By WhiteMist
kerk.lin@pacific.net.sg

Chapter 16 / Savage Garden Revisited
-Day 16-

*Warning: Politics and Homeric lyricism overkill

The hotel attendants opened the heavy glass paneled and gilded doors to the steady flow of guests. He blended in with a small group of dark suits and ties with their executive regalia of designer suitcases and designer coats.

This was the modern aristocracy, businessmen of the world over who earned their rights with agile tongues and ruthless cunning to reside in the palatial St. Clair. There were also the gracious elderly who traveled the world, enjoying their fruits of labor. And who could miss the assortment of modern day bourgeois who referred to the persuasive messages of the television, the movies, the various mediums with equal suspicion and worship, and who came by the bus loads, pitting hard earned money for transient luxury.

How different was all this with the life he once had, the life that he once knew so well? And now the sans-culottes¹ overrun the cities as they had 200 years ago in France, only there had not been as much meaningless blood shed and cruelty for the governments to know their worth.

Poverty as well as wealth had their places in this modern world; it showed here, in this place even more evidently than any other.

Ah, one would want to take care to catch a breath, to not let your head reel with too much lavish fineries. But one becomes bedazzled easy enough by the grandeur of St. Clair.

Everything approached the excessive but yet was restrained by a knowing hand. Indeed, typical of the Sun King's² extravagance, the St. Clair was modeled after that distinguish period to the last detail. It was something that spoke of extreme conservatism he had long heard of while under the aegis of his father, an observation to such stringent order that was by the time of his birth, carelessly discarded for the brilliance, the wildness and flippancy of the Rococo.

His eyes were drawn continuously to the fascination, the enraptured faces of mortals; his ears leant to hear their ecstatic voices, their fervor in discussing the beauty. Many a mortal head were bent over glossy guidebooks that catalog each article and decorative piece, each tapestry and even the patterns in the carpets.

He had toured all the great museums looking at the objects of beauty in cool detachment. But now, within the womb of his beloved city, he had been smitten so utterly by all this; he studied everything with a new hunger in his soul that he had never known. It was not entirely wrong to say he relived the experience of discovery again and again through every mortal's impassioned observations.

Who was Antonio St. Clair truly? The question came inevitably to him again. In that short precious moment of their meeting, what could he have known? He could not have guessed the robust and ferocious nature of that individual could hide such a cultured soul; neither could he identify Anton as an integral part of the Brotherhood where the two representative members, Remus and Myandar showed such diverse personalities.

He went up to the counter and the female attendant there was all smiles, such sweetness. Just as he was about to make known his request, a man had come forward.

"A very good evening M'sieur," the man bowed with respect, an eager smile on his lips. It was the Parisian who had guided them on their first day. The manager had quickly brushed the girl aside. "It is such a pleasure to have you here again. Please do let me be of assistance to you."

"I'm here to see M'sieur Paladio," he said giving the girl a small smile for her efforts.

"I believe I have seen M'sieur Paladio on the way down to the Terrace Club not an hour ago, I am certain he would still be there. Please do let me show you the way."

"I'm sure I'll manage."

"Please do let me have the pleasure of this small service," the man was determined to please.

It would be difficult and it would take a lot of persuasion to decline such an offer. He nodded. "Very well."

The man was exalting, beaming as he lead Louis down the majestic main stairway. The paneling, the chandelier was only one of the few things that could have taken him forever to examine and admire. And he had to stop by an enormous arrangement of lilies, of hundreds of pure white lilies forming a larger than life fluid sculpture. By his vampire vision, he could see the veins of green and the tiny brush strokes of shadows portraying such smoothness to the curl of each petal. The light and the dark shades gave life to the arrangement, it was like a dance of pastel colors not unlike the paintings of impressionists. Those paintings he had studied so very carefully all over Europe and America.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrance of the flowers. So subtle its sweetness, it brought up a host of memories, of smiles and laughter and frivolous moments in another time when things seemed to fall naturally in place.

Louis woke from his reverie; he had forgotten the passing of time. "Mon Dieu," he saw the man was staring at him fixedly with abject admiration in his empty eyes. His idiot powers had put the mortal in a trance!

"M'sieur, you have the most enchanting manners," the man whispered ardently.

This was inconvenient. He wanted to shake the man out of his trance, perhaps throw water in his face? But then he could make something of this accidentally surely. And he made the decision then without further thought. "Answer me some questions."

"Oh, of course."

He quickly guided the mortal to the side of the hallway, not wanting to attract any undue attention. "About M'sieur Paladio, tell me what he does."

"He's worth millions of America dollars in contracts that man, all the contracts from St. Clair as you can imagine; maintaining the artifacts and relics, renovations that's forever going on," the man never even blinked his eyes as he spoke in a torrent of quick modern French.

"As in bidding in auctions then."

"M'sieur Paladio's the confidante to St. Clair's consultant M'lle Romano."

"That's the salient point then."

"Indeed, he needs only service the client as they say. Of course the Italians have their ways evidently," then in a confidential whisper the man went on. "Any man would have wanted to be in his place, spend the kind of money he spends; his maintenance is easily more than the tabloid monarchy next door!"

Louis nodded, considering the clothes that Remus wore, displays of bespoke elegance, the modern technology he was surrounded with, it was little wonder that mortals envied, or more rightfully worshiped this identity that Remus assumed.

"And now they are here in New Orleans," he guided the man to walk on to the polished marble of the mezzanine.

"He was in New York overseeing the renovations of the ballroom, it was convenient to come with her- well, he should be obliged after so blatantly leaving with her two assistants, impossibly beautiful the two ladies, he left with them on new year's eve in a party bash he threw for her. The guts to do that! But the Italians have their ways, nothing's worst for wear after that tryst; M'lle Romano's never too forward about her affections for Paladio after all."

"How about M'sieur St. Clair?"

"Unfortunate, most terrible, he's taken ill. We've just been told to open the penthouse but we all know he's gone off the first night, that's a pity really he hardly saw the establishment."

The vampires had taken obvious care to feed the grapevine, giving the mortals enough tantalizing rumors to weave fluent stories of their own likings... "This is the way to the Terrace Club?"

"Yes."

He had come here briefly during the tour; they made a cursory round here. Now they were taking the lift down. It opened to a dark and exclusive club. There was a small dining area, a sparse arrangement of tables and chairs in private corners. A dim artificial blue haze lighted the entire place.

"M'sieur Paladio had a guest earlier," the man gave a calculated smile to that comment as he led Louis to the service counter to check the guest reservation list and then make a call to the room. "M'sieur Paladio-"

"I have a guest?" Remus' voice cut through the politeness sharply and impatiently.

"Ah, yes..."

"Show him in."

The shock had most likely jolted the man out of his trance; he had stared at Louis for a good minute, wondering why he was there, and what had happened. With a forced smile of unease and doubt, he showed Louis down the hallway with avaunt-guard wall paintings. The noise in each room was fully contained in these soundproof rooms.

At last they were there. Before the mortal even raised his hand to knock the door, it flew opened so quickly that it seemed Remus had just materialized from nowhere, towering above, staring into the stunned face of the addled mortal.

"Walk back to the counter. Nothing happened. You've seen nothing," the older vampire whispered turning the man and propelling him to the way out.

This was not the right thing to do at all, Louis felt as if he could not condone this. And what was that evil smell- he backed to the wall behind him as the smell assailed him.

It was alcohol, enveloping him and choking him; the liqueur was overpowering and it was from that room. The evil fumes saturated the air; that could knock anybody out.

"S'just getting started..." a drunken voice came from within.

Louis could see pass Remus into the room, there was an intoxicated female inside and the table was crowded with opened bottles of liqueur.

"My friend's here," Remus picked up his coat.

"You... can't leave me here..."

"Of course I can," Remus muttered closing the door after him. "Louis."

The eyes that regarded him were a dark shade of true marine and there was a high color to Remus' face, it made him look alluringly young and innocent.

"You are not used to the stench," the Italian said with a small, rather shy smile. "Let me take you out to the terrace for some fresh air."

There was a persistent pounding at the back of his skull. And he followed without consideration nor thought, without even the perception of things until the doors opened to the garden, and a gush of fresh air greeted him.

Remus stopped a few steps ahead of him and was looking back at him. "I forgot to ask," he said. "Perhaps I should have gotten her along."

Louis was surprised, he wondered at the meaning of the words then realized what Remus was offering and felt uneasy.

Remus saw his change of expression evidently. "Not the politically correct way of addressing this? I do lack tact in that; I am not too familiar with the formalities outside, most ungracious of me. I don't graze."

"Graze?" Louis asked mystified.

"The common herd," Remus made an offhand gesture. He looked away for a moment, seemingly distracted then he blinked and looked back at Louis with a half surprise expression. "The vapors you know, it does wonderful things to this brain."

So said, the tall vampire moved on down the stone footpath, walking slowly. It was only now that Louis took in the entire picture of this garden; it was a veritable forest in the tropics, of flora specimens flourishing in New Orleans and more plants and trees he had never seen before. And he admired this view, as well as the smooth motions of Remus' gait, his hands brushing the greenery as he passed, his fingertips running over the trunks of the trees and the hanging branches of leaves and vines.

He caught a word. "Did you say something Remus?"

"Ah?" the older vampire turned slowly to face him.

"I heard you say something."

"Thinking aloud," Remus smiled, he looked up the trunk of a heavy oak absently. "The rainforests of the Straits³..."

"You were there before?"

"The virgin forests undisturbed by man, the humidity reminds me of that. It's a long time ago," Remus brushed the blood sweat from his brow with the lapel of his coat so very naturally that it was as if a gentleman without his handkerchief was the most common thing in the world.

His mind was wondering... If he stared hard enough, he could probably see the circuitry of blood, it's path in every vessel, pulsing under the seemingly pliant flesh of Remus' neck and his fingers.

"Where is Lestat?"

"I was..." he made the strongest effort to speak. He stared at Remus; the lips did not seem to move with speech.

This was delirium! Was it due to the fumes, alcohol going up his brain that he felt this alarming sense of dislocation and yet he could do nothing in his languidness to compel himself to action, to break away from those mesmerizing eyes? He hadn't felt like this for the longest time. "I wanted to speak with you," he whispered, drawing with difficulty from the pacific pools of those eyes.

"Why?"

The pale golden hair fell alongside the smooth cheek, the shadows playing up the fine defining lines of this handsome face, showing the true age of the mortal body preserved by the demonic blood; Remus was not as young as Louis would have thought at first.

"Does it matter?" It was the first time Remus spoke with regards to the thoughts in his mind surely.

"I want to..." how his head was pounding insistently but the confusion was draining out from him suddenly, threatening to leave him faint. "I want to speak with you-"

"It doesn't matter Louis. I am grateful, thankful for what you've done and that is the truth. You have saved his life."

The meaning of those words had awoken a fresh tide of emotions in him. The pain twisted slowly and a coldness rose from the pits of his gut, flooding the crevice in his heart, making him shudder even in the heat and warmth of the night.

How faraway from the truth that was! How he had debated with himself, berating his weakness and now he felt all the more wretched to hear this from Remus. What kind of fiend and monster had he become to take such kindness when he deserved none?

"But don't you see, it's deception that I saved him?" he blurted out abruptly, the anguish in his soul pouring out with his words, his thoughts rushing out in a confused and frenzied torrent just like the night when he walked the rainy streets on his own, and found himself ensconced in the soft dry bedding of Lestat's penthouse the night after. He had no idea how he had gotten there; there was only the play of a silent memory of Lestat's vivid expression in that heavy downpour.

The vampire stepped up closer to him; there was tenderness, softness to that face. That magnificent color made this thing looked mortal; the colors gave it dimension and depth, a richness to the otherwise expressionless and ageless face. And the hard flesh was malleable, changing and not cold and sculptured as the grime gathering of frozen marbles at the table, listening to Maharet's tale; this face, this vampire and Blood Drinker so unlike him...

Did He look on Judas with as much compassion?

"You did it out of guilt," the lips shaped the words carefully. "It is eventually not nobility."

"Yes!" his voice was tight, his composure ripped with such a force that a whirl of overwhelming feelings rose in him, liberated and ascending, gushing from the depth of his soul. "Yes! In guilt, and in vain hope, in conceited pride, I hoped to redeem myself from a damnable sin! Yet I had wanted to abandon him. Don't you see, I had not-"

"Would it mean that is a sin? Something punishable by some unknown entity?" Remus whispered, coming closer, his speaking voice the archaic Latin so resonant.

"I don't know..." his voice was hoarse and strained, he could hardly hear himself above the confusion raging in his heart, his emotions battling his rational mind.

Is there purpose for the sharks in the ocean, the deadly creatures prowling the dense forests of the Amazon⁴?

Is this the epitome of evil? Look into this face that has the same qualities of his porcelain saints and the benevolence of angels in his endless dreams...

"Let me ask you then."

The young tenor voice spoke with clarity, piercing through the din of his pounding heart.

"Is there no motive in a man who prostrates before the cross? Would he hope to step into heaven to be with his God? No, surely not because he fears more the burning Hell. Would you have a man who lips the words of a greater being, a divine greatness and had commanded thousands upon thousands to their deaths, unbeknownst to all who saw only their God?"

"Or would you have a conceited man of pride who lays down his life for another; a friend, a lover, a country, or a thought, at the hour of need? Was Hector of the flashing helm, beloved of Gods, a lesser man because he was proud and conceited? That he breathed of nobility and killed another for his arms⁵?"

Remus smiled gently as he put his hands on Louis' shoulders. "One act my friend, at the hour of need... I know not but perhaps the Gods were busy, I care only for that very hour when you saved his life."

Louis felt his whole being rebelled against this. He wanted to protest; his heart could burst with the pain he felt. This was too simple- it cannot be!

"Don't you see, it is simple," the vampire said now. "The tests to our will, the tragedies of our lives. The Gods favor and they do not as we used to say: it is a trick, a matter of chance. The scales have tipped, even with the greatest love of the Archer King, the son of Peleus had set upon him like a wolf upon a sacrificial lamb⁶."

His voice died in his throat. In sudden clarity Louis saw that the enormity of his act was far beyond what he had imagined, beyond his realization. One knew sadness through words and reasons; one sympathized with the loss of another. But to come face to face with that sadness, realization alone could not suffice to explain... He felt it when Remus spoke, through that fluent tongue when the depth of Remus' soul was opened to him in that instant and he glimpsed the core of this protean being, beyond the prism of light which blinded him.

What was grief shown in tears? He had never known all the facets of grief and hurt till Lestat gave voice to them in an outpouring of anger. "And all this while-"

"It is of no great consequence," Remus stepped away, creating distance between them.

