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DVD commentary 2: Unfinished Business
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etrangere: Unfinished Business. Same warnings as the original - semi-graphic slash.
This is the story every Coldfire author writes, because we read the last chapters of Crown of Shadows with rising disbelief, only to close the book and go "The hell? Damien wouldn't let him walk away!" My version was aided by a very, very vocal Gerald muse. It's not my first Coldfire work - that one would be the sequel to this, the unpublished WIP Family Ties - but the first completed and published one. It was written as a means of conveying my thoughts rather than crafted as a story for its own aesthetical values, which is why the style is a bit shaky, but it was something I had to write.
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
A Coldfire story by Beth Winter
If the Hunter had made a bid for life (he reasoned), and if he had talked Andrys Tarrant into going along with it ... if he had sacrificed himself in the way this youth suggested, and done so successfully, so that he now walked the earth as another man, no longer a sorcerer because the Patriarch's sacrifice had stripped them all of power ... then that man, if he happened to get dirty now, would have to take a bath to get himself clean. Just like everybody else.
In the dawn of a new world, Damien Vryce smiled.
Damien kept his eyes on the lithe figure until it disappeared down the stairs. He didn't bother chasing the smile off his face, though it shifted as he took in the full impact of what had been said. Thoughts chased one another through his mind like fae currents on Shaitan, and he pushed them all aside, a kaleidoscope of emotions in their wake. He had thought of farewells moments before; now he saw how wrong he had been.
English isn't my native language, and sometimes I get stuck on the simplest words. It took me ten minutes of beating my head against the desk until I came up with "kaleidoscope" as the proper word for the variety of emotions Damien is experiencing.
No use considering things before he learned more. Instead, he turned his thoughts to more practical matters.
Finished or not, Black Ridge Tavern was the best one at the pass. The best rooms were the ones on the top floor, furthest away from the noisy common room. He recalled the layout of the windows as seen from the outside: only one of these rooms overlooked the Forest on the southern side, as if the builders thought that no-one would want to look at that seat of evil from their beds, even once it had burned.
These fragments where Damien explains his logical thought process read a bit clumsy, but I could honestly see no other way of conveying that information. Damien's narrative doesn't lend itself to stylistic experiments.
No heads turned as he made his way upstairs with the springbolt in his hand. The world hadn't changed that much, not yet.
Damien stored the springbolt in his room, propping it against the wall next to his sword. He supposed he should get a gun now that they worked reliably, but he was willing to leave firearms to people suited to them. Like Gerald, he thought, who'd used them even before, imposing his own will on the mechanism and not accepting the possibility of failure. He took the knife from his boot and unsheathed it to make sure the blade remained stain-free. He had bought it in Penitencia, trailing after Gerald through the evening market as the Hunter searched for a replacement for the knife that remained in the fortress of the Undying Prince.
That shopping expedition is a vignette I'll write one day. Gerald's shopping style is similar to my own: terrify them and leave carnage in your wake.
Damien left the knife, too.
The inn had enough pretensions to rivalling the best Jaggonath hotels to have a receptionist by the door, but at the moment the desk was manned by a woman that reminded Damien an aging shepherd dog. He recalled seeing her boss around the servants in the common room with a ladle in her hand, and it looked like cooking was more to her liking. She frowned at the guests as if she wanted to herd them all to their rooms, or possibly to feed them.
He didn't have to wait long before she abandoned her post to call some rowdy youths to order, and a moment later he knew the name of the occupant of Room 31, the top-floor room overlooking the Forest. Garrett of Faraday had checked in the day before.
Of Faraday, because Gerald needed a surname fast, and picked Ciani's. This will be a sequel plot point one day.
"Garrett," he muttered, trying out the sound of the name.
"You leave my records alone," the woman snapped at him as she returned to her desk.
"Sorry. I just ran into a friend here - Garrett asked me to come by his room later, but forgot to give me the room number."
"Garrett?" She looked at the ledger, then frowned. "Room 31. Oh, that's him."
Damien wondered what Gerald had done this time.
"Doesn't he eat at all, or is it just my food that he doesn't like?" she continued. "I haven't seen that man down at dinner or lunch, and he barely touched the breakfast today! I don't cook fancy city dishes, but no-one's ever said it's better to starve than eat Renarda Lalik's food."
If you've read my Once Upon A Time In Mexico stories, you've met Mother Renarda. She's a crack shot, cunning bitch and mothers everyone she meets. I have yet to be called on the fact she's an author self-insertion.
"He probably just forgot," Damien said. "He tends to do that."
"Old friend of yours?" The woman frowned, probably wondering what a scarred rough type could have to do with an elegant youth.
"We have unfinished business."
Damien's not sure if he can still name Gerald as a friend after the betrayal that was influencing him to leave and letting him believe he was responsible for Gerald's death. For lack of a better option, this became the title of the entire piece.
* * *
The tenant of Room 31 didn't come down for dinner that evening. Damien waited until the kitchen started closing down for the night, then talked Mes Lalik into making some sandwiches. The woman was even more incensed with Gerald's perceived disregard for her food than she had been in the afternoon, and she jumped at the opportunity to prove the quality of her cooking.
The top floor of the inn had its own baths. Damien would bet this was one place where the plumbing did work, at least as far as the supply of water was concerned. He saw wet footprints on the hallway floor that led from the baths to Room 31.
The door opened under his hand with the creak of untested hinges. The room was dark, the only light coming from the sky lit up by the setting Core and a low fire in the fireplace. The light caught the droplets of water on skin and hair as the room's tenant turned from the window. The embroidered vest was gone, the crimson shirt traded for a green one turned black by the dripping hair.
I was called out on the fact Gerald wouldn't let his hair drip, but vigorous towelling damages long hair and I think Gerald will take best possible care of his appearance in any circumstance. Technically combing wet hair isn't good, but a wide-toothed comb helps in detangling.
"Garrett."
Damien's voice was too loud in the night's silence. He watched as the not-stranger carefully laid down the comb and moved the wet hair behind his ears, gathering it at the nape of his neck and knotting it loosely together. Damien had thought the new name - new being - would be easy, but watching the graceful movements he knew he'd never think of the man as anything other than Gerald Tarrant.
He set the sandwiches down on a table in front of the fireplace.
"It's not smart to anger the cook," he said. "She's convinced you think her food's not fancy enough."
"I lost track of time."
Gerald is absolutely stunned and in mild panic that he'll disintegrate in a few seconds from now. Neither of them have any idea what to do, so they stumble along as best as they can.
Gerald walked towards the table slowly, without the elegant sureness that Damien remembered. The hesitant movements reminded him more of the times he'd seen the Hunter hurt. Fire, sunlight, earth-fae: he supposed giving up the Neocount's life hurt more than all of those.
"The kitchen's closed now," he said instead. "And the cook said you missed lunch, too."
That drew a smile. "I went riding through the pass. There was a fair of sorts on the far end - Glanyv was there, he's an Iezu whose aspect is agriculture. I drank more than I ate, though."
Glanyv is just a random combination of letters, but I think I might recycle the name. It's pronounceable and unique.
"Sounds better than what people did when Saris came through. I was afraid to go through that place. Too many breakable sculptures."
"Saris? It's a pity I wasn't there." Gerald sat down on the settee by the table and motioned for Damien to join him. "I've heard a lot about her."
"People said she's approachable, for an Iezu."
"That doesn't tell you much at all, does it?" On the stranger's face, the familiar darkly amused smile looked warmer.
Damien shook his head as he reached for a sandwich of his own. "You've met a lot of Iezu lately?"
"A few."
They're both boggling at the choice of topic, but neither of them is willing to admit it. Mostly because the reason for bogglement is Mount Shaitan, which is a thing that should not be named.
They talked of inconsequential matters and recent news as they ate and emptied a bottle of wine that Gerald had bought at Glanyv's festival. Gerald shared Damien's low opinion of the tourists' chances at talking to the Iezu, though they disagreed at the interpretation of recent unrest in Jaggonath and Sheva. It would be the small talk of two strangers thrown together by chance, if not for the fact that every once in a while they finished each other's sentences. Each time, there was a moment of silence as names unspoken hung between them.
The settee was small for two tall men, and Damien stretched his arm along the backrest. If Gerald's damp hair touched his sleeve when the other man moved his head, he paid no attention to it.
Finally the wine and the food was gone. The fire drew their eyes; too many burning memories that could not be spoken. A log cracked in the flames.
"Vryce," Gerald said softly, and the sound of that name from those lips was strange and familiar at once. "Please don't make me kill myself again."
This is Gerald's apology and acknowledgement that he wants Damien to stay. This is the most that he feels he's able to say.
Words were choking and lethal, but Damien remembered another quiet rented room, and Gerald's hand on his arm, when his ties to the Church had been finally, irrevocably broken. So instead of speaking, he let his hand slip from the backrest, wrapping his fingers around Gerald's shoulder and hoping they could say what he could not.
Gerald's hand rose to cover his, cold with the all-too-human chill of drying water and cool night air. Gerald's fingers traced the lines of Damien's hand, following old scars and abrasions, moving along each vein as if they could coax the blood to the surface through touch alone.
They touch a lot in this fic, all a lead-up to the sensual tension between them that intertwines with the psychological tension to create an explosion in the end.
Lulled by the crackle of the fire and Gerald's fingers over his own, Damien slept.
