All Hallows Eve
Warning: a fair amount of angst and morbidity; hope that reading the last part you won't feel tempted to puke your guts out, lol.
Setting: post CoS; the meeting on Black Ridge Pass never happened
A/N 1: My thanks go to Silvereyedbitch for encouraging me to use this plot for a Halloween story instead of 'wasting' it on a drabble. Hugs, lovey!
A/N 2: I'm awfully sorry, but due to my Yuletide assignment (up to now I don't even have a plot, alas) I'm going to put 'Love is stronger...' and 'And Death shall...' on a temporary hiatus, so very likely no update till next year. I'm very busy, and with Christmas approaching I'm not in the mood for writing about death and destruction, anyway. With a little bit of luck I might finish 'Time to say goodbye' and post another chapter of my Ripper story, though (ahem, what did I just say concerning writing about death and destruction?). Let's wait and see...
A/N 3: Happy Halloween to all of you! Have a great time and get a lot of treats ;-)!
A/N 4: Argh, now I forgot to look up whether the name of the deity Damien's mother worshipped was truly 'Yoshti', and without the books in reach I just have to hope for the best...
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Rain was dripping into the collar of Damien's coat, but his feet shuffling wearily through the fallen leaves he just didn't give a damn. Remaining on Black Ridge Pass until the last fires consuming the Forbidden Forest had died down he had cried his heart out until only dry sobs had racked his aching body, and in his haze of grief it seemed somehow fitting that the skies now wept the tears he had no more to shed.
He had stood there and fixed his burning eyes on the dying ecosystem so painstakingly created by the most brilliant brain he had ever met, subconsciously waiting for a miracle which had never happened until only ashes had remained of both the Hunter's domain and his fallible human heart. Sinking deeper and deeper into a black ocean of depression he hadn't cared where his leaden legs had led him when he had finally managed to tear his gaze away from the place where all his hopes had ended before they even had the chance to bloom. Gerald was dead, and that was all that mattered. Leaving him to the mercy of his last living descendant he had killed Tarrant as surely as if he had dealt the lethal blow with his own hands, and now his own death couldn't come quickly enough.
Suicide denied to him because of the doctrines of his faith he had tried to rid himself of the burden of his existence in a more subtle fashion, had roamed the outskirts of Gerald's former domain in the vain hope that a starving predator of the forest had somehow survived the purge and would make an end of him, but to no avail. Robbed of the corrupted and yet so beguiling creature nurturing it for centuries the area was a barren wasteland where nothing grew but the thorny vines of hunger and despair, and even the faeborn creatures of the night seemed to shun the traitor who had forsaken his one and only friend in his hour of need.
His friend. Gerald. The very man who had literally provided the tool for bringing down the Undying Prince and had rescued him from the wrath of a blood-thirsty lynch mob on their road to Shaitan. Instead of shape-changing and flying to safety under attack the adept had chosen to stay at his side, putting his immortal existence on the line in the process, and how ill had he rewarded him for that unwonted act of humanity. Shortly afterwards the Hunter had perished for the sake of mankind which had cast him out of their ranks for the 'crime' of his adeptitude a millennium ago. It didn't really matter that the Neocount's desire to protect his most treasured creation and send the Iezu responsible for his impending demise to hell before his period of grace granted by the Unnamed finally expired had very likely outranged his more altruistic motives. In the end Gerald's ultimate sacrifice had saved them all from eternal slavery, but even that deed hadn't earned him a pardon by the God of his faith and His merciless mortal henchmen .
Every now and then during his aimless wanderings the distant sound of voices reached Vryce's ears, but stranded in the abysses of his soul he wasn't in the least interested in what they had to say. Human speech had lost its appeal when he had to face the sight of the adept's severed head, held up in sinister triumph by his blood-matted hair. Since the light tenor he longed to hear more than everything else had been silenced on that fateful day at the Keep for good he rather found comfort in the sounds of nature, not innocent by a long shot but devoid of the spite and vindictiveness innate to the human race. The gentle murmur of a small creek flowing over smooth pebbles evoked pleasant reminiscences of Gerald's low chuckle, the wind in the reeds was nothing but the soft swish of silken robes fashionable in an age long gone from living memory, and listening to the triumphant screech of a hunting raptor his heart soared up to him as he remembered the glorious black bird of prey who had once conquered the night sky on his raven wings.
In his increasingly rare lucid moments the warrior knight was well aware that he was losing his mind, was slowly but surely cracking up like the legendary knight Lancelot from their mother planet Earth because of his doomed love for Queen Guinevere, but then he beheld berries the colour of blood glistening on pale, thin lips, autumn foliage as golden-brown as the strands of hair which had once flown around strong shoulders and stars glittering in the firmament high above him like molten pools of silver, and his rational thoughts fluttered away like a flock of songbirds. So absorbed he was in his contemplations that he didn't take notice of the large, idyllic lake until his neglected travelling boots were already soaked through.
Momentarily shocked out of his trance by the cold liquid playing around his toes Vryce scratched his itching beard and focussed on his surroundings. Under the overcast sky the calm water surface was the very same enchanting shade of grey Gerald's irises had been after his death and resurrection on Mount Shaitan, and envisaging that he would never see that pair of eyes again a blinding stab of pain pierced his heart like a fatal sword thrust. Half-crazed with sorrow Damien's mind shut down again, allowing but the single thought that becoming one with the still lake he might finally find peace by acquitting himself of the shame and guilt making every moment of his existence a living hell since he had walked out on the man he had come to cherish beyond anything he would have thought possible at the beginning of their acquaintance.