It was the sum of those calm utterances, the serenity in Remus' young face that provoked the most excruciating pain in him. He was almost incapable of speech, and he could not speak for fear that the first syllabus would only be the inarticulate language of his grief and horror.

"Why do you feel that guilt dear friend?" the older vampire whispered, there was wonderment in his face. "We live by the flippant wishes of this world, who is to blame when the golden scales have dipped, and Hades would not be denied?"

"You have blessed him with the gift of life when none of us could have. Our gifts that can move the world is no more than paltry tricks in the face of chance; not even Phoebus who would forfeit his will and Godly gifts to grovel at his Father's feet could save the life of the one he loved; what more can be said?⁷"

In one crazed moment he thought how alike they were to those Gods, immortals yet fallible.

"You have a deep dilemma deep in you," Remus studied him intensely, his attitude changing from calmness to curiosity. "You are troubled..."

"You are reading my thoughts," he forced the words out with difficulty, and he stepped back involuntarily. And the overwhelming truth came to him that despite of everything, this creature standing before him cast a terror and fear in him even as he felt being drawn into the brilliant flames that burned so relentlessly strong in this being.

"I could," Remus came closer to him, his eyes growing large and thoughtful. "You have a beauty in you that touches me, you have a passion that shines through even if you insist it is darkness."

The vivacity of this monster was irresistible, that living force that defied reason that defied the darkness he saw in everything, in himself, in the living dead. And he was drawn against his will, his reason washed away not to violence or cruelty but to the kindness, warmth that was palpable like an aura from Remus.

"How the heart speaks but the mind is unwilling."

"I..." he stuttered, unable to frame his thoughts in words.

"Where is Lestat?"

They had gone their separate ways as the day before, each engaged in their own troubles, grappling with the helplessness to talk beyond the mundane formalities of everyday life.

"Honesty and humility will serve you better," the older vampire said kindly. "Make them you loyal and trusted allies, let no pride and anger come between you, for they are accomplices, conniving with such dexterity, one feeding the other."

Such simplicity...

"If only it is simpler," Remus gave a small smile, he looked mellowed. "There is nothing poetic about this. Thinking and reasoning can take you forever and it can never bring you happiness. Listen to your heart for it tells only the truth."

"And you?" he asked finally, regaining his voice and a measure of calm.

The lashes lowered just a fraction over the large attentive eyes.

"Anton," Louis said almost tentatively. "Is there anything at all that-"

"You have done everything Louis."

"There must be something more? For you?"

"Your heart," Remus' voice was hypnotically soft as his long arms reached across the distance and the fingers slowly folding to touch Louis' face. "It is more than anything else you can imagine." He took two steps back and then started to walk away.

"Remus," Louis was startled by the abrupt end to their conversation.

"Go back to Lestat," the blond vampire glanced at him. "He will be concerned about you."

"Will you be-" what an insipid question, he found that he could not phrase it in a meaningful manner at all.

"Absolutely," Remus said with a laugh. "I am only the Old King who beseeched his son with trembling breath and thoughts of a decent burial⁸."

"That cannot be," he protested, he felt that grief even if Remus did not show it.

"You do not know the script of this play my friend," the face showed a profound sadness and it was gone, replaced by that characteristic charming smile.

Remus gave Louis a small wave, a gesture of farewell before starting out toward the hotel suites. That gesture alone had showed such warmth that it seemed this creature of such formidable skill and power would never hurt him.

Ah the Italian vampire was simplistic but make no mistake of that sharply focused mind of an intellect. Louis felt himself caught between a terrible attraction and a horrible fear. Remus was charming as he was so random and unpredictable. The swift changes to Remus' moods, his every manner from a child to a thinker, a wise scholar to a vampire, that display was dizzying. Louis wondered if that was the reason why Myandar had said it took the will and strength of Gods to know Remus.

The sensations, the confusion and the excitement drained from him gradually. The fresh air was what he needed, and the cobblestone streets. The familiarity of the landscape gave him clarity of mind.

As he walked in the darkened streets for the longest time, he saw everything clearly suddenly, he saw now the crucial object of his struggles, it was never brought to fore more clearly.

Lestat de Lioncourt

~but these visits could never be commanded by me, and they never lasted very long. Tale of the Body Thief / Chapter 7-

Want to come and live with me? Tale of the Body Thief / Chapter 32-

Louis de Pointe du Lac

'The next night- after that which I just described to you- he jarred me miserably by asking me to go with him to the boy's flat. He was positively friendly, in one of those moods when he wanted my companionship and I dull, catatonic, gave him some miserable excuse- thinking only of Claudia, of the agent, of the imminent disaster. I could feel it and wondered that he did not feel it. And finally he picked up a book from the floor and threw it at me, shouting "Read your damn poems, then! Rot!" and he bounded out'

'This disturbed me. I cannot tell you how it disturbed me. I wanted him cold, impassive, gone.~'

-Interview with the Vampire / Part I

Lestat was walking down Rue Dumaine toward Rue Royale. The streets were almost empty at this hour.

'Come Louis, let's go, breathe some fresh air. You'll enjoy the company."

Louis lay on the settee, looking dull and catatonic, like a gentleman down on his luck from the gaming table.

He slipped into the seat. "What's the matter? It's been weeks, come." He kissed the cold cheeks. The love he felt was indescribable.

What surrealistic quality of the night had made him recall that so clearly? The way the streets looked the same? The overwhelming sense of peace? The thought he would spend another night with his lover...? He had been so trusting, so unsuspecting...

He sighed.

His mind was running through his muddled memories, thinking of the first year of returning to New Orleans... of experiencing a full circle of a season; another spring, another summer in New Orleans. Life went on inevitably.

He came back from his mad meandering, gallivanting about the American continent. His clothing was tattered, and the grime and dust which covered him could not be any less surely than the muck which covered Mekare, the ancient red head. He shuddered to think of them. He felt the cold swallow up the last warmth in his heart, and the pain was terrible. He wanted the casing of mud to cover this gleaming white body; he wanted the earth to comfort him; to tell him that he was a creature of the Savage Garden, not some monster that did not have it's place in the scheme of things.

Fighting the exhaustion that was threatening to push him to the point of collapse, he washed away all the residue of his travels, and finally fell into the large soft bed, to close his eyes, to surrender himself to absolute darkness.

Sleep claimed him for a full 24 hours. When he woke, it was late evening in Rue Dumaine. He had risen from bed after spending a good measure of dozing before the inviting sounds of the night became too hard to resist.

From the closet he selected a suit of clothing, clothes he favoured now: slim cut, and materials of natural fibre, silk, velvet and cashmere. He had settled into them naturally, forfeiting the modern fashion of processed cotton and synthetic leather.

Gone was the overwhelming need to drink up the wonderment of the modern world like so many cups of wine.

The world still held it's fascination to him, it still held him entranced intermittently, or perhaps it was when he stopped to breath. He was tired of everything, tired of the repetitious play of nature from which he was no longer a participant. He was so tired of the lack of limitations when things held no perspective, when age old knowledge and explanations held no meaning nor reasoning in his new form, in this God-like autonomy with it's wondrously gruesome powers.

Oh, why should he stand so invincible, and the hand of God did not strike him dead for being what he was? Splendid arguments crossed his mind; he could mull over them the entire night. An exquisite pain flared, and subsided in him. Total waste of time, an occupation that should be indulged solely by another.

Ah- Louis.

He set out to look for his fledgling immediately.

His New Orleans. His city for walking, for familiar words, and lively banters; for delectable distractions from accursed memories.

The winter cold had not touched the greenery, the great heavy magnolia trees. He passed the rusted gates and carefully made his way behind the decrepit Victorian mansion. The place was dark, the cottage doors and windows were closed. He heard no sounds, and opened the door.

The air was dank. A shower of dust forced him to move back very hastily, brushing his coat.

Empty!

Deserted would have been a more apt description. Louis had left all his miscellaneous possessions where they were. He could not have cared really, but where was Louis?

He and his cursed habit of wondering off!

Lestat turned on his heels; he was suddenly boiling inside. Where was Louis!

His temper was barely controlled when he took to the skies. But the terrible vulnerability he felt assailed by the winds, the entire experience of flying left him fatigued and miserable when he finally reached San Francisco. Moreover, as he walked the gentle raise and fall of the deserted streets, he realized how quiet it had become.

San Francisco was a bustling vampire city, a hub for the living dead in the American West Coast. In spite of that, the city was seemingly empty of preternatural life. Truly he had so conveniently forgotten what had taken place... of how She had cleared the cities of her children...

He felt the chill keenly even with this indestructible shell- or rather, it was an entirely different sensation of the cutting, freezing winter. He did not care.

Where was Louis? Was he in this city at this moment? His Louis, who had showed such devotion and love. Yet, they stood divided, there was something between them, a barrier which he felt like a yawning crevice...

The next night, he had taken a slow leisurely walk up to the wharf, watching the tourists throng the rows of stalls serving a variety of Italian seafood fare. Mortals fighting the cold, huddled over their steaming food packed in disposable ware of plastic and using such finely molded utensils perfectly made spoons, forks and knives. What an amazing thing

Passing the wharf, he had finally decided to take the path up Castro Street, where Louis had mentioned the Vampire Connection was situated. He, the flashing rock sensation, certainly had no wish to show his highly individualistic, uniquely recognizable visage to any unknown, but he needed to locate Louis.

He detected an undercurrent of excitement even before he was near Castro Street. A jumble of images and sounds came to him; indistinct and disjointed. He willed himself up on the roof of the low buildings, moving stealthily along, following the path as surely as the images were presented to him now.

Vampires.

"...let's leave..."

"Hey, I told you the truth!"

Ah- the very one.

"Answer the f***ing question and shuddup!"

"I ain't takin' any of this s***-"

He saw through their eyes in the frayed darkness, incandescent light filtering from the far corner, leading to the main street. A back lane with a chockfull of rotted garbage.

His nose twitched at the stench, it smelt to heaven⁹. He stopped at the ledge of the building, hidden in the ink blackness of the sky, watching.

There were four of them, modern children of the dark, dressed as thugs with their ripped jeans, their run of the mill shirts with loud coloured prints. Cowards, each of them standing by shouting profanities, and not lifting a finger to help their friend who had been cornered to the cracked and flaking wall. They did not dare to stand up against the older vampire who was holding a recreate in place with his piercing, fierce eyes.

"Goddamit, how d'you want me to f***in' tell you? That fancy place in Paris, and it was freakin' crazy, every f***in' dead guys'-"

"You saw this."

"'course I f***in sure did, the Commie's a crazy-"

The stronger vampire caught his victim by the collar and shoved him hard against the wall, upsetting the crates and piles of rubbish.

The four cowards muttered amongst themselves, fearful for their lives.

"Leave it. Come, it's not worth it."

Clear, crisp English.

Lestat leant out further. He saw the second vampire now; he had been hidden in the foreground all this while.

"There's no coven to patrol the regulations-"

That familiar voice...

"I told you the truth, that-"

Even before the expletives formed in his mind, the young vampire was thrown to the concrete ground in a movement too quick for him to react, and his assailant trapped him instantly with a boot to the neck. The dazed youngster struggled hard; trying to get away from the merciless pressure of the foot that was crushing him.

"God as my witness," the low voice was so filled with menace. "If you breathe another word of disgrace to the memory of my friend, I will search you out, and I will destroy you."

Perfect articulation.

Lestat was enthralled by the way Louis moved back, and went through that quick purposeful ritual of brushing his cuff, and straightening his clothes. How positively furious Louis was, seething with rage, his green eyes so brilliant like burning fires from hell to the cringing fledglings who staggered back in terror of him.

Oh, that brought back some memories. Oh yes, the Pointe du Lac plantation, the hard life of a plantation lord who had to be a perfect slave driver (a literal word of use), to instill discipline in the fields, his slaves, his employees; his business partners, and agents. So great was his ambition and his determination to succeed. And so he had to endure the endless toiling, and then to put on those elegant suits of Paris made fineries for the ballroom, to make fanciful nothings to the ladies, to present a facade of prosperity and seeming nobility in the exclusive circle which defined social life in New Orleans...

"You need a stiff drink, let's get away from this dreary place," the English vampire was guiding Louis away.

"I don't need it," Louis' voice was sharp.

"Listen to me, he's not coming back no matter how you ask-"

"Get away from me Rutherford!" Louis shoved his friend aside, and walked belligerently down the empty street.

Lestat followed, becoming increasingly concerned, uncertain as to what he should do. He had no part in Louis' apparent distress... Oh, how it pained him to be left on the outside...

He came to the Englishman's apartment directly after sun down.

"He's not worth it dear chap, wouldn't think you'll take it so hard-"

"Just go for the love of God, go!"

Rutherford, of the drooping eye lids and the affected, innate laughter; and that unmistakable aristocratic drawl to his English. He was one of Louis' frequent companions probably- Lestat had seen him once before this... The English vampire left on his own finally after some argument, unable to persuade Louis to go with him.

Lestat stepped into the apartment. A faint illumination came from the crescent moon beyond the windows and he could see clearly the comfortable furniture in the parlor. The wood and brocade upholstery spoke volumes of the time period of its owner surely. He had seen this furniture in the smoking rooms of the English crowd in New Orleans in those early days...

Soft breathing.

He followed the sound, slowly pushing open the door, and stepping in.

No palpable sign of consciousness. No acknowledgement for this powerful creature that could easily destroy all life.

Lestat stared down into the face of his fledgling, at the wrinkled brow, the pure agony imprinted on this beautiful face; his defenseless lover lying in the rumpled bed... A picture of such forlorn beauty. He found a corner, a chair, he sat, and he watched his fledgling in his fitful sleep. Lestat left only he heard Rutherford return close to dawn.

No matter how hard the Englishman persuaded Louis, his stubborn Louis would not leave the house, he would not feed. No cajoling, no sarcastic remark could draw a response. And again Rutherford had left in frustration, and helplessness.

And in the darkened streets, Lestat had accosted him, casting a long shadow in the vampire's path, making the Englishman's heart beat wildly. He was perishing with fear, but customary English propriety and dignity did not allow him to show cowardice.

"I came to ask about your friend," he said quietly.

"What friend? You have better state your business!"

Typical English aplomb, but Lestat could feel the cold fear making the vampire tremble.

"You know what I mean. Your friend who is in your residence."

"And what about it, man."

"Oh, stop trying to wheedle out of it M'sieur Rutherford, I read you far too well. I want to know about Louis."

"Lu-iz? What about him?"

"Ach! Put some backbone in it!" The Englishman's French was deplorable! How could Louis put up with such atrocity!

