Fic: Lien de Sang - VC, L/L, Gabrielle, R

[ravenblue]

Title: Lien de Sang
Fandom: VampChrons
Pairing: Louis/Lestat, Gabrielle
Rating: R
AN: Written as a challenge for... well, if I tell you, it gives it all away, hey?
Disclaimer: This is a work of amateur fiction. The characters herein are the sole property of She Who Holds the Copyrights. I'm just playing with them for a giggle, not to make money. Don't sue me, I have nothing you could possibly want.


~ Lestat ~

I awoke with a start. My eyes snapped open, searching in the dim light for the phantom images that had, only moments earlier, been so real.

It was that dream again, one that I was having with disturbing regularity, and more detail coming with each repetition. A memory, it seemed, of my mortal childhood, though in fact, I had no recollection of the dreamed scene ever having taken place.

In this dream, I am a child of perhaps five years, living more or less happily on my family's small, country estate in the south of France. As the youngest son of the local lord, I was rather aware, even at that tender age, that this fact afforded me a bit of privilege that I might get away with more things that other children would not. So it was with this awareness that the dream child me stood at the partially opened door of my mother's room, listening to a heated argument between she and my father. And, though my child's mind could not comprehend a good deal of what was said, I understood with total clarity the hatred and venom with which he spat the word bastard at her, his finger pointing sharply at her rounded, bulging stomach.

My mother was pregnant. This fact alone should have told me it was merely a dream. As I said, I was the youngest; no little brother or sister came after me to be doted upon. And yet, there was something so very real about it, this dream that made me question that which I knew to be fact.

Laying next to me, his arm wrapped about my waist, the length of his sculptured, naked body pressed deliciously against mine, was my Beautiful One, my Louis. He stirred now, his arm tightening about my waist. I felt the silken smoothness of his lush, full lips as they brushed my shoulder and his cool breath flow over my skin tantalizingly as he whispered to me in the darkness.

"It was just a dream, 'Stat and it's too soon to get up. Go back to sleep."

His voice was thick with sleep, his accent a bit sharper than when he's fully awake, and all the more enticing for it. Had I been in a better frame of mind, I'd be sorely tempted to ravish him. As it stood, however, I was too disturbed by the newest aspect of the dream, which was this: my mother had not only been pregnant, but had, indeed, given birth.

In the dream, I heard her pained cries of labor; heard her order my eldest brother to saddle our fastest horse and rife to town, to fetch the midwife. And I heard my father, who slumped sullenly on a stool next to my mother's bed, curse venomously that he would not suffer this bastard to live under his roof, to bear his name or be called his child.

Folding one arm beneath my head and trailing the fingers of my free hand lightly up and down the length of Louis' arm, I lay staring at the ceiling in the darkness.

"I don't know, Louis. I don't know. If it's only a dream, why does it feel so real? Why does it bother me so? And why does more detail come to light with each dreaming? What is the meaning of it?"

Louis sighed, realizing there was no more sleep to be had. Instead, he unwound his arm from my waist and, pressing his lips to my shoulder once again, ran his hand up the inside of my thigh to where leg and body meet, and allowed his fingers to dance teasingly over my cock.

"Why don't you let me take your mind off this dream for a while?" he purred softly to me. Had my mind not been so deeply engaged in thought, I would have realized what a rare thing his offer was, how out of character for him to be the one to initiate our play.

"Hmm. I'm sorry, mon cher, but I fear I'm far too distracted for what you suggest."

Louis almost laughed at this, but stopped himself and raised up onto his elbow, propping his head with his hand.

"Well, that's a switch, you turning me down." He paused a moment, and rested his hand on my stomach. "Lestat, if it troubles you so deeply, why not speak to Gabrielle about it? In the event that you are recalling something that truly happened, surely enough time has passed that any emotional pain it caused her has dissipated."

I worked this idea over in my mind, weighing the potential bad against the good, and decided that he was right; this would be the best course of action. Silently, I sent out the call to any and all immortals that could hear me that I, Lestat, needed to see Gabrielle, and would any be so kind as to relay that message to her. Within moments, I had the reply. It was the ancient and beautiful Pandora, who said she and Gabrielle were in the jungles of South America. If I could arrange for a ticket to be waiting at the Rio airport, Gabrielle could be in New Orleans the following night. I agreed and the plan was set. The entirety of that night was spent anticipating the next.

The following evening, I awoke once more from the dream, with the added detail that my mother had born another son, a robust child with dark hair and pale gray eyes, rather than the typical baby blue.

Shaken, I left Louis asleep in our bed, prepared myself for the evening and set out into the sultry New Orleans summer night to find the largest, most lush bouquet of tropical blooms to be had in the city, to welcome my mother.

