#karril/damien

[first-and-last-neocount]

Whumptober Day 2

Another instalment in It Walks Among Us for today, with another jump forward. This one is set only a couple months after the last one, and it’s a moment that I think we all knew was coming: Gerald Finds Out. 

Once the Les Mis lyrics cleared out of my brain, this is the first thing I thought of for this prompt - after all, we all had to know that Jen and Riven weren’t going to be able to keep their secrets forever. Even though this is technically the precursor to the actual confrontation rather than the showdown itself, I think it still fits the prompt very well, since the intent of confrontation is literally all that is going on in Gerald’s brain by the end.

Day 2 - Theme Chosen: Confrontation

It had been nine hundred years since he first learned the hard way to trust his own instincts, but even now, it wasn’t a lesson that Gerald needed to learn twice. 

He had been worried when Jenseny insisted on staying in her downtown apartment despite the rumours of demonic attacks, and far more worried when her resolve held even after one of her neighbours was killed in the very same building. Damien’s arguments in favour of independence were all well and good, but it went against every one of Gerald’s instincts to simply leave their daughter undefended in the path of the enemy. Now, after the debacle with Andrys, everything in the Hunter screamed for him to bring Jenseny home where he could protect her - but still, she refused. Still, she seemed hell-bent on remaining out of reach. Even Damien was concerned, now, about why exactly she was so determined to stay away from home; there seemed to be no good reason for it… and Gerald could think of a dozen bad reasons for it, each more alarming than the last. 

Gerald had held back for longer than he wanted, prioritising Jenseny’s trust over his own fears, but now it was not merely baseless worry - if Andrys wasn’t the only one working with the invading demons, Jenseny’s life could very well hang in the balance, and that tipped the scales. Unwilling to provoke a direct confrontation without at least some idea of what was keeping Jenseny away, though, Gerald had done something he’d once thought he would never do. 

He’d asked Karril for help. 

The Iezu had stared at him, disbelief written clearly on his face. 

“You want me to spy on Jen?”

There was a fire crackling merrily in the great marble fireplace, its cheery sound at odds with the tension in the room. Outside, the evening sky was prematurely black with heavy clouds, a stiff wind raking forcefully through the branches of the old alteroak tree in the yard; Gerald could feel the threat of the oncoming storm prickling over his senses, the earth fae swirling faster along its channels in anticipation. Damien was the one who answered, his grip tight on the glass of glayva he’d been holding for the last hour, not once having sipped at it. 

“Not spy on her, per se. Just - check in on her, and try to figure out what’s keeping her away.” 

Karril turned to glare at Damien, his shock already beginning to morph into disapproval. 

“That’s the kind of semantic bullshit I’d expect of Gerald. You, on the other hand, should know exactly what’s wrong with what you just said. I know you’re worried, Damien, but this isn’t the way to express that!” 

“We’ve tried other methods already, Karrill,” Gerald said, the words coming out sharp despite himself. A wave of sympathetic worry and reassurance washed through the link from Damien, and the adept drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “We’ve asked her over and over again why she won’t just come home, and she’s lying about it. We’ve tried everything we can to get her to talk to either one of us, to just tell us what’s going on, but she refuses to talk to us.”

“We’re scared now,” Damien put in, his hazel eyes dark and serious. “Jen’s never kept anything from us for long before, and this - it just doesn’t feel right. She’s putting herself in danger, and if she won’t tell us why, we can’t help her.”

Karril leaned back on the sofa, frowning. “You’re really that worried?” 

“Our daughter was kidnapped by a madman, forced to kill in self-defence under very traumatic circumstances, and is still choosing to remain in a city under active assault by demons rather than move back in with her very capable fathers,” Gerald snapped. “I know I tend toward paranoia, Karril, but I’d have to be vulking insane to not be worried!” 

He was nearly shouting by the end, emotions running too high for even his impressive self-control. Abandoning his glass on an end table, Damien reached over and gripped his husband’s arm, his expression fiercely intent. 

“We’re going to bring her home, Gerald. We’ll figure out whatever the hell is going on, and we’ll bring her home safe and sound, I promise.” 

Karril watched them with wide eyes for a moment, seeing the way Gerald leaned into Damien’s grip and the exhausted worry on both men’s faces, before he blew out a heavy breath. 

“Well, fuck,” he said succintly. “When you put it like that - of course I’ll do it. I almost wish you’d come to me sooner, I had no idea it had gotten so bad. And I didn’t mean to imply that you were exaggerating, Gerald-”

The adept shook his head, cutting off his friend with a wan smile. “It’s fine, Karril. I understand. Just… please, figure out what’s going on, as soon as you can. I’m not going to be able to sleep soundly until I know Jen is back home, and until I know that nothing is directly threatening her.” 

The Iezu nodded. 

“Consider it done.” 

The Iezu had promptly disappeared, and hadn’t returned since. Gerald was doing his best not to obsess over the length of the wait, but it was difficult - every morning’s paper brought word of fresh attacks, until it sounded as if the citizens in the city centre could hardly set foot outside their doors without tripping over a demon between Coreset and sunrise. Damien at least had his work to pass the time - with the increase in attacks, even the relief Healers were pulling overtime, keeping the hospital fully staffed around the clock to help save as many victims as they could. The Historical Archives were hardly an essential service in such a time of panic, though, and had shut their doors until further notice, sending their staff home with half pay ‘until the crisis was resolved’. The reduction in their income was of no concern given Gerald’s accumulated wealth, but he mourned the loss of any constructive distraction, reduced to studying every scrap of information he could gather on the demons and fretting over Jenseny’s safety. 

On one such day, exactly a week after asking his old friend for help, Gerald was attempting to pass the time until Damien returned from his late shift at the hospital by going over what they knew so far about the invading demons. The adept was sitting at their dining room table late in the evening, pouring over his growing collection of newspaper scraps about the attacks; he was glaring darkly at the horrific artist’s rendering of a demon that graced one front page, snarling with lovingly rendered malice, when Karril appeared unceremoniously in the room. 

“You were right to be worried.” 

Karril’s tone wasn’t urgent, but it was flat and low, thick with something that sounded quite a lot like dread. Gerald was on his feet instantly, his heart pounding, adrenaline flooding his veins. 

“What happened?” 

Karril met Gerald’s eyes only reluctantly. The Iezu looked  - not tired, exactly, for that was not how overexertion manifested on his kind, but dishevelled. His red hair was wilder than usual, his robe a little blurry around the edges, as though he couldn’t quite muster the focus to sharpen his manifestation the way he typically did. His eyes, though, were what really chilled Gerald’s blood; they held a haunted look, as though Karril had seen something that was weighing on him nearly as heavily as the fear of the unknown had been weighing on Gerald. 

Karril hesitated a moment longer, then said grimly, “One of my brothers was at Jen’s apartment. Not once, but three times in the week I was watching her - once for nearly forty-eight hours straight. I couldn’t get too close without risking exposing my presence, but I did manage to confirm who it was. Gerald… it was Riven Forrest.” 

The air seemed to have gone out of the room. 

“That’s…” Gerald couldn’t make himself finish the sentence, but Karril was already nodding. 

“The one that Mother created from you. Yes. Aspected to the Hunt.”

For the first time in centuries, Gerald felt bile rising in his throat. He swallowed it back, hard - this wasn’t the time to give into his own turbulent emotions, this was the time to focus, to plan. Distantly, he felt a jolt of alarm from Damien, and realized that his distress had to be leaking across the bond; pushing what reassurance he could muster through the link, Gerald refocused on Karril, promising silently that he would fill Damien in once he had all the facts. 

“He’s the one that’s threatening her, then? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, Andrys colluded with a rogue brother of yours once before, after all…” 

But Karril was shaking his head now, face twisted in a complicated mixture of regret and frustration and fear. “Not threatening her, no. Gerald, I-” He cut himself off for a moment, wavered, then visibly changed tack. “As I said, I couldn’t risk getting too close. I couldn’t overhear any of their conversations or anything like that, I was only observing from a distance, and there may have been context that I missed-”

“Karril, tell me.” If he had been anxious before, Gerald was edging close to true panic now - he had never seen such blatant unease on his friend’s face, and it was chipping away dangerously at his self-control. “Just tell me, before I start imagining something even worse.” 

Karril bit his lip, looking away, and addressed his shaky words to the star-speckled sky outside the dining room window. 

“Jen seemed pleased to see him every time he arrived, and it was obvious that they’re close, they must have known each other for a while now. Right before I left, they were near the apartment window for a little while, and… Gerald… I think they’re sleeping together.” 

The rage that swept over Gerald was, quite literally, blinding. The fae surged wildly in reaction to his untempered wrath, a blaze of white-hot fury that momentarily stole his vision; as he blinked away the searing afterimage and exerted his will on the currents, forcing them viciously back into their usual flow even as they trembled under his lashing power, he was only distantly aware of Karril’s hurried words. 

“He didn’t hurt her, Gerald, or I would have intervened immediately, and damn the consequences! She seemed - well, it wasn’t exactly one-sided-”

“He can’t have been honest with her, Karril, she would never trust any of your kind but you and Saris after what Calesta put her through.” Gerald hadn’t heard such iciness in his own voice in a long, long time, and Karril fell silent instantly, taking a cautious step away from the adept. “She can’t possibly be aware of who he is… but I highly doubt that he doesn’t know exactly who she is. I cannot believe that the very Iezu your mother created to replace Calesta found his way to my daughter simply by coincidence.” As the currents shivered around his feet in protest, Gerald lifted his gaze from the flow of power to Karril’s face. He couldn’t actually taste the fear of a faeborn creature, but something dark and hungry in his chest - something that had largely lain dormant for the last decade and a half, but was now stirring awake, stirring and stretching and baring sharp claws - purred in satisfaction nonetheless at the look of naked apprehension on Karril’s face. 

“And when I find out why, I will make that creature regret the day he was made.” 

With that, Gerald turned and swept toward the door. Karril jolted and took a step after him, shock breaking through the dread that had paralyzed him. 

“Wait, Gerald, where are you going?” 

“Downtown,” Gerald bit out, stalking down the hall toward the front door. He heard his friend following, the alarm in the Iezu’s voice only growing with each step. 

“Don’t you think you should wait and talk to Damien? Decide how to approach this? Gerald, I realize why you’re upset and I think it’s completely fair, but you can’t just barge in-” 

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do to protect my daughter, Karril.” 

Gerald swept down the front steps and onto the front lawn before he turned to face the Iezu. Karril looked to be on the verge of panic himself now, one hand half-outstretched as though he could physically hold Gerald back; the adept only stared at him, feeling his own fear and rage being subsumed by the frozen mask of the Hunter. Damien was practically screaming at him through the link, inundating him with the sensations of crushing worry and desperation, but Gerald simply pushed it aside - there wasn’t time to fill his husband in or fetch him from the hospital, Gerald wasn’t about to leave Jenseny in Riven’s hands for one moment longer than he had to. 

