disclaimer: no ownership, no profit intended (as usual)
author's notes: thoughts are in italics
The ultimate act of love
Coming aware of his surroundings Damien found himself shrouded in pitch black darkness, feeling completely disorientated. Where was he? And why?
After a while tendrils of violet dark fae wormed through the dark, thriving on the absence of light and casting an eerie, unearthly glow. Vulcanic stone as black as the heart of midnight glistened, shot through with red, running in rivulets like rivers of blood. A huge slab of equally black marble dominated the premises, providing a sinister resting place for the silent figure laying atop it.
Gerald! Intense relief flooded through Damien. It had been vitally important to find his companion, his brother in arms. The patriarch had told him so, had sent him on a mission, trusted him. But what was so important? Maybe an urgent message, an offer to join forces for the sake of mankind?
A well known, utterly familiar weight rested in his right palm, and looking down Damien's blood ran cold. He'd drawn a sword, his sword, that had been solemnly presented to him when he became a member of the Order of the Golden Flame. Now he remembered why he'd been sent here, why he'd been promised forgiveness for his sin of allying himself with the darkest prince of hell, defying the laws of his church. His knees buckled, and a wave of darkest despair hit the priest, nearly smothering him.
Forcing down his feelings Damien stepped forwards to get a closer view of the Hunter who was lying so still upon his bed of marble, showing no discerneable breathing nor any other sign of life.
A midnight blue velvet robe obscured the tall, lean body, the plush, opulent material only heightening the overall impression of delicate vulnerability. Gerald's sword in it's embroidered sheath rested on his body, his gloved hands tightly gripping the hilt. The sight acutely reminded Damien of ancient tomb effigies, sheltering the crumbling mortal remains of long dead knights and crusaders. Men like Gerald Tarrant had been, in an age that had long passed from living memory.
„You won't kill the Prophet. The Neocount of Merentha already died more than nine hundred years ago. You're dealing with a monster, a spawn of hell that inhabits his body to wreak havoc on mankind. Finish that evil thing off, and the Prophet's soul might rest in peace, blessing you for freeing him from that infernal existence. Deep down inside your heart you know that I'm speaking the truth. Give him peace, Reverend Vryce. I truly believe that the One God in his infinite wisdom has chosen you for this task."
For a change the patriarch's voice had been quiet, even understanding,all the more seductive by the fae finely spun around every syllable, and right then Damien had believed him, had wanted to believe him with all his heart. No more guilt, no more waking up at night, bathed in sweat, the multitudes of the Hunter's victims calling to him, accusing him, begging him to end their misery. If the patriarch was right killing Gerald would be no killing at all, but the ultimate act of love.
Damien pondered how easily the patriarch's denied gift allowed him to read his emotions, to manipulate his soul and harp on his feelings. Briefly Vryce wondered whether the head of his church would ever realize how much, in this respect, he resembled the former prophet of his faith.
Love. A fallen priest falling for the damned founder of his religion, and undead monster who'd willingly given himself over to hell and committed atrocities beyond mortal imagination, revelling in the torture and murder of innumerable innocents. If that wasn't a bad joke Damien had never heard one.
Yearning for the creature who'd been the Prophet of the Law in another time, another age, should never have happened, like so many other things: poor Senzei dying a meaningless death, tempted by the cursed demon Calesta, the deaths of Hesseth, so brave until the very end, and little Jenseny, sacrificing herself for the common good. The brutal killing of the pilot, Rasya, whose embraces had kept him sane during their long voyage across Novatlantis, forming a counterpoint to the Hunter's voracious hunger. And Sisa, the „gift", who'd given herself to the cold waters to escape her demonic owner. So much suffering, blood and nightmares. No wonder his hair had been rapidly greying over the last two years.
Certainly somewhere in the realms of the living, far from the Forbidden Forest, the birds were still singing, and decent folks lived their normal, sheltered lives, but here, in the underground depths of the Hunter's enchanted keep, not even a distant memory of life, laughter and daylight remained.
Sunset was approaching. Thanks to the link with the Lord of the Forest Damien could feel it in his bones. Soon the children of sunlight would retreat to their shelters, hiding their frail existence behind warded doors and windows, while the creatures of the night roamed Erna, hunting for flesh, blood and the suffering of the living. Time to stand by his vow and kill the Hunter, a vow that had been made in pure disgust and hatred, but would be kept in love.
Damien looked down on his arch enemy, his companion, his friend, on the one being that meant more to him than his own life. Gerald's peaceful face, completely untouched by the troubles of the mortal world, bore no traces of his hellish existence whatsoever. He could have been an statue, carved from marble or ivory. Or ice.
With trembling fingers Damien started to caress that bone white, angelic face, mapping it carefully, lovingly, inch by inch, a last endearment in the very face of death. Noticing that his tears were dripping on the serene features the priest fervently hoped that maybe, seeing that a human being had indeed shed tears for the Hunter, the One God of Earth and Erna would forgive this damned, lost soul.
The sun touched the horizon, and Damien knew he had to hurry. Pressing his lips on Gerald's cold, unyielding ones for a first – and last – kiss he sensed some minute movements. Long lashes fluttered, and the already cold air chilled down considerably. It was now or never. They'd travelled so many long and winded roads in each other's company; facing their last journey together felt right in an inexplicable way.
Shaking like a leaf in an autumnal storm Damien rose his sword high above his head.
Oh God, please send me strength! And have mercy upon our souls.
