The Lure of the Sea

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended

Warnings: slash, but nothing too explicit

A/N: Actually this story is short enough for a oneshot, but I'm quite busy at the moment, and I don't know when I will find some time to finish it. Anyway it's very quiet in our fandom at the moment, and for that reason I decided to split it up into two or maybe three chapters and post at least the first one. For the next six weeks I might not be able to update, and I apologize for the delay in advance (haven't even started the next chapter of 'Love is stronger...'. Sigh!).

A/N 2: Usually I'm very wary of using female original characters because of the infamous Mary-Sue problem. But believe me, friends: Although I'm indeed blond and blue-eyed I'm not seventeen (far from it, in fact), and even if Gerald Tarrant's my favourite character in all the hundreds of books I've read so far marrying him is not on my agenda. I treasure my (debatable) sanity and my life!:-D

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Gerald dreamed. Somewhere deep down in the recesses of his unconscious mind he knew that he was dreaming, but he didn't want to wake up. Not yet, while the soft lull of the waves that were gently rocking him and the muscular frame pressed firmly to his own was luring him deeper and deeper into this pleasant mirage, his sharp mind for once willingly surrendering to this impossible but yet so sweet illusion.

The wind and the waves were stronger now, and clinging to each other like drowning men and their sighs and whispers mingling with the moaning of the sea their naked bodies moved with them, harder and faster and more and more. The pleasure rose to a nigh to unbearable intensity, made him squirm and gasp for air and tightened his muscles to hard knots, his perfectly manicured fingernails marking his lover's back with bloody crescents. When the raging storm was over them and a flash of lightning tore the night sky apart his eyes slipped shut, and he wasn't ashamed that his cry of release drowned out the hollow rumble of thunder.

His breath still coming in harsh gasps while his body was riding out the last waves of his climax the adept woke up with a start, the howling of the storm and the creaking of the rigging still ringing in his ears. Although he could almost taste the salty spray on his lips the stale air in his hotel room didn't speak of freedom and new adventures but was heavy with the musky scent of sex, and the soaked sheets below his abdomen were unpleasantly sticky. Disgusted Gerald wrinkled his nose. Most certainly he needed a good long soak in the bathtub as usual when he had dreamed of the damned priest, but before he could put his plan into action his bed-partner stirred at his side with a faint, sleepy moan.

Stifling a sigh Gerald opened his eyes and faced reality in form of the slender, shapely and definitely female body of Gracelin O'Meara that had replaced the bulk of the priest. Sweet seventeen and willing to worship the ground he walked the handsome, wealthy stranger who had burst into her quiet life with her widowed mother must indeed have been a teenager's dream come true. Buying a hot pastry from a market stall hadn't been his usual style, but still avidly testing the deep waters of his freshly regained mortality he'd been open to some new experiences, and he'd felt attracted to the comely girl with her easy smile and her guileless sapphire eyes looking at the world with the wide eyed wonder of an innocent child, a concept so alien to him that it had kept him enthralled for a while.

Gerald had stumbled into this emotional entanglement virtually by accident, but he was very well aware that he was offered a unique chance for picking up the pieces and starting life all over again. His body was young and fully functional, and putting a ring on Gracie's finger and founding a new line, this time hopefully without any complications, didn't seem such a bad idea after all.

For a moment Hawthorne wondered what his offspring might look like, and his curiosity was seriously piqued. With regard to the fact that it had been encouraged by a cocked crossbow his final shape-shift had been a rather hasty, impromptu affair, and the adept hadn't been able to verify whether his genes had been altered along with his appearance yet. Siring children proved to be a fascinating experiment indeed for a passionate scientist who had always regretted that mating in bird form had been out of the question in his undead state.

Gerald pushed down his surge of excitement, and gazing at the young girl he focussed on more urgent matters again. Gracelin doubtlessly was aesthetically pleasing, rather bright though lamentably uneducated and young and submissive enough to be wax in his hands. Even without access to the fae he could easily mold her into the woman he wanted, and after having expanded her limited horizons to his taste they would sit peacefully by the fireplace and while away the time by stimulating discussions on every conceivable topic from politics to technology.

A dim memory of a another fireplace in a gorgeous white Revivalist castle welled up from a secret place hidden deeply inside him, accompanied by unsettling reminiscences of a beautiful, heart-shaped face, reddish golden hair and a soft voice. How they had loved to sit side by side on the rare occasions when he had had no obligations to King Gannon or the church he had founded, arms around each other and gazing at the flickering flames while discussing everything under the sun. Although fiercely protective regarding her family Almea had been a gentle woman, and he had mercifully been spared sullen pouts or the widely feared bouts of female capriciousness.