Coughing and gasping for air he was but dimly aware of the calloused hands dragging him out of the water and carrying him into a low, thatched hut. Later, when the nameless, silent wanderer who had once been the valiant warrior knight Damien Kilcannon Vryce had been toweled and clothed into a loosely fitting robe which would have nowhere near accommodated his former bulk a bowl of spicy fish soup was pressed into his trembling hands, but lost in his bleak inner vista he just stared at its contents in utter incomprehension. What was mundane mortal fare to a man who had feasted on the cold, inhuman but yet so breathtaking beauty of the Hunter?
Fingers rough from mending nets fed him the soup with amazing gentleness, and the former priest swallowed automatically, enjoying the warmth spreading from his stomach throughout his entire body. When he had finished his meal his host led him to an improvised bed close to the hearth. The blankets were scratchy and smelled of the fish providing a livelihood for their owner but warm, and at the end of his tether Vryce was fast asleep as soon as the fisherman extinguished the reeking oil lamp.
In the deep of the night Damien resurfaced from the realms of oblivion. The wind had freshened up considerably, howling around the hut like the souls of the damned bewailing their fate, and the raindrops drumming upon the roof evoked unsettling images of bony fingers demanding entrance. Vryce shuddered. The fire had died down to a mere glow, but that alone couldn't explain the unearthly chill threatening to freeze the marrow in his bones, and he felt a cold shiver running down his spine which had nothing to do with the low temperature.
When the fisherman had saved him from his act of insanity and had offered him shelter in his modest dwelling he hadn't been wholly cognizant. Far from it in fact, but yet he dimly remembered that after carrying a bowl of soup and a loaf of bread outside into the falling night his benefactor had very thoroughly barred the doors and windows with a whispered Warding before he had made himself comfortable on his own straw mattress. Although his mother had worshiped the deity Yoshti serving the One God for so many years Damien wasn't altogether well versed in pagan customs any longer, not to mention that they varied greatly from cult to cult, but with regard to the season the strange ritual didn't leave much room for interpretation. It had to be All Hallows Eve, the night when the dead travelled to visit the living.
All at once the repulsive stench of rotting flesh smothered the omnipresent odour of the lake's scaly inhabitants, and his long buried warrior instincts resurfacing with a vengeance Damien tensed up, all his senses on the alert. As a former priest of the Church of Unification he didn't share the superstitions of the pagan multitudes, but even in the wake of the loss of the fae there were still enough and to spare demonlings preying on hapless human victims. With the adept passed away through his fault under different circumstances he would have welcomed death at the claws and teeth of whatever grisly abomination which had apparently crept in the fishing hut with open arms, but whether he liked it or not he felt responsible for the welfare of his kind-hearted host. After all the man could have led him drown without anybody ever knowing what had become of him or leave him to fend for himself out there in the stormy autumn night, and Vryce had no intention whatsoever to fail at paying back a life debt once again.
Ever so slowly the warrior knight's fingers were crawling towards his sword laying unceremoniously on the reed-covered floor when an unearthly moan from behind caused his hairs to stand on end all over his body. Gritting his teeth he snatched the flame-patterned hilt and whirled around just to freeze to a pillar of salt, the lethal weapon slipping from his limp hand and clattering back onto the ground.
Whatever he had expected nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the creature standing a mere few inches away, its head cocked in a horrible simulacrum of rapt attention. The thing in its torn, filthy midnight blue robes in pure Revivalist style didn't bear much resemblance to the ever so fastidious, vain Neocount of Merentha anymore, but even burning in the fires of hell or lost in the airless depths of space denied to them since their arrival on Erna Damien would have recognized those garments and the tall, lean frame under millions. Oh God, Gerald...
Tarrant's once so flawless skin was covered by a layer of mold, his tangled hair a hatchery for vermin, and when he opened his mouth for another one of those horrifying gurgles a fat, slimy maggot writhed out of the oral cavity. The bile rising in his throat Vryce tried to force his paralyzed limbs to move, to back away from the grisly specter of his deceased friend, but the dead silver eyes glowing in an unholy light of their own immobilized him as surely as iron shackles around his ankles.
Staring at him from beyond the onyx abysses of Hades the adept pulled back the blackened remnants of his lips in a bloodcurdling parody of a smile, revealing pointed, razor-sharp fangs bearing no resemblance to a human denture whatsoever. Towering over his prey like the angel of death he gently caressed Damien's cheek with a skeletonized finger, and the searing chill of the touch spreading from his face throughout his entire body took the warrior knight's breath away and very nearly stopped the racing beating of his heart. Then Tarrant's hand moved to the nape of his neck, his claw-like nails digging deeply into his shivering flesh until rivulets of blood were soaking the collar of his robe, and dragged him to his feet in one fluent, effortless motion as if he was a babe in arms and not a full-grow man. The acrid sweet-and-sour reek of decay engulfing him like a greeting from the lair of the dead the former priest desperately tugged at the cold bones pulling him into a lover's embrace, but he could as well have tried to open a steel trap with his bare hands. Closer and closer the rotting face came, and drowning in a surge of horror so intense that he couldn't even remember his own name Vryce prayed for a quick end when the dead thing in Gerald's guise finally sealed his mouth with a kiss.
As each and every damn night since Tarrant's death Damien awoke screaming.