(no subject)
TITLE: The Hands of Lazarus (2/?)
RATING: R. Just to be safe.
FANDOMS: The Coldfire Trilogy.
SPOILERS: All three Coldfire books. Big spoilers at that. Be warned.
NOTES: Yup. bwinter made me do it.
_________________________
Hearing was always the last thing to go and the first thing to return. That’s what the tutors had said, and he had always wondered why. Perhaps it was to give the body time to prepare for its surroundings, to make quick assessments of the situation before risking opening the eyes. He didn’t doubt that it was true, not now especially.
Strange, then, that he had no idea where he was. His last memory held echoes of the wind in the trees, of water rippling, of the quiet clicking of pebbles and shale beneath his ear, of a litany of colourful curses.
Beneath him, the surface he was lying on felt soft, warm, although his body still ached in protest at the pressure. The smell was musty, with traces of dust and the scent of woodsmoke. As vision crept back to him, he could see pale light shining - dull red - through his closed eyelids.
Remaining still, he listened hard.
No one was moving anywhere near him, though he could hear distant sounds of life and action, but it was muffled, as if from some distance away.
Opening one dry eye, Damien squinted against harsh daylight. He seemed to be in a modest room, in what had to be an inn of some kind. Along the white-washed wall, three windows were flung wide open and sunlight was slanting across the floor. He could pick out the dustmotes dancing in the shafts of pale gold.
At the far end of the narrow room, there was an open fireplace and a couple of chairs, but a quick glance told him they were both empty, a fine coat draped over the back of one. No doubt who had brought him here, then. He forced himself to sit up, wincing as wounds pulled against... bandages?
Dubiously, he looked down at his body, wincing.
Strips of linen were wrapped around his torso and arms and he had no doubt that when he lifted the blanket, he would find that his legs would have been subject to the same treatment. Through the one around his ribs, he could see faint blossoms of scarlet seeping through the cloth.
Damn it.
Drawing a steadying breath, he looked around, spotting his pack and sword stacked against the wall on the opposite side of the bed. With effort and holding his throbbing left hand against his chest, he pushed himself out of the bed, staggering slightly.
Loss of blood was playing a major part here, he knew.
Didn’t stop him being suspicious.
Retrieving his short dagger, some kind of weapon at least, he tilted his head at the sound of approaching footsteps beyond the door, which opened in the end wall. With pained steps, he moved closer, positioned himself behind the door, his fingers clenching around the handle of the dagger.
The door swung inwards, and he saw the surprise on the youth’s face when he saw the bed was empty, but before he could turn, before he noticed Damien, Damien’s left hand had leapt out, snaring the long, jet-black braid.
Yanking savagely, pain blossoming up his arm from his bandaged palm, Damien pulled the boy off-balance and back against his chest, the blade of the dagger pressing against the smooth, unmarred skin of the young man’s throat.
“So you’re awake,” the boy said casually, wincing as Damien twisted that braid more tightly around his fist.
“Where are we?” Damien’s voice was quiet, strangely calm.
“An inn, several miles downriver from the point where you were attacked.” Two warm hands gently pressed against Damien’s forearm, wrapping around it, drawing it gently away. “You shouldn’t be up yet. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Damien snorted, but he let the braid slip from his hand. He could feel fresh blood soaking through the bandages and grimaced. “I didn’t ask for your help.” His voice was taut, brittle.
“No,” the boy agreed, turning to look at him, a narrow line of scarlet visible across his throat. “But like I said, I wasn’t about to leave you in the middle of the... oh for God’s sake, Damien!”
Blinking hard, Damien glared at the youth who was swimming in and out of focus, tried to take a step towards the bed. He stumbled, felt that narrow body supporting his much more easily than it should have.
Helping the former Priest sit on the edge of the bed, the boy inhaled and exhaled noisily. “You are...” He sounded like he growled, words failing him, and snatched the dagger from Damien’s hand, tossing it aside. Kneeling at Damien’s feet, he loosened the bandages around his ribs, peeling them away from re-opened wounds. An angry look flashed up at him. “For someone who used to be a Healer, you are an idiot of ridiculous proportions.”
Despite himself, Damien laughed faintly, all his focus going into keeping himself upright, his head throbbing painfully.
