to force the knowledge out - tried to lift his arm and point toward the entrance to the cave ...
... but icy cold burned through his mind, replacing every thought with nothing but pain. The fae, Worked deep into skin and bone, strangled his throat and stayed his arm. He could not confess.
He could not betray any knowledge, could not give away his companions - physically and mentally could not. His very mind and body had been Warded against himself. And the Master wanted them, wanted Tarrant and Ciani in particular. She'd have to break those wards.
Break, or if she couldn't break, then dismantle.
And Damien would have to suffer through it all, helpless, unable to defend himself. He'd have to let her do whatever she chose, never even trying to fight for real. After all, he was the bait and the trap. He'd have to hold her long enough. He shivered.
He'd never wanted to know the true meaning of helplessness.
For that alone I'll kill you, Damien swore to himself, but he knew even as he thought it how empty a gesture it was.
The Hunter, who was still deep inside his mind and saw every thought as it formed, merely smirked at him.
Damn you, Tarrant.
~*~
"This will be the hardest," Tarrant warned, finally.
"You're telling me," Damien muttered irritably. It was the only the most important part of their Working, the one without which the rest would prove pointless: the full opening of the channel between them, so that a part of Tarrant would always remain inside Damien. So that a part of him would be present, telling Tarrant when their enemy was trying to break through his barriers. Telling him it was time to break the quake wards.
Cool eyes appraised Damien, taking his measure, weighing his soul. "Not for you, Reverend. Although that, too, I admit." The Hunter's lips formed into something that might have been a smile, had it held even the slightest bit of humour or warmth. "Don't resist. Don't resist at all, Vryce, or I'll have to begin again."
Tarrant's eyes met his, his own pain echoing in their gaze.
And Damien finally acknowledged that his closeness was every bit as painful to the Hunter as the Hunter's was to him: a priest's soul, devoted to everything Tarrant had given up in himself, everything he'd sacrificed to the Unnamed ...
He knew under any other circumstances this would have been a triumph for the Hunter, taking possession of a priest's mind, enveloping it in his taint, owning it completely. He'd feed on it and glory in its corruption.
But today, only today, Tarrant wasn't here to corrupt. He was holding back from the ultimate triumph that could have been his for the taking, if not for the word he had given. If not for the goal they shared - defeating the Master of Lema, and restoring the Lady Ciani to what she'd been.
Today, Tarrant was invading only to preserve.
And with eyes that were still open, still watching, even through all that had been done to him, Damien stared back into the Hunter's hungry, pained, determined gaze. He clamped down hard on his own panic and strained to open himself completely, offering himself up, thinking silent support.
The vile malignance curling around him pressed even closer, the tendrils of corruption an inescapable web of power around him. Damien shivered convulsively. Sure and implacable as a force of nature Tarrant's evil closed in on where he was hiding within himself, seeping cold corruption into him, and he knew he had to let it.
Then it swept inwards, cold and sharp like a flood of icy, venomous needles, a vast, malignant darkness, ready to sear its spikes into every part of him - and even that was merely the awful shadow of its true power as it cast itself over him -
- and he couldn't help it, he flinched away from it.
Tarrant cursed as the delicate Working unraveled. "What did I tell you, Vryce?"
"Sorry," Damien muttered once he'd caught his breath. "Sorry."
So it had to begin again, from the start.
~*~
Every last inch of his skin, every cell of his brain had been Warded, secured, blocked. Only this now, only this ...
This time, Tarrant went more slowly. The web of Tarrant's dark power closed around Damien again, an abyss looking right into him, and he dared not look back, but he had to.
Bile rose in Damien's throat as he stared into his enemy's eyes, reading the hunger in that cruel gaze.
No choice, no choice at all ...
Damien forced himself to swallow it down, to open himself, to welcome the alien power into himself -
The web drew tighter, tighter yet, and spiky tendrils pierced the final border of his self. The Hunter Worked himself, steadily, relentlessly, deeper into him until there was nothing left to penetrate.
It was done.
It was done. The terrible Working was completed. Except -
"You belong to me," the Hunter stated, cold sureness resonating in his voice. It was a calm assertion of fact, and Damien shuddered to hear it. "Say it."
Damien's throat constricted.
"Don't resist. Say it," Tarrant instructed again.