* * *
Bird songs outside the window woke Damien from a deep slumber. The first thing he was aware of were the silken threads under his fingers. Moving his hand experimentally, he realised it was tangled in Gerald's long hair.
At some point during the night, Gerald himself had ended up mostly lying over Damien. Their legs were tangled together. The adept's arms were loosely wrapped around Damien's waist, one of his hands finding purchase in a pocket of Damien's shirt. Damien's arms were wrapped around Gerald as well, but even so the only reason they hadn't fallen off the settee during the night must have been because they were wedged in too tightly to move that much.
For some reason, my Damien and Gerald always end up snuggling on settees and the like. Also, Damien all but fetishises Gerald's new hair.
He remembered holding Gerald before - so many times they'd dragged each other away from danger - but while this young body should be unfamiliar, instead it felt natural and right, as if it was just another of Gerald's faces that had been under the surface all long. He wondered if in time he would forget the proud, silver-eyed face: if he did, he could always visit Merentha to refresh his memory.
There was a murmur as Damien continued to wind his fingers through Gerald's hair, and he removed his hand hastily. But once Gerald lifted his head from Damien's shoulder, he looked more satisfied than annoyed.
"Good morning," he said.
Damien could still smell last evening's wine on Gerald's breath, and by the way Gerald grimaced, he knew the other sensed that as well. Gerald rose gracefully, briefly straddling Damien before slipping down to the floor.
Damien is very, very carefully NOT thinking about the way contact with Gerald's body makes him feel. I don't think he actually admits it to himself before the kiss.
Damien looked at the angle of the sunlight outside. "If you hurry, we'll make it to breakfast."
Breakfast foods seemed to be Mes Lalik's specialty, though Damien thought that on a bright day like this one he'd be happy with even traveller's fare. Gerald seemed to be under the same impression, judging by the way he had piled his plate high with food.
"It's a good day for traveling," Gerald remarked.
They didn't talk further, but half an hour later they led their horses out of the stable and set off towards the south-east.
There is an inertia to them: they're settling into a pattern, though they haven't settled anything between them. They've grown too used to each other to even consider separating.
* * *
There were new inns all along the road around the Forest, and in the one they chose to stop for the night no expense had been spared. As Damien prepared for sleep, he thought that even Gerald had to appreciate the tiled bath chambers and other amenities, up to and including dressing gowns as elegant as any that were provided for the guests of Jaggonath's best hotels. Then again, during dinner Gerald had looked as if he was missing Mes Lalik's watchful glare; the waitress had been relentless in signalling her appreciation for Gerald's looks.
The memory still amused Damien. He'd had a hell of a time keeping his face straight at the table, but he suspected that otherwise Gerald would have bent even the new restrictions on the use of the fae in order to turn him into something unpleasant.
Women puzzle Gerald very much. He appreciates their looks, but their personalities feel foreign to him. I don't think he even understood Almea, though he loved her, and later in Family Ties Narilka surprises him again and again. He has also had many run-ins with prospective suitors of both genders over the past weeks; he's reconsidering the choice of tailoring his body to Damien's preferences of attractiveness (which was subconscious and Completely Not His Fault).
He had barely put out the lamp before muffled voices started quarrelling next door. For a moment he remained on the bed, straining to hear the individual words, but when he heard the door to the hallway slam open, he rose and paused to slip on the dressing gown before opening his own door.
The buxom waitress was now wearing a nightdress even lower-cut than the shirt she had worn while serving them dinner, and her heaving breasts were straining the seams. She was clinging to Gerald's arm despite his polite attempts to pry her off. She blushed as Damien leaned against the doorframe and took in the whole scene.
Removing the girl's fingers from the opening of his dressing gown, Gerald threw Damien a furious look that was a hair's breadth from the Hunter's chill. Damien probably should not find it that amusing.
In my mind, new!Gerald looks quite a lot like Johnny Depp. Thus, groupies.
"I think my friend would rather sleep through the night," Damien offered to the flustered girl. "We've got a long day ahead of us."
The waitress pouted, but retreated with as much dignity as her gaping neckline allowed. Damien stopped hiding his grin.
"I didn't ask her to come hide in my bed, Vryce." Gerald's voice was more chilling than coldfire.
"I could say it's all your fault, and your vanity's. If you didn't choose those looks and that hair..."
Gerald threw him a poisonous look, and Damien took it as his cue to shut the door before any other poison was applied.
As he lay back down in the bed, he noticed the moving spots of light on the far wall. He realised that since the windows to his and Gerald's room were in a cul-de-sac and tilted towards one another, he could see the light of Gerald's lamp. A shadow moved over the wall, and he decided it had to be Gerald himself, settling down to read the latest news from the southern cities. He hoped the adept would not stay up too long; he didn't relish the prospect of traveling with Gerald cranky from lack of sleep.
Again a clumsy paragraph that I blame on Damien. This story was hard to write at all angles, not in the least because I wasn't in a mood to write. I just wanted to get it out of my head as quickly as possible.
Damien was disoriented as he woke; the sky outside was dark, but the light of Gerald's lamp still shone on the far wall. Then he realised it was true night outside. The habit of almost thirty years had woken him even though he had not consciously remembered the fact.
The shadows moved again, and he muttered a curse. What was Gerald doing up this late?
The door to the next room was unlocked, a careless gesture in a world where wards and fae-warnings can no longer be relied on. This time, Gerald didn't even move from the window, only motioned Damien to his side.
The lamp threw brief sharp shadows over Gerald's face as he bent down to snuff it out. As he did so, all vision disappeared. The inn's lights were long gone, the fire consuming the Forest too far away to brighten the night.
And then Gerald goes to open the window, in utter darkness. And counts on Damien to put two and two together. It's the little things like that that drive home just how well he knows Damien, and how much he cares.
Damien felt the chill night air on his skin. The window was open now.
"You can still See," he whispered.
"Yes." A warm body leaned against his side. Fingers slipped under his dressing gown until Gerald's palm rested against his heart, as if his was the one flawed and in need of repair. "See."
He'd forgotten how beautiful the dark fae was, a symphony of violet hues that curled and drew up on itself, swaying to the heartbeat of Erna itself. And the others, too. Earth fae, like an old friend long gone. The tumultuous dark currents heading out of the Forest, returning to the rhythm of the world. Such smooth flows now, without humans to twist and bend them to their will and un-will.
Damien is smitten anew. There is the physical appeal, noticed earlier as he acknowledges Gerald's new beauty, but what Damien goes for is the fae. And now Gerald is the only one who can show him that magnificence.
Gerald's hand was warm against his skin. A part of me in your soul, until one of us dies, and he should have known that each death would be a wound, but not a severing.
Here's another thing that irked me to no end about the ending of Crown of Shadows. Just pages earlier, Damien feels the bond "break", but then finds Gerald alive and the bond still operational. Someone as intelligent as him should put two and two together and figure out that a, the "breaking" is just a sign of fae-manipulation that his bond-partner is undergoing, and b, that Gerald could make mincemeat out of Andrys with one finger, while asleep. The only logical explanation I see is that Gerald was influencing Damien's mind at that point, starting from making him leave the room in the first place.
They stood there until the first of the moons rose. On the way back to his own room, Damien made a detour through the kitchen to get some water. The buxom waitress was curled beside the stove, whimpering fitfully in the depths of sleep. He wondered if she was running through the Forest in her dreams. He heard such nightmares were common here.
* * *
Sheva had enjoyed a degree of prosperity from its traffic with Jahanna, and now that Jahanna had fallen, the town profited even more from the tourist trade. In the old tradition, they were fleeced by cutpurses and highwaymen, who finally had a proper highway on which to ply their trade. In the new tradition, there were overpriced eateries where you paid through the nose as much for the food as for what the proprietors called the ambience.
Ambience in this case, Damien decided, had to mean light bad enough that you couldn't see what it was exactly that you were eating.
On some levels, Damien and Rincewind would get along fabulously.
Not that they were in danger of being poisoned. Gerald must have made enough of an impression on his way through a few days before that this time around the owner showed them to their table personally. And unlike the items that made it to the plates on the tables around them, their own dishes were acceptable. The wines were excellent.
Damien leaned back and sipped the last of the dessert wine as he watched Gerald finish up with the cream cake. He suspected the choice of establishment had been made mostly due to the fact that the low lights caught perfectly on the gold threads of Gerald's vest. He caught more than a couple of people of both sexes giving his companion the eye. At least this time they had rented rooms from a shopkeeper, so any unwanted nightly visitors would have locks and bars to get through before ambushing Gerald in his bed.
Candlelight, dinner, and the alpha male glaring at anyone who dares lay their eyes on his mate. Subtle, boys, really subtle.
Gerald looked up and gave him that polite, condescending smile. "Am I that fascinating to look at?"
Damien put his cup down and brushed his fingers over Gerald's as he did so, trying to send idiot over the bond that linked them. Judging by Gerald's expression, he succeeded.
"Are we finished?" he asked instead. "I want to get some sleep for once."
"You can sleep in tomorrow," Gerald said as he pushed away his plate and counted out the money. "We'll be staying in Sheva for at least two days."
"Yeah?" This was the first hint that Damien had of Gerald's plans. "Doing what?"
Gerald shook his head. "Shopping. In civilised places, you can't expect to go around in rags like yours."
Damien supposed he'd deserved that.
