And Death Shall Have No Dominion

Disclaimer: As usual I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy. Same goes for the works of Dylan Thomas.

Warning: Caveat lector; for once I chose not to give a proper warning. The story might contain a lot of potentially offensive topics from major character death to rape and incest among other things, so please be careful and read at your own risk. If you weren't miffed at anything I posted before you're on the safe side though, dear reader. Some might hate me for this approach, but please keep in mind that buying a book you usually don't know what's going to happen as well. There won't be a note on the back cover saying that character so and so's going to kick the bucket on page 118, for example...

A/N 1: As you'll soon see in this story we have a daughter of Damien who wants to get married. Sounds somehow familiar? I know it is, but be assured that I started to write this story months ago before I've ever heard of Shadowy Star's Geraldine. Unfortunately my character was called Geraldine as well and had red hair, and naturally I had to change the Christian name and the hair colour. What I couldn't change was the storyline, and so I contacted Shadowy Star and begged for her permission. Instead of asking for my head on a platter outright she suggested that I'd better point out that she's okay with me posting this in my author's note to avoid flames, and here we go. Thanks so much, dear! I'm deeply indebted to you! For those still fuming at me let me tell you that things aren't always as they seem, okay?

A/N 2: The name 'Museum of Mankind' was borrowed from the fascinating museum in London, Great Britain.

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Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
Dylan Thomas

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Chapter One:

"You are not going to marry Jonathan O'Sullivan, Larissa! That's my final word concerning that matter!" Standing nose to nose in his small office with his recalcitrant teenage daughter Damien couldn't help but wondering whose genes had been passed on to his offspring. As far as he knew none of his own blood relatives had ever possessed anything even remotely resembling that gorgeous mane of golden curls, and his ex-wife's hair was straight and black as true night, as black as Gerald's had been after the final transformation deep in the bowels of the Hunter's keep. Damien swallowed convulsively, not wanting to pursue that line of thought any further. Years and years of experience had taught him that there was no escape from the memories that would haunt him all night, but right now he needed a clear head.

"Why not?" his daughter pushed on, her voice shaking with emotion. "Just tell me one single reason why you don't want me to marry Jon?"

Evidently not in the least willing to back down Larissa looked ready to burst into flames of wrath albeit her rather angelic appearance, and Damien had to suppress a proud grin. Seventeen years old, and what a woman his daughter promised to be. Pretty, intelligent, determined and blessed with quite a temper, the latter doubtlessly inherited from her father. No wonder the boy had fallen in love with her. He should have seen it coming, should have moved Larissa to Ganji years ago, far, far away from the hero of her childhood days, but he had submitted to his inertia and had done nothing, wasting his time with aimless drifting and boozing himself out of his mind. He had failed both children miserably, had failed them just the way he had failed Gerald. Oh God, Gerald! Picturing the adept's reaction to this mess the former priest felt the cold sweat breaking out on his furrowed brow.

"Dad! You're not even listening! Could you please spare some of your precious attention for me? Just this once?" Coming back to the here and now with a start Vryce called himself to order. Of course Larissa was right, and he should focus on her instead of dwelling on times long gone by. He wasn't able to change what had happened, but he had to prevent her from making a horrendous mistake, even if that was the last thing he ever did in his wretched life.

"Lari, please", Damien begged, trying to keep his voice gentle and steady although he felt sorely tempted to tear his hairs out in despair. "Please believe me that I've only got your best interests at heart. I love you, and..."

"You love me?" The disbelieving snort cut through his restraint like a finely honed blade, reminding him of his sword with the flame patterned hilt which had been rusting in the ground for twenty years now. Ashes to ashes, earth to earth, dust to dust. With all his might the former priest pushed down the untimely surge of grief threatening to shatter the last remnants of his self control.

"You don't love anybody", his daughter continued acidly, and the venom in her voice reminded Vryce of another acerbic tongue which had been stilled much too soon. "You can't love. You can't even smile like a normal human being. You..."

Only when the girl blanched, her eyes wide with fear, Damien realized that he had stepped menacingly closer, his hands balled into fists. "Don't you dare to say that, Larissa", he forced out through gritted teeth, "I damn well know what love is. You've got no idea..."

His hoarse voice trailing off Vryce's fingers involuntarily touched the angry red scar at the left side of his neck as if the old wound was still hurting him. The sapphire blue eyes of his daughter followed his every motion, and for a short moment he wondered what she was seeing in him. At merely fifty-seven he looked at least ten years older, his posture stooped and an untidy mop of hair which had gone completely white before he had even celebrated his fortieth birthday framing a face whose rugged attractiveness was marred by deeply engraved lines of sorrow and bitterness.

