The Greatest Crime
by Shadowy Star
November 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 archive, translate or otherwise use without permission.
Summary: Back from Hell, Damien muses that definitions of 'crime' may vary.
A/N: An alternate scene right after Damien and Gerald are back from Hell, based on what I think Damien first intended to say.
"Would you wipe clean a slate of nine hundred years, for one single month of good intentions? For a vow made in the shadow of such fear that its true motivation could never be judged?"
"I would," Damien said – without thinking, plain and simply answering to the sorrow in Tarrant's voice the other man wasn't able to hide right now. And cursed silently, desperately wishing to take the words back, now that they were spoken. For what he'd said was too true – and he could no longer deny it. "And God will surely," he added quickly, praying Tarrant to be too exhausted to catch the point. He turned around and crossed the room, heading for the door, the sounds of his footsteps swallowed wholly by the thick carpets. As his hand touched the doorknob, two different noises made him freeze in his tracks. Words, nearly inaudible, as quiet as breathing. And the couch's faint creaking.
"Damien."
Some entirely human emotion in this one word, something Damien could not read.
"Wait. Don't go."
He turned around.
Tarrant was standing, his right grasping the couch for support, clenched tightly around its edge. His face and his posture were rigid with effort, but stand he did. He stood there, stretching out his left hand in an almost desperate gesture to Damien as if trying to reach him, to stop him from leaving. Then, he shuddered and swayed as if his legs couldn't support him anymore.
In an instant, Damien was by his side, just in time to catch the man before he could fall.
"Gerald!" he said exasperatedly, wrapping his left arm around Tarrant's back to steady him. "What are you doing? You can barely sit, much less stand." Carefully, he helped him back to a sitting position.
"You would?" Tarrant asked quietly, his usually smooth voice hoarse, full of disbelief and astonishment. Too weak to sit straight, he slumped heavily against Damien's chest, pressing his head into Damien's shoulder, his lean body shivering. Damien sat still, his left arm still wrapped around the other man's waist, fearing the moment would shatter like glass if he dared even breathe too loud. The slightly chill sensation of the adept's body so close to his own wasn't uncomfortable anymore. If anything, it felt right. Tarrant's breath was rough and uneven, and his voice so full of human sorrow that Damien felt his heart stutter, all his instincts of a Healer screaming protest in the face of such suffering.
"Why?" Tarrant asked, sounding completely shaken. "Why don't you hate me?" He raised his head, face once again a taut mask, gaze turned away as if avoiding to meet Damien's eyes.
Damien drew in a deep breath. Slowly, very deliberately, he raised his right to Gerald Tarrant's face, gently tracing the scar from jaw to temple with his thumb.
"I wish I could Heal this," he said softly. I wish I could heal everything done to you.
Finally, Gerald looked at him. Pain was in those beautiful, silver eyes, and regret and sorrow – and something else. Something that might be admiration or perhaps more than that. Affection? Hope?
Without making a sound, not even breathing, the other man raised his left hand, capturing Damien's, pressing his callused palm against the smooth, fine skin of the cheek, tilting his head into the touch. Damien felt his breath catch in his throat, and he did not move as Gerald slowly, hesitatingly brought his right to his face, long, slender fingers almost trembling. The touch against his skin was as light as that of falling snow, and equally soft. Then, as if encouraged by his behavior, Gerald cupped the side of Damien's neck with his hand, fingers winding themselves into his hair, thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin beneath his ear.
At the same time, they moved, closing all gaps between them. Gerald's lips on his were soft and not cold at all. For a brief moment, Damien wondered whether it was him whose perception had changed or if Gerald was somehow able to lessen the chill surrounding him. Then, it went meaningless along with everything else except the long, lean body pressed against him, and the slender arms wrapped around him, and the almost painfully tender slide of lips and tongue on his mouth. He couldn't help but pull Gerald closer, deepening the kiss, feeling silk crinkled under his fingers, sensing hands pressed against his back with a desire equal to his own. He felt a shiver running through Gerald's slender body, and slowly, trying to regain control, he forced himself to draw back.
"Gerald," he muttered. "Gerald – no – you're far too weak for that."
Gerald's eyes burned like molten silver with the strength of his emotions as he raised his head. Emotions which Damien for once had no difficulty to read. Looking in those eyes, he started to smile.
"Don't speak," Gerald whispered, and then, there was a sharp, careful bite at Damien's earlobe, barely more than a teasing, burning every reason out of him.
Gerald's body fell against his, and together they sank into the soft blankets arranged over the couch.
Well, well, the god of pleasure said in cadences far beyond of human perception, standing outside the cellar. If that isn't interesting. And about time, too.
Afterwards, they lay on the carpet-covered floor where they'd ended up at some point of their activities, with their clothes carelessly strewn all around and a thick, soft blanket wrapped around them both. Gerald's head rested heavily on Damien's shoulder, his eyes closed, breath shallow with exhaustion. Sensing it, Damien stretched out his free arm, pulled at his belt lying nearby, and drew his knife out of its sheath. Gerald stirred but didn't open his eyes –which Damien was thankful for– until he set the blade to his palm to open a cut. Gerald rose to his elbows immediately, seemingly sensing the smell of fresh, warm, living blood.
"Damien, no!" he protested.
Damien cursed himself a fool for forgetting how fine the Hunter's senses were. But it was too late now, and fully well aware of it, he offered his sliced palm, a rivulet of blood running across it.
"You need to drink," he said softly.
"Do you really think I could hurt you ever again after–"
"Gerald," Damien interrupted, trying not to let his face show the sudden, wonderful, intense feeling of joy that sparkled violently to existence inside his heart. "Don't be a fool. The damage is done. Drink," he urged.
His movement slow with hesitation, Gerald took his hand in both his own. Soft fingers brushed gently across the scarred skin of his knuckles, and the lips on his palm were almost warm, as Gerald bent down to drink the rich, red liquid. After a few moments, Damien sighed. "Gerald," he said patiently. "Don't you think a Healer would know whether his own blood is taken or not?"
That earned him a snort and, finally, the sensation of drain. He held still while Gerald drank, wondering distantly when he'd gotten that used to the other man's needs. But then again, it didn't matter. Not really. Not at all. He raised his free hand and put it onto the back of Gerald's neck, threading his fingers into the fine, golden silk of his hair. After a while, far too short for Gerald to get sated –as Damien knew well from the link between them that still resonated with hunger– the other man drew back. Knowing his companion's –his lover's– stubbornness too well to urge him further, Damien tapped into the fae, and began a Healing, closing the wound and accelerating the production of blood cells. When he was done, Gerald caught his hand and turned his palm upward, solemnly regarding the thin silver line.
"One more scar on you I'm responsible for," he said bitterly, touching it with his lips.
"Yeah," Damien replied, grinning. "But this one I do love." He felt a curling of lips into a tiny smile against his palm. And then Gerald looked at him, eyes like two wonderful, bright suns, radiating unfamiliar warmth and something far more beautiful than that. The Unnamed have called it a crime – pretending to be human, Damien thought, smiling back broadly. If so, what would they call becoming human again?
FIN