"Pooh, not a frog¹⁰, never will be!" Rutherford proclaimed in a disgusted voice.

"Very funny. You have something against the French."

"Snail and frog eaters-"

"Surprises me that Louis is your friend then."

"Now, Sirrah!" the English was frigid, his pale blue eyes showing anger. "We could stand here freezing our arses, or you could take a second to dawdle on the questions, I much prefer to finish them this year, if you don't mind."

Very sharp. Rutherford could certainly take Louis' humor then.

"I want to know who Sergei is."

The name that had come up often enough. Handsome young man with curling dark hair. Lestat caught a distinct image of a pair of pretty eyes, the wide smiling lips, and that face leaning toward his fledgling-

He shut out the image instantly, like slapping close a book. Lestat had no wish to know the particulars of that intimacy. His fledgling would always be his Louis, his lover his Louis whom he knew so well.

"I want to know what happened."

"Why the o'boy's in such a state? You could go ahead, help yourself to the serving, cold meats and pigeon livers in the bar-"

"I insist on hearing it, and you will tell me."

Perhaps Rutherford felt his anger. The Englishman was visibly shaken, his face had turned a few shades paler. He swallowed, controlling the urge to flee, and debating with himself on the merits of facing off an unknown vampire of such strength that he had never seen before, perhaps ending up a neat pile on the filthy ground; and that of cowardice. His pride would not allow cowardice

Slowly Rutherford began in an uneasy voice, sharp and hurried. "That week a year ago..."

"Yes."

"Louis called everyone- truth to the matter, I had my head in a hole for a week! And that nincompoop had to come out," Rutherford slowed down, true emotions coming to his face. "The idiot, reckless fool, right smack in the center o'the melee... Sergei's a puddle o'soot. Simple, just like that. Does that explain? Answer your damnable question?"

"So Sergie didn't care for warnings," Lestat mused, wondering about Louis' choice of companions.

"Honest to say the good for naught's a half wit. I wouldn't say Louis favoured him especially, still..."

"Go on."

"Still, Sergei's quite a darling. Dotes on our chap here, cheers him up without fail, breaks your heart every time with his sweetness."

The very reason why Louis had been coming to San Francisco then. The reason why their reconciliation could never be complete... The bitterness threatened to well over, a terrible pain which he pushed away.

"... might be the reason why the feller's taking it so harshly..." Rutherford was going on, muttering to himself, thinking aloud. Typical English behavior. "Persistent little pup-"

"Persistent, as in?"

"Persis..." Rutherford looked up, clearly startled from his thoughts. He cleared his throat, frowning, regarding his confidence and affecting a superior air. "Persistent in his pursuit of course. Need I put it in plainer words, perhaps paint it on canvas, write it on a handbill as word from the Regent's declaration?"

Convoluted English!

And so it was, after all need Louis, with all his charms, his beautiful refined appearance, would he ever need to encourage or demand for attention?

He stepped back, effectively disappearing completely from the Englishman's limited peripheral sight. He watched the man search the street, getting into a dither and a fit of indignity.

"Don't take it pon' yourself to thank me, sirrah!" Rutherford muttered angrily, adjusting his vest and coat before going on his way, grumbling to himself over his rotten luck.

Taking this knowledge with him as he considered the fog that was engulfing the city; the damp coldness enveloping him, a true reflection of his thoughts, he did not have the slightest idea as to what to do...

He felt the walls closed around him, crushing the life out of him excruciatingly slowly. And what more would he deserve, the very one who had woken the engine of destruction. . .

They were early this evening.

He found them a long Polk Street. Louis was walking in a straight-back manner; he hardly observed what Rutherford was prattling on about.

"It's your kind of place-"

"The passport and papers first, please."

"Oh, what gratitude! Just so bloody gracious as always! Now look here, the club's superb, and chances of you meeting someone you like- or well, you could invite that chap of yours to come along."

"What?" Louis stopped, looking at his companion, quizzing him intently with his eyes. "What did you say?"

"Way back, 'bout a hundred feet away. Your Frenchie brute of a friend," Rutherford nodded back, turning slightly. "Don't want your friend to read me wrong though, I pretty much like my life, dowdy as it is."

Louis turned back, there were only a few people milling the streets.

"I'll get your things together now, don't worry your head over it, now take your dinner," Rutherford kissed him quickly on the cheek. "If you change your mind, you know where to find the club."

Louis walked on slowly after watching his friend turn off the street.

He followed. And when the last of the mortals had turned off, he had allowed the sole of his boots to touch the ground. His steps echoed in the streets lined with vacant, boarded up houses mostly. He knew Louis heard him, and knew who it was.

"Going somewhere?"

Louis raised his head, cocking to the side but not looking at him. "Just the necessary papers." Louis spoke slowly, but he went on, steeped in thought, the green eyes wandering aimlessly from side to side without seeing.

Lestat did not know what he could say, he had come forward on an impulse, forced by that damned English to show himself. No words formed in his head, no clever or cutting remark.

"Are you staying for long then?" he asked finally.

Louis looked at him with that distracted look, then ever so slowly his shoulders made a fluid movement, a small non-committal shrug.

Oh, that night, that very night... Lestat felt the cold gripping his heart, Louis had looked as distant and catatonic. He thanked his dark Gods that they were not in New Orleans, that he need not walk down to Rue Dumaine, and start recalling how ignorant, how naive he had been, never once suspecting there was such foul and evil schemes going to work in the town house... That he would be bundled and abandoned in the stinking swamps before the light of day...

Contemptible memory. The anger was dull, a slow current in the black sea where he sailed his craft; his sea of pain...

Louis went on, unaware of his surrounding, uncaring to the world.

Strangely there was comfort in the silence.

He spent the entire night on his own, knowing that Louis would be walking like a phantom haunting the streets. And he found himself at the wharf again. He stared at the distant tiny island called Alcatraz in abstract wonder. That was where all the vampires should be put, a place where evil and death could be put side by side in cells, imprisoned for life, in the insufferable cold bleakness. That brought a smile to his lips. Oh, how amusing that would have been.

This night, he let himself into Rutherford's flat. Turning, even before his eyes saw, he knew Louis sat in the parlor.

His old friend...

Disheveled black hair tumbling into his eyes. Louis slumped in the settee, one elbow on the arm, the heel of his hand at his temper, and one boot at the edge of the low coffee table; he would probably have damaged the satiny finishing doing that. They did that often enough. The furniture in the town house had to be changed ever so often because of their careless habits, but it gave a good excuse to choose from the ever-eager drapers with the new imported fabrics for the upholstery; the importers of fine French furniture...

Louis opened his eyes to look at him once, he did not say a single word, and he had closed his eyes again.

Lestat moved slowly into the room, his mind moving sluggishly over the words that he would say. "So it seems we are caught in the same predicament," he began, standing away.

"And that is?" soft voice, devoid of emotion.

"It seems we are equally out of love," he said this with some amount of self-derision.

Louis looked up at him, slightly surprised. But the blankness returned, the green eyes were dull and listless.

"Why don't you come home, we can wallow in misery together... Indulge your favourite past time."

Imagine, what a sublime idea...

Louis smiled just a little, bemused.

At least there had been some reaction. His black headed fledgling lifted his hand to run his fingers through his loose dark hair, languidly, and totally enthralling.

Lestat felt as if his heart would go to burst to stand there, to be so distant and so unfeeling, so unfeeling to his lover's pain.

"You think so?" the voice was so low, the French sent warmth to his aching heart.

He forced himself to be silent, to think of what was important, what he should say, what he really wanted to say. He touched the ornate designs of the bookshelves, the panels of dark wood. A consummate English warmth resided in everything he saw. This place reminded him so much of David Talbot that it brought a stab of pain, like a flash of light cutting through the dark...

"Or would you prefer to be on your own?"

"Like what you're doing to yourself?" there was a touch of irony in that voice, a mock sober look on Louis' weary face.

He could not help it, he laughed shaking his head. Even in their darkest hour... Could he ever do without the humor of one Louis de Pointe du Lac?

He went to sit with Louis, sinking into the soft cushions, digging the heel of his boot into the seat. Oh, how tired he really was. The softness, the comfort, the physical relief was a good enough excuse to just close his eyes, to sleep shoulder to shoulder with his comrade in pain and loss. And who else was more eloquent in the language of melancholy than his dearest friend?

The silence was bearable knowing Louis was there. More bearable than the damnable silence he forced himself into, night after night knowing Louis waited for his answer but he could not give any. And now, he could never hope for the same passionate fledgling, the same spirited Louis de Pointe du Lac to come to him, begging for the truth, could he?

His Louis de Pointe du Lac, the sensualist who could drown him in quick passion...

"Do you still want to go to Paris?" he roused himself to ask at last.

"A little pilgrimage... Doesn't matter really, I could get a friend to go in my stead."

"Rutherford."

"You've been talking to him," Louis smiled, cocking his head. "Ah, he told you..."

"Does he have a choice?" he gave a little wicked grin, flash of fang.

Louis laughed silently. "I think not."

The heavy gloom dissipated somewhat. Indeed he caught himself admiring the moon. It was glorious tonight; a shield of pure white brilliance, risen over the nondescript buildings, the concrete towers with tiny pigeonholes.

Gently he reached out, he laid his hand on Louis' shoulder. Respectful; excepting; a gesture between friends, between equals. The master had cast off his apprentice, and the Dark Court had decreed through ample trials of fire and grueling tests, that this vampire was more than ready on his own.

And so they are equals.

And so we are. He wanted to say this. But he did not. He savored the thoughts, the sensations, the deep and surging emotions of fear, anger, and joy that Louis no longer needed him... They comforted each other in silence, in their mutual presence. It was a miracle of sorts considering that the mind of the maker was closed to his child. But no words passed between them.

"Think about it," he muttered finally, hearing the Englishman on his way back, and gave Louis a firm pat on the shoulder.

Louis nodded, there was a certain flicker of emotions in his eyes.

How he wanted to kiss those lips. But he pressed a kiss to Louis' forehead, a good enough gesture of affection between gentlemen. And he left San Francisco without a backward glance.

Life settled back into an endless procession of re-discovery. He accepted the silent parade of delights in the passing winter, and then the coming warmth of spring. He did not consciously engage in thought.

And on an early spring day he noticed a frenzy of activity in one of the flats across the street in Rue St. Anne. So little happened, so little changes occurred in the small community that it caught his attention immediately. While he ignored the general hype, it was a continuous surprise to know how every mortal was swept up by the trickling bits of news; even the waitress at Cafe du Monde seemed to have a clear picture of the amount of money involved in the transaction, the compensation paid to the tenants to vacate the piece of property.

He was across the street, walking toward the Town Square when he saw a young man with a portfolio talking energetically with the contractor, his English very rapid and business-like: someone from out of town obviously.

Lestat crossed over just in time to engage the man before he could fit himself into his low slung Continental sportscar.

It turned out that this mortal was an architect and a designer specializing in restoration works on the main. He had been called upon on this project by a good friend. Friendly, brimming with enthusiasm and passion for his work, the mortal was all too happy to talk to a fellow lover of aged buildings and historical works. He had presented his business card to Lestat, asking him to please give a call whenever he had any wish to restore any of his properties in New Orleans. But for the time, he had to leave; he had a dozen appointments in Europe that needed attending to.

Late in the twilight, Lestat had stepped into the old building, to lay his eyes on the work in progress. Wood paneling and beautiful wallpapers of ivory and gold. The closets were being built into the walls. And how smooth and lacquered all the surfaces were... He liked to walk through the empty rooms, to see the newly completed paneling, to smell the richness of the wood, to see the rich varnish on them. This felt so much like the time when they, the three of them walked through the empty Rue Royale town house, enjoying the new discoveries, the new additions that the carpenters had worked on in the day.

Some weeks later, the Rue St. Anne apartment's commission was coming to completion, it had been something to draw his mind away from any thoughts. And he had come back to a surprise to his rooftop apartment.

He saw a card on his table.

He was certain there was nothing there before he left. He had not sifted through his mail for weeks, and the breeze could not have carried this in.

Lestat snatched up the card, he had no patience for suspense.

It was a calling card! Ah- he recognized the curves and the graceful scripts so well...

Louis de Pointe du Lac- damnable fledgling!

He laughed softly, racking his hair back. He walked the apartment, he made a small circuit of his rooms, he paced the parlor, he walked in circles laughing to himself.

And so it is. Point du Lac.

And so it is Louis, at long last...

Chapter 18 / Hope

Warning: Political science and history overkill

"I was altered permanently; I knew it and what I felt, most profoundly, for everything, even the sound of the playing cards being laid down one by one when the shining rows of solitaire, was respect. Lestat felt the opposite. Or he felt nothing... I must tolerate in him in a frame of mind which was blasphemous to life itself." Part I - IWTV

"He did not start forward to seize on my slightest pause, to assert an understanding of something before the thought was finished, or to argue with a swift, irresistible impulse- the things which often made dialogue impossible." Part III - IWTV

-Day 18-

Would they ever change from how they were before; their appearances, the same with the passing of every winter. Even so Louis was paler, certainly paler than when he was before.

These writings, he passed his fingers over the aged paper, feeling the indentation of the pen; the quill pen that had left the distinct marks on the thick-yellowed paper, they were the same. This was the same calligraphy, which Louis used even today, so filled with discipline and so unlike the thin scribbles of modern untrained hands.

Some of the pages were singed. He knew the obvious reason. After all they had been found in the back parlor, the place where he had spilt his blood, where he had been cast in a sea of fire. At least this had come off scorch free compared to him!

Here he was in his dusty attic alcove. Lestat closed the journal; it was Louis', something the contractors' found hidden in the old plasters amongst other objects. It was indeed a journal the mortal Louis de Pointe du Lac kept, containing mostly all too practical things, names of contacts, observations made of people of influence, and of business investments.

It was a very different life then. Louis was the master of the Pointe du Lac plantation, a highly respected young man trying to fulfill the promises made to a departed father, his overbearing siblings and widowed mother. It was perhaps a simple life with the sole aim of bringing prosperity to Pointe du Lac, whether in wealth or in stature. Like any other bourgeois, the young planter wanted to overreach even the noblesse¹¹, and what better place would that have been than a wild and unregulated outpost of the ancien regime¹².

Protected in the wombs of New Orleans, planters like Louis would never have guessed that even by the time of Louis' revered father, the noblesse in the main had nothing to show than their marketable deeds of nobility that served only to perpetuate their high maintenance decadent life styles and to save them from the debtors' gallows.