Gerald abhors Damien's fashion choices and takes great pleasure in dressing him up to his liking. Damien generally admits Gerald's taste is better than Ciani's.
The man at the coat check made a face as he handed Damien his sword, but it was one precaution Damien was not willing to abandon. The lanterns along the main streets of Sheva were set on poles new enough that the resin running down from the broken-off branches hadn't had time to set, and the smaller alleyways were dark enough to hide any misdeeds and most bodies, until the sun rose high in the sky. He knew Gerald was carrying a long knife in one of the high boots he wore as well as a pistol somewhere about his person, but he still carried the sword. Gerald should be happy he left the springbolt in their rooms.
The shortest way to their quarters led through a grid of alleyways between high houses that shut out the faint light of the two moons currently in the sky. Damien stumbled on a broken cartwheel and cursed. Gerald's fingers wrapped firmly, surely about his wrist, guiding him. The world flickered and shifted in front of his eyes as Gerald let him access the fae-vision again.
It was dark enough for the dark fae to twist and curl in the corners of the alleys. They walked in companionable silence, listening to the music and bustle of the town's main street, only two or three cross-streets away.
Romance is in the air ;) Damien and Gerald may not speak the words (I can't imagine either of them saying "I love you" to the other under any circumstances), but they are the fluffiest OTP I have.
A trio of young women passed them by, giggling and sharing a bottle of wine. There was no Hunter now to put fear in their hearts.
The women disappeared down another alley. Moments later, Damien's only warning was the way the dark fae wavered just before the figures melted out of the shadows ahead.
Four of them, nothing but wide menacing outlines. A glint of a pistol barrel in one hand, in the almost-darkness.
And here starts one of the two hardest to write scenes in the story. I make no secret of the fact I suck at two categories of scenes - action and sex. Sex, at least, usually features only two participants. Action choreography is expotentially harder. Much flailing ensued around this point.
"Your money or your life," a rough voice suggested.
Damien's hand twitched towards his sword, then stilled. Gerald's fingers slipped from his as he took a step forward.
"Can't we talk about it?" he said brightly.
"Shut up!" The pistol-wielder sounded young and angry. "Don't move!"
One of the other menacing shadows moved then. "Easy, Gunner. Listen, man, we've got no quarrel. You've got a blade, we have guns, and I bet that guy doesn't pay a bodyguard enough to make it worth your life."
Reasonable Dude is the one who's left standing at the end and almost stabs Damien. I do wish I could develop him more, but I think he'll come back to me in another story.
Damien grinned. It looked like one of the side effects of Gerald's transformation was that now Damien was considered the more dangerous of the two.
"Sure, just take it easy." He stepped forward again, letting the muggers surround him. He felt a sudden, alien flash of anger. Gerald's? "No use fighting anyway."
Somewhere towards the main thoroughfare someone cried out, "Thieves!" and the sound drew the assailants' attention. The hand with the pistol wavering, an opening, and Damien took it.
Something crunched as he dashed that hand against the alley wall. A yelp of pain, and it was probably so much for Gunner in this fight, but still Damien took a moment to make sure of that.
A shot rang out, and not from Gunner's dropped pistol - he kicked it away just in case. Of the three remaining muggers, one was curled on the ground around his wounded hand, and another dropped down to avoid further bullets. Damien left that one to Gerald's night vision and marksmanship, and turned to face the last man.
He ducked the first punch. Then a high kick, showy and useless, and instead of jumping away he went into it. Calling the bluff. Another punch coming, but he turned into it as well, getting ready for-
In the last moment, a glint of a knife.
A glint where there is no light to reflect on the blade. It's only later that Damien puts two and two together.
He turned and twisted desperately. The blade scored a line of fire over his shoulder. He let the momentum carry him forward and spun to attack the mugger from behind, but the man was already running away.
The robber did not get far. A dozen town guards were just turning around the corner, and he ran straight into their arms.
The guards' torches filled the alley with flickering shadows. Damien's first opponent was unconscious on the ground, next to the whimpering man with the wounded hand. The third mugger was slumped against a brick wall. No wounds, Damien noticed - it looked as if Gerald had simply thrown the man into a wall. It figured that even in the new body, Gerald was still much stronger than he looked.
He stooped down to make sure the shot man wouldn't bleed to death. There wasn't enough blood for the damage to be life-threatening. Then a hand clenched on his shoulder, fingers digging into the shallow wound.
"When I asked for no suicidal actions," Gerald said, "I meant for both of us to avoid them."
I took a deep breath when this one was done. I knew I was heading from the frying pan into the fire, though at least the next scene has the emotional load that carries it through. The problem is that since Damien doesn't like to think of his emotions, especially regarding Gerald, he concentrates on the action. Cue Beth flailing once more.
* * *
The wound was barely more than a scratch, but Gerald still insisted on cleaning it. Damien submitted to it without protest, finally taking his shirt off completely when it kept getting in the way. Gerald had been icily polite with the town guards and even more so with their landlady once they got to their rooms, and when Gerald got that way, lying low and taking cover was probably the best strategy. That, and picking up the pieces afterwards.
At least they didn't have to deal with the robbers any further, Damien thought. The young idiots had been fleecing the tourists too flamboyantly even for cynical Sheva to withstand, and they had robbed a merchant only minutes before their ambush in the dark alley. Gerald had graciously decided not to press charges, and once the guards took in the state of their prey, they gave Damien and Gerald a wide berth. For all its ills, Sheva bred smart people.
One day, I'll develop a less clumsy narrative technique for my Damien POV.
Gerald finished and Damien lay down on the bed with a sigh, only to receive a dark look.
"You can't heal yourself if it gets infected, Vryce."
Damien rolled his eyes and sat up again. "What's your problem?"
Black strands fell over Gerald's face as he stood up. "Nothing."
Another problem in this scene is that they're both alpha males, unwilling to express their emotions. Consequently the emotions simmer inside until it all boils over in a spectacular explosion. It's quite frustrating to write; it's also the reason I prefer writing males free from such constraints, including ones brought up in different cultures that did not include this particular emotional-denial paradigm. Like my vampires.
Damien sighed and wondered what crimes he'd committed to have to deal with a sulking nine-hundred-year-old. He got to his feet and walked over to join Gerald at the window. There was a tension in his friend's body, a stillness that spoke of pent-up emotion, not rest.
He touched Gerald's arm. "You're capable of getting an ulcer now, and that's something I won't be able to heal, either. Out with it."
"Out with it?" Gerald's fingers wrapped around Damien's convulsively, nails digging into skin. "Vryce, you stepped right into the way of two guns. If I hadn't seen that knife-"
A blade, seen in almost complete darkness, and from an angle that in memory suddenly looked wrong. Damien shook his head slowly. He should have recognised the fae-light of Gerald's vision.
"Well, you did, and thanks, by the way. I've been through worse-" unspoken, some of it at your hands "-and I've turned out all right."
Gerald turned his head towards him, loose hair brushing over the bare skin of Damien's arm. This close, in the dim light of the only lamp in the room, the dark eyes looked bottomless, captivating. "If I had to watch you hurt, when even healing's not possible-"
Oh, Gerald, a bad move. But this situation was necessary for them, and so was the previous scene - for Gerald to have a taste of the bitter cup that he forced Damien to drink.
That, that was a stab straight into Damien's heart.
Not that old a wound, but one he'd carefully avoided for the past few days. The anger got to him before he could rein in it.
"You mean like I did?!"
He'd meant just to gesture, but his hand was still wrapped around Gerald's shoulder, and the motion sent the other man back into a wall. Gerald's eyes widened, that perfect mouth falling open as the impact drove the breath from his lungs.
"I walked away - I vulking trusted-" Damien choked on his words, forcing himself to pick them carefully. "I saw the Hunter's severed head thrown on the fire. I saw the blood. For months, I thought - damn it, that hurt, that, and then it's all a game, all what you made me think, just so life could be easier for you, starting fresh without all the old crap weighing you down, who cares if I'm left thinking, if I hadn't vulking walked away-" He put his hands on either side of Gerald's face. His arms were shuddering as he struggled to control his outburst.
Piercing pain then, and he realised Gerald's fingers were digging into the wound on his shoulder.
Pain isn't used in a sensual sense here, but as a stimulus that overrides or underscores emotional responses.
"This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Gerald said. "All fault was mine, and chief of it the time it took me to tell you."
"Wasn't I just one more thing to throw aside?" Damien was surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded.
"You were supposed to be." Gerald smiled bitterly. "And once again you've proven that rules - mine or the world's - don't apply to you. That's what I was counting on, when I finally gathered my courage. Of all the things of my previous self, for some reason you were the only one I was seriously tempted to reclaim."
This is the closest that Gerald comes to saying "I love you" out loud. It's also a direct consequence of the canon fact that he does endanger his new existence by letting Damien know. And if he did let Damien know, there was no reason for the delay except for wariness; Gerald is not that cruel, not to his favourite priest.
Gerald's hand slid from Damien's shoulder, over his neck and to his cheek. Damien instinctively turned his head into the touch and smiled.
"All I'm saying is, the next time you have a harebrained plan? Warn me first," he said.
"If you'll extend me the same courtesy." Gerald was smiling openly now, long lashes throwing soft shadows on his eyes.
"Deal."
They were standing close, breathing in each other's breath, and it was thoughtless, reckless, right to move closer still and seal the compact, bound as it was with Gerald's inviolate word.
