A knife goes in, twists, a rush of memory flowing out. Lestat, gathering it defensively in his fingers. Offended on Louis' behalf to be compared to the rest, even tragic Nicki whom he loved, even Gabrielle, his first companion. No, Louis was chosen. Chosen for love, to love him, to love the life Lestat imagined would make them both happy. Gifted, not tricked.
Momentary, this clawing, before the next slam of his body into the ground scatters his thoughts again. Bleeding too fast to heal, a steady stream from his nose, his side, something ruptured.
He should be breaking apart, and he isn't. Injured, yes, breaking, but whole, stubbornly held together. The rhythm of it like a beating, and he had survived that, has survived being hopelessly overpowered. Another memory, perhaps called to the surface from Armand's rifling around, maybe Lestat reaching for it in desperation: that quiet place, the fresco, the flames, and the sound of a violin, echoing. The bow shivering in his fingers, the strings on the verge of snapping, some of them fraying. He is not a violinist but it doesn't matter, he is a vampire, a vampire with a knack.
The music shrieks, like a dying thing, like an electric guitar, piercing, too much for a human to enjoy, too loud and shrill, mirror-cracking, but something else liked it very much.
It echoes in his ears when he presses his mouth to an elegant wrist that feels like cold, unyielding marble, but his fangs sink in anyway, and the blood that pours forth is heavy on his tongue, and seems to chase down his throat without his needing to swallow. Gifted. And then someone is yelling, and pain, fire across his scalp from a grip to his hair with the strength of an angel, but none of that matters. Just the blood.
Lestat stops being flung about, a fixed point in the air. Maybe it hurts Armand, easy power meeting a brick wall when Lestat resists. Almost like some other ancient has walked on scene and decided to reach out, to take over, but there is none, just them.
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Momentary, this clawing, before the next slam of his body into the ground scatters his thoughts again. Bleeding too fast to heal, a steady stream from his nose, his side, something ruptured.
He should be breaking apart, and he isn't. Injured, yes, breaking, but whole, stubbornly held together. The rhythm of it like a beating, and he had survived that, has survived being hopelessly overpowered. Another memory, perhaps called to the surface from Armand's rifling around, maybe Lestat reaching for it in desperation: that quiet place, the fresco, the flames, and the sound of a violin, echoing. The bow shivering in his fingers, the strings on the verge of snapping, some of them fraying. He is not a violinist but it doesn't matter, he is a vampire, a vampire with a knack.
The music shrieks, like a dying thing, like an electric guitar, piercing, too much for a human to enjoy, too loud and shrill, mirror-cracking, but something else liked it very much.
It echoes in his ears when he presses his mouth to an elegant wrist that feels like cold, unyielding marble, but his fangs sink in anyway, and the blood that pours forth is heavy on his tongue, and seems to chase down his throat without his needing to swallow. Gifted. And then someone is yelling, and pain, fire across his scalp from a grip to his hair with the strength of an angel, but none of that matters. Just the blood.
Lestat stops being flung about, a fixed point in the air. Maybe it hurts Armand, easy power meeting a brick wall when Lestat resists. Almost like some other ancient has walked on scene and decided to reach out, to take over, but there is none, just them.