When all is said and done

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy and no profit whatsoever is intended.

Credits: the bit about the 'far gentler afterlife than I'll ever know' was taken from the prologue of Black Sun Rising.

A/N 1: I know that we had Damien receiving a letter from Gerald after his 'death' at least once before ('Forever, Tarrant' by RinsHaruka). Haven't checked it due to a lack of time, but I hope that my plot is sufficiently different to spare me being flamed. Eventual similarities are entirely coincidental. Anyway, composing the Hunter's epistle was quite a task. At first, I considered to save myself the effort for fear of getting too much out of character and concentrate on Vryce's reaction to his read instead, but decided against being a coward in the end ;-) A man in contemplation of death and damnation is entitled to a whiff of emotion, isn't he?

A/N 2: As this story keeps meandering along, I decided to split it into several rather short chapters (might amount to four or five with a total of 10 000 words in the end). It's nothing spectacular but just a little yarn to get us through the summer slump, lol.

Greetings to Silvereyedbitch, Shadowy Star, Morgana, Herdcat, Puffskien and all ye Coldfire fans who're hopefully still somewhere out there. Enjoy what's left of the summer!

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I can't believe that you're letting him go just like this."

When Damien whirled around with a start, his eyes fell on a tourist in a garish shirt and no less tasteless trousers. The miffed face was utterly unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking the deep, booming voice that had guided him to hell and back. "Karril! Is it really you?" he blurted out, somewhat taken aback by the Iezu's unexpected appearance. Admittedly, Black Ridge Pass wasn't far from the half-alien's birthplace, but as he hadn't seen hide nor hair of him in the many weeks that had passed since Tarrant's supposed death at the hands of his last living descendant, he had half expected never to come across the adept's old sidekick again.

"The very same, priest. I thought it wise to come here incognito, as you humans are wont to say. To avoid certain... inconveniences. And as it seems, I've arrived just in time to prevent you from making a serious mistake."

"What the heck are you talking about?"

The Iezu shot him an exasperated look. "Gerald and I have always appreciated your intelligence. This isn't the appropriate time and occasion to prove us wrong.

Registering the baffled expression on his face, Karril heaved a sigh. "I'll never understand why you mortals stubbornly insist on denying the obvious," he muttered under his breath. "But never mind. Fortunately, I'm here to give you a nudge in the right direction. It might interest you to hear that your 'spoiled brat' won't stay around much longer after finally dredging up the courage to seek you out. As far as I know, he's planning to travel to Jaggonath at the soonest, but it will be just a short stopover before he sets out for distant shores. If you don't act now, you very likely won't get a second chance to set things straight."

The warrior knight forced a noncommittal shrug. "I've no right to interfere in the life of a complete stranger who isn't in the least interested in my company. And why should he give a damn? If he's truly the man I suppose him to be, all is said and done, anyway."

"I think there you're very much mistaken, Damien. The really important things were left unsaid, just as in your relationship with the Hunter. You and Gerald Tarrant did a lot of talking alright. Too much if you ask me, wasting your energy on bickering and bitching about trifles when you should have been all over each other long ago. At least since the breaking of the compact rendered it possible."

"But you've gotten it all wrong," Vryce protested, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment, "He and I... we never... we weren't..."

The God of Pleasure snorted. "Kindly don't take me for a fool. I know that you weren't lovers. Not in the conventional sense of the word, anyway. But trust me that if Gerald hadn't been to proud for his own good, he would have been on his back with his long legs wrapped around you before you could have done so much as blink. Not that he ever confided into me. Baring his heart simply wasn't his style."

"You have to be kidding, Karril! Tarrant was married, sired three children in his early mortal days, let alone that he hunted only delicate female beauties for his menu! When I arrived in Jaggonath, tavern rumours had it that the Lord of the Forest must have been a man once, with some sort of male hunger still clinging to his corrupted soul. How could someone like him have got the hots for another guy?"

"Because he's always preferred to 'keep his options open', another one of your human euphemisms. I could tell you a thing or two about him and Gannon that would make your ears burn."

"King Gannon? The founder of my Order? What the hell does he have to do with it?"

"Everything, priest. I presume you won't find this piece of information in your church archives, but Gerald's services went far beyond the usual duties of a courtier. He was barely fifteen when his king took him to his bed, and they stayed lovers right until the bitter end. It was said that Gannon was crazy about his dashing Knight of the Realm, never got over losing him. But that's not the point now. I've come here because I want to give you something you might find useful. Before the Hunter departed on his fateful trip to Mount Shaitan, he deposited a letter at my temple. For you, in case you managed to outlive him."

"A letter? The delivery took you quite a while, I dare say. Why didn't you cough up the vulking thing earlier?"