Louis, a nonpareil of society like his fellow bourgeois planters, lived only to dress well, to hone the refinement of their address and decorum. With such pride for his achievements, his station in society, Louis de Pointe du Lac had as much damnable pride and ego as his reckless marker.

The simple truth was he could not tolerate the presumptuous nature to this pragmatist, the very components that made up Louis' world during those times, those damned bourgeois believes. He could never believe the number of times Louis sold himself to mere appearances, to superficial nothings. The shallowness of it all positively infuriated Lestat.

He would admit that he was oftentimes short-tempered; he was sarcastic and nasty toward Louis but how else was he to react to such infuriating occurrence? Everyone with a wig and tricorne was a gentleman, every fob with a title was a noblesse, and every colored person had to be a slave. His taunting was aimed only at uncovering such preposterous logics!

Life was so simple then. So without graduation was his Louis de Pointe du Lac.

The first year was pure hell, their quarrels over ego and pride often deteriorated to outright fighting, grappling and pushing, the destruction of many a piece of well crafted furniture. It was no small wonder that the slaves found them suspicious!

Yes, that was sport! Taunting and provoking Louis into a reaction, putting him in a fix with perplexing questions, and to have the young bourgeois curse him with indignation. But he truly was not that cruel, he was indeed hoping for the day when Louis could see through his follies, to open his eyes to see the world for its goodness. He wanted so much to show his beloved fledgling that the colored people had just as much dignity as every other person, that it was nothing to have such lustrous appearance; indeed, discrimination was a trick of the mind, the play of pride and ego and conceitedness.

Louis had never been an abusing master, aside from the arbitrary punishment for disobedience; he was a detached master who saw only the objective of an orderly and growing plantation and factory. But he was nonetheless used to being the master and the lord.

How he had served Louis the ultimate insult to his person when he called him a slave! What was he to do when overtaxed by Louis' persistent questions and demands for answers; the words had come on an impulse. They had an all out brawl, and his ever-innovative gentleman fledgling had issued a challenge, that they should fight it out in a duel. What an absurd suggestion!

"If you are more of a man, I would have called you out!" he was sputtering with choked up anger, going from extreme paleness to beetroot redness.

"And what are you, pray tell?"

Oh, how furious Louis was and he could not help but laugh uproariously in Louis' face.

But the impetuous, arrogant and antagonistic bourgeois who squandered on Parisian fashion, good food and wine, on the gaming tables and expensive tarts did change. He did often sat to consider when exactly Louis started on his path of self-destruction, from a creature of habit and diligence, to one who neglected everything.

How right Louis had been to say that he, the wicked devil had created Claudia to keep him from drifting away. Whether in folly, he never did know, but in desperation with the single thought of propelling Louis back into the living world. Louis needed to exercise some form of obligation, to regain his social bearings. And with Claudia, Louis never looked more prim and proper, falling into his role of protector and teacher with equal pride and industry.

In his quest for quick remedies, he had blundered terribly. He was to be blamed for the pain of betrayal, humiliation and torments. All three of them had paid their due.

So should he ask for anything if he had the finest company of his beloved fledgling? Should he complain that Louis had his independence?

"Dress as they dress, and act as they act Lestat, how do you think anonymity works?" Louis had asked him patiently.

"You mean rags and drab costumes of victims of casualties."

Louis had laughed politely. "It's the new age, this is how everything works."

"French Louis, French!"

"Slip of the tongue," Louis said with mock sobriety in his New World flavored English.

"Christ, as if I've not had enough of that!"

"Progress seems to only occur in your English."

"Thank you very much for your most gracious observations."

"My pleasure."

"Much better, that!"

Louis shook his head, he never quite understood his maker but he had not made another comment after that; there was a time when he could provoke a more predictable response from Louis

Lestat hefted the journal in his hand, he would find the perfect time one of these nights to return it to Louis. Perhaps his fledgling would be surprised. On the other hand, Louis might not want to have anything to do with it. All the same, it would be interesting to watch Louis' expression.

-Day 19-

He stood in the hallway. That door was open, that door which had been closed, which remained unopened after the renovations were completed.

Was he afraid to walk in there to find the colors so vibrant, to find that the past was here, but it wasn't there? There was only one truth, and he held it in his heart now as he came to that doorway.

Ah, close your eyes; close yourself against the pain that will come.

He stared.

It was Louis, and he lay so still on the ground, at the foot of the bed. He could hardly hear Louis' breathing, it was his pounding heart, the sudden panic that he would walk into a void and never see the ones he loved; it was that sudden feeling of dislocation from reality.

Quietly he lay down beside Louis. It was a comfort to know that he could open his eyes and see his lover. He closed his eyes...

'Her ladyship cannot be appeased tonight of all nights," he pulled Louis by his arm.

'How can you approve of her standing before the easel for the entire night without end? That is not the way!'

'No more improper than you moldering away at your desk.'

'She's a child Lestat!'

'She knows what she wants, leave her be. At least you should have the decency to respect that-'

'Decency?' Louis' eyes were flashing, the colors coming up his cheeks dramatically.

"Ah, what a dreadful word,' he said teasingly. 'Forgive my manners.'

'You are pass all possible patience-'

'Yes, yes,' he said with mock distress. 'Why don't I make it up to you? We'll go to the cabaret before your appointment? Now I know you like that wench just come from Paris-'

"I am not inclined to believe that interests me!'

'Of course it does,' he came closer, admiring the color on Louis' face. 'We can see the emigre¹³ newly arrived, the new blood-'

'Go yourself if it so interest you!' Louis brushed pass him and head for the stairs.

'Of course it interests you Louis,' he chuckled.

He caught the door before Louis could close it in his face. And he saw a fresh copy of a book at the side table the moment he entered. Lestat picked it up, noting the crude binding and the poor typeset. Such materials were always finding their way to New Orleans through questionable sources, mostly amongst the circles of bourgeois who claimed themselves as art patrons and anti-monarchist; everyone was swept up by the events happening in France.

'By God, what are you reading?' he laughed outright. 'Heaven help you Louis, this is flagrant disregard for the arts, the refined, the cultures of our civilization!'

Louis glared at him without speaking, then ignored him to open his armoire.

'Don't you think he did so well in his fervent efforts of advancing Roberspierre? I daresay the voice of your bourgeois interests!' Lestat flipped the cover, while there was no mention of authorship, it did not surprise him at all, people all over Paris would have known who wrote this play.

'Obviously he's your kind of villain,' Louis laid out his coat and vest, and then started to tie his cravat with expert fingers.

'Perhaps a tad overt in showcasing his aberrations but nonetheless, I have to admit he is a most admirable writer.'

'People of your stamp obviously! People of your kind who take the Social Contract¹⁴ as a bible!'

'And what part of Rousseau's philosophy should offend you?' he sneered.

'It's exactly because of Rousseau and those-'

'The enlightenment of a whole society, liberalization of a people who have been tied down in chains for too long. Imagine the goodness in that.'

"That's exactly because of Rousseau, Voltaire and the whole lot! The noblesse be cursed but by God this is going too far!'

'You can be persecuted for being a supporter of the red-heeled aristocrat brigands.'

'Jacobin and Enrages¹⁵ sympathizer-'

'For Heaven's sake Louis, they're the very aspirations of your people, your bourgeois soul, show some support!'

'What aspirations? They have all but destroyed the luminary history of France! They are perverted beasts who just want the blood!' Louis had turned, the cravat half tied and his eyes were narrowed and accusing.

'Oooo, that reminds me of something here,' he said in a conspiring air. 'Who do you think might be more merciful than the crackling old hags of Place de la Greve who cheer the tumbrels? And who might be swifter to decision than the revolutionary tribunal? And who, might be so much less excruciating than Madam Guillotine?' he made a flourishing bow to Louis. 'M'seur Merciful Death!'

There was pure hate in Louis' eyes, and it goaded Lestat on.

'Ah to think you could have earned your fame as our very own Angel of Death!¹⁶'

'People are slaughtered everyday!' Louis advanced his hands curling into fists. "You are a fiend, a Sadean beast! You should be put in the Bastille- that's why they walled him up in there, pity the mob didn't lay their filthy hands on him!'

'Such words Louis.'

'How the hell-'

'Language Louis, language,' he laughed. 'You wouldn't want your precious daughter hearing that, would you?'

'What would you care about!' Louis controlled himself and turned back furiously to attend to his cravat and shrugged on his vest and coat.

How enticing Louis looked.

"Do you have no feelings for those people,' Louis said in a low voice, quivering just a little with barely suppressed rage.

To hear that voice, to hear that perfect accent, it was so rich and yet so delicate.

'Pity that we couldn't have been there, perfectly good food wasted!' he winked at Louis.

The disbelief on Louis' face was almost comical, behold the absolute horror intermingled with fury and disgust; Louis was always too beautiful for words.

'You are a devil, you are a perfect devil Lestat!'

That started him on a laughing fit without fail, such sweet flattery. Could he ever grow tired of hearing this?

'Bastard!'

The look on Louis' face sent him into raptures! But Louis was not staying, he grabbed his gloves and giving Lestat another look of pure disgust, slammed the door close behind him.

By the time he recovered, Lestat realized he could have overstepped himself. Dutifully he had returned the book to the original place, then quickly dress himself in the latest acquisitions he had made from his tailor while making plans for the night.

Leaving the townhouse present, he seek a light appetizer. He was dispatching his victim while contemplating on the likelihood of appearing before the window of M'dm de Tournay. But he would abandon the idea since the portly M'dm's dastard husband had misfired his pistol the last time and put an end to their precious poodle. That was a tragedy, and he would not think to intrude on a grieving family, it would be most distasteful and disrespectful. But how Louis had stared at him as if he was mad when he chanced to mention about this incident.

'A mild mannered creature with perfect temperament, it was a tremendous loss.'

'What the hell is the matter with you?' Louis threw up his hands in utter frustration. 'The life a dog, a dog! And it's more important than a man?'

That brought a smile to his lips, he could feel the laughter but this was not the time, he had seen his gentleman friend. Lestat stepped into the shadows watching Louis talk to his agent energetically about business and investments, harvest rates and export figures. The man nodded politely, thanking his patron saint as Louis slipped his gloves on, adjusting them, then turned to walk down the bustling thoroughfare.

He followed; taking his time to watch Louis weave among the hawkers, skillfully side stepping the beggars, and finally making to enter the gambling hall.

Lestat was a step behind and when he went up the narrow staircase, he came face to face with his fledgling who had no doubt been waiting for him.

'Solitaire tonight?' he smiled, flicking a spec from Louis' shoulder.

'Don't even come near me, I have nothing to say to you!' the green eyes blazed.

'It was nothing but a discussion, I don't see why you should put it to heart.'

'Lives are lost, lives!'

'And that upsets you?' he smiled and decided he should not go on upsetting his beloved companion, he was still hopeful they would come to a comfortable settlement and proceed on to a splendid evening, some cards, dancing, perhaps a tart or two and with her ladyship so engrossed with her work, the house was theirs!

Louis set his mouth sternly, fuming but not speaking.

'Exactly how far away are you from France? Have you any idea how Paris looks like my friend?' he lifted his brow questioningly. 'Why can't you see past the immediate-'

'Don't you have relations in France-' Louis lowered his voice consciously; the conversation about the political situation of France was after all a sensitive matter in those times.

A man with an intoxicated harlot on his arm grunted an expletive as he staggered pass them.

'And to you too,' Lestat said after the drunk airily, he turned back to his fledgling.

'I should think you have,' Louis said through clenched teeth. 'They're probably there cutting off locks of hair from the dead heads that fall!'

Lestat stared at Louis- what was in that letter? A mob had risen, killing his family, his only living family, his brothers, his tender nephews and nieces. How vividly he saw them in his mind's eye. The sadness was like the darkest pain in him but he refused to succumb to it and instead the pain turned many folds to anger, directed at Louis.

'You're a pathetic excuse of a vampire Louis, that's what you are! Your eyes are closed to everything,' he stepped forward and saw the stubborn look on Louis' face, that drew out his anger even more, like a fire spreading through his veins. 'What is the value of a life to you? What do you know about that when you can't see pass the clutter to the crux-'

'Oh yes I do,' Louis hissed, his frown deepening, his expression suffused with bitterness. 'The crux is you're the very agent of evil that has locked us forever in this purgatory!'

That arrested the sharp ascend of his unchecked anger. He stared at Louis, at the sharp angles of this beautiful face. And he could not help himself, he chortled. The more indignant Louis looked, the more it made him want to laugh.

'Ah, why do we even bothered to keep the library!' he said trying to quiet himself. 'We should have thrown out everything, that worthless pile of dust you dare claim to be a library!'

Louis shifted as he woke. When Lestat put his hand on his fledgling's waist, it had quite completely startled Louis.

"Lestat."

Deep in your thoughts again eh,' he smiled leaning forward to plant an affectionate kiss on Louis' forehead.

"The other day," Louis began after a long moment of thoughtful silence, but he had stopped.

Lestat waited, and when Louis did not continue, he grew attentive to Louis' every expression. "The other day," he supplied.

"It's nothing," Louis shook his head after some amount of consideration.

"Come, what is it that you want to say?" he said softly and persuasively.

The green eyes moved from him to the room, a slow examination of the painted wall and Louis' face grew sad. "There's such a thing as retribution, isn't there?"

Lestat stared at his fledgling after that utterance, the obvious meaning seemed to be lost to him. "Why are you saying this?" he whispered.

"I don't know."

"Because you see goodness even in evil," he muttered.

"Goodness, righteousness."

"Then let me ask you, do you truthfully regretted everything? What of the experiences, what of love; the friends and lovers you have known- can you say they are all bad, that there had been no happiness, no goodness?"

"Ah," Louis turned back to him, the emotions cresting. "If I can be you, to be so convinced, to be so sure of it all, to be free to know that..."

"But nobody can be completely sure Louis, we have to seek the answers, to look at the truth in ourselves as much as out there in the physical world."

"And not to rest on simple answers, to use Marius words."

"Yes. To look at every perspective, be it good or evil."

"But still, to rob a life of its potentials, that is irrevocably a crime."

"Your belief," he breathed, and he wondered about the times when he had set Louis in the most difficult situations, forcing him to always make the most terrible decisions, testing his dilemmas.

"And yours," Louis smiled, the sadness leaving him looking mellow. "And now?"

Lestat watched his lover keenly. "To hope."

"To hope?"

"Yes," he smiled. "Ah, the Pandora Box..."

"Pandora?" Louis asked mystified. "She's..."

"Not Pandora, not her, not that fragile creature of Marius."

"You'll be surprised."

"Oh? Did I miss something?" he asked, looking at Louis, watching him with intense interest.