With another growl-like sound of frustration, the boy rose and stalked to the bathroom, returning with a basin of water and clean cloths. He knelt again and pushed up the unbuttoned sleeves of what had probably been a fine shirt hours earlier. Now, the pale linen was creased, a few dull brown stains visible here and there. Scooping up the sodden cloth, he started to clean the bleeding wounds.
Watching him through a haze of dizzying pain, Damien could see the focus in the dark eyes, could see the worried crease between elegant eyebrows, could see the way the almost feminine lips pressed together. He could even see signs that the youth had foregone shaving from the faint shadow along his cheeks and jaw.
“You shouldn’t have come to me,” he murmured faintly. He saw the slim hand hesitate mid-stroke, then the... Gerald. Gerald nodded quietly. Who else could it be? And if it wasn’t, he could say blood-loss was talking.
“I know.” Dark eyes met his.
“Why did you tell me?” he repeated his question, his voice dull with fatigue.
Gerald’s lips tugged into what was the beginnings of the suggestion of a possibility of a faint, tired smile. “I’ve never lied to you,” he said softly, simply, then laughed, a strange self-deprecating sound. “That infernal honesty.”
Damien pressed his eyes closed at those words, his heart clenching painfully within him. It was true. It was all true. Who else would know? Who else could know? Who else but Gerald Tarrant?
Gerald was watching him from behind those dark young eyes. He could feel his gaze, the quiet scrutiny. “Would you prefer that I hadn’t told you?” he asked.
Forcing his eyes open, Damien met his gaze, tried to smile faintly. “Too late for that now,” he whispered, reaching out to squeeze a narrow shoulder, so thin, so warm, so unfamiliar, yet so utterly and perfectly familiar too.
“And I still have to get you out of trouble,” Gerald sounded like he was laughing for fear of letting Damien hear his voice cracking. “Why on earth did you decide that sitting down in the middle of nowhere at dusk would be a good idea?”
“Wasn’t exactly the plan.” Damien winced as pain rippled over his ribs. Gerald quickly lifted a hand to support him as he swayed unsteadily. “How the hell did you find me anyway?”
Rising, Gerald collected a fresh pack of bandages from a table that stood beneath one of the open windows.
“I left the Black Ridge Inn just after you did, yesterday,” he replied, though he didn’t look at Damien. “When you didn’t pass by or stop here during the day... knowing your habit of suicidal heroics...” Those dark eyes turned to him. “Don’t do it again, Vryce.”
A retort rose to Damien’s lips, but he couldn’t find energy to voice it. Pressing his hands against the bedding, he looked away, clenching his jaw as Gerald knelt down in front of him again, redressing the uncovered wounds.
“I’ll need food.” he said after a few minutes of uncertain silence.
Gerald nodded. “Room service will bring something up shortly,” he replied. “I wasn’t sure if you...” The hesitation said more than words could. “You had been asleep for quite some time.”
He was so close, leaning even closer to wrap the bandages more securely around Damien’s ribs. Damien could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the faint scent of his perspiration. He shuddered when the end of that braid swung over Gerald’s shoulder and brushed against his bare thigh.
And then the physical closeness was gone, and Gerald was standing over him.
“You should heal up well enough, if you stop trying to attack me,” he offered with that faint implication of an almost sad smile. The warm hand touched Damien’s shoulder, and he looked down at the smooth fingers and the neat nails. Always so vain.
“I’ll try to remember that,” he heard himself say. Couldn’t fight the gentle pressure on his uninjured shoulder, laying him down on the bed. It looked like consciousness was a passing friend in this case and his mind felt too muzzy to do much more than comply with any given guidance.
Vaguely, he was aware of Gerald’s presence, of the other man moving around in the room, never too far away, but his eyelids felt heavy and he let himself sink back onto the very edge of consciousness.
A sudden sound jolted him sharply to wakefulness and his eyes snapped open. On a chair close to the bed, Gerald’s expression darkened with anger as he looked towards the door, rising swiftly and crossing the floor.
Wrenching the door open with a violence than no longer seemed to match his form, his expression was enough to make the unfortunate maid step back warily.
“I asked for silence,” he said quietly, dangerously.
“A-apologies, Mer Meyers,” she mumbled. Damien saw her glance passed Gerald’s shoulder at him, her face going white. Apparently, he looked worse than he felt. Huh. That was saying something. “I-I brought the food you asked for.”
With a curt nod that might have been gratitude, Gerald took the laden tray from her, pushing the door closed with one foot. He turned back towards the bed, his brow creasing as he noticed Damien watching him.
