Storm
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. Don't translate, archive or otherwise use without permission.
A/N: Another missing scene, set before the beginning of WTNF, on board of the 'Golden Glory'.
The storm had died finally, slowly, its fury melted away by the force of Tarrant's coldfire. The clouds thinned, and sunlight broke brightly through the cover of gray. God! Damien thought with horror. Sunlight…
Pain, hot and blinding, swept over him, invading his mind through the link that bound him to the adept – and the adept to him. It rose like a dark wave, threatening to swallow him up completely, and he fought, stood his ground when suddenly it vanished, cut off sharply as Tarrant lost consciousness.
"Gerald!" Damien shouted but the adept couldn't hear him anymore. Tarrant's silk clothes fluttered around him as he fell to the ice-covered planks without making a noise, as if pierced by that killing light. Damien ran as fast as he could, his feet sliding uncontrollably on the ice.
He dropped to his knees by Tarrant's side, trying to shield the other man from the sun. The other man's pale skin was already reddened, his eyes desperately shut. Damien drew his knife. One cut, and the rope the adept's fingers were still clenched around gave in with a sharp noise. He braced himself, sighing softly. It would be tricky to drag a grown man across the deck and not to expose him to the sun too much in the process. He bent down and scooped up the Hunter's limp body from the deck, holding him bridal-style, trying to block the sun out with his own body. His steps were steadier with that additional weight keeping him down, and as fast as he dared on the iced surface, he carefully proceeded belowdecks. The ship made its way through the waves, its unpredictable movements of no help at all. Two times Damien stumbled and nearly fell. Below, it didn't get any better either. Too many times he was thrown against a wall or some piece of marine equipment its purpose he couldn't even begin to guess, each time adding more bruises to all the ones he managed to acquire over the morning. He hit one wall with his shoulder, the sharp cracking noise in it and the pain spreading down his spine and into his whole body indicating a more serious injury. From all he could tell, at least no bones were broken. He ignored the pain and slowly made his way down.
In Tarrant's cabin –blessedly lit by a small lamp so he could see where to put his feet–, he laid the adept carefully onto the narrow bed. The other man's expression was a mask of pain, his fine skin had raised blisters on the right cheek. Damien lifted his hand to brush away the ice from the adept's hair and face even more carefully, running his fingers across that perfect features, now nearly unrecognizable. Beneath his fingers the lines of pain smoothed slowly until Tarrant's face looked almost serene. Slowly, Damien started to remove the wet, torn clothes, baring more of the adept's skin, checking for more damage, sun-caused and otherwise. There were rather nasty burns on Tarrant's chest and shoulder – red, blistered skin surrounding flesh black and shrunken, and on his right shoulder –ghostly-white and crusted with dried blood– the edges of scapula and humerus. More burns –less nasty, only skin damaged– were revealed on his stomach, and his skin was even colder than the ice on his clothes. Damien desperately wished to be able to Heal the adept. But a true Healing would be as deadly as sunlight to Tarrant, and he sighed quietly at that thought.
After having removed the dripping wet, ice-covered clothes, Damien looked around the cabin –which was larger than his own, Of course–, searching for a towel. Did Tarrant need towels, anyway? he asked himself dryly. Most probably not, he answered his own question, but finally found some in the chest of drawers to his right. Carefully avoiding touching the burns, he dried Tarrant's skin swiftly, then rubbed at the frozen limbs, trying to reawaken whatever kind of circulation the Hunter might possess. Running his hands across that silkily smooth skin, so very fine and soft against his callused palms, he wondered distantly what the hell he was doing. Certainly, warmth was not at all what the Hunter needed. He reached out for the adept's right hand that was still clenched tightly around that piece of rope he'd cut through to free him. Carefully, he loosened the stiff, cold –oh, so very cold– fingers, uncurling them gently one by one.
Never before in his life he'd felt that helpless. Here, with miles of water between him and the earth-fae, he wouldn't be able to help even if Tarrant were a mortal man. Then again, Tarrant was not a mortal man and, in fact, Damien did know what to do, what was required. He looked at the adept's face. Blood had collected in the outer corners of his eyes like dark, ruby tears therefore they must be burned, too. Damien raised his hand to touch that perfect face, avoiding the blisters. Very carefully, he wiped the blood away, then looked at his stained fingers before turning around again. After finally finding what he was looking for –Never used, of course, he thought. What for?–, he drew his knife and set its point to his left wrist. Careful to open only the vein and not the artery which bleeding he might not be able to stop under the circumstances, he pressed the blade into his flesh.
It took its time, and after he was done he had to fight the clouds of unconsciousness fogging the edges of his sight.
