Lestat's gaze flicks to Louis as he turns, is quiet, and upset crosses his expression unbidden. Redirects it off somewhere else.
What Daniel says is true. It doesn't surprise Lestat, where his focus lies. Armand is his maker, Daniel his fledgling, immutable facts, just as they've discussed. Daniel, forever shackled. Louis, too, forever shackled to Lestat. It makes sense that would both seek an escape in one another.
Slow to answer, this time. Processing that his mind is such that an outsider would see it as injured. Certainly, it feels this way. He wonders—
No. He does not wish to speculate about Armand.
"We fought that way too," finally. Taking the can away from his face, turning it in his fingers, setting it down. "In our minds. He drew me into his and I was apart from myself."
Sitting at a table, sunlight through papered over windows. Panicked breathing from the floor, moaning from behind a door. The tape recorder, squeaking between clawed fingers, playing out two familiar voices, vitriol and laughter. There it is, in perfect recall, more vivid than this living room. Injured feelings that are not so easily healed by blood, immortal or otherwise, running wire around his bruised lungs.
"And I hurt him there," comes out thicker, froggier with great feeling, teetering on the edge of new collapse. "To leave that place, we went somewhere else. And if I got away from it, he would pull me back. No matter how it hurt him to do it."
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What Daniel says is true. It doesn't surprise Lestat, where his focus lies. Armand is his maker, Daniel his fledgling, immutable facts, just as they've discussed. Daniel, forever shackled. Louis, too, forever shackled to Lestat. It makes sense that would both seek an escape in one another.
Slow to answer, this time. Processing that his mind is such that an outsider would see it as injured. Certainly, it feels this way. He wonders—
No. He does not wish to speculate about Armand.
"We fought that way too," finally. Taking the can away from his face, turning it in his fingers, setting it down. "In our minds. He drew me into his and I was apart from myself."
Sitting at a table, sunlight through papered over windows. Panicked breathing from the floor, moaning from behind a door. The tape recorder, squeaking between clawed fingers, playing out two familiar voices, vitriol and laughter. There it is, in perfect recall, more vivid than this living room. Injured feelings that are not so easily healed by blood, immortal or otherwise, running wire around his bruised lungs.
"And I hurt him there," comes out thicker, froggier with great feeling, teetering on the edge of new collapse. "To leave that place, we went somewhere else. And if I got away from it, he would pull me back. No matter how it hurt him to do it."