“I was hoping you might be able to rest,” he said with a sigh, approaching the bed and laying the tray down on the chair he had occupied moments earlier. “It seems that celebrating the downfall of the forest has reduced the ability of the locals to follow simple instructions.”
“I was awake,” Damien murmured.
“Barely,” Gerald countered, examining the dishes on the tray. He picked up a clay mug and sat down on the edge of the bed. With more strength than his slender body seemed capable of, he slid an arm beneath Damien’s shoulders, pulling him up into a half-seated, half-reclined position.
The mug was placed to his lips and Damien recoiled at the strong scent that made his eyes water, citric and biting.
“I can’t guarantee any of this will be palatable,” Gerald said, shifting his arm, one tanned hand carefully curling around the edge of Damien’s shoulder. “But you need to at least drink something, even if I have to force it down your throat.”
“Oh, great,” he whispered, gagging when sickeningly sweet fluid splashed onto his tongue. His teeth ached as Gerald resolutely trickled it between his parted lips, almost syrupy in its consistency, and he forced himself to swallow, trying not to choke.
Little by little, the mug was emptied, though not without trickles splashing down his chin, faint hisses of pain slipping from him as the acidic liquid splashed on gashes that had apparently been left uncovered.
As Gerald leaned sideways to place the empty mug aside, Damien exhaled, closing his eyes. “So, what do I call you now?” he asked quietly, more aware than ever of that arm around his shoulders. “You never told me your name.”
Going still, Gerald stared at nothing for a moment then he drew his arm away, leaving Damien propped against the pillows, and rose from the bed. “Alexander,” he said, picking up one of the plates from the tray on the chair. “That was the name I was given. Alexander Meyers.”
“Alexander...” Damien tried the shape of the word, one side of his mouth curling up wryly. “Makes you sound almost grown-up.”
“Oh, shut up, Vryce.” Gerald said irritably, but it lacked malice. He sat down on the edge of the bed, gazing at Damien with such a quiet intensity that the ex-Priest tried to glare at him.
“What?”
“You.”
His eyelids struggling to stay open, Damien blinked heavily. “What about me?”
Abruptly, the steady dark gaze gave way to a flicker of sardonic humour. “You look like hell,” Gerald replied. He set the dish stacked with strips of ripe meat and bread in Damien’s blanket-decked lap. “Now, eat. I have better things to do than feed a full-grown man.”
Picking through the food with his good hand, Damien glowered as Gerald rose from the bed again and approached the window. Resting his palms against the sun-warmed surface, he tilted his face towards the sun and for a moment, Damien stared, his mind not quite able to take in the fact he was seeing Gerald Tarrant by the light of day.
One dark eye opened and the corner of his mouth curved upwards. “Like what you see, Vryce?”
Ripping a piece of meat with unnecessary viciousness between his fingers, Damien glared down at the plate. “Waiting to see you burn,” he replied, but the anger refused to rise in his voice.
Gerald laughed quietly, but without humour. “Eat,” he said gently. “You’re still in need of sustenance.”
“Yeah,” Damien agreed, then muttered under his breath. “And you’re still an ass.”
And though he didn’t look, he knew that Gerald was watching him and knew that he was smiling.
Damn him.
_______________________
“I go out for half an hour...”
Sagged against the wall in the bathroom, his knees bent in front of him, Damien had an arm wrapped over his stomach. He didn’t look up at Gerald’s voice. To be honest with himself, he couldn’t, but faking defiance even just for a moment felt better than admitting that to the other man.
Manhandled ruthlessly and half-dragged, half-pushed back into the main room, he managed to dig out some hidden recess of strength to help Gerald drop him back on the rumpled bed, a hissed gasp of pain slipping between his teeth.
His body was aching more than it should be. After four days, most of his wounds were in the later stages of healing and he knew he should be improving, but when he had gone to the bathroom to try and clean himself up and take a piss, it felt like something had erupted within him, some kind of sickening chill.
Gerald, however, was checking the remaining bandages for blood, even though only his ribs and his left hand were still shrouded in strips of pale cloth. The tanned hands moved like shadows over him, gently touching, and he caught one, shivering at the heat of the man’s skin, so warm.
“Something isn’t right,” he whispered.
Abruptly, Gerald was leaning over him, a hand pressing to his brow, the sheer heat of it making Damien recoil with a gasp of pain. “You’re freezing!” he exclaimed. He tugged at Damien’s limbs until he could negotiate the blankets from beneath him and cover his body with them. “What did you do?”
