Disclaimer and Warning: The Coldfire Trilogy is a beautifully written set of books by C.S. Freidman. If you haven't already, go read, as nothing I write can ever compare. Also, the M/M relationship I mentioned in the synopsis begins to appear in this chapter. If that offends you, don't read. And don't come complaining to me about how gay marraige equates to carting AK-47s around in public, to loosely quote the esteemed governor of California whose last name I can't spell.

Ch. 1
Of Memories Past

The sign read Hunt Shoppe, and the building underneath certainly looked it. Fitting, Damien thought. A display in the front window showed all sorts of tools of the trade, from fishing rods to the latest in hunting pistols, elegantly displayed in drapery of animal skins and velvet. All in all, very Revivalist. All in all, very much like Gerald Tarrant.

Damien paused before entering, blocking out the noise from the street so he could focus on the faint buzzing of the bond that had started up again the moment he'd set foot in Jaggareth. Still there, and now, somewhat…stronger was the only word Damien could think of, though the bond had grown in neither volume nor intensity. Somehow, unconsciously, he knew Tarrant was here. Whether or not he actually was here, that was an entirely different matter.

A mousy-looking young man glanced up at the bells that signaled Damien's entrance into the store. After a few moments, he put aside the ledger he had been working on and approached where Damien was looking at a rather impressive assortment of skinning knives in a glass case. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for the owner of this place. Is he here?"

The youth hesitated. "Riven Forrest?" Damien couldn't help but smile at the surname, nodded in assent. The clerk did his best to look apologetic. "Is it anything I could help you with, mer? I'm afraid Mer Forrest has business today and does not wish to be disturbed."

Ah, so he was here. This strange link seemed to work then, when it actually existed. He pushed on. "I'm sure he'll make an exception for me. We're old acquaintances."

The clerk rushed to place himself between the door the link was pointing Damien to and Damien himself. Given the boy's bulk, or lack thereof, it was almost comical. He fluttered about Damien like a bird in his nervousness. "Please, Mer, come back another day. He gave me strict orders…." He was cut off as Damien brushed past him through the door.

The hall decoration erased any doubt that remained in Damien's mind of mer Riven Forrest's true identity. Paintings of animals of all sorts lined its walls, framed in elaborate, Revivalist frames. Some were peaceful and seemingly innocent, but others were more disturbing. A family of rabbits, looked upon in the sights of an arrow, a flock of ducks just starting to take flight, with the shadow of a hunter barely visible on the dark water, other such scenes of animals captured in their last moments of life.

Damien knocked on the door at the end of the hall and a very strained, very annoyed, very familiar voice shouted, "go away." Only one voice could hold so much arrogance and pride. Tarrant.

Risking the might of the other's great wrath, Damien opened the door and went inside. A luxuriously furnished office, all bloodwood and velvet and fur, greeted him. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of a very familiar face, the Prophet, the Hunter, Gerald Tarrant. And below that picture, face twisted as if in pain, sat the man himself. Well, not exactly the man, not as he had once been. His face was a mass of gritted determination as two images, double-imposed over each other, seemed to war for dominance. Once was an exact replica of the portrait over the fire, pale skin, golden hair, silver eyes, save for the long, white scar that marred the perfect, arrogant features. The other was the same man who had approached him so many months ago at Black Ridge, whom at the time he had mistaken for a young noble out to play hunter now that the nightmares were vanquished. Waist long black hair, then braided, now loose, hung over ancient, coal-black eyes and delicate features tanned dark by the sun. For a moment, the link buzzed strong in Damien's head as the image of Gerald Tarrant grew stronger. Then suddenly the link was gone and before him sat a worn-looking Riven Forrest.

For a long time they simply stared, frozen in time like the paintings that hung on the walls. Then Gerald, no, Riven, broke it, chair scraping against the bloodwood floor as he rose. In the silence, it was deafening.

"I was wondering when you would come. Couldn't stay away, could you, priest?" His voice was arrogant, the words chosen to wound. Damien recognized them for what they were; from this man's mouth, a cry for help. Forrest's eyes betrayed him, showing his weakness, his confusion. Nine centuries should have schooled him better, though Damien supposed no other living being would see it.