“I thank you for your assistance, Karril,” he said, his tone clipped but steady now, all his fear and uncertainty wrapped safely in layers of power and hatred - if asked before today, he would not have been certain that he could still summon this kind of composure, but it felt like donning an old and well-worn cloak. Tonight, moreso than any other time in the years since Calesta’s fall, the Hunter was truly alive. “You’ve done your part well. What happens from here is my own concern.” 

Karril’s eyes widened, and he dropped his hand back to his side, badly shaken. “Gerald - I just don’t want you or Jen to get hurt.” 

“I can assure you, we will not,” the Hunter said coldly. 

The blue-white inferno of coldfire that erupted around him felt like the embrace of an old lover. As he rose into the night sky on black-feathered wings, the Hunter shut out the sound of Karril shouting in protest, shut out the panic bleeding through the link with his husband’s mind, shut out his own dread - shut out everything but the protective wrath that seared through him like ice on bare flesh. 

He had killed an Iezu once before. 

Once he knew exactly why Riven Forrest had targeted his daughter, he would do so again.

[badassbutterfly1987]

Black Sun Rising ch. 15 live read

This is a long chapter with a lot to say so next few chapters will get their own post.

before we get to the fun stuff, the chapter starts with a teen on a magic drug trip. he's having a great time until something attacks his mind/soul? and he's unable to return to his body in a legitimately unsettling scene.

trio arrive in a dae (town?) called Briand to shelter for the night. Damien notes that there are protective sigils on the gates, some of them designed by Ciani who is no longer able to recognize it, which can keep out lesser monsters.

interesting to note that Damien also has an insecurity that he manages well: he is someone that needs to be active and feel needed, an aspect of himself that he's funneled into service of the Church and helping people.

note that he realizes the innkeeper at the place they're staying is upset about something, suspects it's a family matter, and immediately offers to help (you know how characters are sometimes compared to specific animals? he's a sheepdog to me). turns out she's the mother of the teen at the beginning of the chapter who is now in a coma. Damien examines him but can't identify the cause and his Knowing is actively prevented from reading the state of his soul and brain activity.

with how quickly he's gotten attached to Ciani, I really want to know his previous dating history. is this a pattern for him? is he one of those guys that starts contemplating marriage within a half year of dating? oh, he's going to pair delightfully with Tarrant!

Tarrant finally enters the scene and it's wonderful. Damien is quick to describe how attractive he is. "attractive to women", sure Damien, that qualifier definitely makes it less gay.

worldbuilding: most people don't carry guns (which I did not expect to exist in this world) because technology plus fear of failure or in general can either cause it to fail or outright explode. That Tarrant carries an UnWorked pistol (does a vampire really need a pistol?) marks him either as incredibly reckless or an Adept.

Possible favorite moment of the chapter: Damian tries to perform a subtle Knowing on him, is immediately blocked by a Shield, Tarrant notices and Damien realizes he's been noticed, and Tarrant is implied to get a better read on him and is just kinda amused

I can just imagine Tarrant thinking: "oh this is the priest Karril mentioned? this is going to be fun". Love the Vibes here.

Ciani decides to get to know him the old-fashioned way (by straight-forward conversation) and Senzei makes a dumb comment like "women, am I right?" which marks the second time a remark about women inherently being a certain way (in contrast to men) which I'm willing to be lenient on because it was the 90s.

interesting to note that despite Tarrant acknowledging he knew Ciani and wanted to help her, he doesn't acknowledge that her and Ciani doesn't recognize him. Either they hadn't met in person and only knew each other by association/communicated through letters, or Ciani's forgotten him and he's playing coy for now

the group chats but everyone is evasive (especially Tarrant) about what they're doing and why. progress is only made when the topic of the coma teen comes up and Tarrant offers to help.

to speedrun: Tarrant identifies the problem very quickly and Damien is both unsettled and intrigued by everything about him. The boy's mind/soul/sense of self was permanently separated from his body and is functionally dead. Tarrant misleads the mother into thinking it was an overdose from illegal drugs while admitting to the Damian it was something using dark fae, which he confirms is similar to what happened to Ciani though he doesn't specify that to Tarrant. Then Tarrant goes full "eh, he's practically dead anyway, might as well speed along the body's death" which Damien objects to on the grounds he doesn't want to kill an innocent life.

here's the thing: I get what the author is setting up; Damien's firmly set in his moral code while Tarrant has ruthlessly tossed that aside and their dynamic will include that contrast.

but Damian's trained as a healer, he has to know when someone is too far gone to be saved. This is the equivalent of a coma patient without brain activity on life support; instead of Tarrant deciding to take care of things himself, wouldn't it be interesting to have Damien talk to the boy's mother and get permission before doing it, essentially taking the responsibility for it? It would establish him as someone willing to make the difficult choice while still retaining his empathy (which he'll probably develop into but still) and since I skimmed the next couple chapters, I know Damien is going to be second guessing this scene and wondering if Tarrant was manipulating his perception; how much better (or worse for him) if Damien worried he'd been manipulated into killing an innocent that could have been saved?

they part ways after this point because while they're both heading north, Tarrant only travels at night and Damian's a bit too weirded out to bring him into the group.

[badassbutterfly1987]

Black Sun Rising Ch. 6-10 (in which I get more critical)

Chapter 6:

I was a bit confused by this chapter at first since we switch to an entirely new POV of an angry merchant upset about lost cargo

apparently the Weird Trio (my nickname for the things from a previous chapter that looked human but weren't) used the ship carrying his goods to reach the city and sunk the ship and other people on it to cover their tracks i think

the monotone voices and general lack of emotion really make them unsettling

Chapter 7:

we get a flashback/dream from the Patriarch's POV

so his mother had a drug addiction when he was kid, then she was killed and eaten by monsters

obviously a formative memory and probably contributed to his zeal for expanding the Church's influence

Chapter 8:

apparently Damien has a habit of staying awake during true night so he could be aware of any users of dark fae nearby; it's mentioned he was taught this by a mentor, I'm presuming another sorceror or Adept since this isn't the kind of thing the Church likes

he's good at reading the fae currents back in Ganji but they're too volatile in Jaggonath, so he's just chilling in his room for a couple pages then goes to sleep (wait it says it's 3am, is this a witching hour reference? neat)

then Ciani's shop explodes and she's presumed dead, mention that there's specifically blue fire. that color was mentioned last time with the earthquake-resistant wards. the emotional part of this is weakened a bit for me because I know the general plot of the rest of the book

For the most part, I like the rest of this chapter. Damian's understandably rattled, he really liked Ciani and there was the potential for a genuine relationship. We even get a nice moment where the Patriarch has a moment of not being an ass and offers his condolences to Damien, recognizing there was a bond despite his hatred of Adepts and the fae.

However-

Damian has the thought that he might have been falling in love with her. Here's the thing, I think they're fun together, they have a nice flirty dynamic and I could see myself writing ship fics for them. But that was all that was there; there weren't moments where they connected on a more intimate level and Damien doesn't read as having a romantic enough personality to fall this hard this early.

extra note since I didn't think to mention it last post: what kind of Church follower taught to fear and hate demons, would then name their kid Damien? Is it going to be revealed that his parents were Adepts/sorcerers who later converted? it would be a neat reveal; I don't think his parents have been mentioned yet, and it could have influenced with his ease about using fae

Chapter 9:

Weird Trio confirmed to have been hunting Ciani and maybe intended to eat her? didn't intentionally cause explosion. maybe she tried to fight back and triggered the wards in a way that overloaded them?

they apparently have another task to fulfill. how ominous!

Chapter 10:

Ciani is confirmed to be alive and hiding at Senzie's place, surprise surprise. but this is a genuinely sad scene, her attackers ripped out chunks of her memory and all her ability/knowledge as an Adept, something that is an inherent part of her identity

turns out Senzie caused the explosion in an attempt to make the attackers think she was dead and wouldn't attack again. unfortunately, this means that any research or artifacts that could have helped Ciani have been destroyed. Senzie insists he did what was best in the moment, which is fair but the way he says it points to a deeper insecurity. kudos to Damian for knowing how to de-escalate, he's like a warrior-poet but religious (is this just what dnd clerics are? I haven't played)

on a lighter note, we meet Allesha. she was briefly mentioned before as a fellow assistant and someone Senzie seemed to be mildly annoyed with. turns out she's his fiancee which makes that previous thing a little awkward

then we meet Karril, Ciani's demon friend who seems like a pretty chill guy; were he a modern guy, he'd probably wear Hawaiian shirts. what exactly demons are in this verse is a little unclear; the Church calls them demons and Damian treats them as such but other people seem to worship them as gods? Karril's domain is pleasure and he does have Dionysus vibes (also I know there's some fics that ship him and Damian so presumably he shows up again)

I really hope Ciani isn't going to be a traumatized husk for the rest of the book because she was a fun character and this already treads the line of fridging the only notable female lead (Almea dies in the prologue and Allesha is only relevant as Senzei's partner)

apparently Ciani investigated the rakhlands before (far too curious about unknown, similar to Damian), was trapped for a few years in which a rakh fed on her memories/substance as a person, and she barely managed to escape. while Karril wasn't able to get her to fully explain what happened, he did help her forget the experience at her request.

this is like that on a larger scale. the only way to fix it is to hunt down the specific creature that caused it. I might be misreading this part but they seem to be implying it could be a rakh or a more general (but still very dangerous) monster. I guess it's a red herring to the characters/audience to suspect Tarrant and while he is an amoral bastard, his brief POV chapters haven't suggested a motivation to do so (and he did notice new competition in the area, probably the rakh attackers)

Also, just for funzies, this is what I initially marked down for general thoughts that I wanted to make sure I expanded:

Senzei acting sus. defensive because insecure

romance where? barely know each other.

close to fridging. Ciani angry when?

where Tarrant?

[badassbutterfly1987]

Black Sun Rising Ch. 11-14

Chapter 11

Mystery Man (Tarrant) visits Karril's temple where everyone is participating in an orgy including some visiting vampires (who are here mostly for a bite or two) and Tarrant is absolutely uninterested in the festivities (once again I find a character I can nearly immediately headcanon as asexual).

Apparently they have shared history and also both have shared history with Ciani. Which is a bit narratively convenient but I'm willing to give a pass because Ciani's status as lore master means she's willing to learn about/from a wide variety of beings.

Despite the whole eating people thing, emphasis is made that Tarrant has his own sense of honor and keeps to his word. Also he's intrigued when he learns there's a priest helping Ciani which I'm sure is going to lead to delightful interactions.

