He will make Lestat hear every insult. Every complaint. Make him see every unspoken flinch, every quirk that Louis' ever had that Armand knows is was bred into him by his maker. He will make Lestat hear every time Nicki begged to be killed, feel the pressure and release of removing his hands, of sealing him away into the wall, and Nicki went quiet, Nicki went quiet centuries ago, not like Louis, who Armand brought back, and lived beside even though it was skinning himself. Hours, weeks, years. These horrors live in Armand because they have nowhere else to live, and because Armand has nothing else to fill himself with.
Lestat stops.
It's not supposed to be this way. Armand pauses, pulls. Feels himself be pulled.
But no one else is here.
When he pulls next it's like pulling on razor wire. Something bites into him, into his mind, makes him falter.
Lestat is better than him, has been since the start, and this plain truth is written there in all the things he makes the younger vampire see. On the walls, on the floor, and in each memory, Armand is there, Amadeo is there, Arun is there, sitting in a corner with his head covered. And he pulls and he thinks—
Is he so wrong? Will Lestat kill him?
A freezing rush. He could hold still. He could let it happen.
no subject
He will make Lestat hear every insult. Every complaint. Make him see every unspoken flinch, every quirk that Louis' ever had that Armand knows is was bred into him by his maker. He will make Lestat hear every time Nicki begged to be killed, feel the pressure and release of removing his hands, of sealing him away into the wall, and Nicki went quiet, Nicki went quiet centuries ago, not like Louis, who Armand brought back, and lived beside even though it was skinning himself. Hours, weeks, years. These horrors live in Armand because they have nowhere else to live, and because Armand has nothing else to fill himself with.
Lestat stops.
It's not supposed to be this way. Armand pauses, pulls. Feels himself be pulled.
But no one else is here.
When he pulls next it's like pulling on razor wire. Something bites into him, into his mind, makes him falter.
Lestat is better than him, has been since the start, and this plain truth is written there in all the things he makes the younger vampire see. On the walls, on the floor, and in each memory, Armand is there, Amadeo is there, Arun is there, sitting in a corner with his head covered. And he pulls and he thinks—
Is he so wrong? Will Lestat kill him?
A freezing rush. He could hold still. He could let it happen.
—twice. Half a blink.