You vulking bastard! The gruff voice inside his head was but a whisper, but Gerald flinched as if the damned priest had yelled the words right into his ears. How could Vryce dare to haunt him while he was honouring the memory of his late wife who had paid the ultimate price for securing his survival?

Because you can just as well admit that you miss that blunt, presumptuous ass in the guise of a man, Gerald thought wryly. You even miss his tasteless clothes, his jarring, foul-mouthed cussing and his never-ending bickering. And don't you forget those wet dreams with the priest as the main protagonist which plague you each and every night no matter how often you've already found fulfillment...

Pushing down that unwelcome train of thoughts the adept focussed his attention on his lover again. After a thousand years in attendance of the Forces of the Dark he wouldn't exactly have called himself an expert on human emotions any longer, but while he was looking down on Grace's childlike face framed by golden curls, watching the sleeping girl intently, he tried to analyze his feelings for her. A certain amused affection was undeniable, the kind of fondness he might have felt for a helpless puppy licking his hands and wagging its tail, begging to be taken home, and for that he was grateful. In his own time many a couple had founded their marriage on mutual respect and affection without succumbing to the blind madness of passion, and why shouldn't this tried and tested method work for him and Grace? At his age he really could do without raging hormones and foolish declarations of eternal love, or so he tried to convince himself, but if he married the girl and settled down there would be no wild, untameable ocean carrying him to unknown destinations while strong arms were cradling him, sheltering him from harm as they had done countless times before.

Muttering a vicious curse reserved for very special occasions under his breath Hawthorne got up and made for the bathroom. After he had bid farewell to his former ally on Black Ridge Pass he had resigned himself to the fact that he mustn't meet him ever again if he didn't want to jeopardize his continuing existence. By seeking out Vryce and hinting at the possibilities he had already taken an incalculable risk, but he owed Damien, owed him more than he could ever pay back even if he was destined to live for another thousand years, and honour had simply demanded that he had eased the priest's terrible burden of guilt and shame.

Don't use your honour or what's left of it as a pretext, your damned hypocrite, the adept reprimanded himself. In fact he had yearned to set eyes on that ruggedly attractive face again very much in the manner of a moonstruck teenager, and hopefully the warrior knight would never know how close he had come to throwing all caution to the wind and flinging his arms around Vryce's neck. Notwithstanding somehow he had managed to walk away without looking back once, and everything would have been fine and dandy if he hadn't overheard a very interesting conversation at the Coach and Horses a week ago.

Gerald had never believed in fate, a pathetic excuse for those too lazy and inept to take matters into their own hands, but involuntarily eavesdropping on the excited chatter of a group of merchants occupying the neighbouring table he had been forced to reconsider the wisdom of his verdict. Another expedition across Novatlantis would set sail in roundabout two months, and at the mentioning of its adventurous leader and the ship's captain the adept had very nearly dropped his glass of wine. Since then he hadn't had a single moment's peace of mind, dreaming of Vryce and the ocean again and again until his adamant resolve to let the bygones be bygones was slowly but surely crumbling into dust.

Cursing again Hawthorne shrugged off his annoyance at his evident obsession with the thrice damned priest and tried to concentrate on his badly needed morning toilet, but he hadn't come farther than brushing his teeth when the door flew open and Grace rushed into the bathroom, making a beeline for the toilet with a shaking hand clamped over her mouth. What the hell...? Listening to her gut-wrenching retching while absentmindedly patting her back Gerald couldn't help but wondering what on Earth and Erna had struck his lover out of the blue. In stark contrast to her normal bubbly demeanour the girl had been unusually quiet and subdued for the last few days, but certainly nothing had indicated a serious illness. In the next instance another memory of a time long gone by resurfaced with a vengeance, and the adept had to sit down on the rim of the bathtub rather abruptly, his heart in his mouth.

Due to his campaigns for king and country Gerald regrettably had missed most of Almea's first two pregnancies, but he had been at home when his wife had carried their only daughter Alix, and even after all those years he still remembered how an especially bad case of morning sickness which in fact had spanned the whole day had made the life of his beloved a misery in spite of all those utterly useless cures the incompetent quacks calling themselves healers had prescribed. Fearing that his intervention would somehow harm their child Almea had preferred to stoically suffer in silence for as long as humanly possible, but finally the Neocount of Merentha had put his foot down and had risked a Working, and that had been the end of the matter.

A Healing unfortunately was out of the question on a planet which didn't allow access to the fae any longer if the Worker wasn't willing to offer his life, and Gerald had no intention whatsoever of dying for the sake of his lover's stomach. Feeling slightly lightheaded the adept closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Although he had taken certain precautions evidently the die had been cast, and if he wasn't completely mistaken he would soon find out whether his child had inherited Gerald Tarrant's famed looks or his genes had indeed been altered during the final transformation in the bowels of the Hunter's keep.