Pressing his arms over his stomach, his body trying to fold in on itself, Damien felt his features contort with barely-masked pain. It felt like something had taken a hold of his insides and was twisting them, filling them with icy shards and crushing them.
“Nothing,” he panted out, twisting onto his side, knees pulling up to his chest. “I... it... something inside...”
A violent shudder ran through him and he struggled to the edge of the bed, vomiting onto the wooden floor. Bile splattered Gerald’s boots, but he didn’t seem to notice, forcing Damien onto his back, wrapping his hands around the sick man’s wrists.
“I need to touch you, Damien,” he said softly. Damien squinted at him, then nodded, forcing his arms away from his quivering belly. It took all his restraint not to cry out when burning fingertips touched his stomach. “Shit.”
“Comforting,” Damien gasped out. “What...?”
Gerald didn’t answer at once, his expression tense. He released Damien’s wrists and, despite his efforts not to, Damien curled into a ball again, pressing his forearms hard against his treacherous belly.
“Tell me,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
Gerald stared at him. “Dark fae,” he replied faintly. “Sometimes, faeborn leave traces and it... spreads.”
“Vulking great!” Drawing deep, steadying breaths, Damien made himself ignore the shooting pains and looked up at Gerald. “Any way to get rid of it?” Dark eyes were staring at him. No. Beyond him. “Ge...” He caught himself, corrected. “Alexander?”
The life seemed to have drained from Gerald’s face, the natural tan giving way to an ashen shade that reminded Damien acutely of Gerald’s former colouring. Dark eyes blinked several times, slim arms wrapping over a narrow torso, and Gerald shook his head in the negative.
Vulking hell.
Okay. Calm.
Stay calm.
Just because he doesn’t know doesn’t mean there isn’t a way to get these things out of you. Just because he was the person who knew the dark fae best...
“Alexander,” he said it quietly, calmly, but only because he didn’t trust his voice not to tremble if he spoke any louder. “I need you to tell me what you know.” Gerald stared at him, as if not quite comprehending. “Alexander, I need you here.” Those dazed eyes blinked uncertainly. Damn it. “Gerald.”
There was a flicker of shock, awareness, then Gerald nodded, moving quickly and covering Damien with the sheets and blankets, then retrieving a thicker counterpane and covering him with that too.
“There’s nothing that can be done medically to remove the currents,” he said in swift, curt tones, as if reading from a text book. “Like the infections in the past, the body will try and fight them off.”
“So the cold...?”
“Is caused by the currents moving into your blood stream. It has taken a few days to take hold, but now, the infection has made its presence known,” Gerald grimaced, glancing towards the fireplace. “Give it time and your body will respond with heat.”
“Burning it out?” Damien winced as a lancing pain seemed to skewer him from one side of his ribs to the other.
“That’s the theory.”
“My chances?”
Gerald exhaled a rapid breath. “You’re physically strong,” he said. “Which gives you an advantage.” He ran a hand over his jaw, his expression tense. “It’s going to take everything you have left, Vryce.”
“Didn’t doubt it,” Damien muttered through gritted teeth.
Striding to the end of the room, Gerald squatted down by the fireplace, crushing the decorative cluster of twigs that had been placed there. Somehow, he managed to set them alight in a room already stiflingly warm, the autumn air heavy with sunlight.
Despite the pain he was in, Damien felt a faint smile tugging at his lips as Gerald glared at the bed, as if it were a mortal enemy. “I can walk,” he murmured, but it was belied by the hiss of air that whistled between his teeth, and he drove his fist into his gut, trying to dull the swelling ache.
“Damned stupid way to lay out a room,” Gerald muttered, then stalked towards the door. “Don’t go anywhere, Vryce.” He paused, the door half-open. “And when I say that, I mean don’t even try to get up and walk to the other end of the room, because you and I both know you’re thinking that.”
With an eloquent roll of his eyes, Damien flinched as icy pain lashed through his insides. He saw Gerald gazing at him with that familiar intense expression, though it was tainted by concern, then it looked like he shook himself and stepped quickly out of the room.
Closing his eyes, Damien tried to stabilise his breathing. His chest felt like it was growing tighter, every breath a labour. He could swear he felt the air misting from his lips and shuddered, curling into an even tighter knot beneath the heavy covers.