Outside the castle night had taken over the reign, spreading her velvet wings over a cowering world and mirroring the darkness in Damien's heart. The Hunter's eyes flew open, and he tried to draw his sword in one fluid, inhuman motion, but Damien was prepared, and mingling his own outcry with the despairing scream of the Hunter, shouting his name, he brought down his own blade with all his might.
Covered in blood Damien Vryce found himself on his knees, still trembling all over and sick to his bones. To weak to stand he crawled into one corner and vomited violently.
Dear God, what had he done? What kind of religious madness had possessed him and tempted him to kill the man who'd saved his life on more than one occasion? Very possibly there wouldn't be redemption waiting for Gerald Tarrant but eternal suffering in hell, doomed to that ghastly fate by the one and only human being the Hunter had dared to trust. A miserable, foolish human being who had allowed the Patriarch's manipulations to twist his soul, ending him up as a bloody assassin. That's what he had been, plain and simple. A cold blooded murderer, not a saviour. Remembering Tarrant's terrified face shame and horror overwhelmed the wretched priest.
Oh Gerald, you should have killed me right away!
Damien drew his dagger, his movements slow and clumsy. Suicide was still a cardinal sin in the eyes of the Church, but right now he couldn't care less. Hopefully Tarrant was already waiting in hell for him, completely livid with his stupidity and gullibility. On his knees he'd beg for the adept's forgiveness. But before he said good-bye to this world he wanted to have a final look at Gerald's face again.
By the force of the impact the Hunter's head had rolled to the floor, the blood matted hair obscuring the features. Full of rising dread Damien reached out for it, fearing the moment of truth but feeling an inexplicable urge to continue. When the priest had finally gathered his courage and looked at the dead visage the expression was neither pained nor terrified, but perfectly tranquil. And the face was his own.
With a scream that could have woken the dead Vryce dropped the severed head like a hot coal and staggered backwards. He couldn't stop it, his immediate terror drowning him until his throat was hoarse and his saliva tasted of blood. He screamed and screamed, but now there was a voice cutting through his terror, faint at first, but with rising urgency.
„Vryce! Vryce! For God's sake, Damien, wake up!"
Fighting with all his might to get a grip on reality again the priest blinked. Strong hands dug into his shoulders, shaking him with vigour, and a pair of wide, dark eyes stared at him full of dread and compassion. His own right hand was tightly clutched around something that felt like a braid, and he clung to it like a drowning man, his yells still echoing through the room. An expensive hotel room, obviously, which bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Hunter's infernal resting place.
Damien blinked. A hotel room, hastiliy rented and amply paid for from the youth's pocket to avoid inconvenient questions. The knowing wink of the concierge. A big bed, the sheets now messy and sticky from last night's pleasant activities. Gerald, so very much alive.
With a last sob Damien Vryce pulled the young man into a tight embrace, nearly flowing over with pure relief. A dream. It had been a bloody dream, nothing more, born out of too many living nightmares.
Soothing hands were stroking his back now, and a quiet voice murmured calming words until Damien felt secure enough to let go of the black, messy braid, feeling slightly embarrassed. By now he vividly remembered the twin pleasure of burying himself deep inside Gerald's body and his face in those fragrant black strands. Considering the adept's enthusiasm he should have slept like a log during the few remaining hours of the night, but apparently life wasn't that easy.
„Do you plan to tell me why you screamed like a madman an tried to rip my braid out in the small hours of the morning, or shall we play a nice game of truth or dare?"
Inspite of the acerbic words the tone clearly spoke of profound worry, and Gerald still hadn't removed his hands. Warm, human hands, so unlike the Hunter's icy touch, and with his terror slowly fading and his memory of last night's events rapidly returning Damien wanted them to stray a little bit further down.
An elegant eyebrow quirked upwards, soon enough followed by the corners of Gerald's mouth, but his hands stayed where they were.
„I am waiting, Vryce, and as long I am waiting you will have to wait as well. Bad luck."
With a huff Damien obeyed. „Well, if you insist on knowing: I just beheaded you with my sword down in the keep, and when I tried to look at you the dead face was my own. A damned unpleasant experience, I can tell you."
„So I gather." Gerald looked at him speculatively.
„On Earth they had special healers dealing with the problems of the human psyche. Those „psychologists" knew a lot about repressed wishes, fears and the mechanisms of our subconscious mind dealing with those impulses. Shall I give you a summary, or do you have other plans right now, priest?"
Although Gerald's voice was completely serious and his face perfectly neutral Damien was quite sure that the vulking bastard was pulling his leg. Looking deeply into those dark, mischievious eyes he pulled his lover close and kissed him. When their tongues met more heat rushed south, to Damien's eternal gratefulness followed by Gerald's hand this time, and the priest barely managed an answer.
„Other plans. Definitely." And those were the last coherent words Damien Vryce uttered for a long time.
„Gerald?"
„Mmh?" His lover sounded about as tired as he felt himself, and Damien couldn't suppress a proud grin.
„You're not trying to kill me, are you? I'm not twenty anymore."
Now Gerald's head came up from it's resting place on Damien's chest, his face lit up by a beatific smile.
„Why do you complain, Vryce? It's universally considered a sweet death, isn't it? You could even call it the ultimate act of love."
footnote: this story was inspired by two things: first by the famous scene where Luke Skywalker beheads his father Darth Vader in "the Empire strikes back", and second by a book called "Ritual" (author: W. Heffernan). A crazed cop sacrifices his victims in a toltecic ritual. For him human sacrifice is an ultimate act of love.