After he had led his chalky white lover back to the bed without mentioning his suspicions and Grace had dozed off again Gerald pondered his options. Although the breaking of the Unnamed's hold over his thought processes and his return to the ranks of the living had triggered some unexpected developments the adept didn't feel in the least inclined to lend himself to illusions concerning his personality. After all those centuries spent as an undead creature of the night the patina of human behaviour and social graces hiding a veritable abyss of less desirable character traits was still but very thin, but whatever could be said about him he wasn't an amoral swine who used a woman just to drop her in times of trouble. If Gracie truly was pregnant... His mind reeling Hawthorne almost jumped out of his skin when an ear-splitting, mischievous cackle heralded the appearance of a well-known entity he could have absolutely done without for the time being, and only nigh to a thousand years' practice of stringent self-control prevented him from burying his face in his hands with an exasperated groan.

"Did you get yourself in hot water once again, Gerald?" Karril chuckled gleefully. "One ought to think that at your age you had learned how to avoid the pitfalls of human biology. Well, I'd say you'll invite me to your wedding and choose me as a godfather!" the Iezu added with a wicked grin threatening to bring Hawthorne's blood to a boil.

Fuming the former Hunter rounded on the chubby figure clad in loosely girdled velvet robes. "Kindly stop talking nonsense, Karril. You very well know I'm an adept, and before the fae was lost our kind never had to worry about unplanned conception. And now get off my back! I have to think."

"Think? Seems to me you did a lot of thinking lately, mainly of a certain handsome priest. Can't help wondering though how he's going to fit in your current family planning. Your touching pining after Damien had just convinced me that you had something altogether different in mind. Admittedly Gerald Tarrant made bad experiences in his youth, but..."

That touched a very sore spot, and the adept was on his feet in a blink. "Cut it out at once!" he exploded, his hands balled into fists and a red mist of wrath clouding his eyesight. Realizing to his dismay he was completely and utterly losing his composure Gerald started to count backwards from ten, but it was about as helpful as counting sheep while dreading one of his brothers' nightly assaults. A tanned, bearded face once very dear to him popped up inside his overwrought mind, and he swallowed convulsively. Good heavens, how those uncalled for reminiscences still hurt after all those years! "If you value your existence you'd better keep your debatable wisdom to yourself, you damned know-it-all!" he spat venomously. "That subject is not up to discussion! Touch on it again, and we are going to find out if the Hunter truly was the only man capable of sending a meddling Iezu to hell."

All mirth gone from his face the God of Pleasure warily retreated a few steps. "Calm down, Gerald. I meant no harm. I just thought the moment for you becoming a family man is quite mistimed with the object of your desire due to embark on his journey in a few weeks. The priest won't be back for a long time if at all, and..."

"Don't start that crap all over again, Karril!" Hawthorne irritably cut the Iezu short, his temper still close to boiling point. "Just because you can't think of anything else but pleasing your needs you shouldn't judge others by your own standards. Vryce most certainly is not the object of my desire, and I can very well live without his infuriating presence. When will you ever get that into your thick head?"

Karril's face was unusually grave now, and all at once the adept almost felt sorry for his outburst. "May I remind you that when I repeatedly defied Iezu law and put my very existence on the line to save the Hunter's shapely butt I didn't go out for pleasure but for rescuing a friend, but that's not the point now. You can ply the human art of self-deception to your heart's content, my friend, but that won't change the fact that you have a crush on Damien. Don't let the losses of the past cloud your judgement and make you blow what could be your last chance to find true happiness! And now I'm off to look for more inspiring company to please my needs and leave you to your thinking."

A heartbeat later the God of Pleasure was gone without a trace, and Hawthorne started to pace like a caged animal, counting his blessings that presumably thanks to one of Karril's little tricks Gracelin was still fast asleep despite the rather animated discussion. The last thing he needed on top of his worries now was a distressed child having a cry on his shoulder. The adept didn't cherish the illusion that he could somehow bypass that embarrassing moment of truth, but until then he'd better come to terms with himself. Whether he liked it or not Karril evidently had a point, and denying the obvious was beyond foolhardy. Maybe said die had already been cast when he had set eyes on the priest for the first time in that dae in Briand, and although the bittersweet memories of Gannon and what could have been were still burning his soul like the acid fumes of Mount Shaitan there was no use crying over milk spilt a thousand years ago. With difficulty Gerald banished the painful past into the deepest recesses of his mind and set about making what could represent one of the most important choices in an existence spanning a millennium.