Warnings/notes: Damien, near-drabble, post-serie, ooc.
Disclaimer: The wondrous world of the ColdFire-trilogy was created by C.S. Friedman.
written at 17th June 2005, by Misura, for requests made by Ozsaur and kneazles in the livejournal-community ficondemand (on occasion of the Junetide).
Sometimes, in the hours that once used to be called the True Night, and now are merely known as 'that time when it gets really dark', Damien Kilcannon Vryce stares at the shadows on the wall and reflects that really, in the end, he and the Prophet didn't turn out to be all that different.
The Prophet -all right, Tarrant, since he might as well call the man by his damned name- killed the woman he loved, and his own flesh and blood in order to live longer. (Or to live forever. Maybe. From what Damien has seen of him, Tarrant seemed like someone smart enough to realize that immortality's not for sale, especially not to some stingy bastard who's not even willing to offer up his soul in the bargain.)
Damien doesn't have that excuse. (Then again, he also didn't do what he did for any personal gain that he was aware of at the moment. Somehow, irrationally, that seems to make it worse though, not better.) True, they were in a pretty tight spot, in a situation that appeared to be rather hopeless, but ...
He walked out on someone whom he'd started to think of as a friend. As someone closer than a friend, someone with whom he'd been through hell, literally, if not through heaven. (Well, Tarrant probably wouldn't be very welcome there, all things considered.)
He walked out on Tarrant, knowing that they'd probably not see each other again, in spite of Tarrant's reassuring words, just because he couldn't see any other solution to the problem he was faced with. If he'd have killed Tarrant with his own hands, the expected result would have been much the same.
That's pretty bad, Damien thinks, before taking a gulp of whatever type of alcoholic beverage he's managed to get his hands on earlier that evening, knowing he'll need it to be able to get any sleep at all.
A man could be condemned to hell for less, Damien ponders. (Not, of course, that he can quite imagine hell to be any worse than his life in moments like this.)
(Besides, at least he'll be in company, that may not be good, per se, but at least it'll be someone he knows, and someone who knows him. That's more than can be said of most people he works with nowadays, all of them good, pure, faithful persons who'll doubtlessly go to heaven.)
x- an ending -x