Chapter Four
A/N 1: A slightly different version of this chapter was posted before as an independent fic, called 'Getting things straight'. Of course it will be deleted as soon as this is up...
A/N 2: I'm still definitely not prejudiced against prostitutes...
A/N 3: Very likely there won't be flying mammals like bats on Erna, but let's just presume that the phrase 'batty as a bat' still exists, okay?
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Black Ridge Pass, October 1249 A.S.
Still busy with digesting the incredible information that the man he had presumed dead for weeks was still among the living, Damien tried to sort out the tangle of emotions his sense of guilt and poignant grief over Tarrant's supposed death had transformed into in the twinkling of an eye. Relief certainly played a predominant part, excitement and pure joy at the amazing grace the Lord had shown his friend, offering the fallen prophet an inestimable chance at redemption despite the atrocities beyond human reckoning he had committed for nigh to a millennium.
An impossible, unexpected but nonetheless highly esteemed friend. That was exactly what Gerald had become to him over the last years. Or so he told himself, but while watching the adept gracefully walk away, his lithe frame so favourably accentuated by those glove-soft black leather pants and the embroidered doeskin vest, not in the least platonic feelings erupted inside him and made him blink.
Very much to Vryce's dismay, there had been rather disconcerting dreams concerning his brother-in-arms before, dreams which had very often left him in a state of feverish arousal. But so far, he had managed to write them off as one of the Hunter's diabolic tricks, devised by a master craftsman in the art of psychological manipulation to corrupt him by whatever means possible. This was different now. The Prince of Jahanna and his hellish trappings had died on Shaitan, and as far as he knew, Tarrant had only been attracted to women in his mortal life. Vulking hell, the bastard had been married and had sired three children, so why should the ancient soul inhabiting the body of a youth at roundabout twenty want to provoke some uncouth feelings in him? Besides, the different looking, yet so breathtakingly familiar young man hadn't shown any inclination of renewing their acquaintance, but had wandered off into his new life without looking back. Damn him!
Suddenly Damien laughed, relieved beyond words. There was nothing frightening about the surge of arousal he had just felt. Due to the circumstances, he had been denied venting sexual tension for a long time while they had fought to save humankind from Calesta's greedy clutches. Frightened out of his wits, wrecked with bone-deep exhaustion and half starved, his libido had gone into hibernation for a while, but now, with some rest and sufficient food, his body was awakening again. No wonder that the adept's androgynous physique and features had tricked him for a minute. That had to be the logical explanation for his wholly inappropriate longings. Why on Earth and Erna should he want to bed a person of the same sex, even if the man in question was vulking Gerald Tarrant?
In a heartbeat, the warrior knight decided to get things straight again. Catering for the tourists' needs who were still flocking to Black Ridge Pass in order to gloat over the destruction of the Hunter's accursed domain, over the last weeks varying establishments of dubious quality had been literally stamped from the ground. They ranged from seedy restaurants and hotels which hardly deserved the name to cut-throat gambling halls and brothels, the latter populated by the more adventurous ladies working in the oldest profession in the world who had been drawn to these congeries of ramshackle wooden houses not only from Jaggonath, but from all over the country. Under normal circumstances, Vryce wouldn't have wasted a thought on spending his precious coins on the sins of the flesh. But in a way, this was a case of emergency, and with an inward shrug he quaffed off the rest of his ale and followed the youth's footsteps.
After a bath and a shave in his hotel room, Damien decided to try his luck at the Red Rose, one of the more decent establishments frequented by a better-off clientele. The lounge was stuffed to the brim with garish red plush settees, mirrors as tall as a man and bleary eyed women whose garments, or lack thereof, didn't leave much to the imagination. Disgusted at the smell of stale beer, smoke and several cheap perfumes, the former priest wrinkled his nose. Apparently, last night the tourists had once again celebrated their occasional demonling shooting and the Darkest Prince of Hell's demise in their own fashion, and for an instant a surge of repugnance smothered his amorous intentions. But then his eyes fell on a pretty young woman in a red silk dress, her skin warm honey and her straight, long hair black as a starless night, and his interest was attracted anew. Feeling his gaze lingering on her, she approached him with an inviting smile, her head just reaching to his shoulders.
"My name is Lara, Sweetie." The silky voice was as warm as the colour of her skin, her dark irises so very reminiscent of another pair of eyes forever out of his reach, and no more words were necessary. Possessively, Lara took Damien's hand and led him upstairs.