"I -"
Fear roared up from within him with unnatural force, terror the like of which he'd never known, and for a moment his vision blacked out. All he could feel was the icy vileness of the Hunter's mind against his, tendrils of malignance around him, inside him, tainting him so deep that surely he would never be rid of it again, could never be purified enough -
Damien swallowed convulsively and forced himself to continue. It must be done; none of this was any use if he balked at the last second. "I'm yours."
The fae surged at this words, making statement into fact. The tendrils of Tarrant's power, spiked and threaded and pierced through every part of him, burst, poisonous power sweeping through every last nook and cranny of his mind, Knowing every twist and turn in the process, familiarising itself with the locale, ready to set up residence. Belief and oath and Working, all reinforcing each other, made it true on every level, right down to the bones, down to every last fiber that made up Damien's self: he belonged to the Hunter. There was nothing in him that hadn't been touched by him; nothing he hadn't claimed for his own. He was a vessel for the Hunter's power, empty and welcoming -
- and then it was gone again, withdrawn, and Damien gasped, collapsing forward, his head between his knees as he struggled for balance, for composure, for himself, and for a moment he felt painfully empty - -
I'm yours, he'd said.
And right then, right here, he knew it to be utterly true.
~*~
Everything shifted. Damien swallowed again, convulsively. How much time had passed? He blinked a few times, and his vision cleared. When he raised his head, there was cruel satisfaction on the Hunter's face, and his silver eyes spoke of pain and malignance and hatred and triumph -
- but even so, Damien could feel none of what had been done to him in the last hours. Everything felt normal again. Tarrant's power was still wrapped closely around him, ready to take possession again when the time came, but for now, his mind was his own.
Tarrant rose gracefully to his feet and offered him a hand.
After a moment, Damien gripped it and allowed Tarrant to pull him to his feet. The Hunter's hand was like ice, numbing his fingers almost within an instant, all chill deadly power and corruption. This was what he'd given himself over to - his ally, his only hope.
"Thanks," Damien muttered.
For a second it seemed to him that the Hunter was smiling slightly. But when Damien tried to pin down the expression, Tarrant merely looked strained but determined, ready for what was ahead. Ready for anything.
"We're all set, then?" Damien asked as they made their way back to their camp where Ciani and Hesseth were waiting.
"All set, Reverend. Rest assured, I will know my way in when the time comes." And this time, the small smile was definitely there, a dark satisfaction Damien could share without reservation. They were prepared.
But neither of them acknowledged what had passed between them. Perhaps neither of them dared.
~end~
Title: Vessel
Characters: Gerald Tarrant, Damien Vryce
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tarrant prepares Damien as bait for the Master of Lema.
A/N: Set between chapters 43 and 44 of Black Sun Rising. Not-very-subtle subtext.
Originally posted here at AO3. Comments welcome in either place.
~*~
"Could you trust me, priest? Without reservation?
Could you give yourself to me, for the lady's sake?
Entrust your soul to me, for safekeeping?"
(Black Sun Rising, Chapter 43)
~*~
"Wait, Gerald."
Damien thought Ciani's voice was almost preternaturally calm; perhaps that was why the Hunter actually stopped, examining her with cool, glittering eyes.
"Blood production can be accelerated, can't it?" Ciani continued. Her eyes moved from Tarrant to Damien, then back to Tarrant, a terrible plea in her eyes. "You can use it, Gerald. You'll need your strength for this."
"No." Tarrant's tone was categorical, unrelenting. But the usual malevolence in his voice had been reduced to a mere undercurrent, overshadowed by determination and pain, and Damien knew Ciani was right.
"What you're intending isn't going to be an easy Working, even for you," he said quietly. "She's right, Hunter. I don't want your Workings to fail and everything we've done to be in vain just because you're too proud to accept strength when it's offered."
Tarrant's glare turned on him. "Rest assured, Reverend - my Workings will not fail."
"It's my soul," Damien persisted. He'd agreed, but that didn't mean he wasn't shivering at the very thought of what he'd be subjecting himself to. "I'd rather stack the odds if it's all the same to you."
A smile appeared on Tarrant's face - thin and strained, but the amusement in those pale eyes seemed genuine. "Perhaps you can be taught after all."
Damien didn't let himself react to that. Learning from the Hunter ... that was a taint worse than the Worked channel between them, worse than anything wrought by external force. It meant accepting something of the Hunter's into his very self, making it his own.