And inevitable as well. What I like about the boys is that they feel so natural with each other, know each other as well as an old married couple. Just like Damien knows what to do when Gerald explodes, now both of them have a hunch a kiss is the right thing to do.
Gerald's mouth opened easily, seductively, under his. The way Gerald's fingers tightened on his neck, on his chest, was anything but gentle, and Damien hissed as fingernails scored lines of heat into his skin. It was like holding a flame in his arms. He groaned at the thought of getting closer, closer to this fire.
The groan had to be to Gerald's liking, since he pushed closer to Damien, taking control of the kiss with a focus and intensity that left Damien breathless. Hands in his hair, on his neck, sliding down his back and lower, leaving raised trails of sharp fingernails and forceful foretellings of future bruises, and oh, it wasn't fair that Gerald could mark his skin like that and he could do nothing in return.
Some writing guides suggest using short sentences to communicate the dynamism of a sex scene, but I find that run-on sentences are better at conveying the breathlessness and sensory overload.
Damien had a vague idea he'd be paying for it later, but he still tugged at Gerald's shirt, sending buttons flying. His efforts revealed the lean lines of Gerald's shoulder, far too tempting not to see how it tasted, how human it was. Gerald's growl of impatience as his mouth was freed turned seamlessly into a keening moan when Damien's teeth pressed against his skin. Such a lovely sound, and tracing the line of that shoulder up to the pulse beating wildly on the side of Gerald's neck brought more sounds, soft and breathless and glorious. They were moving now, twisting to get closer together, and when Gerald brought his hands to Damien's face again, there was blood on them.
Nope, Damien has no vampire fetish at all :D
The sight stopped Damien for a moment, and that was long enough for Gerald to push him over, the room spinning until Damien was the one pinned against a wall and moaning, and oh God, Gerald, Gerald licking carefully, methodically, along the cut the knife had left in Damien's shoulder. A shudder, two, three, before Damien remembered to breathe, and then they were kissing again, salt and metal and blood should never taste that good, but Gerald had taken and twisted it all again, turning revulsion into even more desire. Because if there was one person even the laws of Erna bowed to, that was Gerald Tarrant, adept, sorcerer, this lean body in Damien's arms, black hair blanketing them and shielding Damien from the world.
A thought flitted through Damien's mind, of how much of this burning intensity was his, and how much was due to the channel between them, to the insight it gave Gerald into Damien's mind. This was the wrong thought to think, because then Gerald stopped and stepped away.
The bond - a dim awareness of desire and longing - snapped shut.
Gerald has a sense of honour that would preclude him from using the bond for illicit purposes, and that's half his indignation there. The other half is the challenge of proving he can get his man without recourse to magic.
For a moment they stood still. Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. Then Gerald snorted like an annoyed cat, and his lips curled up in a predatory smile. He shrugged slowly, letting his shirt slide to the floor.
Damien's eyes were irresistibly drawn to that flowing fabric as it slid slowly, revealing inch after inch of almost unblemished golden skin. There was one bruise already darkening on Gerald's arm, where Damien's fingers had dug in when Gerald licked his blood, a string of bite marks leading to the graceful neck. Long strands of hair slid forward over the leanly muscled shoulders as Gerald lowered his head. In the shadow, white teeth glinted.
Here I spent an hour agonising whether "inch by inch" was canonical on Erna. I can't remember who I asked for confirmation. My eternal shame is that I've only read Coldfire once so far, and my recall is shaky at best.
Gerald took another step back. Damien followed.
Damien was the taller one now, and that little advantage meant that by the time Gerald reached the bed, they were almost skin to skin again. Reaching blindly, he barely registered the soft chuckle against his lips when clever hands pulled him off-balance.
They fell on the bed in a tangle of limbs. Damien managed to end up on top and grinned widely when Gerald made a sound that surprisingly resembled a squeak. The adept struggled to reverse their positions, sliding his hands under Damien's belt to gain leverage to do so, and Damien's moment of sheer surprise gave him the advantage he was seeking. For the space of a few breaths Damien let him, submitting to demanding hands and fierce kisses. Then he rolled them over again, pressing Gerald into the mattress and pausing only long enough to whisper, keep still, into Gerald's ear before beginning his own exploration.
It's Damien's first time in bed with a man, but he's stubborn as a mule and determined to make the best of it. Gerald's bemused, but quite willing to go along with the idea, especially since Damien already knows far too much about him. I think the bond comes alive again at this point, for the first time initiated by Damien.
It was easier to say sorry with kisses and touches and skin on skin, to apologise for all doubt with tenderness and sharp bites, than it had ever been to say it out loud. And the sounds Gerald was making were exquisite.
At one point he paused, unsure quite how to proceed, but Gerald needed only a moment to blink the heaviest haze of desire from his eyes and pin Damien to the bed again. Gerald had his revenge on Damien and more, and then he showed him how much better it could get.
In the end, Damien tried to hang on for as long as he could, just so he could see Gerald lost in sensation. He got his wish, but the sight of those dark eyes slipping shut, the full mouth twisted in a grimace of pleasure, undid him more fully than any blade or Working. Coldfire flashed somewhere behind his eyes.
As they kissed afterwards, their heartbeats still even faster than their breathing, he tasted blood in Gerald's mouth again.
I was toying with the idea of making this all explicit, but decided not to bother. I've never been much interested in descriptions of the mechanics of tab A and slot B, and I write the kind of sex scenes I like to read.
* * *
A cool morning breeze roused Damien from sleep. He was alone on the bed, but he didn't have to reach for the bond to know that Gerald was still in the room. When he slowly opened his eyes, he saw the adept look speculatively at him and at a glass of water in his hand.
"You vulking throw that at me, I'll tell the shop assistant downstairs that you've fallen in love with her," Damien said as he sat up hastily.
"I think I've come upon the right idea for keeping such people out of my bed from now on." Gerald was immaculately dressed, but had made no attempt to hide the bite marks on his neck. "I'll let you throw them out."
"So what, now I'm supposed to defend your honour?"
Damien saw the annoyed flash of Gerald's eyes, but didn't have time to move before he was being kissed firmly into the mattress. When he tried to slide his fingers into Gerald's hair, his wrists were decisively pressed down.
Gerald knows better than to argue about who's the wife in this arrangement. As far as he's concerned, Damien is his best friend, and the sex is a very appreciated side benefit. Anyone applying stereotypes to either of them will find themselves shishkabobed.
"Get dressed," Gerald said, as calmly as if they had been discussing the weather. "We need to go shopping. We're leaving for Faraday tomorrow."
"What's in Faraday?"
"Passage under the Canopy."
Damien frowned. "What for?"
"To try and undo some mistakes." Gerald reached up and started braiding his hair with efficient, elegant gestures. "There are many negative effects to humanity's current inability to consciously manipulate the fae. The most important ones are Healing and quake wards. The lack of both endangers the survival of men on Erna."
C.S. Friedman suggested this very failing of the new world order would result in another dark age. That is contrary to Gerald's dream and everything he stands for. Therefore he'll work against it in any way he can. Once again I'm applying logic to extrapolate from the canon we've been given in the books.
"So what're we going to do about it?" Damien had no doubt that Gerald had a plan. He just hoped it was not one of the crazy ones.
"Pre-existing wards still work, which is why no cities have fallen to rubble yet. A little-known fact is that the fae used to create existing wards and Worked objects can be used again for Working, providing one is willing to take certain risks. Some Healers are already using this. The downside is that the supply of Worked objects is finite, unless new ones are made."
"To make them, you'd need to Work," Damien objected. "No-one can do that anymore - except-" He groaned. "You're vulking crazy. You're going to try and talk the rakh into Working objects and wards in order to help humanity survive?"
"I was hoping for your and Ciani's help."
And presto, Gerald's new crazy plan. Which ends up working; several years later Gerald and Damien are respected traders in Worked objects, supplying Healers for free and everyone else at extortionate rates. Gerald always thought that the fae could be used for good, it was just too easy to use. The terms of Gerald's sacrifice gave humanity freedom from fae-born demons of its own creation while keeping a difficult access to fae manipulation. Then of course the Patriarch had to butt in.
Damien groaned again, then got out of bed and stretched slowly. He caught Gerald's appreciative look and grinned.
"You know, I thought we were done changing the world for this year."
Gerald shook his head. "This is just dealing with loose ends and unfinished business."
"Unfinished business sounds good to me."
Outside, the Core was rising.
#FINIS#
I'm still planning to finish the sequel to this story, Family Ties, in which Gerald and Damien visit Merentha, Narilka brains Riven Forrest with a frying pan, and Andrys Tarrant considers running away to join the circus. There may or may not be an intervening story in the rakhlands; that will depend on whether I can get the rakhs involved to stop insisting they're Jellicle Rakhs.
etrangere: Unfinished Business. Same warnings as the original - semi-graphic slash.This is the story every Coldfire author writes, because we read the last chapters of Crown of Shadows with rising disbelief, only to close the book and go "The hell? Damien wouldn't let him walk away!" My version was aided by a very, very vocal Gerald muse. It's not my first Coldfire work - that one would be the sequel to this, the unpublished WIP Family Ties - but the first completed and published one. It was written as a means of conveying my thoughts rather than crafted as a story for its own aesthetical values, which is why the style is a bit shaky, but it was something I had to write.