What had been supposed to clean his system from some very unsettling urges soon evolved into a deeply depressing, completely unsatisfactory enterprise which made Vryce wish he had spend his money on a good meal instead. Try as he might, his body flatly refused to do its duty for the first time in his life, and by now that velvety voice contained a trace more acid than syrup. With a sigh of exasperation, the young woman flung a gown around her shoulders and made for the door to fetch a bottle of wine. For relaxation purposes, as she pointed out in a huff, although the former priest couldn't help but querying whether the crap usually sold in a whorehouse under the label 'wine' would be of any use but making him feel even worse than he did already.
Evidently not bothering about questions of privacy or modesty, Lara had left the door slightly ajar, and when she bumped into one of her colleagues on the corridor and the two strumpets stroke up a conversation, Damien found himself a most reluctant listener to their idle talk. "Have just been for little girls," a shrill voice piped up, grating on the warrior knight's already worn out nerves. "Still not finished yer punter, luv?"
"No, he's not up to it", Lara replied in a hushed tone. "Maybe it's a sickness. Poor man. He's not that old."
His ears burning with anger and embarrassment alike, Damien got up and reached for his clothes, wondering what the hell he was doing in a place like this. Whatever had come over him on Black Ridge Pass, he certainly didn't need release so badly that he had to act the laughing stock for a bunch of washed-up whores. Not as long as he was in possession of two healthy hands! Fuming, the warrior knight had just put on his pants when that abominable organ of speech started a renewed assault on his hearing sense. "Be careful that ye don't catch a bug, luv," Lara's companion giggled gleefully. "Ye get strange customers these days. I can tell ye a thing or two 'bout it."
"What about yours, Lizzie?"
"The crackpot who doesn't want to be touched?" The woman snorted contemptuously. "Such a pretty boy with his black braid and fancy clothes, but batty as a bat, if ye ask me. How the heck am I supposed to finish him off without touching?"
Now Vryce's curiosity was seriously piqued, and hearing Lara's light footsteps finally descending the stairs, he waited for the small eternity of approximately three minutes before tiptoeing to the neighbouring room and peeping through the keyhole, something he hadn't done since his childhood and wouldn't have thought possible an hour ago. When his mind finally processed what he saw, his jaw dropped, and he couldn't help but stare.
The youth who very likely had been Gerald Tarrant in a world now the stuff of legends was leaning against the opposite wall, his eyes closed to shut out the world. The black leather pants had been unlaced and pulled down a few inches to grant the kneeling woman access to his genitals, but otherwise he was fully dressed, his crimson silk shirt not even unbuttoned and the only connection between the two bodies red lips on hungry flesh.
In a heartbeat, Damien's arousal flared up with a vengeance. His brain shutting down the better part of its higher functions and his blood rushing southwards at record speed, he was but dimly aware that his sword hand was starting to massage the growing bulge inside his trousers seemingly on its own account. But before things could get out of hand completely, the mesmerizing, dark eyes he remembered so well from Black Ridge Pass snapped open, and he staggered back a few steps, ducking his head under the impact of the knowing look which seemed to burn right through the solid alteroak door. The warrior knight blushed, calling himself three times a fool. What madness had come over him to spy on the youth like that, for heaven's sake? Certainly, he had no right!
He was just about turning on the spot and getting away from this accursed location of his humiliation as quickly as humanly possible when a commanding voice inside his head stopped him dead in his tracks. Come in, Vryce! For a moment, Damien felt rebellious. Whatever the stranger thought, whatever Gerald thought, all remaining doubts concerning the young man's true identity now shattered by the sudden reactivation of the channel, he wasn't a vulking pet to be send away and summoned again with a snap of the adept's fingers. But in truth, he wouldn't have been able to resist the beckoning call even if it had meant his own life. Slowly, drawing a deep breath to steady his rattled nerves, he opened the door and entered the chamber.
The enticing tableau was still very much the same, with the slight alteration that Gerald was now staring at him with a mixture of borderline panic and naked want which simply took his breath away. 'Don't you say a single word, Vryce! Just look at me!'
Clenching his fists to avoid a repetition of his outrageous behaviour in the corridor, the warrior knight obeyed. Speaking would have been a a bit difficult, anyway, with his mouth as dry as the great desert on the western continent and his tongue apparently glued to the roof of his mouth. Concerning the latter part of the order, he had never been tasked with anything easier. In fact, the newly elected patriarch of the Church of Unification could have danced a jig right under his nose in stockings and garters without him ever noticing. And had it been forbidden under penalty of death, Damien wouldn't have been able to tear his gaze away from the most erotic scene he had ever witnessed in his entire life. Enthralled, he just stood there like a living statue and watched in wide-eyed wonder as his former ally gripped the back of the harlot's head and started to thrust into her mouth, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps.