Chapter 12:

we get some interesting worldbuilding about the rakh. Because early colonists grew to fear them as a rival species, over a few generations they quickly evolved to become exactly that.

some general historical points: a lot of fear led to crusades, there was more fear of the fae/rakhs which made them more powerful (and also created demons?), and the Unified Church was formed in response

group has to go through the Achron River which leads to the Canopy which either leads into or is part of the rakhlands and the Forest is somewhere nearby? not real clear on this part.

a fact I mentioned before about Damien: I really love his ability to de-escalate tension. This is the second time he's done this with Senzei who is notably insecure and anxious, as well as Ciani to a degree. He's written as both a strong confident warrior as well as someone capable of intuiting and connecting to others' emotional states. Let's see if he can maintain that with Tarrant who has dedicated the last 900 years to being awful as possible. Also heard the joke that they have big "I can fix him" energy.

we get a fantastic scene with Ciani where she explains exactly what was taken from her, how she's unable to feel the fae and everything now feels empty and dead. it helps it feel less like a case of fridging meant to motive Damian and Senzei. I do wish she was the one to make the active choice to go after the attacker instead of needing to be encouraged, she really needs a little more agency.

Senzei and Allesha break up. It's a good scene though weakened by the fact that Alesha has been in exactly one scene previously as a worried background character. This could have easily been a reference or flashback to a previous fiancee that rejected Senzei because he prioritized his obsession with the fae.

Chapter 13-14:

Damian has to explain the situation to the Patriarch and awkwardly request permission to abandon his post. His boss explains some Church history and gives him permission along with a flask of solar fae. I don't entirely understand the reasoning but I think the Patriarch expects him to use the flask to destroy the Forest (that an army failed to do)?

trio begins journey. Because there aren't any nearby Adepts they can trust, Senzei sends out a message through the Currents to see if a friendly rakh responds and one does. Is this the cat-lady I've heard about?

[first-and-last-neocount]

How about a nice easy one and 1 for the ask game? :)

Ahaha, yeah, that is an easier one! XD

So definitely my favourite character to write for is Gerald, because my actual gender is Angsty Villainous Prettyboy and Gerald Tarrant is both largely responsible for that and also the best outlet for it. Veeeery close second is Damien, as evidenced by the massive pile of fics that I've written from his POV, which is largely because Damien and I have something significant in common and that is being obsessed with Gerald; this makes Damien both fun and easy to write, whereas writing Gerald is sometimes a little too real to make it really comfortable.

You know what's really funny, though? The easiest character for me to write, as far as Coldfire goes, isn't Gerald or Damien.

It's Karril.

I'm self-aware enough to know that I use humor as a defence and coping mechanism. Insecurity, anxiety, depression - you name the negative emotion, and I've slapped a joke on top of it before. I have also dealt with a whole lot of shit in my life by clinging to whatever little comforts and pleasures I could find, regardless of how small they might seem in the face of everything else that was going on. For me, that's Karril in a nutshell. He seems carefree and irreverent and unfettered, but that's just on the outside, and there's a lot going on under the surface if you manage to peel back the sixteen layers of double entendres he's got stacked on there. Am I projecting wildly? Probably. But nothing has ever flowed quite so smoothly for me as Karril's dialogue and scenes in the fics I've written him into. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[first-and-last-neocount]

You’re the Words That I Promise I Don’t Mean

Chapter one of two in the sequel to ‘Be Good To Me, I Beg Of Him’ is up! 

AO3 link: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38011297/chapters/94937920

So, uh, the writing gods returned my prayer unopened - only got one WIP actually finished this weekend. Progress has been made on the others, but this was the only one that shaped up enough to post, and... yes, it’s the one I accidentally spilled all the angst on. Whoops. 

I think I might have accidentally tricked you guys into thinking I normally write fluff, but what actually happened is that I got it all out of my system for a while during Whumptober and then wrote a bunch of fluff as the follow-up. It’s been a few months. The angst machine is back in business. 

The exchange I had with my beta right before she started reading over it was as follows. 

Me: First off, let me apologize in advance. 

My beta: Why, is it weird porn? 

Me: No, it’s angst. 

My beta: Ah, fuck. 

My beta, half an hour later: WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO THIS, WHAT IS THIS. WHY. 

[first-and-last-neocount]

Ask game:

N, P, & Y

Ah, thank you Potato :P

N: Is there a fic you wish someone else would write (or finish) for you?

Hmm, I wouldn't say that I have any really strong thoughts on this, since I've always tended toward the mindset of "if you want it, write it yourself" even before getting into fandom, so I don't have anything super specific. In very general terms, I'd be over the moon if more people got into Karril/Damien enough to write for that ship, even if it was just little drabbles. What can I say, I've really done myself in with this little rarepair that is now near and dear to my heart. :'D

P: Are you what George R. R. Martin would call an "architect" or a "gardener"? (How much do you plan in advance, versus letting the story unfold as you go?)

GARDENER. I go into most of my stories with more 'vibe' than 'plan', and even when I give the broad strokes of an outline, it's all subject to change as I go. Even in my original work, I tend to use an outline format I call "melody plotting" - I'll map out the big notes the story needs to hit, the pivotal character developments and the hooks for future storylines, and a couple of dramatic 'set pieces'. All the rest, the little ornamentation and flavour? All added in the process. The bulk of my worldbuilding bible for original works will grow alongside the story, with elements that come to me organically during writing getting put into the bible once I've checked them against existing material - and if I like the new idea enough, I'll throw out the old stuff that contradicted it. It sometimes means more work for myself if I decide to change a significant element mid-work, but it's worth it, because it's by far the most fun and natural way for me to work. It's also why my estimated word count/chapter count/series length will change often and rapidly, because it's very easy for me to get swept away with fleshing out a particular section that was only a footnote in the outline, which is what exactly happened with "And Its Dizzying Heights". I got so caught up in the dinner scene that it ended up filling out the whole fic, with the after-dinner scene getting pushed off to the next fic.

Y: A character you want to protect.

I mean, that's a fair thing to ask, since it's very obvious which characters I want to hurt. XD This is actually very well timed, because the first character that comes to mind is Raistlin Majere. He's one of my very oldest blorbos, and the fact that I imprinted on him before getting most of my own trauma means that rather than cathartically projecting worse versions of my own issues onto him as I tend to do with Gerald, I would prefer to just bundle Raistlin up in bubble wrap and make sure nothing bad happens to him ever. Which is... a tall order, given all of canon, but is also why every fic idea I've ever had for Dragonlance diverges from canon in either Soulforge era, Brothers Majere era, or early Dragons of Autumn Twilight at the very latest - I applaud every author who wants to tackle the absolute nightmare that is Raistlin's life post-Spring Dawning, but I prefer to keep my slightly-less-bitter-and-jaded Red Robe from going off the deep end in the first place. (I'm also far more in love with Raistlin's characterization as a Red Robe who prioritizes the magic above all else than after he decides godhood is the answer to all his problems. I love a maniacal villain as much as the next shipper, but that strange limbo between resentment and compassion that Raistlin spent most of his early life tenuously balanced in just resonates on a different level for me.)

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Be Good To Me, I Beg Of Him

The much-anticipated Karril/Damien fic is here, folks! 

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36017968

Yes, I put this in a series on purpose; yes, there’s going to be at least one sequel. My brain is so rotted with these characters that I simply cannot pare down any storyline into only one fic, apparently, lol. The next installment will probably be some tasty angst and plot development, since this one is pretty much just very emotional porn. It was actually kind of funny, normally I’m thinking “okay, is this smut scene long enough or should I stretch it out some more?” and this time it was just “guys, if you could stop fucking for five minutes, I’d love to be able to actually post this!” XD

@theobscurepotato is a shameless enabler and kept me plugging away on this fic with many encouragements, exclamation points, and excited emojis. Thanks for the cheerleading, Potato, you’ve helped bring another fic into this world. LOL

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Fic Teaser

Okay, so here’s the deal. I’ve been working on this fic for a while (pretty much since Whumptober ended, though intermittently) and it’s nearing completion. However, it has grown wildly beyond my estimation and every time I get to where I thought it was going to finish, it just gets longer. Also I’m now planning a sequel. 

Writer problems. 

However, since this is very definitely payback for @theobscurepotato writing this lovely thing, I decided to truly pay them back in kind by posting a teaser for my fic just as they did for theirs. 

The rest of the fic should (famous last words) be finished soon. I haven’t been very active on Tumblr for the last week or so, and my crossposting progress has slowed, largely because I started a new position at my work - a wonderful promotion that I’m thoroughly enjoying, but which has also put a lot of new information in my head which is diverting me from fandom things. Never fear, though, as soon as my brain wrangles this new infodump I shall resume my usual hyperfixations. <3

In the meantime, enjoy this snippet of the good things to come. 

Damien seriously wished, in that moment, that the ground could have opened and swallowed him - anything, to get him out of that hallway and away from Karril before the Iezu could potentially pick up on the incredibly inappropriate flicker of attraction he had just felt.

Yes, Karril was a fascinating creature, a contradiction of nearly everything Damien had always believed about the faeborn. Yes, his customary form had grown on Damien over the time they’d been associating with each other; even though the Knight didn’t usually notice other men in that way, over time he’d come to appreciate the Iezu’s solid build, his vividly red hair and beard, his ready grin and his sparkling brown eyes. Yes, Karril had proved himself to be a far more staunch ally than Damien would have believed a demon capable of. 

That didn’t change the fact that Karril was a demon, or that he had set himself up as a petty god in direct opposition to everything the Church had ever worked for, or that his help against Calesta could prove invaluable and Damien could not under any circumstances risk jeopardizing their alliance. 

Maybe Damien was stressed, and horny, and almost frantic with sudden need for an outlet for the pent-up desperation he’d been carrying for too long. That was no excuse for doing something unforgivably stupid. 

Forcibly pushing away his unruly thoughts, Damien managed to reply in a controlled, if somewhat snappish tone. “I’m not exactly in a revelling mood right now, Karril.” 

“Ah, but everyone here is more than happy to help with that!” Karril exclaimed, seeming as amused as ever by Damien’s recalcitrance even as he gestured expansively to their surroundings. Damien gritted his teeth, feeling that rapidly oncoming headache throb warningly even as he tried to breathe through his swelling irritation. 

“Not interested, thanks anyways. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t just let it go at that, Reverend,” Karril said, a wicked glitter of mischief dancing in his eyes. “You know, I can feel the emotions of everyone in my Temple; it’s really cramping my style, having a little rain cloud of misery drifting around like this. No one in my domain should be that discontented, it’s just not done!” 

“Well, pardon me if I don’t exactly find this - obscenity appealing!” Damien snarled, his temper flaring despite his best efforts the longer their exchange went on. The anger was only going to make his burgeoning headache worse, but even though he knew Karril was just toying with him, he was too wound up to keep himself from reacting. Most times he even sort of enjoyed the verbal banter that the Iezu liked to draw him into, but right now Damien was just too raw, and whether knowingly or not Karril was prodding right at his sore points. 