As if things could ever be simple.
RATING: R. Just to be safe.
FANDOMS: The Coldfire Trilogy.
SPOILERS: All three Coldfire books. Big spoilers at that. Be warned.
NOTES: Yup. bwinter made me do it.
_________________________
Hearing was always the last thing to go and the first thing to return. That’s what the tutors had said, and he had always wondered why. Perhaps it was to give the body time to prepare for its surroundings, to make quick assessments of the situation before risking opening the eyes. He didn’t doubt that it was true, not now especially.
Strange, then, that he had no idea where he was. His last memory held echoes of the wind in the trees, of water rippling, of the quiet clicking of pebbles and shale beneath his ear, of a litany of colourful curses.
Beneath him, the surface he was lying on felt soft, warm, although his body still ached in protest at the pressure. The smell was musty, with traces of dust and the scent of woodsmoke. As vision crept back to him, he could see pale light shining - dull red - through his closed eyelids.
Remaining still, he listened hard.
No one was moving anywhere near him, though he could hear distant sounds of life and action, but it was muffled, as if from some distance away.
Opening one dry eye, Damien squinted against harsh daylight. He seemed to be in a modest room, in what had to be an inn of some kind. Along the white-washed wall, three windows were flung wide open and sunlight was slanting across the floor. He could pick out the dustmotes dancing in the shafts of pale gold.
At the far end of the narrow room, there was an open fireplace and a couple of chairs, but a quick glance told him they were both empty, a fine coat draped over the back of one. No doubt who had brought him here, then. He forced himself to sit up, wincing as wounds pulled against... bandages?
Dubiously, he looked down at his body, wincing.
Strips of linen were wrapped around his torso and arms and he had no doubt that when he lifted the blanket, he would find that his legs would have been subject to the same treatment. Through the one around his ribs, he could see faint blossoms of scarlet seeping through the cloth.
Damn it.
Drawing a steadying breath, he looked around, spotting his pack and sword stacked against the wall on the opposite side of the bed. With effort and holding his throbbing left hand against his chest, he pushed himself out of the bed, staggering slightly.
Loss of blood was playing a major part here, he knew.
Didn’t stop him being suspicious.
Retrieving his short dagger, some kind of weapon at least, he tilted his head at the sound of approaching footsteps beyond the door, which opened in the end wall. With pained steps, he moved closer, positioned himself behind the door, his fingers clenching around the handle of the dagger.
The door swung inwards, and he saw the surprise on the youth’s face when he saw the bed was empty, but before he could turn, before he noticed Damien, Damien’s left hand had leapt out, snaring the long, jet-black braid.
Yanking savagely, pain blossoming up his arm from his bandaged palm, Damien pulled the boy off-balance and back against his chest, the blade of the dagger pressing against the smooth, unmarred skin of the young man’s throat.
“So you’re awake,” the boy said casually, wincing as Damien twisted that braid more tightly around his fist.
“Where are we?” Damien’s voice was quiet, strangely calm.
“An inn, several miles downriver from the point where you were attacked.” Two warm hands gently pressed against Damien’s forearm, wrapping around it, drawing it gently away. “You shouldn’t be up yet. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Damien snorted, but he let the braid slip from his hand. He could feel fresh blood soaking through the bandages and grimaced. “I didn’t ask for your help.” His voice was taut, brittle.
“No,” the boy agreed, turning to look at him, a narrow line of scarlet visible across his throat. “But like I said, I wasn’t about to leave you in the middle of the... oh for God’s sake, Damien!”
Blinking hard, Damien glared at the youth who was swimming in and out of focus, tried to take a step towards the bed. He stumbled, felt that narrow body supporting his much more easily than it should have.
Helping the former Priest sit on the edge of the bed, the boy inhaled and exhaled noisily. “You are...” He sounded like he growled, words failing him, and snatched the dagger from Damien’s hand, tossing it aside. Kneeling at Damien’s feet, he loosened the bandages around his ribs, peeling them away from re-opened wounds. An angry look flashed up at him. “For someone who used to be a Healer, you are an idiot of ridiculous proportions.”
Despite himself, Damien laughed faintly, all his focus going into keeping himself upright, his head throbbing painfully.
With another growl-like sound of frustration, the boy rose and stalked to the bathroom, returning with a basin of water and clean cloths. He knelt again and pushed up the unbuttoned sleeves of what had probably been a fine shirt hours earlier. Now, the pale linen was creased, a few dull brown stains visible here and there. Scooping up the sodden cloth, he started to clean the bleeding wounds.