Damien shook off the thought. This wasn't the time. He could worry about the state of his own soul when the Master of Lema had been defeated.
Tarrant had turned to Ciani again. "Very well, my lady. If you insist." He was clearly holding himself back, but the look he gave her was full of hunger. Damien's insides clenched. Ciani, on the other hand, merely smiled in relief and lifted the knife to her arm.
Damien flinched when he saw Tarrant take her wrist - he hadn't thought Tarrant would drink from her directly. The risk was real, after all - what if he couldn't stop himself from becoming too fully what she feared most? What if he harmed her? It was such a needless ...
No, Damien, realised with a breath of relief, not needless after all. It was a self-test. In advance of the delicate Working their plan depended on, Tarrant was proving to himself his self-control. He couldn't afford less than full confidence when the time came.
Damien turned his attention to Ciani again. Even as Tarrant drank from her - and damn it, how did she stand the cold, how did she not freeze to ice at the touch of the Hunter's lips? - all she gave away was a little discomfort that seemed to be purely physical.
Loremaster, Damien thought, unsettled. She may not remember, but it's what she is. Ethics don't come into it. Corruption is irrelevant. It's easy for her.
That wasn't quite fair to Ciani, he knew. Still ...
Then Tarrant's eyes met his, his mouth still attached to her wrist, his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. He held Damien's gaze, steadily, cold silver eyes boring into him with something deeper than hunger, and Damien shuddered to realise that the Hunter found his own revulsion far more appealing than Ciani's easy acceptance.
What had he let himself in for?
~*~
"Are you ready, Reverend?"
As if you could be ready for something like this.
"Just do it," Damien ground out as he followed Tarrant's example and sat down on the uneven floor of the side cave they had retreated into. He reached for the earth fae, thin as it was here, and formed the patterns of a Working in his mind. This was a compromise. Tarrant hadn't wanted him to watch, but he needed to See, as much as that was possible with what they were going to do.
What Tarrant was going to do.
He looked around the dark cave. There was no fire here, no light, but to his Worked senses the dark fae provided ample if eerie lighting. The earth fae might be weak in this region, the movements of the very earth halted by the wards the Master of Lema had Worked, but the flow of dark fae was undiminished. It thrived here as it did in any place where sunlight couldn't reach, where the very air hummed with the power of absence, of death and darkness and freezing cold.
And the Hunter drew his power from this.
Damien could see it. He watched as Tarrant bathed in the thick purple power flowing all around them, as he drew the fae around him like a cloak, wrapping himself in corruption and malignance, absorbing it into himself.
And for once, he thought, Good.
The Hunter was preparing himself for the delicate, complex work on which their infiltration of their enemy's stronghold would rest. It would take hours to perform such a Working, and he would need every bit of power available to perform it as flawlessly as needed.
The plan was deceptively simple. Tarrant would break the quake wards, the earth would begin to move again, releasing the built-up pressure of a century in a devastating earthquake and burning the Master of Lema to cinders in the process - if she was Working the fae when it surged, if Damien did his part.
His part. Damien shivered. He had volunteered - not that there had been any option; it had to be him or no one; but he had said yes when the terrible suggestion had been made. And he would have to say yes again, and again, and again, for every step of the way, allowing the Hunter inside every last one of his defences, no matter how much every cell in his body might rebel in revulsion and fear.
He knew Tarrant would feed on every last bit of it.
~*~
"You're afraid." The Hunter sounded almost amused when he finally broke the silence.
"I'd have to be a fool not to."
A noncommittal noise. "If you feed me in the process, that will only make my task easier," Tarrant commented after a moment. "And so much more satisfying," he added so quietly Damien wasn't sure he'd actually heard the words, or if he'd merely sensed their meaning through the fae between them.
Damien threw him a look of pure hatred.
And yet, what choice was there? Their enemy had to be Working the fae at the right time, so she had to be given motive. A captured enemy, one Warded so thoroughly she could not break through, would do the trick - and Tarrant was certain his skill was such that she'd be forced into a slow, tedious unravelling, picking apart his Warding bit by bit. It was the only thing that could keep her Working long enough.
The thought was little comfort.
"The channel between us makes this easier," Tarrant continued quietly, his eyes meeting Damien's for a moment before they grew unfocused, his adept's vision concentrating on something beyond physical sight.