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
A Coldfire story by Beth Winter
If the Hunter had made a bid for life (he reasoned), and if he had talked Andrys Tarrant into going along with it ... if he had sacrificed himself in the way this youth suggested, and done so successfully, so that he now walked the earth as another man, no longer a sorcerer because the Patriarch's sacrifice had stripped them all of power ... then that man, if he happened to get dirty now, would have to take a bath to get himself clean. Just like everybody else.
In the dawn of a new world, Damien Vryce smiled.
Damien kept his eyes on the lithe figure until it disappeared down the stairs. He didn't bother chasing the smile off his face, though it shifted as he took in the full impact of what had been said. Thoughts chased one another through his mind like fae currents on Shaitan, and he pushed them all aside, a kaleidoscope of emotions in their wake. He had thought of farewells moments before; now he saw how wrong he had been.
English isn't my native language, and sometimes I get stuck on the simplest words. It took me ten minutes of beating my head against the desk until I came up with "kaleidoscope" as the proper word for the variety of emotions Damien is experiencing.
No use considering things before he learned more. Instead, he turned his thoughts to more practical matters.
Finished or not, Black Ridge Tavern was the best one at the pass. The best rooms were the ones on the top floor, furthest away from the noisy common room. He recalled the layout of the windows as seen from the outside: only one of these rooms overlooked the Forest on the southern side, as if the builders thought that no-one would want to look at that seat of evil from their beds, even once it had burned.
These fragments where Damien explains his logical thought process read a bit clumsy, but I could honestly see no other way of conveying that information. Damien's narrative doesn't lend itself to stylistic experiments.
No heads turned as he made his way upstairs with the springbolt in his hand. The world hadn't changed that much, not yet.
Damien stored the springbolt in his room, propping it against the wall next to his sword. He supposed he should get a gun now that they worked reliably, but he was willing to leave firearms to people suited to them. Like Gerald, he thought, who'd used them even before, imposing his own will on the mechanism and not accepting the possibility of failure. He took the knife from his boot and unsheathed it to make sure the blade remained stain-free. He had bought it in Penitencia, trailing after Gerald through the evening market as the Hunter searched for a replacement for the knife that remained in the fortress of the Undying Prince.
That shopping expedition is a vignette I'll write one day. Gerald's shopping style is similar to my own: terrify them and leave carnage in your wake.
Damien left the knife, too.
The inn had enough pretensions to rivalling the best Jaggonath hotels to have a receptionist by the door, but at the moment the desk was manned by a woman that reminded Damien an aging shepherd dog. He recalled seeing her boss around the servants in the common room with a ladle in her hand, and it looked like cooking was more to her liking. She frowned at the guests as if she wanted to herd them all to their rooms, or possibly to feed them.
He didn't have to wait long before she abandoned her post to call some rowdy youths to order, and a moment later he knew the name of the occupant of Room 31, the top-floor room overlooking the Forest. Garrett of Faraday had checked in the day before.
Of Faraday, because Gerald needed a surname fast, and picked Ciani's. This will be a sequel plot point one day.
"Garrett," he muttered, trying out the sound of the name.
"You leave my records alone," the woman snapped at him as she returned to her desk.
"Sorry. I just ran into a friend here - Garrett asked me to come by his room later, but forgot to give me the room number."
"Garrett?" She looked at the ledger, then frowned. "Room 31. Oh, that's him."
Damien wondered what Gerald had done this time.
"Doesn't he eat at all, or is it just my food that he doesn't like?" she continued. "I haven't seen that man down at dinner or lunch, and he barely touched the breakfast today! I don't cook fancy city dishes, but no-one's ever said it's better to starve than eat Renarda Lalik's food."
If you've read my Once Upon A Time In Mexico stories, you've met Mother Renarda. She's a crack shot, cunning bitch and mothers everyone she meets. I have yet to be called on the fact she's an author self-insertion.
"He probably just forgot," Damien said. "He tends to do that."
"Old friend of yours?" The woman frowned, probably wondering what a scarred rough type could have to do with an elegant youth.
"We have unfinished business."
Damien's not sure if he can still name Gerald as a friend after the betrayal that was influencing him to leave and letting him believe he was responsible for Gerald's death. For lack of a better option, this became the title of the entire piece.
The tenant of Room 31 didn't come down for dinner that evening. Damien waited until the kitchen started closing down for the night, then talked Mes Lalik into making some sandwiches. The woman was even more incensed with Gerald's perceived disregard for her food than she had been in the afternoon, and she jumped at the opportunity to prove the quality of her cooking.
The top floor of the inn had its own baths. Damien would bet this was one place where the plumbing did work, at least as far as the supply of water was concerned. He saw wet footprints on the hallway floor that led from the baths to Room 31.
The door opened under his hand with the creak of untested hinges. The room was dark, the only light coming from the sky lit up by the setting Core and a low fire in the fireplace. The light caught the droplets of water on skin and hair as the room's tenant turned from the window. The embroidered vest was gone, the crimson shirt traded for a green one turned black by the dripping hair.
I was called out on the fact Gerald wouldn't let his hair drip, but vigorous towelling damages long hair and I think Gerald will take best possible care of his appearance in any circumstance. Technically combing wet hair isn't good, but a wide-toothed comb helps in detangling.
"Garrett."
Damien's voice was too loud in the night's silence. He watched as the not-stranger carefully laid down the comb and moved the wet hair behind his ears, gathering it at the nape of his neck and knotting it loosely together. Damien had thought the new name - new being - would be easy, but watching the graceful movements he knew he'd never think of the man as anything other than Gerald Tarrant.
He set the sandwiches down on a table in front of the fireplace.
"It's not smart to anger the cook," he said. "She's convinced you think her food's not fancy enough."
"I lost track of time."
Gerald is absolutely stunned and in mild panic that he'll disintegrate in a few seconds from now. Neither of them have any idea what to do, so they stumble along as best as they can.
Gerald walked towards the table slowly, without the elegant sureness that Damien remembered. The hesitant movements reminded him more of the times he'd seen the Hunter hurt. Fire, sunlight, earth-fae: he supposed giving up the Neocount's life hurt more than all of those.
"The kitchen's closed now," he said instead. "And the cook said you missed lunch, too."
That drew a smile. "I went riding through the pass. There was a fair of sorts on the far end - Glanyv was there, he's an Iezu whose aspect is agriculture. I drank more than I ate, though."
Glanyv is just a random combination of letters, but I think I might recycle the name. It's pronounceable and unique.
"Sounds better than what people did when Saris came through. I was afraid to go through that place. Too many breakable sculptures."
"Saris? It's a pity I wasn't there." Gerald sat down on the settee by the table and motioned for Damien to join him. "I've heard a lot about her."
"People said she's approachable, for an Iezu."
"That doesn't tell you much at all, does it?" On the stranger's face, the familiar darkly amused smile looked warmer.
Damien shook his head as he reached for a sandwich of his own. "You've met a lot of Iezu lately?"
"A few."
They're both boggling at the choice of topic, but neither of them is willing to admit it. Mostly because the reason for bogglement is Mount Shaitan, which is a thing that should not be named.
They talked of inconsequential matters and recent news as they ate and emptied a bottle of wine that Gerald had bought at Glanyv's festival. Gerald shared Damien's low opinion of the tourists' chances at talking to the Iezu, though they disagreed at the interpretation of recent unrest in Jaggonath and Sheva. It would be the small talk of two strangers thrown together by chance, if not for the fact that every once in a while they finished each other's sentences. Each time, there was a moment of silence as names unspoken hung between them.
The settee was small for two tall men, and Damien stretched his arm along the backrest. If Gerald's damp hair touched his sleeve when the other man moved his head, he paid no attention to it.
Finally the wine and the food was gone. The fire drew their eyes; too many burning memories that could not be spoken. A log cracked in the flames.
"Vryce," Gerald said softly, and the sound of that name from those lips was strange and familiar at once. "Please don't make me kill myself again."
This is Gerald's apology and acknowledgement that he wants Damien to stay. This is the most that he feels he's able to say.
Words were choking and lethal, but Damien remembered another quiet rented room, and Gerald's hand on his arm, when his ties to the Church had been finally, irrevocably broken. So instead of speaking, he let his hand slip from the backrest, wrapping his fingers around Gerald's shoulder and hoping they could say what he could not.
Gerald's hand rose to cover his, cold with the all-too-human chill of drying water and cool night air. Gerald's fingers traced the lines of Damien's hand, following old scars and abrasions, moving along each vein as if they could coax the blood to the surface through touch alone.
They touch a lot in this fic, all a lead-up to the sensual tension between them that intertwines with the psychological tension to create an explosion in the end.
Lulled by the crackle of the fire and Gerald's fingers over his own, Damien slept.
Bird songs outside the window woke Damien from a deep slumber. The first thing he was aware of were the silken threads under his fingers. Moving his hand experimentally, he realised it was tangled in Gerald's long hair.
At some point during the night, Gerald himself had ended up mostly lying over Damien. Their legs were tangled together. The adept's arms were loosely wrapped around Damien's waist, one of his hands finding purchase in a pocket of Damien's shirt. Damien's arms were wrapped around Gerald as well, but even so the only reason they hadn't fallen off the settee during the night must have been because they were wedged in too tightly to move that much.
For some reason, my Damien and Gerald always end up snuggling on settees and the like. Also, Damien all but fetishises Gerald's new hair.
