A hoarse bellow escapes Lestat's throat before he can quite register its meaning, and a useless, drowning gasp following it quickly. He heaves himself off and away, a clawed grasp at Armand's arm to unhook his clawed fingers from the edge of his ribcage. He will snap that wrist if he can, if needs be, or just because, or without even thinking about it: Armand's choice for interpretation.
Coming back to the moment, dizzyingly cognizant of time and place, of concrete beneath his knees. The snow is waterier, here, than the thick frozen stuff of the deep wilderness he knew so well, once. No snapping wolves. No flintlock. He knows not what time it is to the hour. And oh yes, he does hate Armand.
And did he expect him to say 'yes'? Come on now.
But Lestat is clawing for distance, a scrambling motion while his hand clutches at his wound. Is he healing? He has Armand's blood in his veins. He has Akasha's blood in his veins, which he feels like fire, flushing through him on each heartbeat. Of both, he has taken a great deal. Still, motion tears at the delicate fibres trying to stitch him back together. Not quite breathing. He must remember he doesn't need to.
What air comes in comes out as a wheeze, a laugh. As if what Armand has said is funny.
'Do all those who grow weary of your company will themselves to ash? Or pretend to.'
Perhaps he can tear his throat out. Throw him into the lake, the icy cold he tastes of. Perhaps that would work. Get his point across. His own blood gathers and seeps between his fingers.
no subject
Coming back to the moment, dizzyingly cognizant of time and place, of concrete beneath his knees. The snow is waterier, here, than the thick frozen stuff of the deep wilderness he knew so well, once. No snapping wolves. No flintlock. He knows not what time it is to the hour. And oh yes, he does hate Armand.
And did he expect him to say 'yes'? Come on now.
But Lestat is clawing for distance, a scrambling motion while his hand clutches at his wound. Is he healing? He has Armand's blood in his veins. He has Akasha's blood in his veins, which he feels like fire, flushing through him on each heartbeat. Of both, he has taken a great deal. Still, motion tears at the delicate fibres trying to stitch him back together. Not quite breathing. He must remember he doesn't need to.
What air comes in comes out as a wheeze, a laugh. As if what Armand has said is funny.
'Do all those who grow weary of your company will themselves to ash? Or pretend to.'
Perhaps he can tear his throat out. Throw him into the lake, the icy cold he tastes of. Perhaps that would work. Get his point across. His own blood gathers and seeps between his fingers.
'Say you love me, I'll consider it.'