Damien watched with Worked senses as the Hunter's will shaped the dark fae, and his skin turned to gooseflesh at the first almost-touch of that malignant power, snakelike purple tendrils wrapping around his limbs.
But not yet touching: hovering, just above his skin.
The Hunter's eyes met his, a cold, cruel gaze full of malignance and hatred and a sardonic pleasure that was worse than the cruelty, asking a silent question.
Damien shuddered, but there was only one possible answer.
Yes.
The sigils of a Shielding sank into his skin.
~*~
Tarrant's gaze was intense, his brow furrowed with concentration. Damien could no longer See what he was doing; it was too deep already, beyond the physical, beyond the visible.
And we've barely even begun.
He'd broken out in cold sweat after the first Shielding, and that had only touched his skin. The second one had been no improvement. Now, the Hunter was working on his mind. The very outer limits of it, but still.
And we've deeper yet to go. These first Workings were only against the Dark Ones, the Master's rakh minions. The Soul-Eaters.
Damien tried to control his terror, to accept the inevitable, the necessary consequence of his own chosen strategy. This is needed; I'll never be brought before her if her minions can simply eat my soul and take my memories. It was becoming harder and harder to keep calm, the Hunter's very presence stoking his fear. But he had to accept it; he had to let him Work.
Tarrant's eyes were on him, hungry.
~*~
Deeper yet: this was the beginning of the Warding for the Master of Lema herself.
Tarrant painstakingly mapped the patterns of his thoughts, his memories; found each of his Shieldings and Wardings, each path Damien's mind might choose, and Worked himself around each.
"Try," the Hunter commanded, eventually. Damien hesitated -
But it must be done.
- and obeyed. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but the words slipped from his mind before they could form like so much sand, like air. He tried harder; tried to force the knowledge out - tried to lift his arm and point toward the entrance to the cave ...
... but icy cold burned through his mind, replacing every thought with nothing but pain. The fae, Worked deep into skin and bone, strangled his throat and stayed his arm. He could not confess.
He could not betray any knowledge, could not give away his companions - physically and mentally could not. His very mind and body had been Warded against himself. And the Master wanted them, wanted Tarrant and Ciani in particular. She'd have to break those wards.
Break, or if she couldn't break, then dismantle.
And Damien would have to suffer through it all, helpless, unable to defend himself. He'd have to let her do whatever she chose, never even trying to fight for real. After all, he was the bait and the trap. He'd have to hold her long enough. He shivered.
He'd never wanted to know the true meaning of helplessness.
For that alone I'll kill you, Damien swore to himself, but he knew even as he thought it how empty a gesture it was.
The Hunter, who was still deep inside his mind and saw every thought as it formed, merely smirked at him.
Damn you, Tarrant.
~*~
"This will be the hardest," Tarrant warned, finally.
"You're telling me," Damien muttered irritably. It was the only the most important part of their Working, the one without which the rest would prove pointless: the full opening of the channel between them, so that a part of Tarrant would always remain inside Damien. So that a part of him would be present, telling Tarrant when their enemy was trying to break through his barriers. Telling him it was time to break the quake wards.
Cool eyes appraised Damien, taking his measure, weighing his soul. "Not for you, Reverend. Although that, too, I admit." The Hunter's lips formed into something that might have been a smile, had it held even the slightest bit of humour or warmth. "Don't resist. Don't resist at all, Vryce, or I'll have to begin again."
Tarrant's eyes met his, his own pain echoing in their gaze.
And Damien finally acknowledged that his closeness was every bit as painful to the Hunter as the Hunter's was to him: a priest's soul, devoted to everything Tarrant had given up in himself, everything he'd sacrificed to the Unnamed ...
He knew under any other circumstances this would have been a triumph for the Hunter, taking possession of a priest's mind, enveloping it in his taint, owning it completely. He'd feed on it and glory in its corruption.
But today, only today, Tarrant wasn't here to corrupt. He was holding back from the ultimate triumph that could have been his for the taking, if not for the word he had given. If not for the goal they shared - defeating the Master of Lema, and restoring the Lady Ciani to what she'd been.
Today, Tarrant was invading only to preserve.