"There's one thing I'd really like to know then. Did you ever love my mother?"

That was a loaded question the former priest had been dreading for quite a while now. Since his wife had given him the marching order and had run off with a travelling musician shortly after Larissa's fifth birthday her existence had been tacitly declared a taboo issue, and Damien had no intention whatsoever to change that anytime soon. Surprisingly he didn't hold a grudge against her for her pursuit of happiness. Preferring that dandified ladykiller to her husband's gloomy presence was somewhat understandable with regard to the fact that his heart would always belong to the man he still loved more than life itself after all those years. If he hadn't impregnated that slender beauty in a misguided moment he wouldn't have considered marrying her in his wildest dreams, and he was well aware that he had to bear a part of the blame for the failure of their marriage. That she had left her infant daughter behind like a discarded toy and had never bothered to write a single letter or send a birthday present for her own flesh and blood was an altogether different kettle of fish though, and try as he might he just couldn't forgive her for that unspeakable act of neglect.

Pondering his options Vryce considered a merciful and utterly convenient lie, but decided against it in the end. Larissa wasn't a child any longer, and he owed her the truth, or at least the morsels of truth which could be told without bringing down the entire house of cards his life had become. "No, I didn't", he answered brutally honest. "Marrying your mother was a mistake, Lari. A grievous mistake without a doubt, but I'm only a fallible human being. I thought it might work out, might fill the... the terrible emptiness in my life, but as so often I was wrong. I simply couldn't give her what she was looking for, and as a result she eloped with a smug fiddler never to be seen again."

"I thought as much. Thanks for telling me the truth." The girl cocked her head, a hint of curiosity brightening her finely chiselled features. "Mind telling me who she was, the woman who managed to win your heart?"

'The woman who managed to win your heart'? His nerves close to breaking point Vryce very nearly succumbed to a fit of hysterical laughter. Being raised in a big city with all its subcultures and temptations tended to drive out any liability to naivety at a tender age, but he didn't even dare to imagine his daughter's face should he ever be foolish enough to let the uncat out of the bag. "What's in a name, Lari?" Damien muttered uncomfortably. "Suffice to say that on the day I lost... her I thought the world had stopped turning and the sun would never rise again. It still hurts, and I'd appreciate it very much if you didn't make me rehash that experience. It doesn't truly concern you, anyway. Let the matter rest for now, and I give you my word of honour that one day you'll understand."

Dear God on Earth and Erna, what has become of you? Vryce chastised himself. You're a liar and a vulking coward on top of it! It doesn't concern you? Like hell it does! If you hadn't managed to muck up everything as usual your child wouldn't be in for losing a loved one for the second time in her short life span. Prattling about honour under the given circumstances is a travesty, an abominable sin in the eyes of the merciless god you have ceased worshipping a long time ago.

"But it's simply not fair to take what that woman did to you out on Jon", Larissa's pleading words cut into his self-reproaches. "He's a kind, good man, and he adores you. For as long as I can remember you've always been 'Uncle Damien' for him, for heaven's sake! Sometimes I think he feels closer to you than to his own father."

At the end of his tether Damien drove his fingernails into his palms, desperately yearning for the first stiff drink of the evening. Many more would follow, as every year on All Hallows Eve. Trembling in every limb he slumped down on a nearby armchair and closed his eyes, shutting out the world. "Dad, what's wrong with you", his daughter inquired anxiously. "You're white as a sheet all of a sudden! Do you want me to send for Healer Wentworth?"

Vryce shook his head and drew several deep, calming breaths. This macabre charade had gone far enough, much too far for his own liking. Couldn't those hormone-driven children have waited just one more year? Twelve months from now on, and a certain letter for the youth known as Jonathan Carwyn O'Sullivan would have put an end to those ridiculous marriage plans, anyway.

For a moment Damien contemplated hoisting a part of the burden off his shoulders by prematurely passing poor Jonathan the document, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. What a birthday present for a man looking forward to marry his first love! Damien called himself three times a fool again, cursed himself for failing those two young people who deserved happiness and not the heartbreak laying in store for them, but regrets wouldn't change the course of the world. It had to end now before even more harm would come out of their love. The mere idea of a grandchild born from that union was threatening to freeze the marrow in his bones. Lord, I know I haven't set foot in a church for a long time, the former priest prayed silently, but please have mercy with me, just this once! I don't beseech you for egoistical reasons but for the sake of my innocent daughter who shouldn't be made to pay for my sins.