"Didn't you listen to me?" Karril snapped in a huff. "You were meant to receive it if the worst came to the worst. Naturally, the change in circumstances required some adjustments. Like pretending that I had burned the papers when they weren't needed any longer, as I was supposed to do."

"But you didn't. Why?"

The God of Pleasure pulled a face . "Frankly spoken, I'm getting a bit tired of acting the matchmaker for two stubborn humans, so regard it as my last attempt to hammer some sense into your head. In the purely hypothetical case that something of Tarrant had survived, he wouldn't be pleased about my breach of trust for sure. For understandable reasons, I'm not altogether keen on landing myself on a blacklist of Iezu to be done away with, but feeding on your pleasure when you will be getting down to business at long last might even be worth it. The release of all that repressed sexual tension should be spectacular."

"Karril, I... it rarely happens, but I don't know what to say."

"The time for talk is over, Damien. Just read the letter with an open mind, draw your own conclusions and act upon them wisely. That's the only piece of advice I can give you. And now I'm off. My sibling Saris is waiting for me."

An envelope the colour of fresh cream was pressed into his sword hand, and the very next moment the Iezu was gone without leaving a trace of his existence behind.

His thoughts racing, Vryce stared down on the deceptively innocuous piece of not paper that could turn his entire world up and down once again. A part of him still couldn't quite believe what he had just been told. It was ludicrous. Utterly absurd. In the roundabout twenty-six months they had travelled all over their planet together, nothing whatsoever in the adept's behaviour had indicated that his human companion had been more to him than a brother-in-arms. A reluctant friend at the very most.

How very surprising, the little devil inside his head piped up sarcastically. Granted that this isn't a bad joke at your expense: what do you expect from the proudest bastard you've ever met, somebody who elevated self-control to an art form ages ago? 'Accidental' touches and furtive glances in the direction of a man who had sworn to kill him? Don't be ridiculous, Damien!

And even if Tarrant had tried to hit on him, he in all probability wouldn't have noticed. Or chosen not to notice, to be precise. So many things had been on his mind back then: the death of his comrades, putting an end to the threat to mankind, coming to terms with the vast gap between the ideals of his Church and the bare necessities of survival. He certainly could have done without any more complications in his life.

He didn't need them now, either. The youth's veiled confession that Tarrant hadn't died on that fateful day at the keep had rescued him from his own personal hell of shame, guilt and sorrow. He was free at last, could go where his feet would carry him and start all over again, whether as a healer, a bodyguard for any moneybags or something else entirely. He only had to tear the adept's last message into tiny little pieces and move on without looking back, just the way the man himself had done a few minutes ago. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

His shaking fingers opened the envelope as if on their own account. The first document he pulled out was a cheque, cashable at the Great Eastern Bank in Jaggonath. The inserted amount was simply breathtaking. He had always known that the Hunter had money. Vulking hell, the son of a bitch had had centuries to have his bucks working for him, but this surpassed everything he could have imagined in his wildest dreams. And it was just the beginning. What followed were the rights to a round dozen patents Tarrant had been owning, shares in several flourishing companies, plots of land all over the country and a town villa in Jaggonath and Merentha respectively. Even by conservative estimates, Damien guessed that the total value must run into the millions. Accepting this strange inheritance, not that he had any intention whatsoever of actually doing so, would rank him among the richest men on both the eastern and the western continent.

Eventually, he unfolded the actual letter. As his gaze fell on the swirling but perfectly neat handwriting he remembered so well, he counted his blessings that the adept had finally deigned to let him in on his latest prank. Even so, he could hardly breathe past the growing lump in his throat.