Watching him through a haze of dizzying pain, Damien could see the focus in the dark eyes, could see the worried crease between elegant eyebrows, could see the way the almost feminine lips pressed together. He could even see signs that the youth had foregone shaving from the faint shadow along his cheeks and jaw.
“You shouldn’t have come to me,” he murmured faintly. He saw the slim hand hesitate mid-stroke, then the... Gerald. Gerald nodded quietly. Who else could it be? And if it wasn’t, he could say blood-loss was talking.
“I know.” Dark eyes met his.
“Why did you tell me?” he repeated his question, his voice dull with fatigue.
Gerald’s lips tugged into what was the beginnings of the suggestion of a possibility of a faint, tired smile. “I’ve never lied to you,” he said softly, simply, then laughed, a strange self-deprecating sound. “That infernal honesty.”
Damien pressed his eyes closed at those words, his heart clenching painfully within him. It was true. It was all true. Who else would know? Who else could know? Who else but Gerald Tarrant?
Gerald was watching him from behind those dark young eyes. He could feel his gaze, the quiet scrutiny. “Would you prefer that I hadn’t told you?” he asked.
Forcing his eyes open, Damien met his gaze, tried to smile faintly. “Too late for that now,” he whispered, reaching out to squeeze a narrow shoulder, so thin, so warm, so unfamiliar, yet so utterly and perfectly familiar too.
“And I still have to get you out of trouble,” Gerald sounded like he was laughing for fear of letting Damien hear his voice cracking. “Why on earth did you decide that sitting down in the middle of nowhere at dusk would be a good idea?”
“Wasn’t exactly the plan.” Damien winced as pain rippled over his ribs. Gerald quickly lifted a hand to support him as he swayed unsteadily. “How the hell did you find me anyway?”
Rising, Gerald collected a fresh pack of bandages from a table that stood beneath one of the open windows.
“I left the Black Ridge Inn just after you did, yesterday,” he replied, though he didn’t look at Damien. “When you didn’t pass by or stop here during the day... knowing your habit of suicidal heroics...” Those dark eyes turned to him. “Don’t do it again, Vryce.”
A retort rose to Damien’s lips, but he couldn’t find energy to voice it. Pressing his hands against the bedding, he looked away, clenching his jaw as Gerald knelt down in front of him again, redressing the uncovered wounds.
“I’ll need food.” he said after a few minutes of uncertain silence.
Gerald nodded. “Room service will bring something up shortly,” he replied. “I wasn’t sure if you...” The hesitation said more than words could. “You had been asleep for quite some time.”
He was so close, leaning even closer to wrap the bandages more securely around Damien’s ribs. Damien could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the faint scent of his perspiration. He shuddered when the end of that braid swung over Gerald’s shoulder and brushed against his bare thigh.
And then the physical closeness was gone, and Gerald was standing over him.
“You should heal up well enough, if you stop trying to attack me,” he offered with that faint implication of an almost sad smile. The warm hand touched Damien’s shoulder, and he looked down at the smooth fingers and the neat nails. Always so vain.
“I’ll try to remember that,” he heard himself say. Couldn’t fight the gentle pressure on his uninjured shoulder, laying him down on the bed. It looked like consciousness was a passing friend in this case and his mind felt too muzzy to do much more than comply with any given guidance.
Vaguely, he was aware of Gerald’s presence, of the other man moving around in the room, never too far away, but his eyelids felt heavy and he let himself sink back onto the very edge of consciousness.
A sudden sound jolted him sharply to wakefulness and his eyes snapped open. On a chair close to the bed, Gerald’s expression darkened with anger as he looked towards the door, rising swiftly and crossing the floor.
Wrenching the door open with a violence than no longer seemed to match his form, his expression was enough to make the unfortunate maid step back warily.
“I asked for silence,” he said quietly, dangerously.
“A-apologies, Mer Meyers,” she mumbled. Damien saw her glance passed Gerald’s shoulder at him, her face going white. Apparently, he looked worse than he felt. Huh. That was saying something. “I-I brought the food you asked for.”
With a curt nod that might have been gratitude, Gerald took the laden tray from her, pushing the door closed with one foot. He turned back towards the bed, his brow creasing as he noticed Damien watching him.