He remembered holding Gerald before - so many times they'd dragged each other away from danger - but while this young body should be unfamiliar, instead it felt natural and right, as if it was just another of Gerald's faces that had been under the surface all long. He wondered if in time he would forget the proud, silver-eyed face: if he did, he could always visit Merentha to refresh his memory.
There was a murmur as Damien continued to wind his fingers through Gerald's hair, and he removed his hand hastily. But once Gerald lifted his head from Damien's shoulder, he looked more satisfied than annoyed.
"Good morning," he said.
Damien could still smell last evening's wine on Gerald's breath, and by the way Gerald grimaced, he knew the other sensed that as well. Gerald rose gracefully, briefly straddling Damien before slipping down to the floor.
Damien is very, very carefully NOT thinking about the way contact with Gerald's body makes him feel. I don't think he actually admits it to himself before the kiss.
Damien looked at the angle of the sunlight outside. "If you hurry, we'll make it to breakfast."
Breakfast foods seemed to be Mes Lalik's specialty, though Damien thought that on a bright day like this one he'd be happy with even traveller's fare. Gerald seemed to be under the same impression, judging by the way he had piled his plate high with food.
"It's a good day for traveling," Gerald remarked.
They didn't talk further, but half an hour later they led their horses out of the stable and set off towards the south-east.
There is an inertia to them: they're settling into a pattern, though they haven't settled anything between them. They've grown too used to each other to even consider separating.
There were new inns all along the road around the Forest, and in the one they chose to stop for the night no expense had been spared. As Damien prepared for sleep, he thought that even Gerald had to appreciate the tiled bath chambers and other amenities, up to and including dressing gowns as elegant as any that were provided for the guests of Jaggonath's best hotels. Then again, during dinner Gerald had looked as if he was missing Mes Lalik's watchful glare; the waitress had been relentless in signalling her appreciation for Gerald's looks.
The memory still amused Damien. He'd had a hell of a time keeping his face straight at the table, but he suspected that otherwise Gerald would have bent even the new restrictions on the use of the fae in order to turn him into something unpleasant.
Women puzzle Gerald very much. He appreciates their looks, but their personalities feel foreign to him. I don't think he even understood Almea, though he loved her, and later in Family Ties Narilka surprises him again and again. He has also had many run-ins with prospective suitors of both genders over the past weeks; he's reconsidering the choice of tailoring his body to Damien's preferences of attractiveness (which was subconscious and Completely Not His Fault).
He had barely put out the lamp before muffled voices started quarrelling next door. For a moment he remained on the bed, straining to hear the individual words, but when he heard the door to the hallway slam open, he rose and paused to slip on the dressing gown before opening his own door.
The buxom waitress was now wearing a nightdress even lower-cut than the shirt she had worn while serving them dinner, and her heaving breasts were straining the seams. She was clinging to Gerald's arm despite his polite attempts to pry her off. She blushed as Damien leaned against the doorframe and took in the whole scene.
Removing the girl's fingers from the opening of his dressing gown, Gerald threw Damien a furious look that was a hair's breadth from the Hunter's chill. Damien probably should not find it that amusing.
In my mind, new!Gerald looks quite a lot like Johnny Depp. Thus, groupies.
"I think my friend would rather sleep through the night," Damien offered to the flustered girl. "We've got a long day ahead of us."
The waitress pouted, but retreated with as much dignity as her gaping neckline allowed. Damien stopped hiding his grin.
"I didn't ask her to come hide in my bed, Vryce." Gerald's voice was more chilling than coldfire.
"I could say it's all your fault, and your vanity's. If you didn't choose those looks and that hair..."
Gerald threw him a poisonous look, and Damien took it as his cue to shut the door before any other poison was applied.
As he lay back down in the bed, he noticed the moving spots of light on the far wall. He realised that since the windows to his and Gerald's room were in a cul-de-sac and tilted towards one another, he could see the light of Gerald's lamp. A shadow moved over the wall, and he decided it had to be Gerald himself, settling down to read the latest news from the southern cities. He hoped the adept would not stay up too long; he didn't relish the prospect of traveling with Gerald cranky from lack of sleep.
Again a clumsy paragraph that I blame on Damien. This story was hard to write at all angles, not in the least because I wasn't in a mood to write. I just wanted to get it out of my head as quickly as possible.
Damien was disoriented as he woke; the sky outside was dark, but the light of Gerald's lamp still shone on the far wall. Then he realised it was true night outside. The habit of almost thirty years had woken him even though he had not consciously remembered the fact.
The shadows moved again, and he muttered a curse. What was Gerald doing up this late?
The door to the next room was unlocked, a careless gesture in a world where wards and fae-warnings can no longer be relied on. This time, Gerald didn't even move from the window, only motioned Damien to his side.
The lamp threw brief sharp shadows over Gerald's face as he bent down to snuff it out. As he did so, all vision disappeared. The inn's lights were long gone, the fire consuming the Forest too far away to brighten the night.
And then Gerald goes to open the window, in utter darkness. And counts on Damien to put two and two together. It's the little things like that that drive home just how well he knows Damien, and how much he cares.
Damien felt the chill night air on his skin. The window was open now.
"You can still See," he whispered.
"Yes." A warm body leaned against his side. Fingers slipped under his dressing gown until Gerald's palm rested against his heart, as if his was the one flawed and in need of repair. "See."
He'd forgotten how beautiful the dark fae was, a symphony of violet hues that curled and drew up on itself, swaying to the heartbeat of Erna itself. And the others, too. Earth fae, like an old friend long gone. The tumultuous dark currents heading out of the Forest, returning to the rhythm of the world. Such smooth flows now, without humans to twist and bend them to their will and un-will.
Damien is smitten anew. There is the physical appeal, noticed earlier as he acknowledges Gerald's new beauty, but what Damien goes for is the fae. And now Gerald is the only one who can show him that magnificence.
Gerald's hand was warm against his skin. A part of me in your soul, until one of us dies, and he should have known that each death would be a wound, but not a severing.
Here's another thing that irked me to no end about the ending of Crown of Shadows. Just pages earlier, Damien feels the bond "break", but then finds Gerald alive and the bond still operational. Someone as intelligent as him should put two and two together and figure out that a, the "breaking" is just a sign of fae-manipulation that his bond-partner is undergoing, and b, that Gerald could make mincemeat out of Andrys with one finger, while asleep. The only logical explanation I see is that Gerald was influencing Damien's mind at that point, starting from making him leave the room in the first place.
They stood there until the first of the moons rose. On the way back to his own room, Damien made a detour through the kitchen to get some water. The buxom waitress was curled beside the stove, whimpering fitfully in the depths of sleep. He wondered if she was running through the Forest in her dreams. He heard such nightmares were common here.
Sheva had enjoyed a degree of prosperity from its traffic with Jahanna, and now that Jahanna had fallen, the town profited even more from the tourist trade. In the old tradition, they were fleeced by cutpurses and highwaymen, who finally had a proper highway on which to ply their trade. In the new tradition, there were overpriced eateries where you paid through the nose as much for the food as for what the proprietors called the ambience.
Ambience in this case, Damien decided, had to mean light bad enough that you couldn't see what it was exactly that you were eating.
On some levels, Damien and Rincewind would get along fabulously.
Not that they were in danger of being poisoned. Gerald must have made enough of an impression on his way through a few days before that this time around the owner showed them to their table personally. And unlike the items that made it to the plates on the tables around them, their own dishes were acceptable. The wines were excellent.
Damien leaned back and sipped the last of the dessert wine as he watched Gerald finish up with the cream cake. He suspected the choice of establishment had been made mostly due to the fact that the low lights caught perfectly on the gold threads of Gerald's vest. He caught more than a couple of people of both sexes giving his companion the eye. At least this time they had rented rooms from a shopkeeper, so any unwanted nightly visitors would have locks and bars to get through before ambushing Gerald in his bed.
Candlelight, dinner, and the alpha male glaring at anyone who dares lay their eyes on his mate. Subtle, boys, really subtle.
Gerald looked up and gave him that polite, condescending smile. "Am I that fascinating to look at?"
Damien put his cup down and brushed his fingers over Gerald's as he did so, trying to send idiot over the bond that linked them. Judging by Gerald's expression, he succeeded.
"Are we finished?" he asked instead. "I want to get some sleep for once."
"You can sleep in tomorrow," Gerald said as he pushed away his plate and counted out the money. "We'll be staying in Sheva for at least two days."
"Yeah?" This was the first hint that Damien had of Gerald's plans. "Doing what?"
Gerald shook his head. "Shopping. In civilised places, you can't expect to go around in rags like yours."
Damien supposed he'd deserved that.
Gerald abhors Damien's fashion choices and takes great pleasure in dressing him up to his liking. Damien generally admits Gerald's taste is better than Ciani's.
The man at the coat check made a face as he handed Damien his sword, but it was one precaution Damien was not willing to abandon. The lanterns along the main streets of Sheva were set on poles new enough that the resin running down from the broken-off branches hadn't had time to set, and the smaller alleyways were dark enough to hide any misdeeds and most bodies, until the sun rose high in the sky. He knew Gerald was carrying a long knife in one of the high boots he wore as well as a pistol somewhere about his person, but he still carried the sword. Gerald should be happy he left the springbolt in their rooms.