“Ah, I’m so sorry that nothing here is pleasing to you,” the Iezu purred, his voice saccharine sweet. “Maybe this is more to your tastes?”

Damien barely had time to feel a flicker of dread for whatever ghost of his past was about to be conjured up, before the Iezu did something so much worse. The demon’s usual male form shimmered and dissolved into a slender feminine silhouette, but the features - 

Wavy blonde hair spilling over cream-pale shoulders, delicate yet chiseled features, big grey eyes that glimmered like quicksilver in the torchlight and that damned smirk - 

Damien did his best to hold back the reaction, but he couldn’t stop the rattling wheeze that clawed free of his throat, sounding like he’d been physically punched in the solar plexus. Karril burst out laughing, the high clear ring of mirth dropping into a deep chuckle as he transformed from the female doppelganger of the Hunter back into his usual stocky, red-haired appearance. He seemed oblivious to the true level of turmoil that he had inspired in Damien as he continued laughing, his dark eyes shining with amusement. “Oh, you should have seen your face, priest! Did I still miss the mark?”

The sheer glee on Karril’s face was so human that it seemed impossible to reconcile with his true nature, bright and shining and wickedly mischievous. Every inch of his expression was just daring Damien to react, and the Knight’s self-control was already hanging by a thread when the Iezu added one final taunt. 

“I can start insulting you and ordering you around if that’s what was missing-”

Damien broke. 

He closed the two strides between them in a flash, reaching out to grab the collar of Karril’s robes and drag him in. The Iezu was solid under his touch, and Damien was jarred by the realization - even though his other hand was clenched into a fist, his blood still simmering with frustration and defensive fury, he hadn’t actually expected to find a target that he could hit. His momentum faltered at the shock of feeling rich velvet, warm from the body heat that the Iezu shouldn’t have had, and the solid weight of the demon’s body as he let Damien yank him in close; Damien’s startled gaze flicked up to Karril’s, and what little sense Damien had left fled as he met the demon’s gaze up close. Karril’s eyes were the deep brown of an oak trunk in a shaded forest, the richness of loam soil in the spring, warm and alive and everything that a faeborn creature shouldn’t be - and before Damien could stop himself or recover even a fraction of his senses, he had leaned forward those last precious inches and pressed his lips against Karril’s in a fierce, frantic kiss. 

It was madness. He couldn’t even have said, in that moment, what had pushed him over the edge from speculation into action - other than that he felt half-crazed with his desperate need to do something, and he’d been fascinated with Karril for a while in a way that he didn’t know how to define or approach, and he’d been stressed and overwhelmed and isolated for too long now. He knew that, with his sensitivity to human emotions, Karril could probably feel the wild cocktail of emotions that were pouring through Damien now - could probably tell, easily, that the kiss had been born more of desperation than sincerity. 

With that in mind, Damien was fully prepared for Karril to push him away. 

He was not prepared for the Iezu to grab a handful of Damien’s chestnut curls, pull him in with an arm around the Knight’s waist, and kiss him back just as enthusiastically.

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Second Teaser

Apparently I had asks turned off somehow, because I’m a silly goose, but @theobscurepotato sent me ‘damn’ for “Send me a word and I’ll post a sentence from my WIP that contains that word”. Excellent choice, Potato, you are correct; I do indeed have a good line with Damien saying that. Love our priest’s predictable cursing, lol. 

Have more than a sentence, because I feel bad how long this is taking to finish writing and post. XD

“You love him too, don’t you?”

For a moment, there was silence. Before any concern could work its way through the blissful cloudiness of Damien’s mind, though, Karril’s arm tightened a little around his waist and the Iezu sighed deeply. 

“For centuries now. He knows, I’m sure, but we’ve never directly spoken of it. The compact, you see.” 

A pang of sympathetic pain went through Damien’s heart, sharp and sudden. Even though he hadn’t meant to start this particular conversation, he couldn’t leave Karril’s forthrightness unmet, and found himself murmuring his own honesty in return. “I don’t know what I would do if the compact wasn’t in the way. I can’t even decide if I want him to know how I feel.” With the lingering echoes of pleasure still tingling through his body and his mind cushioned by a haze of endorphins, it was strangely easy to confess what had been weighing on his heart for weeks now, the dark and shameful yearning he hadn’t yet dared speak of to anyone else - had barely even admitted to himself. “I think maybe we could be amazing together… or maybe we’d destroy each other. I care about him, and now I know I want him too, but even with this damn bond between us there’s still so much we don’t know about each other. I have no idea what would happen if I tried to cross that line.”

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Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Karril/Damien Vryce, Gerald Tarrant/Damien Vryce Characters: Gerald Tarrant (Coldfire Trilogy), Damien Vryce, Karril (Coldfire Trilogy) Additional Tags: Heavy Angst, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Gerald being a self-sacrificing idiot, Damien is Not Happy, frankly no one is very happy in this one, i promise this series will have a happy ending, but this fic is a doozy, Emotional Baggage, Self-Esteem Issues, Gerald is a hot mess, Hurt/Comfort, but don't expect the comfort until the second chapter, Karril/Gerald still only implied here Series: Part 2 of Welcome To My Table, Bring Your Hunger Summary: Gerald figures out what's been going on between Damien and Karril at the worst possible moment, and in the aftermath of their unexpected victory against Calesta, he struggles to come to terms with his own feelings for Damien. The conclusion he comes to doesn't sit very well with Damien, but the Knight has already been through Hell and back; he's not going to let this be the thing that breaks them.

Hey guys, update time! :D 

My new job is incredible, and my mental health has taken a dramatic upswing since starting there! I’ve been very busy the past two weeks learning the ropes and settling into the new routine, but I can definitely feel the creative juices flowing, and this is one of a whole handful of new chapters and fics that I’ve got in the works. Enjoy, and stay tuned for more updates soon!

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Sometimes a family is an absolutely exhausted priest, a literal catwoman who can and will kick your ass, a traumatized little girl with phenomenal cosmic powers, and a nine-hundred-year-old serial killer. 

(And, maybe, the flamboyant uncle who pretends not to care, cares a hell of a lot, and is an actual demon and also a god)

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Whumptober Day 20

Directly following on from yesterday's, we have more Escape!AU; today we're swapping over to Gerald's POV to check in on how he's feeling about this whole situation. Surprise surprise, it's not just Damien possibly being straight that's been troubling him, so it's time to unveil more Tragic Backstory!

Speaking of that wiki I just made – I think it was at the start of the series that Damien's age is given as thirty four. I'm guessing at the duration of their quest, but if you take into account the time they spent in transit across the Novatlantic, it had to have been at least two years total, possibly three? 

Also Caleb Hyles just released a new collab and it's a cover of Hallelujah, I definitely didn't listen to it sixty times writing this but maybe go have a quick listen to set the mood anyway okay thanks. (〃´∀｀)

Day 20 - Theme Chosen: Trunk

The only sound in the cave where they had sought refuge for the day was Damien's soft, steady breathing and the quiet ripple of the earth fae. They were far enough from the entrance that Gerald couldn't even hear the solar fae, and it was soothing, peaceful. It should have been easy to rest.

Instead, he was awake, sitting propped against the cave wall with his arms draped around his drawn-up knees and watching his companion. Damien looked younger asleep, the lines of stress and premature loss smoothing away and leaving his features softer, more vulnerable; they had been through so much together, now, that Gerald sometimes forgot that Damien was only thirty seven. A respectable level of maturity, for a mortal human – but only the blink of an eye, compared to the nine centuries that Gerald had walked the world. Tucked into his bedroll and fast asleep, the former priest looked like a completely different person than the fierce, deadly warrior who had killed almost an entire pack of deadly predators two nights before.

It was that night that currently haunted Gerald's thoughts. Not just the immediate aftermath of battle, though that had certainly been seared into his brain forever – Damien breathless from exertion, his torn shirt parting to reveal his muscular torso, his eyes bright with battle-fire – but the moments afterwards, as Damien had tended to Gerald's wounded arm. In his weakened state, lightheaded with blood loss and distracted by sharp-edged longing, Gerald hadn't noticed how low his guard had slipped... until he'd felt something entirely unexpected through the bond.

It was just an impression, the briefest glimpse before Gerald hastily pulled back from the link, but he could have sworn that in that moment he had felt an answering warmth from Damien. A flicker of returned interest, as if the former Knight hadn't just noticed Gerald's wandering thoughts, but actually welcomed and perhaps even echoed them.

It was that brief moment that had left Gerald in this state of paralyzed indecision, because it was so far outside the realm of what he had planned for. He'd been attracted to Damien since they met; walking into that dae in Bree and laying eyes on the priest for the first time, he had bitten back a bitter laugh as he understood why Karril had tried so hard to warn him away from getting involved with the Knight and his group, realizing in that moment that the Reverend Damien Vryce checked nearly every box of what he found attractive in a man. Gerald's tastes might run to delicate and vulnerable with women, but his preferences in men ran directly counter, and Karril knew him well enough to know how dangerously appealing he would find Damien. Gerald had better control of himself than to ever let that slip, though, and he'd been carrying that buried attraction with him ever since. It ached sometimes, but it was manageable, though the pain grew sharper as Gerald's interest shifted from the purely physical to the emotional as well. He knew Damien was straight, it practically radiated off the man, and he wasn't interested in getting rejected any more times in his life.

The pain had eased after their confrontation with Andrys in the Forest. Watching his descendant crumple to the floor had bordered on a religious experience for Gerald, as he realized that one of his deepest desires had just come true; Damien was his. Attraction aside, Damien clearly loved him – the former Knight's loyalty to Gerald was strong enough that he had acted to save the Hunter's life, even though doing so meant betraying the Church and his faith to such a degree that it could never be taken back. That kind of devotion would never falter, and with that knowledge settling into his soul, Gerald couldn't be disappointed that he'd never have Damien quite the way he'd wanted; the lifelong partnership they were now embarking on was infinitely better than a brief fling that Damien would inevitably resent and leave him after, if Gerald could even have talked him into it in the first place.

That didn't stop Gerald from dreaming about expressing his gratitude to Damien in a more intimate fashion, but the transition from those dreams to the waking world felt less hopeless now, more of a melancholy ache than the sharp stab of loss it used to be. He'd gotten comfortable in that state of almost-fulfillment, resigned but content with what he had – and now, that had all been upended, and the questions he was asking himself felt more dangerous by the minute.

Could he really have missed such an attraction developing on Damien's part? If not, this was a fledgling attraction, one that might fade all too soon – and if he had, if this was something that had been brewing for some time and Damien actually intended to act on it, what would that do to the dynamic they had so carefully built between themselves? What if the relationship turned out not to be what Damien had imagined, wasn't enough for him?

What if Gerald wasn't enough for him?