'Dear Vryce,
however miserably pathetic this introduction might sound, I'll be dead by the time you read this. I'd rather not wallow in untoward sentimentality henceforth, a lamentably common human weakness. Nonetheless, I'd like to express my deepest gratitude to you. You're a formidable warrior and a great man, loyal, courageous and honourable to your very bones. Your unwavering support - albeit garnished with an abundance of colourful metaphors I could have done without - was inestimable throughout our
travels.
For all the atrocities I committed on you I can only ask your forgiveness. What I relished at first soon became a mere imperative, forced upon me by my demonic nature. My hunger. Towards the end of our acquaintance, I would have gone to almost any length to avoid hurting you, would have risked my life, if it can be called thus at all, in order to protect you. I, who isn't called the Darkest Prince of Hell for nothing. If I had still a modicum of humour left inside me, I would laugh at the utter absurdity of
it all.
Now you certainly want to know why the notion of you coming to harm is anathema to me. The answer is relatively simple and presumably as old as the human race: I hold you in very high esteem, Damien. Not just because of the above mentioned character traits. Valour and honour are doubtlessly valuable assets, but so is handsomeness. Writing eulogies about the flecks of gold in your hazel eyes and the appeal of your muscular body is far beyond me, I'm afraid, but know that I reckon you among the most aesthetically pleasing human beings of either sex I've ever met. One of the few things I truly regret is that the compact didn't allow for broadening your horizon in terms of sexual pleasure. You might have found the experience rather... enlightening.
The only thing left to me now is wishing you well wherever you go. Don't waste your time with mourning and live your life to the fullest, even if this means spending a considerable amount of money on indulging your helper syndrome. It goes without saying that you needn't worry about the origin of the wealth I've chosen to bequeath on you. It isn't blood money but honestly earned, the fruits of centuries of trading and well-conceived investment strategies.
Platitudes like 'don't forget me' and similar crudities aren't my cup of tee, as you very well know. In fact, I very much doubt that you could even if you wanted to. The only thing I'm asking of you is that you'll pray for my salvation. Where I'm bound to go, I'm going to need every intercession I can possibly get. And who could be more suited to plead with God for me than a priest? For this is what you are and will always be. If you don't trust the opinion of the Hunter in matters of religion, keep in mind that the very man was once the Prophet of the Law and Knight Premier of your Order.
The dusk draws near, my last journey following in her wake. Farewell, my friend. May you go to a far gentler afterlife than I'll ever know when your time comes. Yours,
Gerald Tarrant, the first and only Neocount of Merentha'

Only when his tears started to drip onto the costly vat not paper Damien realized that he was crying. Almighty God in Heaven, whatever he had expected hadn't prepared him for this reading. He wasn't quite sure what shocked him most: that the adept had openly admitted their fire-forged friendship, his apologies for feeding on him, the sincere affection shining through every line or the fact that Karril had assessed the situation correctly. Tarrant had evidently not just deeply cared about him, nothing short of a miracle in its own right, but had also felt physically attracted to him. Had desired him. His words left no doubt about it. It just remained to be seen how much of those longings had withstood the transformation into his new self. And, even more important, whether Damien Kilcannon Vryce truly wanted to figure this out.

There was no denying that Gerald had grown on him over the last years. He had grieved for him as he had never grieved before, had even missed the son of a bitch's insufferable arrogance and condescension, not to mention his considerably more amusing vanity. And yes, there had been certain wet dreams involving caressing skin so very pale that it had seemed almost translucent in the moonlight, nocturnal spawns of his subconscious mind which had taken him to the brink of orgasm and beyond more than once. Having it off with another man in reality was undiscovered and slightly forbidding territory, but providing that the former Hunter was still interested in taking their relationship to a new level, it might be worth giving it a try.

But what would happen afterwards? Would Gerald stay or push ahead with his travelling plans, leaving him high and dry again? He had lost the vulking bastard once already. Twice, the present day included. He wasn't entirely sure whether he could bear it for a third time.

And there was more to it than that. The adept had left no doubt about it that any connection to his past life whatsoever would endanger his continuing existence. Hence, seeking out his erstwhile ally on Black Ridge Pass had been a chancy business at best, and it was no wonder that it had taken him some time to get up the nerve to put his life on the line once again. Whether his deeply ingrained sense of honour had dictated his actions or he had been motivated by more tender feelings Damien couldn't even begin to fathom. Anyway, it wouldn't change the fact that a single lapse of the tongue might very well spell disaster, a somewhat daunting prospect, as far as he was concerned.

Somehow, the whole situation was bordering on the surrealistic. Not so very long ago, he would have gladly rammed his sword through the Hunter's black heart and be done with it. One abomination less roaming through the darkness in its never-ending search for human prey. But Gerald wasn't undead any longer but a mortal with a beating heart and red blood running in his veins, a man just like any other. And he had suffered enough. Against all odds, he had survived the wrath of hell unleashed, battling a sadistic Iezu and a full-blown crusade intent on nailing his hide to the barn door, but it had cost him dearly. He deserved a fresh start, a new beginning without fear that a wrong word might be his undoing.

It was a hell of a choice. Never to see him again, dying one fine day without ever having known whether at least a modicum of the emotions so clearly evident in the letter had made it through Tarrant's final shape-shift was a gut-wrenching idea. That particular missed opportunity would certainly get a place of honour on his already long lists of regrets. But however painful his sacrifice might be, it was considerably less gruesome than some of the alternatives, namely witnessing the adept crumbling into dust or whatever ghastly fate was awaiting him in case of a violation of his latest compact. Being the final nail in Gerald's coffin just because he couldn't bring his damned hormones under control didn't even bear contemplating.

His mind made up, Damien gazed at the burning Forest for one last time. "Good-bye, my friend," he whispered, mechanically wiping a tear from his face. "May you find a place in the new world you helped creating. And happiness." Then he turned round and headed for the least appealing of the three inns on the northern flank of the ridge.