It's dark, here, no fire, no moonlight, just brick and shadow. But nothing will ever be as dark as the inside of the coffin that Louis is still half-buried in.

Because shadows veil very little to them, and once Louis has enough wherewithal to do so, he'll be able to follow the mystery of the taste of Lestat's blood in his mouth to the shape of Lestat several feet away. Kneeling, arms wound around himself—a tight, coiled in posture that speaks less of wanting to be small, of wanting to defend himself, and more of restraint.

There is no restraint in his regard, gaze fixed and mouth parted, the sign of relief of great torment now (in part) drained away.

Barely voiced, the way he says, "Louis," in more wonderment than a meaningful attempt to draw focus.

Louis is alive.