Gerald was still absolutely, completely certain that Damien had never been romantically involved with another man before. Some might find that flattering, to be someone's only exception; not Gerald. He had been someone's only exception before, and had fallen into that exact trap, believing that the very fact that his lover had gone outside his comfort zone to be with Gerald was a proof of how strong and enduring their relationship was.

If this situation ended the way that one had, it would quite literally be the death of Gerald. He was too invested, now, had allowed Damien too deeply into his once zealously-guarded heart; if Damien turned on him, after everything, he wouldn't even be able to raise a hand against the former Knight to defend himself.

Gerald had been forced to leave nearly all his worldly possessions behind when they fled the Keep; they hadn't been able to carry much, and the books and scrolls he had collected on the nature of the faeborn took precedence. There wasn't much of what he left behind that couldn't be replaced, but there was one thing he bitterly regretted losing; a heavy trunk, black leather chased with gold, that had been kept in a Warded room in his private chambers in the Keep. Inside that trunk were the only mementos that Gerald had let himself keep from his life before his Sacrifice. Most were items that reminded him of the family he'd lost, and the ones he'd betrayed for his immortality; his mother's old silver hairbrush, a golden comb in the shape of a lily that Almea had loved, the pink silk ribbons he'd braided so many times into Alix's hair, the battered journal in which Tory had scribbled out his 'discoveries' exploring every corner of Merentha Keep. Only one item locked away in that trunk had once belonged to a betrayer, rather than the betrayed.

Even young and foolish and full of reckless dreams about how they were going to change the world, Gerald and Gannon had both known that they would have to marry someday; that Revivalist custom would demand that they take wives, to produce children and carry on their lines. There was still the hope that they would be able to marry for love – a dream that had come true for Gerald when he met Almea, but not for Gannon, whose unhappy entanglement with his wife Catara was the stuff of popular legend even now – but there was never a chance that they'd be able to stay true only to each other. They had both sworn that they wouldn't let that come between them, that their eventual wives would have to accept that they would still have each other; to seal that promise, Gannon had given Gerald a golden locket in the shape of a badger's head, the crest of Gannon's family line. Inside was a small piece of parchment, on which Gannon had written the opening lines of a song that he had sung to Gerald many times, that symbolized their shared discontent with the world and their dream of a brighter future: Tell me about hope, Tell me of nobility. It was their promise made tangible; a reminder that Gerald could hold, when the realities of politics and war had dragged them miles apart, and know that what they shared was real.

That the Prophet had been condemned for being an adept, and excommunicated from his own Church, was still widely known. There were some facts, however, that history had forgotten. One of them was this: the idea that an adept serving the Church was an impossible contradiction had not originated with Patriarch Annias I, who had actually issued the decree of excommunication. Instead, the growing resentment that culminated in the rejection of their own Prophet had been sparked by a letter that Annias had received, a letter that implied that as both General of the armies and Prophet of the Church, the Neocount of Merentha held far too much power. A letter which heavily implied that such a man was dangerous indeed, and that steps should no doubt be taken to limit his influence over the people, lest he make a bid for the throne himself.

A letter penned by the King himself, Gannon Adalric, High Monarch of the United Human Lands and first of his name.

Gerald had never really managed to understand why Gannon had done it. Their relationship had never been entirely healthy, something he hadn't realized until the combined forces of increasing maturity and Almea's gentle concern had shifted his perspective – they'd met and fallen in love when Gannon was still a Duke's son who dreamed of rising above even his father's station, and Gerald was the runaway youngest son of a widely-despised Baron with barely a penny to his name. Gerald had been so desperate for love and support that even Gannon's somewhat selfish and manipulative affections had seemed like salvation, and as an adult Gerald could see that the relationship had never been one of equals, Gannon always taking more than he had given – but he hadn't cared. That bond had been too strong for him to even consider pulling away, and Almea had never tried to convince him to do so, probably sensing that her husband was not prepared to listen to any argument against his first love.

Their relationship had grown steadily more toxic over the years, though, Gannon demanding more and more and offering ever less in return; Gerald hadn't been ignorant of the rumours swirling through the court about the King's infidelity, many of the nobles swearing up and down that their monarch had betrayed his long-suffering wife with no less than a dozen other women, but he'd turned a deliberately deaf ear. Gannon had promised him, as Gerald had sworn in return, that there would only ever be their wives and each other; Gerald utterly refused to believe that Gannon had not only broken that vow, but done so in such a blatant and careless manner that it was the talk of the court. He was certain that it was only baseless rumour, started by the King's political enemies, even as Gannon withdrew from him more and more and the King's policies and manner grew increasingly paranoid. The idealistic young man who had claimed the throne by right of conquest was long gone, replaced by a jealous and jaded monarch who was prepared to hang onto power at any cost, but Gerald hadn't seen that until it was far too late.

It was the incontrovertible proof of Gannon's betrayal that had nearly killed him. When word of his excommunication had come, Gerald had been furious and devastated, betrayed to his core – and he had sought comfort from the one person he believed might understand. Gannon had chosen Jaggonath as his seat of government when he took the throne, and it was too long a distance from there to Merentha to make the trip without more pressing need, so even though he'd ached for the warmth of actually holding his lover in his arms Gerald had instead written a letter. He'd sent it off with a messenger bound for Jaggonath just before the winter snows descended, clinging to some kind of emotional equilibrium by the strength of his hope that maybe, somehow, Gannon could help him regain some kind of control over his wayward creation.

The letter that returned to him in the spring had literally broken his heart.

Written as coldly and formally as anything intended for a rival state, Gannon's letter had informed him tersely that the King fully supported the Patriarch's decision – that the Neocounty of Merentha had accrued too much power in matters both religious and secular, and that its Neocount would do well to remember his station. He had declared that with the war for unification now concluded, he would be revoking Gerald's title as General of the Royal Armies, and added – with a bitter mistrust that Gerald could See etched into the parchment – that when the King's counsellors gathered that summer for the annual council on the state of the realm, Merentha's presence would not be required.

The doctors told him that it would only have been a matter of time, that his damaged heart would have shown itself before too long regardless, but the fact remained that it was the shock and anguish of reading that letter that had triggered his heart attack. In the aftermath, Gerald burned the letter without letting Almea ever discover its existence; he couldn't burden her with his pain at Gannon's betrayal, not after watching her growing sorrow over the years at how Gannon treated her husband, her quiet suffering as she held herself back from criticizing the relationship she'd condoned before she and Gerald were wed. That secret, and the silence it created, had carved the first beginnings of a divide between her and Gerald as well, though – a divide that Gerald never quite managed to bridge, before his desperation had driven him to the horrific extremes of his Sacrifice.

There had been times, over the years, when Gerald had sensed a certain resentment from Gannon over the nature of their relationship – a quiet certainty, bred from his adept's insight, that Gannon blamed Gerald for his attraction to men. Old Terran prejudices had still carried more weight, then, and Gannon had been raised in a family that still considered homosexuality a sin; sometimes, Gerald had almost felt that Gannon viewed him as a corruptive influence, a seducer and saboteur rather than a lover. Even before making his Sacrifice and entering the compact that would bar him from making a romantic connection for the next nine hundred years, Gerald had sworn to himself that he would never make that mistake again; that he would never let himself grow so attached to someone who denied their own nature, who would allow their own self-doubt and resentment to spill over and wound him in the process.

He wanted to believe that Damien would never do that; he desperately wanted to convince himself that there was no such risk here, that his Knight would never betray him or hurt him like that.

But how could he possibly be sure?

There had been so many painful memories left behind in that trunk, enough betrayal and heartache for any number of lifetimes. Gerald refused to let himself accumulate any more; yet, taking the safe route might mean not only turning away from something he had wanted desperately for years now, but in the worst case, perhaps even breaking Damien's heart in the process. That thought was perhaps even more unendurable than the thought of being betrayed himself, yet again.

There would be no sleep for him today. Gerald closed his eyes and rested his throbbing head against his knees, his heart aching in his chest, his mind swirling with a thousand questions and fears and possible scenarios playing out in vivid colour.

The next move would have to be Damien's, because despite his fearsome reputation, Gerald was quite simply too terrified to decide.

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Whumptober Day 13

Third and - most probably - final part of the Hanahaki fics. As soon as I realized I was writing more than one of these, I started thinking about where I wanted to take the story, and this is where I ended up. I cackled out loud at your tags on Day 11, @peregrinealpha, because that was exactly what I wanted you to be wondering.

Day 13 - Theme Chosen: Cauterization

They were halfway to Shaitan when Gerald found out.

Damien had hidden his condition as long as he feasibly could. He had muffled the coughing as much as possible when Gerald was in earshot; he made sure that he coughed up enough of the flowers each day, during the hours when the Hunter was resting, that he didn't need to do so during the night. Despite clearly being aware that Damien was still struggling, Gerald hadn't asked again – presumably his focus was on trying to figure out how they were supposed to go about killing an Iezu, and Damien was intensely grateful that he hadn't pursued the matter.

The Knight had also been worried about what story he'd have to tell the Patriarch, wondering if the man would believe the same lie he'd told Gerald about persistent pneumonia, but in the end no lie was necessary – in his bitterness and anger, Jaxom hadn't even seemed to notice Damien's cough. Even Karril hadn't seem to catch on that anything was seriously wrong, although Damien couldn't really blame him for that; he doubted that the self-styled God of Pleasure had ever had much cause to pay attention to human illnesses, or know which ones were deadly or not. After having pulled Gerald directly out of the Unnamed's grasp, even Damien found himself distracted – the awareness of his own imminent mortality faded a little, under the new pressures of the Unnamed's fury and the new deadline that loomed over their quest.

After their desperate escape from Satin, though, Damien's time ran out.

He'd felt the flowers bloom again, swift and terrifying, the moment that Gerald had refused to leave him to face the mob in Satin alone. He'd fought the choking sensation with all his might, though, knowing that there was no safe way for him to deal with it then – they had precious little time to form an escape plan as it was. Afterwards, there was the boat, and the storm to contend with; between the fight to keep the boat right side up in the tempest, and the exhaustion that had plunged him into a deep sleep immediately thereafter, he hadn't even felt much of the urge to cough.

Once he and Gerald made landfall on the far side of the river, though, that changed.

The horses Healed and as many of their supplies salvaged as possible, Damien mustered what was left of his strength and turned to Gerald with a wry grin.

“Well, that could have gone w-”

The first burst of coughing overtook him without warning, so violent that he staggered, doubling over as his chest contracted agonizingly. He pressed a hand over his mouth, trying futilely to muffle the force of the fit, heart racing from the both the physical exertion and the panic that suddenly spiked through his blood. This couldn't be happening, not now – but it was, and there was nothing Damien could do to stop it.

He caught a glimpse of the alarm on Gerald's face before the fit drove him to his knees, deep, wracking coughs tearing through his chest and shaking his whole body. He heard the adept step closer, heard him start to speak.