"She has an amazing personality, very generous-"

"And beautiful. And what is she doing with my fledgling?" he raised his eyebrows questioningly to see the amused look on Louis' face.

"I'll tell you one day," Louis moved to get up.

"A moment, I don't understand what you're saying," he said with mock seriousness. "I demand an explanation."

"When we have time and peace Lestat, some night-"

"We have time, and peace."

Louis cocked his head and laughed silently shaking his head.

"Come Louis, you've been going round in circles tonight," he said this as gently as he could manage. "What is it that you want to say?"

Louis took a deep breath; his face was so softened with warmth. "Perhaps I have been going round in circles without knowing all the time," he paused. "But I believe I'm not the only one with this affliction."

"Is that so?"

"And entertaining illusions."

"Mon Dieu Louis, and I thought that was your vocation!"

"That I'm not sure, especially not of lighting candles at Saint Louis."

"But moldering in an orphanage, wearing the wax off the floor boards, you can't deny that," he laughed.

"Keeps the dust off," Louis shrugged with a broad smile.

"You are tipsy today my friend talking like that," Lestat said indulgently, he could not resist kissing Louis.

They got up, and found themselves studying the mural, the repainted mural which was just as vibrant and new as it once was long ago. This was all that was left of that adorable child, as the entire house was for the both of them, Louis and Lestat.

Louis closed the door behind the, silently. "I don't think that's where I'm heading for."

"Let's come down to the garden," he said guiding Louis to the stairs. "I think the night is beautiful."

"Mmmmm."

"Why, did to much modernity change your appreciation of the garden?"

The lips twitched. "Of course not. I should think there's still a little summer left."

"And there it is, it's still summer, isn't it?" and he smiled.

Chapter 19 / Recrimination

***1998 / Lestat Awakes***

This was a familiar path, as was this neighborhood. The dense foliage of the giant magnolias and the oaks were the same. He could see the tinge of yellow; bits of paint barely there on the faded walls of the Victorian house even in the drizzle that was growing heavier.

He walked the footpath that used to be there. Now this was a quagmire, the soft slippery earth pulled his boots down into the muck as he sloshed through the growth of weeds.

The creepers were flourishing over the unrecognizable pile of what used to be that shack, that tiny cottage. The Savage Garden prospered in the wake of any destruction.

His thoughts went to Gabrielle inevitably as he looked at the residual of color on that wall that was now giving way to grayish black; the scorch marks, claws of the fire that had ravished the insignificant cottage. He thought of their silence, their separation, and their happiness that was as absolute in its entirety as the pain; somehow he always tasted the pangs of separation when he saw her.

And now with Louis, did he think all could be resolved? This relic was the useless effigy of his raging heart and dreadful temper. But alas, even at this moment the decrepit pile was slowly disintegrating, disappearing so that once again there would only be his memories to be contented with, to be tormented with in cold and miserable nights like this.

He sat in the dampness of the rotted boards, watching the silver of rain beating the leaves and creepers as his mind drifted back...

***1987***

It was a dim and depressing time of his life even though there was such wonders in this modern word and Louis had returned. He was lost in time, traveling as it was between time zones, early evenings in Hong Kong on a Tuesday followed by the same Tuesday evening in the American city of any of his random pickings. It was wonderfully fun to send a fax from the Grand Hyatt at Kowloon to the Park Central Hotel in Miami, and to have it delivered to his door the moment he set foot freezing cold from the skies.

It was wonderfully fun as it lasted until he chided himself for the perfectly preposterous nature of the entire adventure.

The truth was there were moments when he felt the monstrous nature of everything, sorrowful of what had gone to past. Where was the little devil in this white and hard shell? Where?

But you're gone, you know... Changed into this dark god, this thing that could tap into the vortex of thoughts, a veritable chorus from hell, a whirlwind of dazzling colors, of dim and blurred images.

And this raging thirst. Dear God help me! Is this purgatory?

Better that Louis never know. Ah, but he does, doesn't he? Why wait? Why let the thirst flare into a circle of pain, let it burn in every vein and vessel? That was the only way to truly appreciate life, like the purest water to parched lips. A true connoisseur, his Louis.

He was bored. He was tired beyond relief. He was unhappy and lost. Surely it was time to return to New Orleans after all.

It gave him a measure of peace to think about his fledgling, his quiet gentleman friend. There was many a secret about his beloved green eyed companion and lover that would never be written in his various memoirs, the details which he would keep in this preternatural brain that never forget.

His Louis was the unchanged bourgeois; and could such a person live in an environment of true asperity? Most certainly not. Even in those years Louis kept the accounts in order, the records, the neatly tired up bundles of receipts and statements. The business minded bourgeois would never change; he always had such perfect business sense. Louis de Pointe du Lac was such a miserly creature, he would not spend an extra Louis d'or on something that did not have a tangible value he approved of or understood but he would squander on lavish celebrations at the opera, paying court to the singers, relishing in his role as a prominent patron of the arts. And Louis had never failed to scoff at him, the "prattling idiot", the "materialist lout".

Never mind that Louis stumbled around in total chaos at this age but true to his nature, he would be ensconced in the apartment he had acquired at Rue St. Ann. All the furnishing had been sent down from his' San Francisco residence; there were the many book shelves, the leather bound books, these were the true treasures Louis had amassed during his years of walking the earth. And there were also the computer, the printer and various miscellaneous gadgets in his office that helped him keep the numbers straight, and his mortal agents could follow-up on his accounts easily.

But the vexing thing about Louis was his long periods of absence; he would be back in New Orleans and find her deserted. When he did sit down with Louis, somehow there was a veil between them which made conversation difficult.

He was weary when he finally arrived, windblown and sore. Louis was there in his study, he could hear the soft steps in the apartment. He took his time up the narrow fleet of steps, quietly entering the apartment and making his way down the dimly lit hallway, turning right to the room that Louis had designed as his office.

There he stood, a bundle of papers in his hands, the green eyes attentive and clear.

"You're early," Louis put the pile at the corner of his writing desk. He was wearing a sweater and wool pants, the kind of attire he donned for his trips up the East coast.

"And how is New York?" he took his chair, the red bergiere; he had bought a pair of them during one of his whimsical trip to Italy and had them shipped back.

"Fairly chilly," Louis sorted through another pile of papers, and then deposited them into the mahogany wastepaper bin.

Lestat recalled suddenly of a certain night when the New Orleans' night was humid and burning and there was no urge to talk, Louis had brought out an entire stack of account backlog, they had crushed the flimsy sheets of paper and threw them into well placed bins down the long hallway. The design and the look of the bin was not unlike this one standing here in the room. It was frivolous fun then, they had such a laugh, shooting paper volleys until the M'lle burst into the front parlor asking for some peace, that they take their racket and puerile nonsense out whilst she was reading her precious novels.

Those were such lustrous days!

He followed Louis with his eyes, his fledgling engaged in a world of his own, in a world that no longer included his maker.

"I was here a month ago, you were not about," he spoke abruptly, breaking the silence.

"I was here the entire spring," Louis raised his brow questioningly, then turned to resume his work.

He, the maker, the Vampire Lestat was ignored. It was just as well that he wasn't there! It made him restless and impatient, the exhaustion from his mad wanderings in the past weeks was almost too much for him to bear, he had hoped for some warmth, a place where he could rest his weary head; somewhere that held familiarity to give him some comfort.

"You've been with that stiff upper lip, smog lover of a friend of yours?" he scowled.

"No. I have not seen Rutherford for a while," Louis did not look up.

He shifted in the bergiere. This was working on his nerves.

"But you've been around," Louis said as he tied a bundle of papers with twill.

"Not as much as you," he flung the words back glowering.

His black haired companion deposited the papers in their rightful cabinets. "I meant to ask you something."

The set of the mouth, the sober expression on Louis face told him plainly what was coming, and he clenched his jaw instinctively.

"I read about what you've been doing," the green eyes locked on him sternly. "It's all over the papers. I can imagine Marius-"

"Charmed as usual Louis, you never do lose your touch," Lestat sneered, he crossed his legs. "You still go through the newspapers with a fine tooth comb!"

"What is wrong with staying in New Orleans Lestat?"

"Ah, nothing. Except that someone always has some irksome appointment that keeps him away for weeks and months on end."

"You know that's not a fair statement," he said, the first spark of anger in the green eyes.

"Fairness? Do I hear the word fairness?" Lestat put both feet on the ground and leant forward. "Ah, Rue Dumaine is pure extravagance, such rank materialism compared to this!" he threw up his hand to include the entire room, and gripped the arms of his chair, almost half standing from his seat. "Thumb your nose on materialism any time M'sieur de Pointe du Lac, such nobility for a bourgeois Lord!"

"You must admit you take things to extreme-"

"What paltry philosophy is that? Oh yes, as I recall from your little memoir, you're superior, how could I forget that!"

Louis visibly controlled his outrage and anger, the frown deepened and his lips were twitching when he spoke, his voice low and sufficed with feelings. "How can you expect any person to talk to you for even three minutes if you insist-"

"Talk?" he said furiously. "Talk? You call your monologue talking? Your dreary recitation, pious recommendations, platitude ad nauseam!"

"This is a new century Lestat, mortals are not gullible," Louis said, holding his anger in check so skillfully. "What you're doing is too blatant, Marius will-"

"Why don't we talk of something else for a change instead," he interrupted Louis, not waiting for his fledgling to react as he went on. "Why don't we talk of that Other, we have never spoken about him." He could be certain that Louis turned pale. "Him, that little lover of yours. Why don't we talk of him instead, your love, your fancy," he said this with venom and saw to his satisfaction how stunned Louis looked. "Was he so unforgettable? Or is it such devotion? Or, are you chasing your blasted phantoms again?"

"Why must it always have to be this way?" the anger melted, the expression on Louis face was heart breaking. "What of the love and concern-"

Sorrow fitted his melancholic friend, he wore it like a crest, like a totem or a cross; he is always so good at grieving!

"Love? Concern? Did you think I don't know what you're thinking about?" he said with a vehemence that he never knew he possessed, all the anger in the past few months, the disappointments and pain was boiling over and he did not care to control his voice. "Liar!"

How he relished the naked pain on Louis face! "What would you care about? What's another rogue off the streets, another lustrous creature with the face of an angel, another pretty face?"

"Show some respect for the dead for once in your life Lestat, I don't ask for very much more from you."

"Oh no you never asked for all this, you did not ask to be damned but you were seduced into wretched evil. And you would say the same about that accursed Russian now that he's nothing but soot? Admit it, there has never been even a shred of love, not affection, not concern!"

"Take that back," Louis' voice shook, the color drained out of his face, leaving his face starkly expressionless.

"You're nothing but a miserable lying bourgeois son of a bitch!"

"Bastard!"

Louis lunged at him, throwing his full down so that the chair was crushed on impact. The fists that struck at him were strong but what was that to his impregnable shell? Impotent and futile.

His hand shot up catching his fledgling by the jaw, hauling him up and slamming him down hard on the desk, so hard that the wood groaned in protest. It was so easy to hold Louis in place. And understanding the difference in their attributes of the Dark Gift, Louis had given up his struggles. The short black hair was disheveled, the blood sweat beading on his forehead.

"I could crush you with my bare hands, or I could burn you to cinders," he bent down whispering malignantly.

"You've always thrived on cruelty," Louis seethed, the anger never subsiding even if he had ceased his physical rebellion.

"Take your 18th century sensitivity and go to Hell Pointe du Lac!"

"And this is the goodness you preached? You are a fool Lestat, you know she's damned you forever the moment you took her blood."

"Don't you dare speak of her!" he grabbed the fabric in his hand and pressed Louis harder into the desk, up till today he still could not think of her, to speak her name and Louis' words was like a blade opening the festering wound.

"She did choose you with reason, indeed she made the perfect choice because you're fool enough!"

He was going to roar with anger, this fury that was like acid burning in his blood.

"You've come back to haunt the living, your evil recklessness, your utter disregard for another life. Tell me what goodness is there in this darkness you have damned us all in?" the harsh whisper was deafening in the absolute silence.

He could only hear his own labored breath and the irregular beat of his heart as his muscles tightened, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. Lestat staggered back in cold shock; in his mind's eye he could see the night when Louis was so determined to leave him and the astounded horror when Claudia was made...

"Oh that hurts, doesn't it?" Louis' voice was raspy and raw as he turned slowly to his side, pressing his face to his arm as he heaved with pain. Then ever so slowly he straightened up; there was such pain and anger in the dark green eyes.

Merciful Death.

"I wish to Hell it hurts to the quick, for only then you will taste the bitterness of this pain that I feel, knowing that your actions have brought upon his death."

This was molten pain, their pain. He felt Louis' suffering, he could taste it.

Louis stood himself up, trembling visibly but standing very dignified nonetheless and with grimness about him. Without the slightest haste he adjusted his clothes, smoothing out the creases. Then with measured steps Louis came before him, the green eyes were smoldering with such hate; with as much hate as the night when they quarreled, the young man who wanted the truth; the grieving father who lost his daughter... the man who lost his lover...

"If you have no wish to satisfy yourself, I beg leave to quit such ignoble company," squaring his shoulders Louis walked out without a backward glance.

Lestat stood there suffering the crushing waves in the black sea of his pain; overwhelming pain and self-loathing choked him, for that moment it was the only thing he felt, the only sensation, the only thought which obliterated all other things, this consuming fire that threatened to destroy him. Fragile and sorrowful and despairing he stumbled out, ungainly and blind to the streets. Walk, putting his feet one before the other, he wanted to walk as if nothing else meant anything, as if his life depended on it; he wanted the familiar streets to give some semblance of logic and sense, to find the path back to himself.

He ended up at the dreary wasteland. Somehow the forlorn and bleak spectacle, this horrid forgotten place did much to soothe his heart. Did he deserve anything better?

On his return, he took the path to their place of truce. And yes he was there, his old familiar friend. Lestat pushed open the door and entered, making his way in the gloom.

There, in the back pew sat the one he sought. His steps hardly echoed in the darkened church and he sat down beside Louis. In one glance he had memorized the image of tangled hair, the veil of red in the sharp green phosphorescent against the contrasting whiteness and blackness.

He drew in a breath, desperately summoning his courage to speak. "I want to tell you... I know, what I said was cruel... I don't want that to stand between us," his voice was steady at least.

Louis remained so still, one knee drawn up, and the white knuckles pressed against the high forehead. "You meant every word," the voice was thick with emotions.

"And should we say the truth?" he sighed deeply, sitting back. "Should we draw up the past? It was out of place, without decorum."

"And who would there be to observe such meaninglessness? What use is there for decorum, or propriety?"