"God above, you're alive." Damien pulled the man into a tight embrace. The body might have been unfamiliar, but its movements were the same. Riven stiffened, centuries of inhumanity, of being the Hunter, keeping him cold and aloof from habit. Then he relaxed, instinct won over by emotion and exhaustion, arm coming up behind Damien's back to clutch at the material there. His face pressed into Damien's neck, lips leaving a slight dampness as they pressed ever so softly, then lifted away. It was a marvel to hold a warm body, even this black haired stranger whom he had shared his bed with before. Only the night before their return to the Forest, the night before Tarrant's fourth death, his final death, had Damien embraced this man as a human, as warm and eager flesh. But was it truly his final death? A thought struck Damien. This raven-haired man on the plains of Black Ridge, warning against talking about the man he had once been. "Will it bring you harm to talk like this? Is it safe?"

Forrest nodded. "Yes. Yes, it's safe." He seemed to wilt against Damien then, as though his strength had fled. "It is good to see you again. I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know how much longer I can go on like this."

Eyes narrowing, Damien pushed Riven away so he might get a better look at him. Those words, coming from this man, who as a principle admitted no weakness, were cause for worry. Riven's face was wan and drawn, dark circles under his eyes completing the image of absolute exhaustion. Damien felt a tremor run through him. "Sit down," he ordered, pulling out a chair. "Tell me what you know."

Riven almost seemed unsure of himself. "You have your own life now," he said, sinking gratefully into the chair. "I don't want to get you involved."

"Vulk, Forrest, do you think I'd run out on you now?" The other man winced at the strength of his voice, and Damien stopped himself from shouting. "I gave up my last life for you, for Tarrant. And don't think you seduced me, either. It was entirely voluntary. I knew what I was getting into. I knew what it would entail. And now you expect me to just walk away? Think again, Tarrant, or Forrest, or whoever you are."

Color rose to Riven's face with his anger. His voice, though, was deadly calm. "And do you now know what you're getting into? What it entails? Hells, even I don't know. You've already given up so much for me, how can I ask you to give up more?"

Tension diffused in the silence that followed Riven's statement. Finally, Damien spoke. "Don't make me say something neither of us wants to hear. Just know that I will be with you no matter what happens. No matter who you are. I went to hell for you, Tarrant. This can't be half as bad."

Riven shivered at the memory of his time in the Unnamed hands'. "I suppose I can't argue with that. You're right, as always, priest. Sometimes I think you were born with too much common sense for your own good. Certainly too much for a member of the Church. And just what do you want me to tell you?"

"What's going on, for starters? Why is the link back? What are you going to do about it? Who are you? What happened back in the Forest, to Tarrant? And where did Riven Forrest come from?"

The man who was once the Hunter held up a hand. "Enough. I'll answer your questions as best I can, but not now. Tonight. I close at sunset. Come back and meet me then. Forgive me if I do not see you out. I assume you're well enough traveled to find the door on your own."

Damien swore the man was smiling, though he could not see it on his face. Annoyed at being dismissed so, he turned on his heels and walked out the door without a word. The clerk looked up with startled eyes as he stormed through the shop and out the door, where the afternoon wind was just starting to pick up. It would be a long wait until sunset.

* * *

The last rays of sunlight were showing over the mountains when Damien stood again in front of the Hunt Shoppe. The clerk stopped him on his way out, a knowing look in his eye. "He'd been in a better mood since you came by earlier. It makes him easier to deal with."

Damien smiled. "I know. Is he still in his office?"

"No, he's inside closing up. Go on in, he told me to leave it unlocked for you."

Nodding his thanks, Damien opened the door. Riven looked up when the bells rang. "Excellent timing, as usual," he said, dusting the already sparkling glass of a display case.

Chuckling, Damien moved up behind Riven, pressing the other man into a loose hug. "There was a time you could have done that with a thought, love. Now you have to get your hands dirty like the rest of us."

Riven stiffened and Damien cursed himself. Of course that would be a sore spot on this man's pride. "Yes, I suppose I do," Riven murmured, pulling away and picking up his cloth again.

Vulk, but if Riven wasn't touchier than Tarrant had ever been. "So can you do it now?" Damien asked.