“Vryce, what in the-”

A bloom broke loose, and Damien choked as it lodged in his throat. He was helpless to hold it back, his body spasming involuntarily; a violent retch doubled him over, and a black rose nearly the breadth of a tea saucer tumbled from his mouth to land with a soft, wet splat on the rocky riverbank.

Gerald's gasp was clearly audible, but Damien couldn't make himself stop coughing long enough to look up at him. The fit that had seized him was unusually brutal, even at this stage of the disease, and Damien was forced to brace both hands on the ground as his body convulsed. A second blossom, then a third, forced their way up his throat; as the thorns lashed inside his lungs, a searing pain spread through his chest, and the coughs began to bring up spurts of blood that spattered over the damp stones. Finally, a fourth and final bloom dropped wetly to the ground, and Damien felt his airway clear enough to breathe.

Gasping and trembling like a newborn foal, Damien pushed himself up and settled his weight onto his folded legs, his whole body aching and his throat searing with pain. Icy resignation settled into his heart as he saw the bloody flowers strewn across the ground in front of him, then he forced himself to look up at the Hunter.

Gerald was ghastly pale even by his inhuman standards, his grey eyes locked on the black roses, his expression a frozen mask of shock and dismay. Damien waited in silence, feeling strangely detached, until the adept finally dragged his gaze up to meet the Knight's.

The sheer horror in Gerald's eyes made Damien's stomach turn, not knowing if it was in response to the flowers themselves or to what they signified.

“Why didn't you tell me?” the adept said, his voice hardly louder than the night breeze that sighed around them.

Damien had to swallow several times before he could even form words, his voice rasping agonizingly in his throat – the taste of blood was still thick in his mouth, and he knew distantly that the wounds were far worse this time, that the inside of his trachea had been brutally shredded by the violence of that fit. His time was running out in earnest now – a few more rounds of that, and he would start bleeding out into his own lungs.

“Why? For all I knew, you'd have rejected me instantly, and I had no particular urge to die sooner. Even if you didn't...” Damien had to look away, unable to hold that silver gaze that pierced through him like a knife. “I didn't want your pity.”

Gerald made a faint, choked sound, then whispered, “How long?”

Damien could have stalled, could have pretended to think Gerald was asking how long he'd been sick, but there was a bone-deep exhaustion spreading through him; now that the secret was out, he couldn't muster the energy to dissemble anymore. “Given what just happened, I'd say a week, at most,” he said heavily, staring out over the icy waters of the Serpent with unfocused eyes. “It's getting worse rapidly now... and I think your grand gesture back in Satin might have pushed me over the edge.”

Utter silence. Damien shut his eyes, sighing, a cold finality settling over him. “I guess you'll have to finish this alone, after a-”

Slender fingers tangled in his hair and wrenched his head back; Damien's eyes flew open, and he stared up in shock to see the Hunter glaring down at him, grey eyes absolutely blazing and his face set in an expression of icy rage.

“Absolutely not.”

Damien's mouth dropped open, but he couldn't find the words to shape the questions suddenly churning in his mind; he just stared as the Hunter let go of him and sank gracefully to his knees in front of Damien. There was a look of such fierce, furious determination on his face that Damien might have recoiled if Gerald hadn't reached and out gripped his upper arms, holding him in place with far more strength than his lean frame would suggest.

“I didn't drag you this far just to watch you die, Vryce,” he bit out. “You're going to let me fix this, and then we're going on, and so help me God, you are not going to die from this!”

Damien could only stare, mind spinning, shaken to the core by the venom in the Hunter's voice. Finally, he managed to string together enough words to say, “I appreciate the thought, Gerald, but you can't just cure Hanahaki Disease.”

One of Gerald's fair eyebrows winged up, in the most open expression of defiance Damien had ever seen on the man.

“Can't I?”

He let go of Damien's right arm, only to press his palm flat to the Knight's chest, over his thundering heart. His grey eyes searched Damien's hazel ones intently. “Don't fight this. It's going to hurt, I won't lie, but it's the only way I can buy you more time.”

Damien was still drawing a breath, to ask what exactly Gerald was planning on doing, when the coldfire ignited inside his lungs.

The world went white with pain; on some level, Damien was aware that he was screaming, but his own cries were distant and muted by the sheer white noise of pain filling his mind. The freezing cold lanced through his flesh like steel blades, piercing his ribcage with needles of agony; he could feel the hungry flames curling inside his lungs, licking at his bloodied flesh with almost sentient hunger, devouring his living warmth -

And devouring, likewise, the flowers that had bloomed there.

Coldfire didn't burn fuel as cleanly as true fire, but it still consumed nonetheless. The vitality ebbed away from the rose briars that filled Damien's chest, the flowers withering as the unnatural flames stole their strength; the searing power burned Damien's flesh, crystallizing blood and muscle alike, flaring agony through every inch of his lungs but cauterizing the soft tissue from which the roses had first sprouted. For a moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity, Damien was certain that this would kill him, and a small part of him was pathetically grateful that at least it would be quick. At least he wouldn't have to live out that final week, feeling the roses eat him alive, feeling his will to live gradually succumbing to the growing lassitude of fatal consumption -

Then it stopped.

Damien gasped, and his head spun at the sheer volume of clean, fresh air that he was able to pull into his lungs. The obstruction in his airways was gone – there was no prickle of thorns, no brush of petals. He opened his eyes and stared at Gerald, who simply looked back at him, eyes glittering and mouth set in a hard, motionless line. Damien shivered, feeling flayed open by that piercing gaze as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened.

The Hunter had burned the flowers out. The scouring of his lungs might have been thorough enough to get rid of them entirely, but even if they grew back, they would do so slowly – it would take a long time for them to regrow as thick and wild as they had been. The question weighing on Damien's spinning mind, though, was why? It had taken a massive expenditure of power to do what Gerald had just done. They weren't that far from Shaitan, and Damien was by far the less powerful of the two of them. Gerald could have continued alone, and likely been fine.

Just like he could have shifted shape and escaped the mob in Satin...

Damien's heart stuttered in his chest.

The compact.

Gerald was already on terrifyingly thin ice with the Unnamed – he couldn't do anything to draw their further ire without risking death, and the horrific fate that awaited him in Hell. Damien had never gotten the full list of things that were forbidden to the Hunter, but the pattern was clear; anything compassionate, anything benevolent, anything that would put good instead of evil into the world was a terrible risk. Even trying to warn Toshida of what Calesta intended was enough to draw their ire, despite the element of self-preservation that entailed. If even that gesture had been dangerous...

Then surely, even contemplating an admission of affection for a priest who followed the One God would be infinitely more perilous.

It still seemed too far beyond the realm of possibility to consider that Gerald might feel as strongly for Damien as he did for Gerald, but perhaps his situation wasn't entirely hopeless after all. Damien couldn't ask, though. To even hint at what had just happened would be to risk the very consequences that had kept the Hunter silent in the first place – so Damien swallowed back everything that he wanted to say, all his thanks and all the unwilling devotion that had spawned those damn flowers in the first place, and contented himself with holding Gerald's gaze as he spoke quietly.

“Alright. We finish this together, then.”

Gerald exhaled softly, the rigidity bleeding out of his shoulders and the faintest hint of a smile curling his lips as he inclined his head.

“Just so.”

[first-and-last-neocount]

Whumptober Day 7

Round seven of “let’s make up reasons for Damien to be Even More Fucking Miserable” will now commence! *ding, ding*

Seriously though, posting these to Tumblr is making me realize just how imbalanced this whole thing is. Day 2 is really the only one so far that focused on Gerald as the whumpee, and Day 3 was kinda aimed at Jenseny, but the rest of this is just the Damien Vryce Suffering Fest 2021. I don’t think that’s changing any time soon, either. XD

This is another Escape!AU fic, set in the gap between Day 4 and Day 5. I am aware that this is most likely not how hysterical blindness works, but since actual medical doctors can’t really explain that one yet, I’m taking my artistic license where I like.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Day 7 - Theme Chosen: Blindness

The quake came the second night after they fled the Forest.

They had ridden that first night until dawn forced them to take shelter, taking advantage of the Crusade's preoccupation with the Forest to beat them back to Jaggonath; despite the fact that Damien was seriously pushing the limits of his very human stamina, and Gerald was still profoundly shaken from his newfound freedom from his pact with the Unnamed and their brush with death in the Forest, there were things they needed from that city and it would never be safer to return than when the majority of the Church's warriors were elsewhere.

After years of working with Karril and Ciani, Senzei had accumulated more notes than any other living human on the nature of the Iezu. Though they had salvaged all they could from the Hunter's Keep, it wouldn't be enough on its own, and no one else knew the significance of what Senzei might have recorded. The sorcerer's notes would be an invaluable addition to the knowledge base of their own work, trying to bridge the gap between the Iezu and humanity, and this was the best chance they had to get them.

They were still travelling at night; though sunlight was no longer fatal for Gerald, his powers still drew primarily upon the dark fae, and the deluge of the solar fae was enough to seriously impede or even cripple his Workings. Knowing that discovery of their survival would launch a manhunt across most of colonized Erna, neither he nor Damien were keen to push their luck during that time of weakness, so they maintained their nocturnal schedule and quite literally went to ground while the sun was in the sky. They emerged from the cave that Gerald had located for their shelter shortly after sundown the next evening, and the Core stars were still glimmering soft gold at the horizon when Damien paused halfway through saddling his horse.

He was still getting used to his borrowed Sight – his ability to tap into Gerald's adept vision had not failed after leaving Shaitan, as the Hunter had thought it might, but was apparently instead a permanent consequence of the deepened bond between their souls. Often, Damien would notice some new permutation of the currents that he had never seen before, and would point it out to Gerald. The adept had been more than happy to explain each one to the Knight, his natural pedantic tendencies bolstered by the novel pleasure of getting to explain an adept's perception of the world to someone who could actually understand, but they certainly hadn't covered this peculiarity yet.

The currents running by their temporary camp site were suddenly coursing faster, but also somehow thinner; if the fae truly followed the same rules as the water that was so frequently used as a metaphor for its behaviour, it would have been suddenly shallow, a raging river abruptly drying down to only a splashing trickle. Damien stared at the ground in bafflement. Although strange, it was at least somewhat familiar; it wasn't entirely different from what he'd seen when he first arrived in Jaggonath, when he'd invoked a Seeing in the moments before an earthquake hit, though with a sorcerer's normal Sight the difference had been far harder to detect.

“Is that-”

“Quake!” Gerald's tone was sharp with alarm, and Damien jerked around to stare at his companion. After all they had been through, an earthquake was hardly a new or particularly pressing threat, and they both knew better than to try to Work – but the Hunter's face had gone pale, and there was real urgency in his eyes as he held out one slender hand to Damien in a beckoning gesture.