"We cannot change who we are," Lestat struggled to speak. "I will not speak of that again, I give you my word."

"And you will have me do the same?" Louis turned, his eyes bloodshot, there was not so much anger as there was a raging bitterness. "And what will it be, what violence, what pain, what will it be to force me to such an arrangement again?"

"My dear old friend, bear me no ill will," he whispered.

Louis' eyes widened in shock, he shuddered visibly. Those were the very words, the script of that tragedy of a lost and despairing monster and his willful daughter.

"'Bear me no ill will.'"

On that very night Louis had served his humanity, his beating heart on a veritable platter to its death.

He reached out to lay his hand on Louis' neck, gently pressing his lips to the icy cheek. Ah, the taste of the blood tears on his tongue; the burning taste of his lover's pain. Lestat folded his arms about the trembling body and found it turn from weakened wretchedness to violence. And Louis fought against this object of absoluteness, this inanimate marble, this ghastly inhuman strength. He held onto Louis for the longest time until he felt the impotent struggles ebb to nothing. Enervated and defeated, exhausted in body and spirit Louis slumped against him.

Perhaps it was an hour, or perhaps it was half the night before Louis roused as if from the death sleep. He moved back, refusing to meet Lestat's eyes. Then standing up unsteadily, more like a drunkard he had stepped passed Lestat and left the church silently.

There, the playing cards lay on the velvet of the table, they were such beautifully printed French cards with the most intricate prints and their gilded edges and fine golden scripts. He could smell the fresh smell of the new deck too. They always played by the rules and they always would continue in their game of solitaire even if the other players come and go. It was inconceivable the game would stop, they were after all two Frenchmen with total understanding that the game must go on.

And so life would go on. The same, the same...

He sat here in the decrepit house feeling such bitterness and misery; the horizon was dark and unreadable, no super human strength, no preternatural gift could grant him the answers that he sought.

Lestat saw a movement in the shadows; someone had made it over the small iron fence, someone fleet-footed enough to escape the notice of the Vampire Lestat. And who could this be?

The figure approached the Victorian House, skirting the refuse that had been that decaying shack. Dark clothing, and a flash of incandescent green, so very vivid in the dark. Louis stepped into the shade, and their eyes met for the briefest moment before he sat down without a care beside his maker.

They sat in silence, listening to the rain that was falling steadily, beating on the crumbling tiles and moldering walls.

"You do realize it's been seven years."

Lestat looked up quickly, jolted out of his reverie. "Seven years," he mouthed the words without comprehension.

"David asked often enough why I had been so calm," Louis said with a faraway look to his eyes.

"David?" he muttered, and it dawned on him gradually what Louis was saying. He nodded, watching his fledgling intently.

"I knew you would come back," Louis smiled to himself, his eyes half-lidded.

Louis looked so much at peace with himself.

"Do you remember George Town, that house there?" he asked.

Another perplexing question. Lestat took a minute to connect the words to his memories; that mercilessly cold place, that place of his adventure into the mortal flesh, the experiment that he simply had to go through with. At least he had gained two companions of inestimable value in that experiment.

"Yes," he said, still not quite sure what Louis was getting at.

"Imagine if you haven't flown into a rage, perhaps things could have been very different."

"What's that?" he whispered rather mystified.

"That mirror, you broke that mirror," Louis said, he was absolutely serious when he said this.

"What?" he uttered. Lestat was stumped; this had stopped him completely in his tracks.

"Seven years," Louis nodded to himself solemnly, looking out at the falling rain, seemingly deep in thought. "Did you realize that?"

"You... You cannot honestly be serious about this!" he almost jumped up in haste, in disbelieve.

"I can believe in anything when it comes to you," Louis replied in a matter-of-fact manner.

Lestat shook his head; his mind was a blank for a full minute. "How comforting to know that!" he said finally, recovering from his surprise, and finding himself caught between anger and mirth. "How convenient! What a brilliant excuse!"

"When it comes to explaining the grandeur of our misgivings, I fear it's so," Louis mused.

"That's everything to do with your writing."

"I would correct that, it was my narrative based on perceptions."

"So you admit they are discriminating, these 'perceptions' as you deemed to call them," Lestat tried not to let the triumphant smile show on his face as he continued. "Your surly piece of writing made me out a villainous superficial oaf with naught to show for himself. What have you to say to that?"

Louis cocked his head, looking at him with a calm smile but he did not speak.

"How kind of you to make your sentiments known!" Lestat said deprecatingly narrowing his eyes. "How provoking!"

The smile grew wider and the spark of amusement in the eyes made Louis looked mesmerizing; did he ever have the strength to stay angry? He wanted to kiss that smile, to savor this moment but he refused to let his fledgling off this easily.

"Let's be on our way back before the rain gets any heavier." Louis stood up to brush the dirt from his clothes.

"You are provoking Louis," he pretended intolerance, turning away deliberately.

"Lestat," Louis looked at him with that small smile which asked for peace and understanding.

He did not turn to face his fledgling but he could almost be certain there was a smile on Louis face. And then he felt the coolness of Louis' breath on the side of his face, and the smooth silken lips pressed on his skin. This delectable kiss of such warmth and feeling.

Louis stepped away and slowly walked out into the drizzle. There were no words spoken between them but this silence had conveyed much more than mere words between them.

Lestat followed along, stepping out of the house. He tilted his face to feel the sprinkling of rain, to relish the miracle of this benediction.

Louis stood under the huge oaks waiting; his quiet calmness seemed more like reverence.

Only they would have understood the beauty of this scene, the dreary house, the ever thriving growth of fauna in New Orleans; they were after all two French men caught in the vortex of time.

Chapter 20 / The Rest is Silence

Based on the following quotes:

TotBT - Chapter one
"-the blazing warmth of fires and caresses, of kisses and arguments of love and longing and blood. // Ah, the Aztec gods must be greedy vampires to convince those poor human souls that the universe would cease to exist if the blood didn't flow."

MoD - Chapter One
"Perhaps I hadn't experience it since I had left him (David), with Louis."

He needed some time by himself and what better place than to walk in his favorite wasteland beneath the River Bridge?

Here, this place, it was quite heartening to look at the sad and sorry scene, and to see only the old beauty of New Orleans shining through the gloom, and to know only he understood her true nature.

He had taken leave of Mojo after having spent the better part of the evening telling his dog friend about everything. Perhaps all the time spent sorting through his muddled memories was not done in vain.

It was clear to him now that he could not conceive of leaving New Orleans. There was nowhere in the world that he would rather be than here where the summer was giving way to autumn; where his beloved fledgling was by his side.

It felt like a veritable dream to think of what had happened in the decade or so after his resurrection! He grieved for the monster who would not rest, who would make a vocation of testing the limits and tolerance of everyone and everything. Yes, he would say this to himself now as he had tried so hard at the beginning when everything was happening.

Hadn't it been all a terrible tragic that he had hurt his gentleman friend in that terrible outburst of his damnable temper? Oh yes, not that anything of that sort had ever happened in the early days that happened all too often. But this was not Louis, was it?

Like the perfect gentlemen they were, they acted as if nothing as drastic as that dramatic episode ever occurred. Notwithstanding that, something had been irrevocably changed. Oh yes, Louis had stopped talking about the rules, the rules; that was essentially the most significant part.

It became increasingly difficult to stay in New Orleans without thinking to himself how it would have been if he had not been abducted and if he had not received the anointment of their Queen.

And how reticent Louis had grown. Even when they talked, Louis was non-committal.

So he was away from New Orleans most of the time.

It was on particular one evening while he was walking the lonely streets of Lisbon, on his own and inconsolably saddened by everything that he received it, a quiet unobtrusive message at the back of his mind. He had stopped to assess it, to pick up this thread. How very surprising to know that it was Armand.

He was near, the little devil but keeping a discreet distance.

How the hell did Armand find him? That was more of a spontaneous response; he did not care.

Closer to dawn, at his hotel, Lestat had picked up a note left to him at the business center. It was a hand written note from Armand. How intriguing. How annoying. What possibly could they have in common to talk about?

There was nothing of a child in the writing, the script was exceptionally neat, like a printed text; one should never forget that the cherub was schooled by one of the most exacting taskmaster of all Christendom.

There was not so much as a word of salutation, no perambulation of any kind. Armand wrote that he, Lestat, should go to Italy to see 'the one who thinks of you incessantly'.

What business had Armand with Louis? Was he with Louis, or was there merely a chanced meeting? He did not like this at all.

Lestat closed the account of his room and took off for Italy as soon as night descended the next day.

'He is at the St. Clare, the rest is your decision.'

The miscreant! Why wasn't Daniel keeping him busy?

No matter his frame of mind, Lestat arrived at St. Clare and was immediately glad for Louis' choice of hotel, a curious French hotel right in the heart of Italy. While there were certainly Italian influences on the style and design, these were rather cosmetic; there was just something unexplainably French about St. Clare, it was the heart and the soul of this establishment.

It was uncanny how the surrounding replicated a period of the past that he remembered so clearly. He wondered how the owner, the designers were able to recreate the ambience of the past.

Lestat had walked the small parks, feeling a sense of nostalgia. But there was a supreme sense of detachment in his observations. His physical bearings meant little, he was in a different city every night; he had seen one too many in those nights.

Even if the air was frigid, his nose told him well enough that spring was on its way. Lestat turned to walk down a footpath illuminated by huge pillars of bee wax candles placed on elaborately curved stone pedestals. The scent of bee wax brought back such memories of the last winter; the little chapel and the prayers offered up to the suffering figure of the crucified figure; his home.

And here, he could see benches, scattered around the park, and the hotel guests mingling, having their amicable conversation. How the men and women gesticulated with enthusiasm as they talked, the lyrical Italian.

How he loved their sculptured fineness, their full lips and heavy lidded eyes; the beauty of Italy as much as he loved the wide set eyes, the straight dark brows and the delicate shape of the hones; everything that made Louis unmistakably French.

His assiduous fledgling was there poring over the text of a thick volume. Bathed in the warm light of the candles, Louis was seated at a secluded corner of the bistro, removed from the groups of intoxicated diners.

Lestat took his time to study Louis, to discover all over again, the undeniable truth that he missed his Louis de Pointe du Lac.

And Louis was absorbed in reading; he had looked up only when the waiter interrupted him politely to announce that the chief was taking last orders for supper. The man added most politely that there was also a 24-hour indoor cafeteria, and the guest could choose to call for room service as well.

How easily mortals become besotted with Louis. And Lestat wondered if Louis had put the man in a trance!

Louis shook his head, declining the offer. As he turned back, their eyes= met.

The green eyes widened, and the color drained out of Louis' face. Was Louis expecting Armand?

He walked up to the table, noting that the stunned look did not leave Louis' face. Very slowly he bent down, laying the back of his hand to Louis' chest very lightly, he leant close to Louis' ear to speak.

"You're going to have a stroke or a heart attack if you don't slow down that heart rate," he was a mere breath away and he had made his voice a bare whisper, like a gentle vibration of the air. But to the sensitive hearing of a vampire, it was clear enough.

Louis shut his eyes and slumped back, he looked dreadfully pale. He wrapped his fingers around the back of his fledgling's neck.

"Louis," God, how soft this flesh was!

"Lestat," he muttered after a long time as he tried to get his breathing under control.

"The vapors?" he said teasingly but was indeed getting concerned with Louis' reaction, a feeling of hopelessness descending on him, he wondered if Louis had wanted to avoid him altogether.

Lestat made a cursory glance at what Louis was reading, a book on sculptures, Michelangelo's marbles. Ah, marbles, things of such surreal beauty, mesmerizing and life-like. And here he was, white marble, dead and animated!

"I gave you a start."

"That's a likely answer," Louis drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

He nodded, politely withdrawing, and finding a chair, he sat down. "Enjoying the sights?"

"The chapels, the museums and architecture mainly. The Sistine Chapel is sublime," Louis said in a low voice, his fine French bearing coming to fore, disguising the fact that he had been so rattled. "It's very much the same."

"How so?"

"As Armand said, he's around," Louis lifted his brow. "He called you?"

"Something of that," Lestat made an offhand gesture.

"I'm certain he gets impatient with me. After all he saw the murals then when the colors are vibrant, and the walls are alive."

"He sees but he doesn't."

Louis gave him an ironic smile, the colors returning to his face. How his heart ache to see that smile.

"You called Armand..."

"TO help with the arrangements, the mandatory aspects. It would have been quite impossible to see these wonders otherwise, he has the connections."

"You didn't think to ask me," he said softly.

Louis looked troubled, pained as if he had been dealt a physical blow. Ever so slowly the green eyes moved down, then back to him. Louis would take all the accusations, he would never have shrunk away, his decorum would not have allowed that.

"I'm glad to see you, you know," the words were out of his mouth before the thought formed in his mind, and he was glad that his mind had not stopped the truth from coming out of his heart. And the pure affection on the expressive countenance was more than enough reason for any humility he felt.

They did not speak; merely letting the mortals shroud them with their happiness and insouciance. If only there was not such distance between them, they would have talked in that same way, they would have engaged in their delightful repartee; he could be enjoying Louis' cutting humor, his caustic observation of some contemporary practice, the mutual indulgence in a few nights of meaningless conversation.

Finally Louis put the key to his room in Lestat's hand, it was time for his nightcap. And by the look of his gauntness, the veins standing at his temper, it was long overdue. Yes, it was late. Lestat sat there watching Louis' figure disappear into the pitch darkness beyond the park.

He was truthfully drained. The constant moving, the impossible schedule he kept was indeed an attempt to deplete the preternatural powers of this seemingly indefatigable and cold and unfeeling body.

How insipid. How petty.

He wanted only the mortal luxury of a soft bed and peaceful slumber. The warmth of the room felt good, he had not realized just how cold this shell of a body had become.

If only the thing that made living worth the while was indeed blood, and nothing else. He would have given thanks to his unnamed Dark Gods if he could believe in that: the world revolved around blood and nothing else.

If only it was true!

If only all things in this world could be made flesh with blood, he would not have felt this bitter loneliness...

He knew better than to lie to himself. He need only look into these eyes, the delicate bones of this face, and this the darkest hair, to realize all over again the lessons of the Savage Garden; the world was made for such beauty as much as it was made for embraces, and caresses, and kisses.

He could not lie to himself that the world of the living dead was even more alluring and tantalizing and passionate than the living.

This warmth. This passion.

He knew only now...

Only now could he find himself, the Lestat of so long ago. Only now could he know the limitations of this form; only in the arms of his lover could he know that all this God-like powers meant nothing, absolutely nothing!

Ah, only now...