DAMIEN! Shaking in the throes of passion, the adept moaned softly, a sound so lascivious and utterly unwonted for that unrivalled master of self-control that Vryce got goose bumps all over his body. Without thinking twice, he crossed the distance in three long strides, and when Gerald's knees gave way, he was there to catch him. For a few seconds, the former Hunter held on to him while trying to catch his breath, but then he disentangled himself from the embrace with surprising strength, pulled up his trousers and stormed out of the room with a killing glance which could have frozen mercury, leaving behind two utterly unhinged people.
"Always the same with yer fine people," Lizzie yelled at the top of her lungs. "Loads of money and bad manners to boot! I've had it up to here with yer weirdos!" Still incapable of digesting what had just happened, the woman's complaining barely managed to penetrate the fog clouding Damien's mind. By now, his own knees were shaking, and he hoped fervently that no more revelations would be sprung on him until he had been able to get over the day's events. But first he had to leave this hellhole in order to find some peace and quiet.
To his embarrassment, the commotion was drawing a fair amount of highly interested spectators, including a towering bloke who, apparently blessed with more muscles than brains, was supposed to impose order in case a customer felt inclined to cut up rough. The hulk repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists in a rather intimidating fashion, and Vryce groaned inwardly. What he truly didn't need on top of his misfortune was a brawl in a whorehouse!
A generous amount of bucks helped to calm down the situation, and the warrior knight gratefully made for the exit, just to find himself face to face with a smiling Lara. "You could have told me that you're into boys, Sweetie." Her voice was all dark velvet again, low and seductive, but Damien stared at her in baffled incomprehension. 'Into boys?' What the bloody hell was she talking about? "It's no crime, you know," she continued with a wink. "We've got several young lads here for men with special tastes, lads as pretty as him. Want to give it a try?"
No, he didn't want to give it a try, most certainly not. "I'm not into boys!" Damien thundered, throwing her a withering glare which would have done the Darkest Prince of Hell in an especially foul mood proud. "I'm not a vulking sodomite, for God's sake! Has everybody gone crazy today?"
"But it isn't healthy to suppress one's urges," Lara pressed on with a broad grin, evidently utterly unfazed by his outburst. "Don't you bother denying that you've lusted after that handsome nutcase, Sweetie. Lizzie told me how the little man inside your briefs came alive when he blew his load. If you need the pretence, you can have one of the lads and me. A big, strong fellow like you should be able to please both of us, don't you think so?"
Damien's head felt like exploding, a sensation increased tenfold when a small, delicate hand came to rest on his crotch and started to rub him in small circles. Travelling all over the planet in the Hunter's company had provided him with a well grounded suspicion that the world was indeed a madhouse, but very much to his own surprise, he found himself wishing to wake up from this nightmare to face a horde of hungry demonlings or a power-crazed, sadistic Iezu instead. Compared to sorting out his emotions, dealing with the faeborn was relatively easy. Kill or be killed. So wonderfully plain and simple. Mustering all his remaining dignity, Vryce pulled away Lara's insistent hand and fled the premises with a muttered excuse. He needed time to think!
And thinking was all he did during the following days, accompanied by generous helpings of alcoholic beverages until his head swam and his brain cells waved the white flag of surrender. It was impossible, had to be impossible for the sake of his own sanity. The two whores had been wrong, his body had been wrong, and his mind had to be seriously impaired by the terrible things he'd had to witness over the last few years. He cared deeply about the adept and missed the man's company like hell, missed even his amusing vanity and galling arrogance. That much he was prepared to admit. Period. But desire? No way he desired Gerald Tarrant in the guise of that black-haired brat, although since their last encounter he seemed to be condemned to relive the seductive scene at the Red Rose again and again. Each and every damned night, he woke up all sweaty, panting and in need of fresh pajama bottoms, but his hunger for the one thing he couldn't have in his life still unsated in spite of the release he had found in his wet dreams. Merciful God in heaven, if he could only forget the look on Gerald's face when that blasted woman had gotten down on him, his low sighs and the feeling of the hot, shivering body riding out the last waves of pleasure in his arms. But he didn't forget, not for one single blessed second.