“Stay close to me, and close your-”

The quake hit, and with it came a conflagration of earth-fae.

If Shaitan's valley had glowed like a blazing hearth with the wild fae that stirred through it, this was a wildfire, raging unchecked through a forest dry as kindling. As the ground rumbled and the earth shifted, the fae boiled up, coursing over the world and everything in it. A regular sorcerer could never see an earthquake's peak; the very act of Working to do so would fry them in an instant. An adept didn't have to Work to be able to See the currents, though, and Damien had been wildly unprepared for what he was now witnessing.

It was overwhelming, all-consuming, a visual input so vast and effulgent that his brain couldn't process it. As if every object around him, living or otherwise, had itself become fire; some dim as embers, some brilliant as the sun itself, blazing a thousand different colours and drenched with power and meaning and past and future. Damien was barely aware of having fallen to his knees, or the cry of pain that tore out of his throat. He was aware of a cool hand that seized his own in an iron grip, anchoring him again the storm, and the stern command that resonated within his very mind.

Close your eyes.

Damien did so reflexively, reacting to the order in a way he couldn't have reacted on his own; in that moment, his own thoughts were too scattered to do much of anything, but that crystal-clear directive was easy enough to obey. Even with his eyes shut, the afterimage was seared against the backs of his eyelids, painting outlines of rainbow fire in the darkness. As the moments passed with the earth shuddering beneath them, however, those outlines gradually faded; the haze of shock faded, and Damien realized that he'd been kneeling on the hard ground for minutes on end, breathing like a winded racehorse as his mind reeled with the aftermath of what he'd seen.

Gerald was still kneeling next to him, left hand wound tightly with Damien's right, silent but steadying.

Breathing deeply and trying to slow his frantic heart, Damien chuckled hoarsely. “Damn. That was a lot more intense than I was expecting. I can see why you tried to warn me.”

“I need you not to panic.”

Those words, despite the deliberate levelness of Gerald's tone, immediately spiked Damien's heart rate right back up to where it had been during the earthquake. He could feel something that felt a lot like trepidation emanating from Gerald's end of the link, and the combination gave him the unsettling feeling that Gerald was worried but trying not to show it. Swallowing against a suddenly bone-dry throat, Damien replied wryly.

“That's not a great way to go about it, then. I don't think most people find being told not to panic particularly reassuring, you know.”

He opened his eyes, wanting to see the Hunter's face, hoping it would help him better read the severity of the situation – but opening his eyes didn't make the darkness go away.

Oh, God.

“It should be temporary,” Gerald said immediately, obviously feeling the rush of absolute terror that had just poured through Damien like ice water. “Mere Sight can't actually damage your eyes, it's not real light and it can't actually blind you. You can't see right now because your brain wasn't designed to process that kind of input, and it's trying to protect itself.”

Damien reminded himself forcefully that he did, in fact, need to keep breathing; crushed by fear, it felt as if his lungs had momentarily forgotten that fact. He turned until he figured he should be looking at about where the adept's face was, heart lodged in his throat as he blinked repeatedly and found only inky blackness whether his eyes were open or shut.

“How sure are you?”

Gerald hesitated.

“Ninety percent,” he said finally, and Damien could feel the honesty in those words. “I know this is deeply alarming, and nothing like this has happened before so I cannot be entirely certain, but everything I know about the interaction of the fae and the human mind tells me this is temporary. A physical reaction to a psychological injury. As soon as your subconscious grasps that you weren't actually injured, your vision will be fine.”

“What if it can't figure that out on its own?” Damien could hear the tremor in his own voice; he hated it, but he couldn't seem to stop it, and it wasn't as if it really mattered anyway. Gerald was hardly going to judge him for his fear. “I think you forget I'm a Healer. I know damn well that plenty of psychosomatic conditions don't resolve themselves and require outside intervention.”

A moment of silence. Then, a soft murmur.

“Let me try something.”

Cool fingers touched his other hand, and Damien let himself be gently guided to turn toward the Hunter; kneeling face to face now, Gerald wove the fingers of both their hands together, his grip tight and grounding as he spoke in that steady, subtle cadence that Damien had come to associate with him Working.

“Shut your eyes again, and focus on the link.”

Damien exhaled heavily, doing as he was told. When they had first strengthened the bond between them, that desperate day as they braced themselves for the final showdown against Calesta, the feel of the link had sickened Damien; it had felt alien and wrong, the Hunter's nature too dark and predatory to ever be comfortable against his own. Whether it was whatever the Mother of the Iezu had done in creating one of her children from Gerald's mind, though, or perhaps simply the breaking of his compact with the Unnamed, that had changed; he could still feel the darkness of the adept's soul, nine centuries of cruelty and ruthlessness leaving their mark – but it was no longer painful, no longer jarring or terrifying. It was a familiar darkness, still eerie but also comforting, and it felt far more natural than Damien would ever have believed possible to let it envelop him.

He felt the Hunter's power wrap around him – and suddenly, he was seeing himself. With a jolt of shock, Damien realized that he was seeing through Gerald's eyes, looking at his own kneeling form from Gerald's perspective. Like the 'echo' in that cave on Shaitan, when he'd heard his own words in Gerald's ears, he could still tap into the Hunter's senses – and with his own eyes shut, there was no confusing doubling of input, just Gerald's own vision feeding smoothly into Damien's mind.

It got a little more confusing when he felt his mouth move to speak, but could see that his own mouth was still, and it was Gerald's voice that he heard.

“I'm not sure if I should be intrigued or concerned at the rate with which we're accomplishing new and impossible feats, Vryce. I thought that this might be possible, or I wouldn't have tried it, but we're breaking at least three natural laws at this very moment.”

Damien felt a prickle of indignation break through his barely-restrained panic; he opened his eyes, ready to give Gerald a stern retort about focusing on the priorities of the moment – but the words died in his throat, unspoken and forgotten, as he took in the sight of the adept kneeling before him. Gerald just gazed back at him, a tiny half-smile on his lips, clearly aware that Damien was actually seeing him. Finally, Damien blinked, and managed to marshal his thoughts into a question.

“How the vulk did that fix me?”

Gerald chuckled softly, and let go of him, rising smoothly to his feet; Damien stood as well, his legs still feeling a little shaky, telling himself firmly that he was definitely not mourning the loss of the adept's hands entwined with his own.

“As I said, the issue was with your mind, not your eyes. A brief glimpse through my eyes was enough to assure your subconscious that the danger of the quake had passed, and that it was safe enough to allow visual input again.”

Damien shook his head, disbelieving. “And... is it always like that, for you? Is that what you normally See during a quake?”

Gerald sighed, a little of the smugness falling from his expression. “Yes. One of the many, many reasons that a fair portion of adepts do not reach adulthood sane – even though our minds are better equipped to handle constant input from the fae, that kind of deluge is still overwhelming, and if the disorientation and panic is strong enough to drive us to Work instinctively...”

“Game over.” A chill ran through Damien, and he folded his arms across his chest, bracing himself against the night breeze that suddenly felt just a little too biting. “That's why you tried to warn me. You realized at the last second that I'd be getting the full brunt of that too, instead of just the filtered version I've seen before.”

“Just so. It wasn't a consequence that had occurred to me before, when I was considering the side effects of our... enhanced connection.” Gerald confirmed. “It wasn't until you reacted to the first thinning of the currents that I realized what might happen.”

“We're going to be talking about that later, by the way,” Damien warned him, finally turning back to his bewildered horse to finish strapping down his saddle. “I don't think I've ever heard anyone discuss it, but I want to know what causes that 'thinning' right before the quake surge, and I'm sure you have plenty of theories even if they're not confirmed.”

Gerald smiled faintly. “As you like,” he murmured.

Only a short time later, they had finished breaking camp and were on their way once more. As their horses picked their way down the road they were following toward Jaggonath, a fairly well-travelled thoroughfare during the day but utterly deserted during the night, Damien listened to Gerald's theories about quakes and watched the night around them. Dangerous as it could be to the average member of Erna's populace, lit by dancing blue and violet fae, the night was truly beautiful. Glancing over at his companion and watching that subtle light glimmer off the adept's Core-golden hair, Damien found himself smiling.

Unexpected risks or not, he wouldn't have given up this new, impossible Sight for the world.

[first-and-last-neocount]

Whumptober Day 5

Aaaand here we are, second offering in the Escape!AU, though this is... third I think?... if we’re going by internal chronology of what I’ve got so far. I’m not even going to try to track that as we go, though, because of the whole still-adding-more-as-I-go-along thing. I’ll figure that shit out when the AO3 post gets made, lol. 

Have some EVEN MORE FEELINGS realization, friends! And also some sad, because y’know, Whumptober. 

With the rest of Damien’s family being pagan, I also had this headcanon that his relationship with them was pretty well trashed after he joined the Church, and that the Matriarch of Ganji had kind of... honorarily adopted him, and that they were still super close, and that’s why she backed him so firmly against the Patriarch’s bullshit. Having that headcanon, though, made me wonder - what must she have thought, when she heard about certain developmens?

Day 5 - Theme Chosen: Betrayal

Damien eyed the pile of letters with some trepidation. He had only meant to grab a few belongings from his rented room in Jaggonath before abandoning it permanently – the world needed to believe that he and Gerald had perished at Mount Shaitan, so he couldn't exactly tell the landlord that he wasn't coming back, but he'd wanted to pick up a few of the items he'd brought with him across the Dividers before he and Gerald left the city for good. He hadn't expected a pile of letters to be laying on the front hall rug, having clearly accumulated during the journey to Shaitan and back.

Gerald was currently at Alesha Huyding's house, convincing the woman to let them take the rest of Senzei's journals on the Iezu for their own project. They were supposed to meet at Karril's temple in less than an hour; Damien definitely didn't have time to read these all. He scooped the pile off the floor and started flipping through them quickly, discarding the majority of them at a glance. Most of them were notes from his fellow clergy members at the Jaggonath Cathedral, wondering where he'd disappeared to; there were a few unpaid bills from local merchants, and one heavy linen envelope with a golden seal that he knew must be his official notice of excommunication. The sight of it made his chest ache, but it was nothing compared to the shock that ran through him at the last letter.

The envelope from the very bottom of the stack was also fine quality, though it lacked the ostentatious gold seal, instead being tied shut with a red ribbon. Even at a glance, though, Damien recognized the delicate hand that had traced out the address of the Jaggonath Cathedral – it seemed the letter had gone there first, and been redirected to his temporary apartment when the messenger learned that Damien was no longer employed by the Church.

The letter was from the Matriarch of the Cathedral in Ganji-on-the-Cliffs.