This hard and indestructible form, this unfeeling shell was once again made flesh, sensitive and receptive to the skillful ministrations of his ardent lover, the smooth palms, the sensitive pad of the fingertips, the silken lips, the keenness of those fangs. And the soft defenseless body of his lover burnt distinct imprints like red-hot instruments of torture on him.

He surrendered his guard. He would surrender his armory of powers, everything that he ever possessed, even his soul.

"Take this blood," he recalled saying before tumbling into dreamless sleep.

Early in the evening the air was crisp. Lestat woke with a certain vitality.

He spent enough time wandering about the compound of the hotel, getting fascinated over the modern amenities, and finally decided to wait in the darkened bar with it's exclusive lounge. This was so like the cabaret of the old days with its dim spaces that provides ample privacy.

And now he had come with a twinkle in the green eyes. Exceptionally fine wool turtleneck, it looked so very handsome, dashing on him.

The weather was still cold wasn't it? Cold wintry evening outside and here they sat, sheltered and cozy together.

"Should I worry about your tryst with Armand?" he leveled his eyes at Louis.

"Tryst?"

"Yes."

"That's quite an uncouth question."

"But I want to know. I want to know your unfinished business."

"As of yours," Louis said with a smile.

"Ah?"

"Which I never asked about."

"Oh come now-"

"There's nothing between Armand and I," Louis sat back, the smile lingering.

"Then there is."

"And what's that?"

"You let him dazzle you."

"What?"

"Now you're affronted."

"You've overstepped the lines Lestat, that's what you've done, and you know that."

"I don't like him coming to you," he sighed, leaning forward to gaze at Louis.

"Why don't you blame me for this?" Louis frowned.

"I doubt if you realize the dangers of being with him."

"You surprise me sometimes Lestat, after so long?"

"Then you calm there's nothing?"

"Would you commit to an answer if you are in this same disposition Lestat? You wouldn't. That's the crux."

"So you say."

"You shouldn't be asking. There's no room for you to doubt my affiliation."

"How assuring," Lestat smiled, he almost laugh aloud over the change of expression on Louis' face, from sobriety to amusement.

"You know well enough," The soft hand touched his, scalding hot it felt. "You needn't ask this thing."

He knew that was true. He knew it from the feelings in those green eyes. He knew it from the night they shared.

Lestat liked this intimacy, letting the mortal blood in Louis' breath drive him slowly to distraction. He savored the scent; and how tender the tiny movement of the incandescent eyes, and the florid lips lengthening into a slow maddeningly seductive smile. He remained composed.

"I have not asked if you intend to travel the continent?"

The fetching modern clothing shifted with every breath, with every movement of that slim body of such fluid grace.

"I might," he muttered.

"I'll be going back to New Orleans," Louis said with an absorbed look, engaged in some private thought.

"Enjoy the quiet?" he asked tentatively.

"I'd like to have company," Louis said, his expression soft and even affectionate. "I'm thinking of how things are in these few years, perhaps it's time to part from this..." He passed his fingers through that fine black hair.

"There must be moments."

"Perhaps there are. Or perhaps its just life going on."

Almost like a fool he had stared at Louis, admiring the perfection of his creation, this, his lover; thinking to himself what a wonderment it was to feel such kindness and patience from his fledgling. And then finally after the longest moment, he came out with it. "Want to come back?" he placed his other hand over Louis'. "Live together?"

Louis smiled, the feelings suffusing his face, brightening up his entire visage. It was quite remarkable this.

"Should I think we are ready for this?"

"Why not?"

"Always the optimist," he went on in the same soft tone. "Should I believe we're ready to accept each other, and to forgive each other for that matter?"

"Is there anything to forgive?" he lifted his brow questioningly.

"You tell me," Louis said. "Should we open every card on the table?"

"Do you still gather everything to your heart so closely Louis?"

"Perhaps not enough time had past."

"Its enough for me as it is for you."

"Ah, but we grief for a different century, a new era," he grew reflective and sad.

"Or we can find the peace," he said earnestly, tightening his grip on Louis' hand. "When the rest is silence."

Louis sighed deeply. "But is it, can you make yourself believe?"

"It can be," he said this with all sincerity.

"Then you delude yourself, M'sieur de Lioncourt," Louis pressed a kiss to the back of his maker's hand almost ceremoniously, like a devotee kissing the pope's ring.

"I should think you do that to yourself enough Louis," he clasped Louis' hand before he could withdraw. "And you call it decorum and propriety."

"You know what it is Lestat, you wouldn't have wanted it any other way," Louis said.

"Perhaps I don't give a damn about that."

"Ah, then we'll have to talk about your delusions M'sieur le Marquis."

"Certainly not I, only a certain obstinate wonderment of a gentleman has such an affliction."

Louis cocked his head, watching him with intense attention, obviously that clever head of his was working on the most effective rebuttal.

"Take the blood Louis, take it even if you have not the slightest affection for me," he said with mock sorrow, and with every bit of will he tried not to laugh over the surprise look on Louis' face.

"I think not, and more so because of my affection for you."

"And why turn down a vintage brew? A connoisseur would never, a connoisseur such as yourself."

The smile on Louis' face grew wider, the mirth going up to his eyes.

"If not for preservation, for survival the most practical of reasons," he shifted, closing the distance between them.

"That's all the more reason I would refuse, I wouldn't want to stand out from the other's."

"Then how about the truth of the matter?"

Louis' lips twitched with a question which he would ask but was too polite to speak just yet.

He bent forward, leaning close to Louis' ear. "The heart of the matter," he whispered, planting a kiss to Louis' ear. "Do I know this creature who would put two matters to the contention when they are totally, completely independent of one and the other?"

He felt the silent heave of his lover's chest against his. Lestat slipped his arm about the mortal-like body, he pressed his lips to Louis' neck and he spoke in a very soft voice. "Wouldn't' you think I am taking advantage of your disposition?"

"Or would you say I'm depriving you of an experience?"

Lestat drew back abruptly. He stared Louis with a critical eye, frowning. "And you're not the slightest apologetic of it."

"Should I say more?" Louis breathed, the pain underlining each word.

"Does it give you satisfaction that this gives me as much pain as it does to you?" he whispered.

"Perhaps it'd make the eventual outcome worth the wait," the shade of green deepened. "Perhaps there's no outcome to be had."

How searing the passion, the lips so hot on his cold mouth, the fingers against his cheek curling around the back of his neck...

These sublime moments gave tremendous warmth to his cold and unfeeling heart, they were the perfect reason, the expression of true love and passion against the bouts of depressing horror he felt, the sorrow which threatened to swallow him whole. They were what defined comfort and a small measure of bliss that helped him through the darkness that was drowning him, as he was dragged into the whirling black waters, the pain crushing the life out of him with excruciating slowness.

Lestat could recall how he spent nights maddened and thirsting to feast on the blood of the twisted and sinister murderers, his brothers, Cain, the slayer of his brother; and how he spent nights in blessed peace with his fledgling, whether in discussions, in argument or in the most delectable embraces.

Even so, it was just not enough. Not even when Louis left New Orleans in decreasing frequency, and he could step into that cold shack and see the familiar form bent over the desk.

Nothing was ever enough for this thirsting greedy soul.

Like the fact that immortal life was just not enough, he had to take the Body Thief's offer, he couldn't not do it; like the fact that David Talbot couldn't just be his mortal friend, he had to have him as a companion for the Devil's Road. Ghastly mistakes. He couldn't not have accepted Memnoch's offer, could he? And he couldn't not do it!

Returned from his ordeal with the Body Thief, he knew very well that he had not only strained his relationship with David, but he had also hurt his delicate black-haired companion.

Oh, he was not ready to forgive Louis, that was the honest truth that Louis knew all too well, not during those months. He could have said it was a tit for tat, a vengeful gesture but what was acrid vengeance to him? Or for Louis for that matter?

No explicit explanation came to mind, and no long-drawn argument of old passed Louis' lips. And during their trip to the old streets of Rio, how reticent David had been, often disappearing for hours, and otherwise sitting, watching and listening to him and Louis argue and talk in their habitual vehemence. Indeed he was still able to coax the irresistible smile, the same ironic charm from Louis. Despite everything, habit never failed them.

While David parted company with them, he had returned with Louis to the New World, the entire journey was painfully quiet, and he could feel their separation so acutely. He could see it coming as surely as he had known of Gabrielle's eventual departure, and yet he did not prevent it.

Time Line- 1998

Lestat stood up, dusting his pants. He stared at the Dixie Gates and the merciless stars which seemed to drab and complement the winking lights. What a miracle all this was.

He had been walking the soft barren earth, the boarded-up shotgun cottages, the bleak shut-up factories and dreary warehouses, and gazing at the glowing lights of downtown.

At the brink of the millennium, the Lestat of old had come full circle, had had lived a lifetime of a mere decade!

He took one last look of this cold and deserted wasteland, then started his journey back to the French Quarter where his precious and enduring lover awaited him.

Yes, and the rest is silence...

End summer 1998

Chapter 21 / Rebirth
-Day 21-

He stood back and looked up at the wrought iron railings above. When he closed his eyes, he could visualize the room perfectly; the wide expanse of lacquered and stained wood. Natural fiber was no longer the materials used in this modern world; there was only synthetic wood, plastic veneers and linoleums, or even cold hard metals, the imitations of nature.

The soft light was illuminating the room, casting a warm golden glow on the beautifully crafted bookshelves. These books, they were the gems, painstakingly arranged with their elaborate scripts on their spines, embossed in dark colors and the occasional gold and silver. This was more than a pile of dust now.

And he pictured Louis moving about the room attending to his miscellaneous mails, his legal and financial matters.

The phone rang. It was a very low buzz really. Louis had all but turned it off. And this little disturbance seemed to blend into the piano in the background; a delightful piece of music it was. He had the distinct feeling of having heard it before but he could not put his finger to it.

The pianist's dazzling pyrotechnics was breathtaking, the notes produced were like the tinkling of bells, the acrobatic skips and leaps, the virtuosity of the piece was extraordinary.

He heard the leather creak, the chair being drawn back as Louis picked up the phone.

"My, you're busy Louis."

Ah, he knew that voice all right.

"Rutherford."

"Evening."

"You've been looking for me?"

"Shouldn't that be right? Seems to me you aren't all that awfully eager to talk to your friends," there was the tiniest pause, the familiar crisp British English went on right away. "I take it all's fine?"

"Yes."

"Four years' quite a bit o'time you know, for mercy's sake my dear fellow, you just have to take a breather!"

"You think of everything as always I gather."

"'deed so, you cannot reside in such utter boredom I tell you, not the way at all I say."

"Tell me, what do you want Rutherford?"

That was cutting; Lestat was beginning to enjoy this conversation tremendously.

"I'm just saying you've got to come away from that wretched place, and I have a nice little place here in Morocco-"

"I'd rather prefer you be direct with me, my friend."

"Never met a fellar with more grace!"

"Adieu."

"Wait! Bleedin' Frenchie!"

"Take your sentiments elsewhere then."

"Oh come darling!"

"If you will, Rutherford."

"Pooh, if I weren't put out by your shortness for all these years!"

"To the point please."

"Oh, frightfully delighted to find you so kind after all these years," the Englishman grumbled bitterly.

"Rupert, if you will," Louis said with a sigh.

Lestat could imagine Louis shaking his head in forbearance and utter defeat.

"Oh very well," there was a certain note of thinly disguised bravado in that voice. "I've been caught in a bit of a predicament."

"Ah..."

"You know how things are, how a gentleman can be down on his luck, it's the way of the world always."

"You need something of me."

"A little compassion can't kill a man Louis!"

"What might it be? Money?"

"Oh stuff it!"

"You have the means-"

"You have the means!" Rutherford emphasized with vehemently. "I just need half a million quid, that's all."

"Why turn to me really?"

"It's nothing to you for Pete's sake!"

"Your habits are atrocious."

"You do know me so well. You are always so very helpful Louis," there was a definite plea for understanding and sympathy in the Englishman's tone.

Louis gave a near defeated sigh after a moment of silence. "Call Pierre tomorrow."

"That's a dear."

"This is it Rutherford."

"Oh very much so I agree, I know I can't do without you."

"Rupert!"

"Yes, darling."

"I will not entertain any more of this, you know you should be in debtors gallows and hang twice over!"

"Yes, 'deed, my fatal flaw."

Louis made another barely suppressed sigh to this.

"But you know, I'm absolutely serious about Morocco."

"I know."

"Put a thought to it, you should think what's best for yourself."

"Of course."

"I should hope so old boy."

With a mental twist Lestat saw the French window at the balcony open. He made a quick survey of the street and there were hardly any mortals about at this hour. Nobody would have noticed him. Making the thought a decision, he landed on the balcony the next moment. Lestat stepped into the apartment, closing the window behind him soundlessly.

He could hear Louis talking on the phone as he moved about the room shuffling his papers. Louis was giving instructions to his agent; the modern French was sharper, so much less lyrical and elaborate and delicate. How he lamented, modernity had compelled succinctness as its dominant form and rule.

Louis finally rang off after going through the list of tasks and the all-important mission of ensuring funds were made available to his friend. Lestat could hear the light steps, trace its passage back to the table, and the music swelled, the piano was like a veritable grand being played in the parlor. It was the luxury of electronic music where the quaint little black box had the omnipotent power; with it its tiny plastic keys could swell and diminish the volume of the music. It was magical all right, with those tastefully small speakers hidden away easily.

His black headed lover did not know he was being monitored as usual, he went on with his own matters without a care for his surrounding, he was always so absorbed with his work in hand.

There was the sound of paper tearing. Louis was opening an envelope, a package wrapped in thick coarse paper, those commercially recycled paper, pulp that was pressed and processed into the sturdiest and most resilient Kraft. And now, the smell of fresh paper from the press, it was a bounded copy of book.

Lestat heard the tiny creak as Louis opened the book, he could imagine its tight binding and heavy vellum, a hefty copy that would rest with regality on any bookshelf. There was always such beauty in a bounded volume.

He slipped into the room, seating himself opposite Louis in the bergiere before Louis noticed him.

Hmmm, Louis was startled only for a second, the colors intensified in his cheeks.

"Ah."

The familiarity of that exclamation warmed his heart instantly.

"I wouldn't have minded a knock on the door really."

He laughed, watching Louis, loving that rapt attention in those green eyes, so brilliant, so much like jewels.

Louis moved reaching for the remote.

"Leave it," he muttered.

"Its quite a bit of noise don't you think?"

"I like it as it is," he smiled.