“I was hoping you might be able to rest,” he said with a sigh, approaching the bed and laying the tray down on the chair he had occupied moments earlier. “It seems that celebrating the downfall of the forest has reduced the ability of the locals to follow simple instructions.”
“I was awake,” Damien murmured.
“Barely,” Gerald countered, examining the dishes on the tray. He picked up a clay mug and sat down on the edge of the bed. With more strength than his slender body seemed capable of, he slid an arm beneath Damien’s shoulders, pulling him up into a half-seated, half-reclined position.
The mug was placed to his lips and Damien recoiled at the strong scent that made his eyes water, citric and biting.
“I can’t guarantee any of this will be palatable,” Gerald said, shifting his arm, one tanned hand carefully curling around the edge of Damien’s shoulder. “But you need to at least drink something, even if I have to force it down your throat.”
“Oh, great,” he whispered, gagging when sickeningly sweet fluid splashed onto his tongue. His teeth ached as Gerald resolutely trickled it between his parted lips, almost syrupy in its consistency, and he forced himself to swallow, trying not to choke.
Little by little, the mug was emptied, though not without trickles splashing down his chin, faint hisses of pain slipping from him as the acidic liquid splashed on gashes that had apparently been left uncovered.
As Gerald leaned sideways to place the empty mug aside, Damien exhaled, closing his eyes. “So, what do I call you now?” he asked quietly, more aware than ever of that arm around his shoulders. “You never told me your name.”
Going still, Gerald stared at nothing for a moment then he drew his arm away, leaving Damien propped against the pillows, and rose from the bed. “Alexander,” he said, picking up one of the plates from the tray on the chair. “That was the name I was given. Alexander Meyers.”
“Alexander...” Damien tried the shape of the word, one side of his mouth curling up wryly. “Makes you sound almost grown-up.”
“Oh, shut up, Vryce.” Gerald said irritably, but it lacked malice. He sat down on the edge of the bed, gazing at Damien with such a quiet intensity that the ex-Priest tried to glare at him.
“What?”
“You.”
His eyelids struggling to stay open, Damien blinked heavily. “What about me?”
Abruptly, the steady dark gaze gave way to a flicker of sardonic humour. “You look like hell,” Gerald replied. He set the dish stacked with strips of ripe meat and bread in Damien’s blanket-decked lap. “Now, eat. I have better things to do than feed a full-grown man.”
Picking through the food with his good hand, Damien glowered as Gerald rose from the bed again and approached the window. Resting his palms against the sun-warmed surface, he tilted his face towards the sun and for a moment, Damien stared, his mind not quite able to take in the fact he was seeing Gerald Tarrant by the light of day.
One dark eye opened and the corner of his mouth curved upwards. “Like what you see, Vryce?”
Ripping a piece of meat with unnecessary viciousness between his fingers, Damien glared down at the plate. “Waiting to see you burn,” he replied, but the anger refused to rise in his voice.
Gerald laughed quietly, but without humour. “Eat,” he said gently. “You’re still in need of sustenance.”
“Yeah,” Damien agreed, then muttered under his breath. “And you’re still an ass.”
And though he didn’t look, he knew that Gerald was watching him and knew that he was smiling.
Damn him.
_______________________
“I go out for half an hour...”
Sagged against the wall in the bathroom, his knees bent in front of him, Damien had an arm wrapped over his stomach. He didn’t look up at Gerald’s voice. To be honest with himself, he couldn’t, but faking defiance even just for a moment felt better than admitting that to the other man.
Manhandled ruthlessly and half-dragged, half-pushed back into the main room, he managed to dig out some hidden recess of strength to help Gerald drop him back on the rumpled bed, a hissed gasp of pain slipping between his teeth.
His body was aching more than it should be. After four days, most of his wounds were in the later stages of healing and he knew he should be improving, but when he had gone to the bathroom to try and clean himself up and take a piss, it felt like something had erupted within him, some kind of sickening chill.
Gerald, however, was checking the remaining bandages for blood, even though only his ribs and his left hand were still shrouded in strips of pale cloth. The tanned hands moved like shadows over him, gently touching, and he caught one, shivering at the heat of the man’s skin, so warm.
“Something isn’t right,” he whispered.
Abruptly, Gerald was leaning over him, a hand pressing to his brow, the sheer heat of it making Damien recoil with a gasp of pain. “You’re freezing!” he exclaimed. He tugged at Damien’s limbs until he could negotiate the blankets from beneath him and cover his body with them. “What did you do?”
