Love is stronger than Death
Disclaimer: I don't own either the Coldfire Trilogy or the Song of Songs (Song of Solomon), and no profit or harm is intended.
Many thanks to Blackdragonsghost for posting "Home Is Where The Heart is", because without her breaking a kind of unspoken Coldfire fanfiction taboo I might have never had the guts to post this, although I've been working at this story and its companion on and off for about eighteen months now. Unlike her and Damien and Gerald I'm a bloody coward, lol!
That introduction leads us to my warning: This story (and its sister story "And Death shall have no Dominion") contains almost every conceivable touchy topic from slash, violence, hints of child abuse and incest (nothing explicit), character death and torture by the hands of the bloody inquisition to two men cheating on the laws of procreation, so if you are offended, repulsed or scared of any of those topics you'd might better refrain from reading it. Please don't fly off the handle and keep matters civil: I've given a fair warning.
You might also want to know that it's a very long story (about fifty pages of a rough draft now, and it's not finished by a long way), so if you are just interested in reading short fanfiction it might not be worth starting. Slash aficionados should be okay with the first two chapters, which can be read on their own.
"…for love is stronger than death, passion fiercer than the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it." (Song of Songs)
Chapter One:
The descent from Shaitan and Gerald's heart failure had been a nightmare. When Damien had completed the Healing and his companion was starting to breathe more normally he downright collapsed and barely managed to keep an eye on Gerald who'd already dozed off, as wrenchingly tired as himself. Fortunately the adept's colour had improved by now, the blue shade on his lips and eyelids having been replaced by a more normal hue, and the heartbeat was strong and steady. Relieved beyond words Damien finally gave in to utter exhaustion, cradled Tarrant in his arms in a purely instinctive, protective motion, pulled up a blanket over both of them and was lost to the world as well.
Hours later Damien woke with a start, a wave of pure, unadulterated terror washing over him that wasn't his own. Obviously they had slept past sunrise, and the first rays of sunlight were bathing the entrance of their shelter, seeking access to the shadowed recesses at the cave's back. To his utter amazement Gerald frantically tried to disentangle his body from his arms and the blankets, naked dread as apparent in his movements as in his terrified panting.
Blinding sunlight, piercing like a thousand daggers, burning him to a pile of black ash; no place to hide, no shelter from the killing light and the abysses of hell waiting for him. Not again! DAMIEN!
That desperate plead for help rang through Damien's mind like a bell, but for a moment he couldn't make head or tail of the situation while Gerald's panic drowning his own capacity for rational thinking in a sea of terror. Then realization struck: apparently yesterday his friend, in agony and barely conscious, hadn't fully grasped that he was human again, that from now on he would be able to walk in daylight like any other man instead of being damned to eternal night. No wonder that Tarrant was scared out of his wits, his analytic mind momentarily smothered by a wave of immediate, visceral fear.
By now Gerald had retreated to the far end of the cavern, crouching in a futile attempt to melt with the unyielding stone at his back, a glazed look of terror on his face. In a heartbeat Damien was at his side, kneeling beside his companion and pulling him into a tight embrace. Tarrant was shaking like a leaf and buried his head at Vryce's shoulder in a last desperate attempt to protect his face from the deadly kiss of the sun.
It's alright, Gerald. Don't be afraid!
Sending some soothing thoughts through the channel that apparently survived the adept's death on Shaitan the former priest just held tight and waited patiently for the first rays of sunlight to reach them.
Gerald, do you trust me? Then give me your hand. Give me your bloody hand, please!
For a long moment Gerald didn't move a limb, still frozen with horror, but at long last his death grip on Damien's shoulders relaxed a bit, and reluctantly he offered his right hand. Fingers entwined Damien guided it ever so slowly towards the sunbeams, until their joined hands were caressed by the clear, brilliant morning sun, not scorching and burning but a warm and glowing caress that drove away the last remnants of darkness.
Gerald gasped, eyes full of disbelief and wonder, and Damien's heart swelled with joy and gratefulness. God's quality had been mercy after all, and in his wisdom he had granted his prophet a second chance and the possibility of redemption. For quite a while Vryce had fervently prayed for that miracle against all odds, had hoped and tried to keep his faith, his mission to save the Hunter's soul becoming even more important to him than his quest to defy Calesta. To see Gerald Tarrant now, eyes closed in rapture and head tilted towards the light like a flower savouring the first rays of dawn after a chill night, was a sight of heart wrenching beauty and confirmation of God's amazing grace alike.
For all his religious fervour the down-to-earth warrior knight had never been a visionary, but for an instant which seemed to stretch into eternity he caught a glimpse, frozen in time, of the man Gerald Tarrant, the Neocount of Merentha, had once been prior to his fall into the clutches of evil. Still on his knees and basked in the clear morning light Tarrant looked very much the saint and not the sinner, looked like the Prophet again, the founder of his faith and figurehead of the Church, and Damien could easily picture him in white and gold, adorned with the collar of his order, leading the troops into battle.
Damien's heartfelt prayers mingled with the far away rumble of Shaitan and the soft hiss of Gerald's clothes as he bent forward, face buried in his hands and shoulders trembling.
Finally Gerald straightened and turned around to face his saviour, and Damien couldn't help but marvel at the change that had been wrought in that rite de passage of death and resurrection: the parts of the skin visible through the plaster of ash and dirt were still the colour of ivory, but with a rosy tint beneath it, telling of a renewed flow of human blood, not the black, icy torrent he'd tasted to complete their bond.
Despite the ugly scar the pale face remained breathtakingly beautiful, as it would very likely be in all of Tarrant's remaining years, the perfect proportions of the delicate bones overshadowing any lines that the poem of time might write. 'Behold, thou art fair, my love'. .Hazily Damien remembered those ancient lines, brought to Erna by the colonists so many years ago. Then he realized the true meaning behind his involuntary musing, and his heart missed a beat.
Vryce swallowed, shaken to his very core. That wasn't, mustn't be possible... Appalled by the Hunter's cruelty it had taken him some time to acknowledge the change of his own feelings concerning Tarrant, hiding his grudging fondness of the human soul trapped inside the demonic, undead entity called the Hunter, behind gruff words and bickering. His brother in arms had become a friend, a wondrous miracle that must have been worked by the Lord himself, but the wave of powerful emotions surging through him had been neither just amicably nor brotherly, but very, very disturbing, indeed.
'If you were my brother, I could kiss you whenever we meet, and no one would say I did wrong', Damien thought longingly while he couldn't take his eyes off Gerald, his heart hammering in his chest.
For the first time Damien spotted some fine lines around the crystal clear grey eyes which were shining in a face so dirty that Vryce instinctively reached for the least grimy of his shirttails and tried to wipe away the worst of the filth. With regard to the absence of water, their remaining meagre supply of the vital liquid reserved for keeping them going, the attempt was fruitless and served only to distribute the offending smudges somewhat evenly on Tarrant's bemused visage.
Maybe Damien would have stubbornly continued with his futile efforts a little bit longer, a perfect distraction from his unwelcome line of thoughts, but as fate had it two of his fingers lost their grip on his shirttail and settled on a high cheekbone instead, a daring resting place much too tempting for Damien's taste, and he found himself literally unable to move while the tattered piece of cloth fell from his shaking hand, completely forgotten.