There was such a sense of contentment and peace to sit here. And when Louis perceived he would not be interrupted, he had resumed his work. There were cartons of mails and miscellaneous papers, Louis was sorting through them, sending an envelope to a neat pile on the table, others to one of the three or four piles at the side. He had probably been doing this for days, there were two black garbage sacks standing in a corner, these were the hulking mess of paper, the redundant waste of nature.

"I could close my eyes and sleep now," he said.

"You're tired," Louis sent another crushed ball of paper into the garbage sack.

"As you are," he chuckled lightly. "This bit of adventure has driven us from our house."

"We could certainly go back," Louis lifted his brow.

"But I do miss this little place of yours," he gave a small smile.

"Ah? You have some interesting words for it before-"

"Its to do with our little disagreements. And you have to infuriate me by being so deliberately close, don't you? Buying out the tenants and sending the whole San Francisco apartment here."

Louis did not utter a word, his face was frozen, he was clearly analyzing the situation and wondering, thinking to himself how he should react to this.

"That was provoking," he pointed casually, flicking imaginary dirt from his sleeve.

"You can hardly blame me then," Louis said finally, his voice was gentle, conciliatory.

"Showing your independence and all that rot."

"It was not easy."

"Getting used to having me around eh," he said with a derisive edge, just a little to needle Louis. "Its not to wound you that I said this Louis."

"I know," the imperturbable calmness settled once more into place.

He watched Louis clear out the last bit of paper, all the time thinking to himself whether he should give Louis the journal now. Perhaps his black haired companion would be delighted. Hmmmm, but they were the both of them quite exhausted. Perhaps Louis had also been going through his memories, perhaps he had seek Myandar for some guidance which was not entirely unthought of; what he did know was that Louis had found a kind of comfort, he had achieved the equilibrium as he once had on his own when they first reunited more than a decade ago.

Indeed he did not feel the passage of time sitting there, that it was time to go.

"We should return to the flat," Louis patted dust from his coat.

"Doesn't matter."

Louis looked at him questioningly.

"Let's stay here, in this place."

Louis nodded agreement without a word of protest, more because he was tired surely. Lestat watched his fledgling bolt the windows, lock up everything, draw the heavy drapery and turning on the mortal security alarms.

The bedroom was very simple of modern aesthetics, dark wood and the white sheets. Louis hung their coats neatly in the closet while he sat half catatonic and half dreaming on the bed.

Louis bent on one knee to help pull off Lestat's boots.

"You need a valet," he muttered.

"What's that?" Louis lifted his head.

"Your scoundrel of a valet Lenoir," he reflected on this, the dull witted valet was a hopeless bumbling fool. "Ties the most perfect cravat. I was thinking what miracles he could do with your closet."

Louis laughed silently flashing him a knowing look as he sat down to remove his own shoes. "Fancy you thinking of this."

"Ah, but I miss the bourgeois lord who thought the world of a man who could tie a perfect cravat."

Louis turned quickly to stare at him in surprise. Then his face grew sober, even sad. "You don't."

He leant forward, slipping his arm about Louis slowly, sighing to himself.

"What is it?" Louis' face was filled with so much worry and concern.=20

"You know I do find it just as difficult to accept what has gone to past in this four years," he whispered, the words were just coming out from him unbidden, without humility and pride because the moment only allowed the truth to come to fore.

"Time passes Lestat, it's the same with us always."

"I cannot say that was what you've been saying," he smiled, gesturing for Louis to listen to him. "Do you think so? Can you make yourself believe that? Or is it a matter of speech always?"

"Do you feel better Lestat?"

Oh he had done it, Louis was so anxious now. "Too much honest truth?" he laughed softly.

"I cannot say..." Louis whispered tentatively.

"I heard your conversation with Rutherford."

"Ah?"

"Will you go?"

"To Morocco?" Louis said almost to himself, he was deep in though for a moment, his face growing quiet. Then he broke the pacific silence, yet his voice was gentle, even soft. "I thought I would want to know the autumn here again... to know all the seasons once again."

"Even after all these years, languishing about?" he uttered with a teasing smile.

"But not truly understanding, without dialogue," Louis' voice was so filled with feelings.

"But this, it is so old this place, such an old lover."

"Exactly so."

"Filled with too much familiarity surely."

"But to know the seasons all over again would be something to savor, to know the familiarity of this heat, the humidity of a tropical summer."

"Even when the winters were so long, so bitter and cold?"

"That is a faint memory now."

"It was there, just."

"But time has walked by, the seasons had seemingly gone by without recollection nor awareness."

"Faint... But nonetheless etched in stone, our preternatural brain forgets nothing" his low voice was raw, there was a pain in his chest, in the region of his heart.

"Fading beautifully like the autumnal leaves fallen on icy ground. This heartless cruelty of a dull gray earth..."

"Icy, heartless? Hardly," he pressed a kiss to Louis' cheek. "But the earth comes alive with every spring and the tiny spark of life regenerates itself, the greenest of grass will cover this earth. And the heart of the Savage Garden will be reborn to perfection once again."

"But not without the sun," Louis slipped his fingers through his maker's glorious mane. "Not without the sky to know what is freedom." He kissed Lestat's eyes closed.

He felt Louis' arms tightened about him, as his were about his beloved fledgling. He could not speak for the longest time, and he could think of no words that could describe what he felt at that moment. He had never felt more loved, more cherished, more protected.

"Did that answer your question?" Louis' voice was like a whisper in a dream.

"Mmmmm."

"And you?" Louis' asked so calmly, so without expectation but with no less passion. "Do you mean to go through with it?"

"What's that?" he opened his eyes to study his lover.

"With the others? The Blood Drinkers, their mysteries?"

"I confess that's tempting," he had to smile, a tease on the tip of his tongue but this was not the time for that, and he grew quiet and serious.

"And?"

"I merely hope for Anton to get better, for Remus to stay with us for as long as he wanted to. Beyond that," he gave an offhand gesture. "Beyond that, I believe Myandar has no intentions of inviting the Vampire Lestat into her exclusive club."

Louis smile grew wider, he shook his head but there was no condemnation in his expression, only wonder.

"I just want to be the watcher of the Savage Garden as I was so long ago," he said this slowly, sincerely, he wanted Louis to understand him, to believe him completely. "I want to live in that flat once again. I want to be in this place, this city as it once was. That's all I ask for, that's all I want."

Louis was silent and meditative, pondering over his words and obviously quite unconvinced.

"Louis," he said, infusing the syllables with as much feeling as he could master.

"Surely nothing had ever been enough, for you," the words were not demanding, it was a genuine statement of fact.

"Maybe that had been so, as it had been in the last decade," he nodded, more to himself. "I have thought on that, and many other things..."

"And what is the final analysis?" there was no meanness, no challenge in his tone, as always Louis was earnest to know.

"Sleep Louis," he smiled, gently pushing Louis down to the bed.

Louis looked up at him mystified, his mind no doubt still working over everything, trying to digest this.

"Stop worrying," he whispered, bending to kiss his lover.

"Lestat," there was a small measure of concern in the dark green eyes as they locked on him intensely. "Myandar and Remus has been too kind to us-"

"I wouldn't think to abuse that kindness, would I?" he laughed to see the frown on Louis' brow. "You worry too much," he planted small kisses on Louis' brow to smooth out the crease, and more because he wanted to be close to his beloved fledgling.

"I do want to know," Louis said with all sincerity.

"Its for you to find out," Lestat said lightly, and then in a more quiet voice he continued. "The days are long, the seasons will change, but the warmth will always be here, the tropics, the humidity... always. The world is ours once again."

And the heart of the Savage Garden is reborn to perfection.

-Epilogue-
-Day 22

They have left.

The house was enveloped in deafening silence. No underlining preternatural pulse, no clutter from Myandar's typing. The parlors, the hallways, the rooms were shrouded in darkness.

Lestat walked through the house; the rooms he inspected and found everything back to their original place, not a piece of furniture was out of place.

He climbed the steps up.

Louis was there at the balcony, a silhouette, as silent and still as the house was. How white the hands on the rails, so very still and unearthly, painted only by the lights from the streets.

Lestat lingered at the doorway for a moment, then sat down at the wrought iron bench in the shadows. Slumped comfortably back, he stretched out his arms at the back and leant his head back, closing his eyes.

"Blessed darkness," Louis whispered, his voice so very low.

"Blessed peace," he said, he could see the tension in Louis' arms, his hands gripping so very tightly onto the rails. "Come, sit with me."

Louis looked back at him, then back to the streets for a while, and then as if in resignation, he came to the bench finally. Lestat laid his hand on his lover's shoulder to assure him.

"And so they have left," Louis muttered.

"Does it matter?" he asked.

"21 nights, and it feels surreal."

"Perhaps it'll take time for us to realize the full meaning of everything, to see the scope of the matter," he sighed. "So much has happened, so much!" There were such deep feelings in those words.

"I thought it went splendidly," he smiled, trying to make light of the situation, there was definitely a sense of loss, a dislocation as if they had encountered a lapse in time, and now they were back to the present, and everything felt so unreal.

Yet, he could not dismiss the sense of peace and contentment he felt. There was a light- hearted happiness in him; he felt unburdened of an overwhelming weight.

"Er, say hey there!"

Lestat roused himself. He saw a small group of young people at the opposite street, straining to look up at the balcony.

"Thought if you could help us?"

"Hey for Christ's sake you forgot to say 'excuse moi'!" another voice whispered.

"Shh! Shh!" somebody shushed her comrades.

Lestat stood up slowly, and went to the rails. Louis was languishing at the bench watching him. "A good evening ladies."

This was a group of girls, yes, all of them young ladies. And they thought it was just two 'cute guys', now they were in raptures to find this god appearing from the darkened balcony.

"We, er-" they were very flustered and speechless.

"Welcome to New Orleans," he smiled, ever the gentleman how could he not be moved to display the highest degree of chivalrous kindness to these innocent young ones? "Can I be of any assistance at all?"

"We were, you know," one of the girls blurted out, she was obviously the spokesperson for the little group. "Er, the Gallier House..."

"Gallier House, a few steps up this street, you are definitely on the way, and it's not far at all."

"Christ, this is The Royal Street!" one of the girls gushed urgently to her companions. "This could be The Gallier House-"

"Shuddup-"

"Shhh!"

"You mean this is Royal Street, like Rue-?"

"Yes, this is Royal Street," he continued in English, he was not about to fall for their attempt to get him to speak French. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to be looking at musty old houses in the middle of the night. It's a beautiful night to go on a pub crawl," he looked back at Louis for affirmation; Louis was nodding, yes, that was the way it was.

"Pug?" a voice muttered uncertainly.

"Pub, stupid!"

"So you know any particular pubs?" the spokesperson asked with a grin.

"That we can like crawl in," one of the girls giggled infecting the others.

"American Louis, not that British nonsense," Lestat mouthed scowling at Louis when he saw his black headed lover shaking with silent laughter.

"Wanna come have a drink, we could really do with some help."

"Yeah, like we're been going round, your map sucks sister!"

"Christ, you're such a bunch of babies!"

"Shuddup wil'ya!" their fearless leader tried her best to get her complaining members under control.

"We retire early around here," he could just hear Louis muffle his laughter.

"Awww-" the girls groaned in unison.

"I'm sure I'll catch you round here tomorrow or so," he offered helpfully.

"Really? You don't like retire early tomorrow?" one of the girls quibbled.

"Perhaps," he smiled, giving a teasing look behind him. "We prefer some quiet nights, but I do like to do with a night cap once in a while."

Louis all but collapsed on the divan, laughing and slapping his thigh.

"Why?" he feigned incomprehension. "What's so funny? Do you realize nobody laughs in my face, that constitutes the utmost insult to my person?"

"A moment," Louis tried to stop himself with effort, gulping for air but the moment he saw the look on Lestat's face, the unaffected blandness, he had dissolved into helpless laughter once again.

"That is rude Pointe du Lac, very disagreeably rude," he folded his arms looking at Louis.

But how very enchanting to hear Louis laughed so unreservedly. Oh, how truly amazing. He dropped to his knees in front of Louis, and he had put his hands to Louis face, so without compunction because this was his friend, his lover. It was sublime to feel Louis return his warmth.

And happiness had returned to him once more, it was more divine than ever to know that another shared his path.

He sent a wordless thanks to that most enigmatic brother, Remus, a Blood Drinker of some other realm, he thanked him for all his thoughtfulness and concern and love.

And should he shape the words to clever prose? He contemplated on putting in words this perplexing encounter but then he wanted this time for better things.

This time, he needed no answers from words.

Notes:

¹ Sans-culottes- Political term, implies the poorer classes of urban craftsmen, small shop keepers, petty traders and city poor in general during the French Revolution

² Sun King - Louis XIV, King of France dated 1643 - 1715

³ Straits - British colony, South East Asian countries along the Malayan Straits under the then Straits Government

⁴ Tale of the Body Thief/Chapter 7- quote from Lestat: "The shark in the ocean, why does it exist?"

⁵ References to "Iliad" by Homer. I have made references specifically to the narrative version of "Iliad" from the Penguin Classics translated by E.V. Rieu.

-Book XVI/Patroclus Fights and Dies - Patroclus, Achilles' best friend/lover was slayed by Hector of Troy/Illium. Arms refers to armour; Hector stripped the armour from the body.

-Book XXII/Death of Hector - Achilles kills Hector. Archer King Phoebus refers to Apollo, Son of Peleus refers to Achilles, and the Old King refers to King Priam of Troy, father of Hector.

Notes:

⁹ "I will live here again as soon as you are finished," I said to him. "So you must hurry. And another caution. Anything you find there premises- hidden in the old plasters- you must give to me." Chapter 29 - Tale of the Body Thief

¹⁰ Historical reference for this piece of writing is around 1795 during the French Revolution, just before the fall of Robespierre's Jacobin party.

¹¹ Noblesse - French aristocracy or nobility

¹² Ancien regime - France before the Revolution

¹³ emigre - nobles and others who emigrated from France during the Revolution

¹⁴ Social Contract - Rousseau-Jean Jacques' writing

¹⁵ Jacobin and Enrages - two political parties with direct impact on the French Revolution

¹⁶ Angel of Death - nickname of Robespierre's duputy Louis Sainte-Just who was said to be exceptionally refined and good looking; my personal thought is AR might very well have made direct reference to him in the character development of Louis de Pointe du Lac

- Sadean - refers to literary works/characters, anything that is created by and related to Marquis de Sade

Readings:
Two very interesting reference books are:
1) The French Revolution - It's Causes, It's History, and It's Legacy After 200 Years - By George Rude publisher Grove Press

2) Sade - A Biographical Essay - By Laurence L. Bongie publisher The University of Chicago Press

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