"Gerald," he called softly. No response. He slid his arm under the Hunter's neck, lifting the gold-haired head from the pillow, and ran the thumb of his free hand across Tarrant's cold, fine lips to force his mouth open. Then, he brought a mug to those lips. "Drink," he urged. "Drink, damn you!"
Tarrant swallowed instinctively, his body jerking once at the unexpected force of warm, living blood flowing down his throat. After a while, Damien saw a shiver running through the lean shape, and the pale lids lifted, with seeming effort. The eyes behind those lids were completely red, iris, pupil and cornea indistinguishable. He waved a hand before them but again, little response came.
"Gerald," he said again, and put another full mug to Tarrant's lips. After this one was emptied, he watched in silence while the red eyes turned silver again and the burns and blisters slowly vanished, leaving only angry red areas behind, skin restored layer by layer.
"What happened?" Tarrant asked, his voice rough and hoarse, barely audible, as if it took too much effort to speak louder. "The storm…?"
"You changed its path," Damien answered softly, bringing the last mug he'd filled to Tarrant's mouth. It took much of his remaining strength to keep his hand steady, not to spill the fluid, as weak as he was now. And there was no way to restore the blood loss by the fae, he'd known that, not here. The silvery gray eyes, clouded with pain and exhaustion, glanced shortly at that, then at the bandage around Damien's wrist, then at his face. And widened, in sudden realization.
"How much of your blood did you give me?"
What was that emotion in the other man's voice, underneath the calmly spoken words? Damien wondered. Confusion? Worry? And if so, because of what? "Don't you try to argue with me," he said with a honest grin. "You know, on board of a ship a healer has nearly as much authority as the captain himself. Drink."
Tarrant swallowed again, hungrily, too weak to protest anymore. Damien held the mug to those perfect lips until the last drop was gone and the red areas on Tarrant's skin faded away.
"Feeling better?" he asked softly.
Tarrant nodded slowly, his expression unreadable once more.
"Then, I'll leave you alone." He turned toward the door when suddenly, there was a grip around his bandaged wrist, both firm and careful at the same time, causing no pain.
"What about you?" Tarrant asked, his tone gentle, affectionate.
Damien shrugged, not turning around. "I'm fine," he answered hoarsely, trying to free his wrist from the adept's grip without getting the cut open again but the chill fingers were strong and did not let go.
"Damien," Gerald Tarrant said. "Thank you."
Slowly, he turned around. The other's face was set, giving away nothing, but in the silver depths of his eyes something unfamiliar was sparkling brightly, something very human. A last drop of blood hung on the lashes of one eye. Without thinking, Damien reached out with his free hand and wiped it away.
A faint smile curled Gerald's lips and he took that hand, too, pulling Damien down, pressing a light kiss to the fingers of both his hands.
Damien hesitated for a brief moment, thousand thoughts whirling through his mind, his disordered emotions overwhelming him. But there was no way to resist the cool, soft lips working wickedly on his palms and then on his mouth as he was drawn closer. For once, the cold of Gerald's body wasn't unpleasant, and he reached out to touch, running his hands across soft skin as he'd done before – only now, Gerald was responding, pale body thrumming with passion. There were urgent hands on his back, pulling him even closer, slender hands, confident and strong, and then lips on his own again, and the touch of a tongue against the corner of his mouth. He brushed silky hair from that beautiful face, letting his fingers run through the soft strands. A hand shoved him back slightly, and he obeyed only to find these hands on his chest, expertly unbuttoning his shirt. He slid one arm beneath Gerald's back and pulled him up into a kiss, into an embrace.
The ship swayed dangerously, sending them both to the cabin's floor, and Damien managed to avoid landing on Gerald, catching him and letting him land on his own body instead. He hissed sharply as his injured shoulder hit the floor, all his bruises and small gashes burning suddenly with thousand little sparks of pain. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered right now, with this man in his arms.
Gerald rolled aside, a worried look in his pale eyes. Then, Damien's shirt was shoved from his shoulders unceremoniously, and a gentle hand brushed feather-lightly across his many bruises. A soft wave of coldfire was sent carefully through the link and the touch into his body, deadening the pain – all but, not quite, almost a Healing.
"You'll never learn how to sail, will you?" Gerald whispered, his silver eyes twinkling brightly.
He pulled Gerald down, winding his fingers into golden hair, covering the fine lips with his, tasting wonderful ice and darkness with his tongue. The kiss was answered with desperate hunger, the tongue driven into his mouth almost merciless in its determination. Equally determined hands were removing his clothes, skillful, teasing.
Drawing back slightly to take a look at his other's beautiful face and catching his breath, Damien smiled. "No chance," he muttered against Gerald's mouth. "I abhor the ocean. But somehow I do think that I've come to love storms."
FIN