When he was reasonably sure that his vocal chords wouldn't refuse obedience Vryce looked the young woman fair in the face, determined to settle the matter once and for all. "Larissa, pay attention to what I'm saying now", he demanded, his firm voice belying the hurricane of emotions raging inside him. "This has nothing to do with my love-life or Jonathan's character. I know he's a good boy, but even if you hate me for the rest of your life you can't marry him. It's vulking impossible, and my decision is inviolate. Let's not talk about it again."

For a moment his daughter just stared at him in utter disbelief, her beautiful blue eyes filling with tears. Then she stormed out of the room without a further word.

When the door had closed behind her Damien felt like crying his heart out himself, but even that road to relieve was closed to him. He hadn't shed any tears for two decades now, not since his entire world had gone to pieces just to be replaced by a nightmare from which there was no waking up. On that accursed day the stout, valiant warrior knight Damien Kilcannon Vryce had ceased to exist for good. What had remained on Erna in his guise was an empty husk, a dead man walking who had tried to fill the gaping hole where once his soul had been with meaningless activities and galleons of booze. In a desperate attempt to pick up the pieces again he had even founded a family, but to no avail.

Wearily Vryce got up and walked over to the small window. Winter had come early this year, powdering the sea of houses called Jaggonath with a blanket of snow until it rather resembled a confectioner's dream than a thriving, bustling city. As it had been the custom on a large part of their mother planet Earth the following days were reserved for solemn festivities in honour of the deceased, but ere long Yuletide decoration would replace the wilting wreaths and the inns and taverns would be filled to the brim with punters in a festive mood.

For a long time the former priest gazed down on the snow-covered street without perceiving anything but his bleak inner vista. Very much against his will memories of the one single Yule which had been different from all the others in the nigh to six decades of his existence were welling up from a place deep inside him he usually kept strictly under lock and key. Choking down a dry sob Damien closed his burning eyes again and lost himself to the past. All at once the stale air in his office was heavy with the delicious smells of gingerbread and Yule pudding, and he thought he could hear the big bells of Jaggonath's famous cathedral calling the faithful to divine service. More heartwarming sounds of old were crossing the ocean of time that separated him from happier days now, mingling with the solemn chimes. Karril's deep, booming laughter, Lucy O'Sullivan's light soprano telling an old fairy tale from their mother planet Earth and the slightly husky voice he longed to hear more than anything else in his life. How beautiful Gerald had looked that night, the veritable waterfall of hair black as a raven's wing shimmering in the candle-light and the sparkle in his dark eyes easily outshining the Yule baubles which adorned the evergreen garlands.

When his world had come crashing down all around him he had burned those silly, cheap trinkets in his backyard along with the rest of his worldly possessions except the library. Shying away from robbing the human colonists on Erna of the knowledge contained in the irreplaceable volumes he had bestowed them upon the renowned book department of the Museum of Mankind, but other than that and Gerald's beloved rose garden nothing had escaped his destructive impulse born from naked despair. Still much too sick for hard labour he had hired a crew of sturdy removers, and after the furniture had been hacked to splinters and gone up in smoke as well he had ordered them to tear down the mansion stone by stone. Now nothing remained of the only true home he had ever known in his adult life save his memories.

Heaving a sigh from the bottom of his soul Vryce walked back to his drawer and unearthed a whisky carafe. More than half of its contents was already gone, but he had an unopened bottle waiting for him to get him through that accursed night of remembrance. All Hallows Eve, the night when the dead travelled to visit their loved ones. If there had been any traces of humour left inside him he might have laughed. Maybe it was time for him to travel as well, to cross the impenetrable border separating the world of the living where he didn't belong anymore from the dark realms of the dead. He would willingly give up his existence if he could see Gerald's face once again, hold him in his arms and tell him how much he missed him.

His bones creaking protestingly Vryce sat down and pulled a small picture from a secret compartment. Tenderly he smoothed the unframed piece of canvas and leaned back in his chair, his sad eyes never leaving the painting.

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Postscriptum:

Well, this story has been stewing on my computer for quite a while now (roundabout 24 months), but with my annual 'autumn blues' settling in I decided to finally post the first chapter. Somehow it's quite fitting, with nature dying and Halloween just around the corner. Sorry again for not giving a fair warning, but I'm afraid you'll just have to roll with the punches, folks. Have to apologize in advance, because you might have to wait quite a long time for an update. I'm very busy, and on top of my misfortune I haven't yet decided in which order to post the following chapters. After all the story spans about twenty years, and I'll have to include a lot of flashbacks.

That said just in case somebody wants to know: Carwyn is a Welsh Christian name, meaning 'Blessed Love'. The surname 'O'Sullivan' on the other hand is simply a homage to my favourite snooker player, lol.