The shortest way to their quarters led through a grid of alleyways between high houses that shut out the faint light of the two moons currently in the sky. Damien stumbled on a broken cartwheel and cursed. Gerald's fingers wrapped firmly, surely about his wrist, guiding him. The world flickered and shifted in front of his eyes as Gerald let him access the fae-vision again.
It was dark enough for the dark fae to twist and curl in the corners of the alleys. They walked in companionable silence, listening to the music and bustle of the town's main street, only two or three cross-streets away.
Romance is in the air ;) Damien and Gerald may not speak the words (I can't imagine either of them saying "I love you" to the other under any circumstances), but they are the fluffiest OTP I have.
A trio of young women passed them by, giggling and sharing a bottle of wine. There was no Hunter now to put fear in their hearts.
The women disappeared down another alley. Moments later, Damien's only warning was the way the dark fae wavered just before the figures melted out of the shadows ahead.
Four of them, nothing but wide menacing outlines. A glint of a pistol barrel in one hand, in the almost-darkness.
And here starts one of the two hardest to write scenes in the story. I make no secret of the fact I suck at two categories of scenes - action and sex. Sex, at least, usually features only two participants. Action choreography is expotentially harder. Much flailing ensued around this point.
"Your money or your life," a rough voice suggested.
Damien's hand twitched towards his sword, then stilled. Gerald's fingers slipped from his as he took a step forward.
"Can't we talk about it?" he said brightly.
"Shut up!" The pistol-wielder sounded young and angry. "Don't move!"
One of the other menacing shadows moved then. "Easy, Gunner. Listen, man, we've got no quarrel. You've got a blade, we have guns, and I bet that guy doesn't pay a bodyguard enough to make it worth your life."
Reasonable Dude is the one who's left standing at the end and almost stabs Damien. I do wish I could develop him more, but I think he'll come back to me in another story.
Damien grinned. It looked like one of the side effects of Gerald's transformation was that now Damien was considered the more dangerous of the two.
"Sure, just take it easy." He stepped forward again, letting the muggers surround him. He felt a sudden, alien flash of anger. Gerald's? "No use fighting anyway."
Somewhere towards the main thoroughfare someone cried out, "Thieves!" and the sound drew the assailants' attention. The hand with the pistol wavering, an opening, and Damien took it.
Something crunched as he dashed that hand against the alley wall. A yelp of pain, and it was probably so much for Gunner in this fight, but still Damien took a moment to make sure of that.
A shot rang out, and not from Gunner's dropped pistol - he kicked it away just in case. Of the three remaining muggers, one was curled on the ground around his wounded hand, and another dropped down to avoid further bullets. Damien left that one to Gerald's night vision and marksmanship, and turned to face the last man.
He ducked the first punch. Then a high kick, showy and useless, and instead of jumping away he went into it. Calling the bluff. Another punch coming, but he turned into it as well, getting ready for-
In the last moment, a glint of a knife.
A glint where there is no light to reflect on the blade. It's only later that Damien puts two and two together.
He turned and twisted desperately. The blade scored a line of fire over his shoulder. He let the momentum carry him forward and spun to attack the mugger from behind, but the man was already running away.
The robber did not get far. A dozen town guards were just turning around the corner, and he ran straight into their arms.
The guards' torches filled the alley with flickering shadows. Damien's first opponent was unconscious on the ground, next to the whimpering man with the wounded hand. The third mugger was slumped against a brick wall. No wounds, Damien noticed - it looked as if Gerald had simply thrown the man into a wall. It figured that even in the new body, Gerald was still much stronger than he looked.
He stooped down to make sure the shot man wouldn't bleed to death. There wasn't enough blood for the damage to be life-threatening. Then a hand clenched on his shoulder, fingers digging into the shallow wound.
"When I asked for no suicidal actions," Gerald said, "I meant for both of us to avoid them."
I took a deep breath when this one was done. I knew I was heading from the frying pan into the fire, though at least the next scene has the emotional load that carries it through. The problem is that since Damien doesn't like to think of his emotions, especially regarding Gerald, he concentrates on the action. Cue Beth flailing once more.
The wound was barely more than a scratch, but Gerald still insisted on cleaning it. Damien submitted to it without protest, finally taking his shirt off completely when it kept getting in the way. Gerald had been icily polite with the town guards and even more so with their landlady once they got to their rooms, and when Gerald got that way, lying low and taking cover was probably the best strategy. That, and picking up the pieces afterwards.
At least they didn't have to deal with the robbers any further, Damien thought. The young idiots had been fleecing the tourists too flamboyantly even for cynical Sheva to withstand, and they had robbed a merchant only minutes before their ambush in the dark alley. Gerald had graciously decided not to press charges, and once the guards took in the state of their prey, they gave Damien and Gerald a wide berth. For all its ills, Sheva bred smart people.
One day, I'll develop a less clumsy narrative technique for my Damien POV.
Gerald finished and Damien lay down on the bed with a sigh, only to receive a dark look.
"You can't heal yourself if it gets infected, Vryce."
Damien rolled his eyes and sat up again. "What's your problem?"
Black strands fell over Gerald's face as he stood up. "Nothing."
Another problem in this scene is that they're both alpha males, unwilling to express their emotions. Consequently the emotions simmer inside until it all boils over in a spectacular explosion. It's quite frustrating to write; it's also the reason I prefer writing males free from such constraints, including ones brought up in different cultures that did not include this particular emotional-denial paradigm. Like my vampires.
Damien sighed and wondered what crimes he'd committed to have to deal with a sulking nine-hundred-year-old. He got to his feet and walked over to join Gerald at the window. There was a tension in his friend's body, a stillness that spoke of pent-up emotion, not rest.
He touched Gerald's arm. "You're capable of getting an ulcer now, and that's something I won't be able to heal, either. Out with it."
"Out with it?" Gerald's fingers wrapped around Damien's convulsively, nails digging into skin. "Vryce, you stepped right into the way of two guns. If I hadn't seen that knife-"
A blade, seen in almost complete darkness, and from an angle that in memory suddenly looked wrong. Damien shook his head slowly. He should have recognised the fae-light of Gerald's vision.
"Well, you did, and thanks, by the way. I've been through worse-" unspoken, some of it at your hands "-and I've turned out all right."
Gerald turned his head towards him, loose hair brushing over the bare skin of Damien's arm. This close, in the dim light of the only lamp in the room, the dark eyes looked bottomless, captivating. "If I had to watch you hurt, when even healing's not possible-"
Oh, Gerald, a bad move. But this situation was necessary for them, and so was the previous scene - for Gerald to have a taste of the bitter cup that he forced Damien to drink.
That, that was a stab straight into Damien's heart.
Not that old a wound, but one he'd carefully avoided for the past few days. The anger got to him before he could rein in it.
"You mean like I did?!"
He'd meant just to gesture, but his hand was still wrapped around Gerald's shoulder, and the motion sent the other man back into a wall. Gerald's eyes widened, that perfect mouth falling open as the impact drove the breath from his lungs.
"I walked away - I vulking trusted-" Damien choked on his words, forcing himself to pick them carefully. "I saw the Hunter's severed head thrown on the fire. I saw the blood. For months, I thought - damn it, that hurt, that, and then it's all a game, all what you made me think, just so life could be easier for you, starting fresh without all the old crap weighing you down, who cares if I'm left thinking, if I hadn't vulking walked away-" He put his hands on either side of Gerald's face. His arms were shuddering as he struggled to control his outburst.
Piercing pain then, and he realised Gerald's fingers were digging into the wound on his shoulder.
Pain isn't used in a sensual sense here, but as a stimulus that overrides or underscores emotional responses.
"This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Gerald said. "All fault was mine, and chief of it the time it took me to tell you."
"Wasn't I just one more thing to throw aside?" Damien was surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded.
"You were supposed to be." Gerald smiled bitterly. "And once again you've proven that rules - mine or the world's - don't apply to you. That's what I was counting on, when I finally gathered my courage. Of all the things of my previous self, for some reason you were the only one I was seriously tempted to reclaim."
This is the closest that Gerald comes to saying "I love you" out loud. It's also a direct consequence of the canon fact that he does endanger his new existence by letting Damien know. And if he did let Damien know, there was no reason for the delay except for wariness; Gerald is not that cruel, not to his favourite priest.
Gerald's hand slid from Damien's shoulder, over his neck and to his cheek. Damien instinctively turned his head into the touch and smiled.
"All I'm saying is, the next time you have a harebrained plan? Warn me first," he said.
"If you'll extend me the same courtesy." Gerald was smiling openly now, long lashes throwing soft shadows on his eyes.
"Deal."
They were standing close, breathing in each other's breath, and it was thoughtless, reckless, right to move closer still and seal the compact, bound as it was with Gerald's inviolate word.
And inevitable as well. What I like about the boys is that they feel so natural with each other, know each other as well as an old married couple. Just like Damien knows what to do when Gerald explodes, now both of them have a hunch a kiss is the right thing to do.
Gerald's mouth opened easily, seductively, under his. The way Gerald's fingers tightened on his neck, on his chest, was anything but gentle, and Damien hissed as fingernails scored lines of heat into his skin. It was like holding a flame in his arms. He groaned at the thought of getting closer, closer to this fire.
The groan had to be to Gerald's liking, since he pushed closer to Damien, taking control of the kiss with a focus and intensity that left Damien breathless. Hands in his hair, on his neck, sliding down his back and lower, leaving raised trails of sharp fingernails and forceful foretellings of future bruises, and oh, it wasn't fair that Gerald could mark his skin like that and he could do nothing in return.