Guilt pooled in his chest like icy water, and Damien cursed softly. Stuffing the two Church envelopes in his jacket pocket, he left the rest of the letters on the kitchen table and went to gather what he'd come for in the first place. There would be time enough later to deal with the two he'd kept; neither of them, he suspected, were going to be an easy read.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He ended up putting off looking at the letters for a few days. Between gathering everything they would need to get them to another city, and tying up any loose ends they'd left behind, he actually managed to more or less forget about the envelopes tucked away in his pocket. Gerald had decided that their best bet was to head back northeast, retracing their steps yet again to get some distance from Jaggonath now that they had what they needed from the city; Damien wasn't any more keen on running into any familiar faces than the adept was, and agreed that it was probably the safest plan. Ensuring that they remained anonymous was enough to keep his mind occupied on the road, and it wasn't until they stopped at a dae three nights later that he remembered.

They'd both had their fill of sleeping on the unforgiving ground as winter crept closer again, and when the dae had come into view, they had agreed with only a glance that they could afford the minor risk  of dealing with the residents if it meant getting to sleep in proper beds for a night. Damien negotiated for their rooms while Gerald saw that the horses were stabled comfortably, and they met up in the common room of the dae, at a small table in the corner farthest from the light of the fire. As they sat down, though, Damien made to tuck the room key into his pocket – and his fingers brushed the envelopes still tucked into his jacket.

Either his face had shown his dismay or Gerald had felt it through their link, because the adept turned to look at him immediately, grey eyes narrowed in concern.

“What's wrong?”

“It's nothing urgent, just...” Damien pulled the letters out, feeling dread settle into his gut like a stone. “There were some letters that had been slipped under my apartment door, when I went back to get my things. Most of them weren't important, but I kept these two. I meant to look at them later that day, but – I forgot.”

Gerald's gaze fell on the golden seal of the Cathedral on the top one, and Damien heard his sudden, sharp breath. The former Knight's mouth twisted in a bitter half-smile.

“Yeah, I think we both know what that one is. This one, though...”

He pulled the other envelope out and set it on top, his heart in his throat. Gerald frowned at it, then glanced up at him.

“Who is this one from?”

“The Matriarch. In Ganji,” Damien whispered. “I wrote to her when we were sailing back from the Eastern Continent, telling her everything that had happened. The Master of Lema, what we'd discovered about the rakh, the Undying Prince... you.”

The adept went very still. He was rather like a hunting hawk in that way, a distant part of Damien's mind observed; when they laid eyes on their prey, such birds would freeze, in a manner that could look almost like a prey response itself unless one knew what to look for. In reality, the bird was preparing for the swift, sure, devastating movement of an attack – but the only warning you would get was that unnatural stillness.

“This is her response.” The soft words weren't a question. Damien sighed deeply, rolling his shoulders back in a fruitless attempt to shed some of the tension.

“Yes. And probably more, given that I'm fairly sure the Patriarch wrote to her as well – she likely knows by now that I've been thrown out of the Order, even if she hasn't yet heard about our... tragic demises.” He looked up and forced himself to meet Gerald's gaze steadily, feeling the prickling anticipation through the bond, the chill creeping over his skin. When he spoke, he kept his voice very low, not wanting to speak too loudly even though Gerald had put up a Warding when they sat down that would keep anyone from eavesdropping on them.

“I know you're hungry. Take what you need. This is going to be miserable for me either way.”

Gerald's eyes flashed, but the adept only inclined his head slightly, a silent gratitude. Damien swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat, then reached with shaking hands to untie the ribbon and unfold the letter.

My dear son,

I hope you will forgive my informality. I know that, as the Holy Mother, I ought to have worded this more properly – but at the moment, I care nothing for propriety, so long as I can reach you.

Your letters have given me enough nightmares for a lifetime. This demon that conspires to corrupt our world, Calesta, is all that the Church most dreads; not a passive evil, but an all too active one, darkening the minds of men and swaying them to its nefarious cause. I was horror-struck to learn of the men and women that willingly served it, and what it plans for our world, but those concerns too have paled in comparison to the chill that fell over me when I read what you had written of our fallen Prophet.

Damien. If ever you felt, as I did, that our bond was that of true family – that you were my son in more than the titles that the Church proscribes, that I cared for you as I would have for a child of my flesh – then I beg of you, in the name of that bond... turn aside. I do not need it written out to know that you hope to save Gerald Tarrant, to redeem him from his dark deeds and guide him back into the light of God. I cannot stress enough how much I fear for you if you pursue such a path. There are some choices that a man cannot make without altering who he is forever, and some roads are too dark to retrace one's steps. You cannot save him. God's greatest gift is forgiveness, but a man such as that will not accept it, for to do so he would have to admit that his deeds require forgiveness – to admit that he has become a monster, and repent of what he has done. A man like Gerald Tarrant can never do that.

If you try to save him, I am certain that he will poison you. Slowly, no doubt, and subtly, for to have survived all that he has the Hunter must be a devious creature indeed – but inexorably, and perhaps, irrevocably. I know you, Damien, and your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness; your incredible determination. It has carried you through so much adversity, and it held you to our faith and cause when your family would have dragged you away... but I fear that it will also keep you from recognizing when you are outmatched, and hold you to your resolve to alter his nature, even as his corruption takes hold. If you are focused only on his redemption, you may not see what is happening until it is too late.

Please come home, Damien. I know it goes against everything we preach, but this once, I reach out to you and speak not as the Holy Mother, but simply as a mother. Come home. Let another fight this war; let the Hunter carry this burden alone, if you truly believe he wishes to make amends. We are all of us sworn to give our lives for the Church, but I beg of you, not like this.

Come home.

With all my love and prayers,

Carla

No title. No Holy Mother. Not her regnal name, Aelia II. Just her given name, as a mother might sign a desperate letter to her son.

Damien didn't know when he'd started to cry, but his eyes burned by the time he reached the end; his cheeks were wet, and his chest ached from staying quiet, even as his whole body shook with silent sobs. He dropped the letter on the table and pressed his hands over his face, past caring if his distress was obvious. No one else in the room was going to notice anything with the Obscuring still in place, and it wasn't as if Gerald needed the visual cues to know that he was upset – with the way he felt, in that moment, the grief and guilt had to be flooding out of him like blood from an arterial wound, staining the fae around him black and crimson.

He'd known, since the night he braved Hell itself to bring the Hunter back, that he was turning his back on everything he'd ever cared for. Not merely his faith, intangible as it was, but also his home, his friends, and his family.

Perhaps his parents and brother would not have disowned him for the choices he had made on this quest – but it was years too late for that to matter, after the way they had fallen out when Damien chose to join the Church. The faith of the One God had forced Damien to distance himself from their aggressively pagan lifestyle, and they had seen his choice as a betrayal, a self-righteous attack on their way of life instead of the deeply personal calling Damien had felt it to be. The only thing that had gotten him through that loss and upheaval had been the support of a woman who, at the time, was just another priestess at the Ganji Cathedral. Mother Carla had been his bedrock of support, his sponsor in the seminary and a gentle voice of reassurance whenever Damien felt himself faltering; by the time Damien was Knighted, she had ascended to the Holy Mother's seat as Matriarch Aelia II, and their bond had been unshakable. It had been Carla who recommended Damien for the experimental program teaching young Workers in Jaggonath, who had seen him off with a warm smile and the assertion that she knew he would do well, and that he would return to Ganji-on-the-Cliffs having shaped a whole generation of new minds.

And Damien had betrayed her.

It wasn't what he meant to do, but what did intent matter when measured against the cold facts of the outcome? He had betrayed the faith they held in common by choosing to forgive the Hunter's centuries of crimes; he had betrayed the Church they both served by thwarting Andrys's attempt at vengeance and helping Gerald elude the Crusade; he had betrayed the personal trust she had placed in him by deserting his duty and turning his back on the very principles that he himself had once preached to the Church's young followers. She had sent him east to further the vision of the Church, and instead he had struck it one of the most staggering blows it had suffered in centuries. She had reached out to him in compassion and love, ready to absolve him of every responsibility if he only turned back... but even if the letter had reached him in time, Damien knew in his heart that it still wouldn't have altered his course.

That, surely, was the bitterest betrayal of all – the knowledge that seared through him and left him shaking and cold and sick. That letter hadn't said anything that he hadn't already, on some level, known; he had held all those arguments with himself a thousand times, those long lonely nights on the road to Mount Shaitan. He had recognized the risk that his own stubbornness was blinding him, recognized that his judgement and morals were compromised, recognized that he was nearing the point of no return. Even with all of that, though, when the moment of choice had come – he hadn't even hesitated. He'd seen the murderous rage in Andrys Tarrant's eyes, known that it was the reckoning for all of Gerald's sins, and he'd still stepped in front of the bolt.

He might not have surfaced from that yawning abyss of despair for a long time, if not for the gentle sensation that ran along the link between himself and Gerald. Unlike the assertive, even imperious force that Damien was used to from the Hunter's power, this was softer, almost inquisitive; a coaxing tug, instead of a firm push. He was still too badly shaken to muster any kind of coherent response within his mind, and a moment later, he felt an equally gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Damien.”

With an effort, the former Knight swallowed back the sounds of pain he wouldn't allow himself to make and lifted his head, blinking through tears at his companion. Gerald had shifted his chair and was sitting close by his side now, one hand raised for that steadying grip on his shoulder, and the look on the adept's face took what little breath Damien had regained away; genuine concern, traces of sorrow and guilt – unmistakable compassion, raw and unpractised and honest. A more human expression than the Hunter's face had worn in centuries, one that no one else would even have believed him capable of.

Damien realized, quite suddenly, that his heart was beating so forcefully that it might have been trying to break free of his ribcage.

He heard himself speak, without consciously deciding to do so.

“I wouldn't change it. Even if I knew, if I could go back and do it again, I wouldn't choose any differently.”

Gerald's grip tightened on his shoulder, and for a moment he just held Damien's gaze, silent. Damien could see the thoughts racing behind his quicksilver eyes, and even with the link, he couldn't read them all – but suddenly he knew, with a certainty so firm that it had to be resonating through the link, that someday he would be able to. They'd been operating on the unspoken understanding that Damien would be helping Gerald fulfill his new goal of establishing proper communication with the Mother of the Iezu, and that their work would keep them together for some time yet, but in that moment Damien knew that it was more than that. He hadn't just chosen betrayal for its own sake, in that moment in the Hunter's Keep; he'd chosen Gerald, and that choice was always going to be there, just like the link that hummed between their souls. They were walking the same path now, and wherever it lead, they would be treading it side by side.

Finally, Gerald spoke, his voice soft but ever so steady; the unwavering voice of a man who had stared Death in the face, and made it bow to him.

“I don't know that I can ever find a way to repay you for that... but I swear, on my life, that I will never make you regret it.”

Damien reached up and took the hand that had gripped his shoulder in his own, lacing their fingers together, the Hunter's once-chill hand now almost warm against his own.

“That's good enough for me.”