Riven sent his a scathing glare, one worthy of the Hunter. "Of course not, priest. Do you think I'd be doing this if I could?" He waved the rag for emphasis.

Damien caught the arm. Riven tried to pull away, but without Tarrant's inhuman strength he was no match for Damien's bulk. Instead he leaned back against the glass, staring daggers at the larger man. Damien sighed. "I didn't mean it that way. I meant the link. It's coming back. And what happened to you this afternoon, when I arrived. You… Tarrant… is coming back. Does that mean your sorcery is returning as well?"

"Let me finish here and I'll explain it." Most of the anger had faded from his posture. Damien released his wrist somewhat guiltily. A red mark remained in place of his hand. "Go wait in the office. I'll be in shortly. There's some wine in the cupboard if you wish."

Damien recognized a dismissal when he heard one, and a man as tightly wound as Riven would need time to regain his lost composure, at least he would if he were anything like Tarrant had been, which Damien suspected was the case. Using his better judgment, he did as he was told and retreated into the lavish office. He had poured two glasses of wine from what he suspected was Forrests' most expensive bottle and sat studying the painting of the Prophet when Riven entered.

The other man entered the room silently. Had it not been for Damien's warrior training and the soft click of the door closing, Damien would have never known he wasn't alone. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he felt, more than heard, Riven come up behind him and lay a hand on the back of his chair. There was a pause, as though Riven were waiting for something. Damien finally gave into the temptation and broke the silence.

"It's a beautiful painting," he remarked, gesturing to it. "An amazing likeness of the man."

Riven moved in front of him, picking up a glass of wine. "It is, isn't it," he agreed, handing the wine to Damien. "An original Revivalist work, said to be commissioned by the man himself. But they forgot one thing. His eyes, they're gentle and kind. The artist forgot to look past the image and see the madness inside the man." Riven had slowly walked towards the painting as he spoke, as though entranced. He turned to Damien with a soft smile. "I see you didn't spare my finest wine, priest. Avowal of gluttony notwithstanding. One might wonder where the tenants of the Church have gone if you are their best man."

The sweet smile, which looked so real yet so out of place on the narrow face, hid the true spite of Riven's words. Damien forced his hand to relax so he wouldn't break the other man's glass, a deep stab of regret running through him. So we'll play children's games, will we, he thought. I wound your pride and you return the favor. "Was," Damien stressed. "I was their best man. And do stop. I'll not play these sorts of games with a man eight centuries my elder."

"Elder, you say?" Riven's soft chuckle made Damien squirm. It was the sort of thing that should be coming out of the mouth of a spoiled lordling, not the ancient, hardened, monstrous creature Damien knew stood in front of him. "Who would ever believe I'm your elder, priest? I think you misunderstand who, exactly, I am."

Damien slammed his glass down and stood up, towering over the much slighter man. He felt a little satisfaction when Riven winced, looking uncomfortable at the spilled wine. "Then tell me, vulk you, who, exactly, you are! Enough mincing words and dancing around each other. Tell me what is going on so I can help you!"

Riven glared at him coldly. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Of course."

Riven looked down, and Damien had to strain to catch his next words. "Even if Gerald Tarrant is truly dead?"

Damien paused, not quite sure what the other man meant by that. He'd seen Tarrant, clear as day, though superimposed like a ghost over Riven's finer, darker features. He'd felt the bond between them. Hells below, he'd even followed it here. Forrest must have seen the confusion in his eyes and misinterpreted it.

"I expected no less," he said, turning away, though not before Damien could catch a glimpse of pure sorrow that marred his normally calm features. "You have no loyalty to me, priest, and no obligation. Perhaps it would be best if we kept it as such. Allow me to escort you out." When he turned back to Damien, his face was schooled again into its beautiful mask.

Damien just stared at the elegant hand offered him. "Hells below, man, what are you talking about? You said you'd tell me what you know, but you haven't said anything. So talk."

Forrest sighed, lowering his hand and dropping wearily into the plush chair behind the desk. "It's a strange story," he warned.

Damien smiled. "I've lived a strange life."