Pressing his arms over his stomach, his body trying to fold in on itself, Damien felt his features contort with barely-masked pain. It felt like something had taken a hold of his insides and was twisting them, filling them with icy shards and crushing them.
“Nothing,” he panted out, twisting onto his side, knees pulling up to his chest. “I... it... something inside...”
A violent shudder ran through him and he struggled to the edge of the bed, vomiting onto the wooden floor. Bile splattered Gerald’s boots, but he didn’t seem to notice, forcing Damien onto his back, wrapping his hands around the sick man’s wrists.
“I need to touch you, Damien,” he said softly. Damien squinted at him, then nodded, forcing his arms away from his quivering belly. It took all his restraint not to cry out when burning fingertips touched his stomach. “Shit.”
“Comforting,” Damien gasped out. “What...?”
Gerald didn’t answer at once, his expression tense. He released Damien’s wrists and, despite his efforts not to, Damien curled into a ball again, pressing his forearms hard against his treacherous belly.
“Tell me,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
Gerald stared at him. “Dark fae,” he replied faintly. “Sometimes, faeborn leave traces and it... spreads.”
“Vulking great!” Drawing deep, steadying breaths, Damien made himself ignore the shooting pains and looked up at Gerald. “Any way to get rid of it?” Dark eyes were staring at him. No. Beyond him. “Ge...” He caught himself, corrected. “Alexander?”
The life seemed to have drained from Gerald’s face, the natural tan giving way to an ashen shade that reminded Damien acutely of Gerald’s former colouring. Dark eyes blinked several times, slim arms wrapping over a narrow torso, and Gerald shook his head in the negative.
Vulking hell.
Okay. Calm.
Stay calm.
Just because he doesn’t know doesn’t mean there isn’t a way to get these things out of you. Just because he was the person who knew the dark fae best...
“Alexander,” he said it quietly, calmly, but only because he didn’t trust his voice not to tremble if he spoke any louder. “I need you to tell me what you know.” Gerald stared at him, as if not quite comprehending. “Alexander, I need you here.” Those dazed eyes blinked uncertainly. Damn it. “Gerald.”
There was a flicker of shock, awareness, then Gerald nodded, moving quickly and covering Damien with the sheets and blankets, then retrieving a thicker counterpane and covering him with that too.
“There’s nothing that can be done medically to remove the currents,” he said in swift, curt tones, as if reading from a text book. “Like the infections in the past, the body will try and fight them off.”
“So the cold...?”
“Is caused by the currents moving into your blood stream. It has taken a few days to take hold, but now, the infection has made its presence known,” Gerald grimaced, glancing towards the fireplace. “Give it time and your body will respond with heat.”
“Burning it out?” Damien winced as a lancing pain seemed to skewer him from one side of his ribs to the other.
“That’s the theory.”
“My chances?”
Gerald exhaled a rapid breath. “You’re physically strong,” he said. “Which gives you an advantage.” He ran a hand over his jaw, his expression tense. “It’s going to take everything you have left, Vryce.”
“Didn’t doubt it,” Damien muttered through gritted teeth.
Striding to the end of the room, Gerald squatted down by the fireplace, crushing the decorative cluster of twigs that had been placed there. Somehow, he managed to set them alight in a room already stiflingly warm, the autumn air heavy with sunlight.
Despite the pain he was in, Damien felt a faint smile tugging at his lips as Gerald glared at the bed, as if it were a mortal enemy. “I can walk,” he murmured, but it was belied by the hiss of air that whistled between his teeth, and he drove his fist into his gut, trying to dull the swelling ache.
“Damned stupid way to lay out a room,” Gerald muttered, then stalked towards the door. “Don’t go anywhere, Vryce.” He paused, the door half-open. “And when I say that, I mean don’t even try to get up and walk to the other end of the room, because you and I both know you’re thinking that.”
With an eloquent roll of his eyes, Damien flinched as icy pain lashed through his insides. He saw Gerald gazing at him with that familiar intense expression, though it was tainted by concern, then it looked like he shook himself and stepped quickly out of the room.
Closing his eyes, Damien tried to stabilise his breathing. His chest felt like it was growing tighter, every breath a labour. He could swear he felt the air misting from his lips and shuddered, curling into an even tighter knot beneath the heavy covers.
As if things could ever be simple.