Before Sunrise
by Shadowy Star
December 2005
Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire trilogy. It belongs to C.S. Friedman. I do own this story. Characters, places, locations and organizations not appearing or being mentioned in the books are also mine. Do not archive or translate or otherwise use without permission.
Summary: Some things are too fragile for daylight.
A/N: Just another missing scene from my collection. Set in the rakh lands, after Damien's near-drowning in that river in BSR.
"Gerald."
He turned around to face his so-called apprentice, impatience rising within. Right now he had better to do than to teach an once-been adept in sorcery. Even if the rakh feared him, there were still so many of them. They couldn't harm him anyway but for his companions… That was something entirely different.
"Gerald, please. It's about Damien. He's in bad shape," Ciani of Faraday said.
He whirled around instantly, and the woman paled slightly yet didn't flinch. "What happened?"
"Fever," she answered, still firmly standing her ground. "Please. Zen is not a Healer and I…" And she trailed off, deep bitterness echoing in her voice. Yes, he'd taught her to See, needing the very same Keys Vryce used so expertly. The Priest's talent was considerable – a strong, warm, golden-tinted glow to Gerald's Adept eyes.
He nodded stiffly and turned to the tent where the Priest was lying, sensing Lady Faraday follow.
He knelt beside the unconscious man. His apprentice had been right – the Priest was in really bad shape indeed. Even if the hypothermia hadn't managed to kill him, the fever most certainly would. Gerald molded the fae into a tentative Knowing. And drew in a deep breath, sharply.
"Leave," he commanded.
"But–" Senzei Reese started.
"Now!" he said, forcing himself to calmness.
They fled. He smiled inwardly, the faint glimmer of their fear leaving a delicious taste on his tongue.
Then, he turned his attention to Vryce again. The skin beneath the golden tan was flushed with fever, and a fine sheen of sweat covered the other man's handsome face. Carefully, he removed the blankets wrapped around the Priest's body before taking a wrist and checking the pulse. The heartbeat under his fingertips was fast, wild and erratic – not a good sign at all. He put his other hand on Damien Vryce's forehead, deepening his Knowing. As he'd assumed, in his battle against viremia, Damien was losing ground. Slowly, he ran his hands across the Priest's skin, using the chill of his own body to reduce the rising fever. So many scars, he wondered briefly. Across the ribcage, then a single long, thick silver line across the other's chiseled abdomen –That one must have been bad, he thought– and more of short, thin, well-healed lines on arms and shoulders. Gently, he traced the scars one by one. How broad Damien's shoulders were, he thought, how strong his arms. His fingers weren't long enough to measure the span of the other man's biceps. Their journey had thinned the priest's frame, leaving only bones and muscles behind to shape a lean, strong form he couldn't help but admire.
Somehow, it bothered him to see Damien that helpless. Of course, he was infuriating and stubborn but also intelligent, brave and strong. When did it happen that he started to rely on that strength, Gerald asked himself and frowned immediately. Where did that thought come from? Surely it was due to the link between them. He hadn't expected the bond to affect him that much. But then again, how could it not? A channel between souls, and his was still human, after all – a fact he couldn't deny any longer. A thousand years of life had taught him better, at the very least. Fooling himself had never been an option. The Priest might have a point insisting there was still humanity inside him.
He shook his head in a futile attempt to clear his thoughts. To pursue that road was dangerous and stupid both. Humanity or not, he still was what the Unnamed Ones had made of him. Then what was that strange sensation he experienced every time he looked at Damien? There was something deep inside him, once known, nearly forgotten, something he couldn't quite remember but also could not quite forget. A feeling of…? It left him confused each time he thought about the matter, and being confused was something Gerald Tarrant definitely did not like. How, he thought, successfully conjuring anger and irritation, did the thrice damned Priest always manage to make him feel like that? How could Damien make him feel?
Said Priest tossed in his delirium, letting out a weak groan, and Gerald's whirl of thoughts stopped suddenly, frozen with another unfamiliar emotion. Dread. He forced it aside and focused on their link instead. It was crucial for the Priest to be conscious if the cure was meant to take hold.
"Reverend," he called.
Damien was drifting on a wave of warmth. Numbness caused by hypothermia had finally left his bones, leaving only blessed heat of –what?– behind. Gradually, he became aware of something wrong. If he only could figure out what it was… But there was warmth, a heat so intense that he shivered. It was welcome to his chilled body, and he was about to sink back as a far, distant voice spoke.
"Reverend."
Too far away, he decided. Not worth listening to. He turned away to embrace the heat in each cell of his body.
"Vryce!" The same voice, more urgent this time. Closer now, but still far away. Warmth was waiting for him, dark, soft, unrelenting. Wait, he thought, hesitating. Think. He shivered again. Thinking was difficult in this place. Slowly, realization came. He must have fallen ill. Fever caused that heat which here, inside his body, he experienced as right even if his body knew it wasn't, and still tried to fight. You need to wake up. You need to Heal yourself.
"Damien!" Once again that voice, smooth and powerful. Familiar. Close as if speaking right into his ear. Calling his name. Calling him back to the world of the living. A link came into sight, focused on the touches of cool hands against his forehead and his right wrist. He struggled to hold onto that voice, following it to…
With effort, he opened his eyes.
"About time," the silky voice said. Something like relief was in it but in his current state his perception might have fooled him.
"I thought I lost you," Tarrant said quietly, turning his gaze away.
Definitely relief, Damien thought. "What–?" he managed.
"Viremia," Tarrant explained. "I have to eliminate it."
What kind of emotion lingered in the depths of those silver eyes, Damien wondered. Concern? Or … even more than that?
"It's going to be … unpleasant," the Hunter added.
Finally, Damien understood. Coldfire, of course. What else? He drew a deep breath and nodded weakly. 'Unpleasant' was probably the sole candidate for 'understatement of the century' but what choice did he have? He was certainly unable to manage a Healing himself. "Go ahead."
Tarrant looked at him, eyes intent. "I'm sorry," he said, voice rough, as if with some hidden feeling.
And before Damien could voice any kind of answer, coldfire flooded into his veins. His whole body spasmed once, twice, convulsing in pain as sharp and burning as ice. His right hand clenched around slender fingers. Was this what dying felt like? His consciousness rapidly fading, he heard Tarrant speak.
"You will not die. I promise."
Everything went black.
Gerald Tarrant leaned back, pleased with the result of his efforts. The worst was over. Damien's forehead was still hot but not as scalding as before, and he was sure the fever wouldn't rise again. Hesitatingly, he reached out and brushed the Priest's damp, chestnut brown hair from his face. It'd grown shoulder-long on this journey, and Damien didn't care to cut it to its former length so now the rich thick strands suited this face better, smoothing sharp angles of jaw and cheek bone. He traced the other man's eyebrows with his fingertips, barely touching dark brown lashes, now slightly spiky with dampness. Wondering at the same time what caused him to do such a –foolish? human?– thing. Of course, Damien was handsome, beautiful even, and he always valued beauty, yes, but… There was more to it, much so in fact. For reasons he didn't dare contemplate he leaned down and placed a quick kiss to Damien's fever-cracked lips.
Then, hastily, he rose to his feet and left the tent.
Had he stayed just one second longer he would've heard Damien's unconscious whisper.
"Gerald…"
Outside, first rays of dawn painted the skies with silver.
FIN