FIC: The Wolf in Ruin (Tanz vs Vampire Chronicles, Von Krolock and Lestat, PG-13)
Completely not in order of requests due to various muses being on the lam, this one's for ciciaye who wanted Lestat and Von Krolock. Vampire Chronicles versus Tanz der Vampire, or how to give Elton John a heart attack in 725 words.
By the way, this is Vienna!Krolock, largely because my Warsaw!Krolock has buggered off to play chess with Gerald Tarrant. Style due in equal parts to Elizabeth Kostova (re-reading The Historian in English this time, natch) and Anne Rice.
No knowledge of Tanz required. Familiarity with The Vampire Lestat recommended.
THE WOLF IN RUIN
Paris, Anno Domini 1865
At times, I think there is nothing with which my kind can surprise me. Then, inevitably, I meet a creature who treats its immortality in a different way, and it draws my mind just as it repulses my soul. Lord Tepes is one such monster for all that I find his ways abhorrent. Dear Mircalla was one as well, with her insistence that our curse was in fact a gift. And my current guest has surprised and enchanted me twice in his death.
I first met Lestat de Lioncourt in Vienna in the twilight years of the last century, after hearing from Marius about the young man's innocence and savage curiosity. I found him less fascinating than he had been described, though that may have been his own disinterest in what he saw as my conservative approach towards certain aspects of our preternatural existence. For the most part, he seemed just another monster delighting in his unnatural essence, though the intensity and zeal with which he explored our nighttime world was exceptional.
I remember making a firm decision never to let him and Herbert meet. For the sake of my own sanity and the structural integrity of the castle, of course; I trust my son to take care of himself, but at times he indulges too much to think of the consequences.
I wonder if I should introduce him to my son now. It might do Herbert good to see where untamed lust for passion meets its end.
Lestat is curled up in an armchair, thin arms and legs perched as spider limbs on the seat. From time to time he jerks to his feet and takes a few fevered steps towards the fireplace and back, but inevitably his strength fails him and he slumps into the armchair again. Old scars twist over the once-smooth face as he talks, and when he tilts his head his neck seems more scars than skin.
When he came to my door, he was wrapped in a scarf that came up to his eyes. It was an hour before he abandoned it.
He has been talking for hours now. The subjects never change: Louis, Claudia, Armand, the chain of events that scarred both the body and the soul before me now. He repeats himself like an ensnared wolf gnawing at its own leg. I know this is the first time he has told anyone this story. Standing at the window, I listen and I watch.
He looks up at me now and pauses in the middle of describing a party he and Louis attended in the city that, in his tale, is more magic than reality.
"I'm boring you, Excellenz," he says with a wicked smile that is a shard of the boy I met in Vienna seventy years before.
"Not at all," I say. Surprisingly, this is true: this study in ruin moves something in me, as much if not more than the precocious vampire princeling once did.
He stands up, but it is not a manic straightening of limbs as before. Instead he raises himself slowly, painstakingly. I wonder how many more scars are hidden under these plain clothes. I reach out to him instinctively as he moves towards me, and he takes my hand gratefully.
"I should have listened to you," he rasps. "You told me to beware the child, beware the dancing city, not trust my shadow to protect me."
I nod. The prophecies come rarely to me, but I accept them as the double-edged gift they are.
"What will you tell me now, Herr Graf von Krolock?" There is a sudden poison in his hiss and defiance in his eyes. Then he stumbles as if that was the last of his strength.
I catch him easily, hold him in place and use my other hand to tilt his chin. Even the blue in these eyes has been washed out, dulled.
"You'll live," I tell him. "You'll speak, you'll sing and you'll defy all rules again. You'll heal, and hurt, and burn and freeze. Your heart will be broken, and you'll find love."
"And then?"
Perceptive child.
"And then," I tell him, "you'll go mad."
"It's a fair trade," he whispers.
He wraps his arms around my neck, borrowing from my strength. His lips taste the same as before, blood-sweet and bitter with rage.
/FINIS/
By the way, this is Vienna!Krolock, largely because my Warsaw!Krolock has buggered off to play chess with Gerald Tarrant. Style due in equal parts to Elizabeth Kostova (re-reading The Historian in English this time, natch) and Anne Rice.
No knowledge of Tanz required. Familiarity with The Vampire Lestat recommended.
THE WOLF IN RUIN
Paris, Anno Domini 1865
At times, I think there is nothing with which my kind can surprise me. Then, inevitably, I meet a creature who treats its immortality in a different way, and it draws my mind just as it repulses my soul. Lord Tepes is one such monster for all that I find his ways abhorrent. Dear Mircalla was one as well, with her insistence that our curse was in fact a gift. And my current guest has surprised and enchanted me twice in his death.
I first met Lestat de Lioncourt in Vienna in the twilight years of the last century, after hearing from Marius about the young man's innocence and savage curiosity. I found him less fascinating than he had been described, though that may have been his own disinterest in what he saw as my conservative approach towards certain aspects of our preternatural existence. For the most part, he seemed just another monster delighting in his unnatural essence, though the intensity and zeal with which he explored our nighttime world was exceptional.
I remember making a firm decision never to let him and Herbert meet. For the sake of my own sanity and the structural integrity of the castle, of course; I trust my son to take care of himself, but at times he indulges too much to think of the consequences.
I wonder if I should introduce him to my son now. It might do Herbert good to see where untamed lust for passion meets its end.
Lestat is curled up in an armchair, thin arms and legs perched as spider limbs on the seat. From time to time he jerks to his feet and takes a few fevered steps towards the fireplace and back, but inevitably his strength fails him and he slumps into the armchair again. Old scars twist over the once-smooth face as he talks, and when he tilts his head his neck seems more scars than skin.
When he came to my door, he was wrapped in a scarf that came up to his eyes. It was an hour before he abandoned it.
He has been talking for hours now. The subjects never change: Louis, Claudia, Armand, the chain of events that scarred both the body and the soul before me now. He repeats himself like an ensnared wolf gnawing at its own leg. I know this is the first time he has told anyone this story. Standing at the window, I listen and I watch.
He looks up at me now and pauses in the middle of describing a party he and Louis attended in the city that, in his tale, is more magic than reality.
"I'm boring you, Excellenz," he says with a wicked smile that is a shard of the boy I met in Vienna seventy years before.
"Not at all," I say. Surprisingly, this is true: this study in ruin moves something in me, as much if not more than the precocious vampire princeling once did.
He stands up, but it is not a manic straightening of limbs as before. Instead he raises himself slowly, painstakingly. I wonder how many more scars are hidden under these plain clothes. I reach out to him instinctively as he moves towards me, and he takes my hand gratefully.
"I should have listened to you," he rasps. "You told me to beware the child, beware the dancing city, not trust my shadow to protect me."
I nod. The prophecies come rarely to me, but I accept them as the double-edged gift they are.
"What will you tell me now, Herr Graf von Krolock?" There is a sudden poison in his hiss and defiance in his eyes. Then he stumbles as if that was the last of his strength.
I catch him easily, hold him in place and use my other hand to tilt his chin. Even the blue in these eyes has been washed out, dulled.
"You'll live," I tell him. "You'll speak, you'll sing and you'll defy all rules again. You'll heal, and hurt, and burn and freeze. Your heart will be broken, and you'll find love."
"And then?"
Perceptive child.
"And then," I tell him, "you'll go mad."
"It's a fair trade," he whispers.
He wraps his arms around my neck, borrowing from my strength. His lips taste the same as before, blood-sweet and bitter with rage.
/FINIS/