Forrest studied Damien for a moment before nodding, as though he'd found something of which he approved. When he spoke, he sounded more unsure of himself than Damien had ever heard. "I'll not bore you with the details that you already know," he began, "but I will tell you that Gerald Tarrant is, truly and in all sense of the word, dead. After nine hundred years, the great Prophet whose ambition rotted him from the inside sacrificed himself to the fae for the people of Erna. I am the result of that sacrifice, fae-born and yet human, as human as you are and as Tarrant once was. But a human cannot just become, as a fae can, and so the basic…materials, I suppose you could say, that the fae used to form me came from Tarrant. This is his body, reshaped by the power of the fae, my memories are his, reshaped by my own will. As for my will…that I do not understand, because the spark of life that was Gerald Tarrant was taken away, and yet I somehow came to be. But something's wrong. The fae took Tarrant and because of that, and because of your own actions, the fae is separate from us and no longer a threat. But you say yourself the link keeps coming back. Hells below, I even feel it and I was never a part of it. And you saw my face earlier—somehow this body still remembers being Tarrant, even though it shouldn't, by any means. Even though I have his memories, and am partly him, he is dead and his body has been reWorked. Whatever is left of him is trying to Work it back, which leads me to believe there is only one thing that could be happening. The barrier the two of you erected between the fae and humans is faltering. I do not know how such a thing could happen, but it is. I'll be leaving Jaggareth shortly to find clues as to what might be happening. You're welcome to come along or to leave, as you like."

Damien took a moment to absorb what Forrest had said. Everything made sense in his head, though the circumstances were complicated enough to give even the most wizened mage a headache. Finally, he nodded. "Even if I didn't care about you, or who you were, or who you partly are, or whatever, I'd still have to help you. All this buzzing around in my head would drive me mad, else. So when do we leave?"

Damien could have sworn there was a trace of a true smile on Forrest's lips, though it was faint enough it could have just been the light. "Is the morrow soon enough for you, priest?" Forrest asked, picking up his glass of wine and raising it to Damien. Damien picked up his own wine and, with a little guilt over how much he had spilled, touched his glass to Forrests'.

"I've no ties here, Mer Forrest," he replied, taking a sip, "and the sooner we leave, the sooner these wandering legs of mine will stop aching."

Riven set his glass down and looked at Damien searchingly. "Tarrant always did wonder how you ever became a priest," he said. "I'm starting to think the same."

Damien shrugged the reminder of his lost status less painful when not said in spite. "Rules were always more like guidelines for me," Damien answered. "I never was a very good one."

Riven shook his head, eyes dark. "No," he replied. "You were the best."

Second moon had risen and the streetlights had all been lit by the time Damien let himself out of the Hunt Shoppe and started down the street to his inn. The streets were mostly empty, though a few people passed him, mostly late-night revelers who chattered excitedly amongst each other or embraced each other tenderly. Damien thought back to a not-so-distant time when such people would have been easy prey for the man he had just been with; and if not him, for creatures much worse. A thrill of excitement went though him at the prospect of the next day's journey, and he had a sudden sense of loss for the days when the only people brave enough to face the night were the crazy ones like him. Though he'd spoken in jest before, Damien longed to stretch his legs on a road from which he might not return. Longed to fight back to back with an equal, with a companion. He longed for adventure. No, he'd never been a good priest because he had no sense of sacrifice. He'd been the best because he'd never cared if he came back at all.

And now? For a short while, Damien had cared. He'd cared about someone, and then, he'd cared about himself. Something besides his purpose, besides the church and his vows had held meaning. But that something had been torn away from him; now, he knew what sacrifice truly meant. Whether or not he was still capable of caring, that was something Damien had yet to discover.

TBC...

AN:
Thanks to my two reviewers! I started this story a few years ago, and you both inspired me to continue writing it.
Eira: You could very well be right. I have to admit it's been years since I read the books,and right now my copies are in a far and distant place so I can't check them for accuracy. I hope you continue to enjoy despite my mistakes and your comments are very helpful! I'm very happy you think Damien is IC and I hope I can keep him that way. Thank you!
LCM:Thanks for reviewing! It is appreciated muchly and I hope you continue to enjoy...I'm glad you like the Tarrant/Damien element, though as you can see from this chapter, there's a little twist on it.^_-