[29] The return. SPAM for Armand St. Just + Martha.
[Backdated to Armand St. Just's first or second night in the infirmary.]
It was past the midnight hour, somewhere between and dawn. The barge creeped along as it usually did. The night owl inclined inmates and wardens alike going about their business whether it be watching films at 2am or those who just could not sleep for the weight on their minds were too heavy.
He couldn't remember when he arrived or even if he had left of all. Louis' mind swam with memories mottled and unclear. He saw faces and knew names of men and women he could have never met in life... or did he? The place were he found himself was foreign but familiar. Lestat would have reveled in this; even in the afterlife, Merciful Death was at odds with all things.
So Louis had lingered, unseen, for that was his custom to which he was well practiced. Lestat had called him the "pale wanderer" once (among other names), and he supposed it was a valid descriptor. There was many a decade that passed when all the New Orleans native did was travel from country to country; seeing the human race for who they were.
Somehow he had made it to the infirmary. It was quiet, despite the number of occupants. He was able to slip by unnoticed until he saw a face he knew. At least, he thought he knew him. There was something important about who he was, and what he did for a loved one but Louis couldn't quite get his head around it. This annoyed the vampire, who took it to move towards his cot. The man was asleep, hooked to an IV blood bag and a bandage around his wrist.
The wound was fresh. He could smell the blood underneath the unhealed tissue, sweet and intoxicating. Intrigued, he silently traced a stone cold finger over the wrist. A wound that was to clean to have been accidental or made in self defence and too small to be made by an adult.
"Perhaps... a child." He whispered to himself, certain no one would hear his ponderings.
It was past the midnight hour, somewhere between and dawn. The barge creeped along as it usually did. The night owl inclined inmates and wardens alike going about their business whether it be watching films at 2am or those who just could not sleep for the weight on their minds were too heavy.
He couldn't remember when he arrived or even if he had left of all. Louis' mind swam with memories mottled and unclear. He saw faces and knew names of men and women he could have never met in life... or did he? The place were he found himself was foreign but familiar. Lestat would have reveled in this; even in the afterlife, Merciful Death was at odds with all things.
So Louis had lingered, unseen, for that was his custom to which he was well practiced. Lestat had called him the "pale wanderer" once (among other names), and he supposed it was a valid descriptor. There was many a decade that passed when all the New Orleans native did was travel from country to country; seeing the human race for who they were.
Somehow he had made it to the infirmary. It was quiet, despite the number of occupants. He was able to slip by unnoticed until he saw a face he knew. At least, he thought he knew him. There was something important about who he was, and what he did for a loved one but Louis couldn't quite get his head around it. This annoyed the vampire, who took it to move towards his cot. The man was asleep, hooked to an IV blood bag and a bandage around his wrist.
The wound was fresh. He could smell the blood underneath the unhealed tissue, sweet and intoxicating. Intrigued, he silently traced a stone cold finger over the wrist. A wound that was to clean to have been accidental or made in self defence and too small to be made by an adult.
"Perhaps... a child." He whispered to himself, certain no one would hear his ponderings.