Some writing guides suggest using short sentences to communicate the dynamism of a sex scene, but I find that run-on sentences are better at conveying the breathlessness and sensory overload.
Damien had a vague idea he'd be paying for it later, but he still tugged at Gerald's shirt, sending buttons flying. His efforts revealed the lean lines of Gerald's shoulder, far too tempting not to see how it tasted, how human it was. Gerald's growl of impatience as his mouth was freed turned seamlessly into a keening moan when Damien's teeth pressed against his skin. Such a lovely sound, and tracing the line of that shoulder up to the pulse beating wildly on the side of Gerald's neck brought more sounds, soft and breathless and glorious. They were moving now, twisting to get closer together, and when Gerald brought his hands to Damien's face again, there was blood on them.
Nope, Damien has no vampire fetish at all :D
The sight stopped Damien for a moment, and that was long enough for Gerald to push him over, the room spinning until Damien was the one pinned against a wall and moaning, and oh God, Gerald, Gerald licking carefully, methodically, along the cut the knife had left in Damien's shoulder. A shudder, two, three, before Damien remembered to breathe, and then they were kissing again, salt and metal and blood should never taste that good, but Gerald had taken and twisted it all again, turning revulsion into even more desire. Because if there was one person even the laws of Erna bowed to, that was Gerald Tarrant, adept, sorcerer, this lean body in Damien's arms, black hair blanketing them and shielding Damien from the world.
A thought flitted through Damien's mind, of how much of this burning intensity was his, and how much was due to the channel between them, to the insight it gave Gerald into Damien's mind. This was the wrong thought to think, because then Gerald stopped and stepped away.
The bond - a dim awareness of desire and longing - snapped shut.
Gerald has a sense of honour that would preclude him from using the bond for illicit purposes, and that's half his indignation there. The other half is the challenge of proving he can get his man without recourse to magic.
For a moment they stood still. Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. Then Gerald snorted like an annoyed cat, and his lips curled up in a predatory smile. He shrugged slowly, letting his shirt slide to the floor.
Damien's eyes were irresistibly drawn to that flowing fabric as it slid slowly, revealing inch after inch of almost unblemished golden skin. There was one bruise already darkening on Gerald's arm, where Damien's fingers had dug in when Gerald licked his blood, a string of bite marks leading to the graceful neck. Long strands of hair slid forward over the leanly muscled shoulders as Gerald lowered his head. In the shadow, white teeth glinted.
Here I spent an hour agonising whether "inch by inch" was canonical on Erna. I can't remember who I asked for confirmation. My eternal shame is that I've only read Coldfire once so far, and my recall is shaky at best.
Gerald took another step back. Damien followed.
Damien was the taller one now, and that little advantage meant that by the time Gerald reached the bed, they were almost skin to skin again. Reaching blindly, he barely registered the soft chuckle against his lips when clever hands pulled him off-balance.
They fell on the bed in a tangle of limbs. Damien managed to end up on top and grinned widely when Gerald made a sound that surprisingly resembled a squeak. The adept struggled to reverse their positions, sliding his hands under Damien's belt to gain leverage to do so, and Damien's moment of sheer surprise gave him the advantage he was seeking. For the space of a few breaths Damien let him, submitting to demanding hands and fierce kisses. Then he rolled them over again, pressing Gerald into the mattress and pausing only long enough to whisper, keep still, into Gerald's ear before beginning his own exploration.
It's Damien's first time in bed with a man, but he's stubborn as a mule and determined to make the best of it. Gerald's bemused, but quite willing to go along with the idea, especially since Damien already knows far too much about him. I think the bond comes alive again at this point, for the first time initiated by Damien.
It was easier to say sorry with kisses and touches and skin on skin, to apologise for all doubt with tenderness and sharp bites, than it had ever been to say it out loud. And the sounds Gerald was making were exquisite.
At one point he paused, unsure quite how to proceed, but Gerald needed only a moment to blink the heaviest haze of desire from his eyes and pin Damien to the bed again. Gerald had his revenge on Damien and more, and then he showed him how much better it could get.
In the end, Damien tried to hang on for as long as he could, just so he could see Gerald lost in sensation. He got his wish, but the sight of those dark eyes slipping shut, the full mouth twisted in a grimace of pleasure, undid him more fully than any blade or Working. Coldfire flashed somewhere behind his eyes.
As they kissed afterwards, their heartbeats still even faster than their breathing, he tasted blood in Gerald's mouth again.
I was toying with the idea of making this all explicit, but decided not to bother. I've never been much interested in descriptions of the mechanics of tab A and slot B, and I write the kind of sex scenes I like to read.
A cool morning breeze roused Damien from sleep. He was alone on the bed, but he didn't have to reach for the bond to know that Gerald was still in the room. When he slowly opened his eyes, he saw the adept look speculatively at him and at a glass of water in his hand.
"You vulking throw that at me, I'll tell the shop assistant downstairs that you've fallen in love with her," Damien said as he sat up hastily.
"I think I've come upon the right idea for keeping such people out of my bed from now on." Gerald was immaculately dressed, but had made no attempt to hide the bite marks on his neck. "I'll let you throw them out."
"So what, now I'm supposed to defend your honour?"
Damien saw the annoyed flash of Gerald's eyes, but didn't have time to move before he was being kissed firmly into the mattress. When he tried to slide his fingers into Gerald's hair, his wrists were decisively pressed down.
Gerald knows better than to argue about who's the wife in this arrangement. As far as he's concerned, Damien is his best friend, and the sex is a very appreciated side benefit. Anyone applying stereotypes to either of them will find themselves shishkabobed.
"Get dressed," Gerald said, as calmly as if they had been discussing the weather. "We need to go shopping. We're leaving for Faraday tomorrow."
"What's in Faraday?"
"Passage under the Canopy."
Damien frowned. "What for?"
"To try and undo some mistakes." Gerald reached up and started braiding his hair with efficient, elegant gestures. "There are many negative effects to humanity's current inability to consciously manipulate the fae. The most important ones are Healing and quake wards. The lack of both endangers the survival of men on Erna."
C.S. Friedman suggested this very failing of the new world order would result in another dark age. That is contrary to Gerald's dream and everything he stands for. Therefore he'll work against it in any way he can. Once again I'm applying logic to extrapolate from the canon we've been given in the books.
"So what're we going to do about it?" Damien had no doubt that Gerald had a plan. He just hoped it was not one of the crazy ones.
"Pre-existing wards still work, which is why no cities have fallen to rubble yet. A little-known fact is that the fae used to create existing wards and Worked objects can be used again for Working, providing one is willing to take certain risks. Some Healers are already using this. The downside is that the supply of Worked objects is finite, unless new ones are made."
"To make them, you'd need to Work," Damien objected. "No-one can do that anymore - except-" He groaned. "You're vulking crazy. You're going to try and talk the rakh into Working objects and wards in order to help humanity survive?"
"I was hoping for your and Ciani's help."
And presto, Gerald's new crazy plan. Which ends up working; several years later Gerald and Damien are respected traders in Worked objects, supplying Healers for free and everyone else at extortionate rates. Gerald always thought that the fae could be used for good, it was just too easy to use. The terms of Gerald's sacrifice gave humanity freedom from fae-born demons of its own creation while keeping a difficult access to fae manipulation. Then of course the Patriarch had to butt in.
Damien groaned again, then got out of bed and stretched slowly. He caught Gerald's appreciative look and grinned.
"You know, I thought we were done changing the world for this year."
Gerald shook his head. "This is just dealing with loose ends and unfinished business."
"Unfinished business sounds good to me."
Outside, the Core was rising.
#FINIS#
I'm still planning to finish the sequel to this story, Family Ties, in which Gerald and Damien visit Merentha, Narilka brains Riven Forrest with a frying pan, and Andrys Tarrant considers running away to join the circus. There may or may not be an intervening story in the rakhlands; that will depend on whether I can get the rakhs involved to stop insisting they're Jellicle Rakhs.
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English isn't my native language, and sometimes I get stuck on the simplest words.
I know exactly the feeling :)
I have yet to be called on the fact she's an author self-insertion.
XDD I wouldn't have expected her to be one
Also, Damien all but fetishises Gerald's new hair.
Very fair, Damien fetishes Gerald all the time :)
Women puzzle Gerald very much. He appreciates their looks, but their personalities feel foreign to him. I don't think he even understood Almea, though he loved her, and later in Family Ties Narilka surprises him again and again.
I agree wholeheartedly! Gerald tends to treat women as strange, exotic animals.
Damien is smitten anew. There is the physical appeal, noticed earlier as he acknowledges Gerald's new beauty, but what Damien goes for is the fae. And now Gerald is the only one who can show him that magnificence.
Very clever given how much Damien likes fae things.
C.S. Friedman suggested this very failing of the new world order would result in another dark age. That is contrary to Gerald's dream and everything he stands for. Therefore he'll work against it in any way he can. Once again I'm applying logic to extrapolate from the canon we've been given in the books.
I think the things you extrapolated from the setting were my favourite parts in this fic :)
And now I'm feeling quite eager to read all these sequels, ficlets etc. you mention you might be writing sometimes :)
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As for sequels etc, they're still there on the back burner. I need to reread Coldfire before tackling them, though. I only read the books once, and I kept having to refer back to them for details.