And with eyes that were still open, still watching, even through all that had been done to him, Damien stared back into the Hunter's hungry, pained, determined gaze. He clamped down hard on his own panic and strained to open himself completely, offering himself up, thinking silent support.
The vile malignance curling around him pressed even closer, the tendrils of corruption an inescapable web of power around him. Damien shivered convulsively. Sure and implacable as a force of nature Tarrant's evil closed in on where he was hiding within himself, seeping cold corruption into him, and he knew he had to let it.
Then it swept inwards, cold and sharp like a flood of icy, venomous needles, a vast, malignant darkness, ready to sear its spikes into every part of him - and even that was merely the awful shadow of its true power as it cast itself over him -
- and he couldn't help it, he flinched away from it.
Tarrant cursed as the delicate Working unraveled. "What did I tell you, Vryce?"
"Sorry," Damien muttered once he'd caught his breath. "Sorry."
So it had to begin again, from the start.
~*~
Every last inch of his skin, every cell of his brain had been Warded, secured, blocked. Only this now, only this ...
This time, Tarrant went more slowly. The web of Tarrant's dark power closed around Damien again, an abyss looking right into him, and he dared not look back, but he had to.
Bile rose in Damien's throat as he stared into his enemy's eyes, reading the hunger in that cruel gaze.
No choice, no choice at all ...
Damien forced himself to swallow it down, to open himself, to welcome the alien power into himself -
The web drew tighter, tighter yet, and spiky tendrils pierced the final border of his self. The Hunter Worked himself, steadily, relentlessly, deeper into him until there was nothing left to penetrate.
It was done.
It was done. The terrible Working was completed. Except -
"You belong to me," the Hunter stated, cold sureness resonating in his voice. It was a calm assertion of fact, and Damien shuddered to hear it. "Say it."
Damien's throat constricted.
"Don't resist. Say it," Tarrant instructed again.
"I -"
Fear roared up from within him with unnatural force, terror the like of which he'd never known, and for a moment his vision blacked out. All he could feel was the icy vileness of the Hunter's mind against his, tendrils of malignance around him, inside him, tainting him so deep that surely he would never be rid of it again, could never be purified enough -
Damien swallowed convulsively and forced himself to continue. It must be done; none of this was any use if he balked at the last second. "I'm yours."
The fae surged at this words, making statement into fact. The tendrils of Tarrant's power, spiked and threaded and pierced through every part of him, burst, poisonous power sweeping through every last nook and cranny of his mind, Knowing every twist and turn in the process, familiarising itself with the locale, ready to set up residence. Belief and oath and Working, all reinforcing each other, made it true on every level, right down to the bones, down to every last fiber that made up Damien's self: he belonged to the Hunter. There was nothing in him that hadn't been touched by him; nothing he hadn't claimed for his own. He was a vessel for the Hunter's power, empty and welcoming -
- and then it was gone again, withdrawn, and Damien gasped, collapsing forward, his head between his knees as he struggled for balance, for composure, for himself, and for a moment he felt painfully empty - -
I'm yours, he'd said.
And right then, right here, he knew it to be utterly true.
~*~
Everything shifted. Damien swallowed again, convulsively. How much time had passed? He blinked a few times, and his vision cleared. When he raised his head, there was cruel satisfaction on the Hunter's face, and his silver eyes spoke of pain and malignance and hatred and triumph -
- but even so, Damien could feel none of what had been done to him in the last hours. Everything felt normal again. Tarrant's power was still wrapped closely around him, ready to take possession again when the time came, but for now, his mind was his own.
Tarrant rose gracefully to his feet and offered him a hand.
After a moment, Damien gripped it and allowed Tarrant to pull him to his feet. The Hunter's hand was like ice, numbing his fingers almost within an instant, all chill deadly power and corruption. This was what he'd given himself over to - his ally, his only hope.
"Thanks," Damien muttered.
For a second it seemed to him that the Hunter was smiling slightly. But when Damien tried to pin down the expression, Tarrant merely looked strained but determined, ready for what was ahead. Ready for anything.
"We're all set, then?" Damien asked as they made their way back to their camp where Ciani and Hesseth were waiting.
"All set, Reverend. Rest assured, I will know my way in when the time comes." And this time, the small smile was definitely there, a dark satisfaction Damien could share without reservation. They were prepared.
But neither of them acknowledged what had passed between them. Perhaps neither of them dared.
~end~