It was just past midnight when I heard her footfall in the courtyard; she had vaulted the eight-foot high wrought iron gate as if it were nothing, and was now making her way up the stairs to the back door of the townhouse. I paced in the parlor, between Louis' desk and the harpsichord I kept more for decoration and ambiance than playing, waiting for the soft rap at the door. When it came, Louis held his hand up, gesturing for me to calm and compose myself as he rose from his pale blue velvet reading chair, depositing the volume of Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde he'd been reading on the seat, and went to let my mother in. And though they spoke lowly and at some distance from me, I heard their words as if they stood before me.

"Gabrielle, how lovely to see you again," Louis said warmly. Their clothing rustled softly as they embraced and exchanged kisses on both cheeks in classic French style.

"It's been far too long, Louis," I heard her reply. Ah, what a beautiful sound, her voice. It'd been so long since last I'd heard it. Her voice then dropped lower, as if she meant to speak in confidence. "So, why is it he's called for me? Pandora said he seemed stressed, troubled when he called."

There was a pause before his answer came; he may have made some silent, human gesture, a shrug or shake of his head, perhaps. "Best to let him tell it. But Pandora was right, Lestat's quite beside himself, and you are the only one who can ease his mind, answer his questions.

Louis now ushered Gabrielle into the parlor where I stood, my back to the French doors leading to the balcony over the Rue Royale. She looked her typical, disheveled self - dressed in dusty khakis, her long blonde hair hanging in a loose braid down her back. I was so relieved that she was finally here that it was all I could do to keep myself from picking her off her feet and turning round and round in circles with her in my arms. Instead, I moved quickly to her and pressed her close to my chest in a tight embrace. Burying my face between her braid and the nape of her neck, I breathed deeply her scent; the earthy, green odor of the forest she'd left only hours earlier.

"You've no idea how glad I am that you've come, mother," I whispered, as I cupped her face in my hands and pressed a kiss to her smooth, white forehead.

The look of surprise in her eyes at my having called her mother was unmistakable. Since the night I'd saved her from her impending mortal death, I'd called her by her proper name. That I now specifically called her mother caused her to take notice.

Her hand came up to brush stray hairs from my forehead, to gently caress my cheek, and her eyes, normally so steely, softened. "What is it, my son? What troubles your mind so that you called me here?"

She led me to the tapestry settee and, making herself comfortable, urged me to sit as well. Louis resumed his place on in the blue velvet chair, setting his book aside, intent on hearing all that was said.

I began explaining the dream to her, how it had been plaguing me for weeks.  I went through every detail point by point - seeing her very pregnant, the frequent fights with my father, him repeatedly declaring the child in her womb was a bastard, the birth itself and the appearance of the child.

As she listened, Gabrielle grew more pale. Frequently her hand moved to her throat and fluttered there a bit, like a moth beating its wings against a flame.  Finally, she became so agitated by my words that she quickly rose from her seat, went to the French doors and, throwing them open, stepped out onto the balcony. For several minutes she stood there, her head bowed, as Louis and I exchanged worried glances.

At last, she returned to the room, her lily-white face streaked with red tinged tears.

"Gabrielle, are you alright?" came Louis' voice softly from across the room. Without looking at him, she smiled sadly and pressed her fingers to her lips as if she meant to blow him a kiss. Then her teeming eyes turned to me and tilted her head a bit, as she looked at me apologetically

"You were so young then, Lestat," she began, her voice wavering. "I had no idea you absorbed so much of what you saw and heard." Pausing, Gabrielle pressed her lips together for a moment, thinking of how to continue. "I don't know how much you remember from those years in the Auvergne, the people there, especially when you were that young...

"It was 1766. You were not yet six years old then. You know well how lonely I always was in that place, how I detested the life I was forced to endure. I hated your father even more. He kept me isolated in that godforsaken place. I was as miserable as you were to become later. That changed ever so briefly. In town there was a merchant, a chandler. Well, actually, his wife made the candles, soap and such that was sold, but in those days and in that place, it was all but unthinkable that a woman would run her own business. So she made and he sold."

Gabrielle paused again, her eyes closing for several moments as a small smile played over her lips. "I can see his face still - lean, angular, very handsome. His name was Jean-Paul. He too was unhappy with his lot in life, longed to leave the Auvergne and start life anew. It was this shared dream that first brought us together, in a casual conversation as I waited for my order to be packaged one day. Soon, we realized that we were falling in love. Somehow, whenever I'd go riding, I'd find myself outside the shop, or in the places I knew he'd be riding. It didn't take long before we became lovers. We'd meet where and whenever we could - the rooms above his shop, in the clearing near the stream, the Witch's Place... "

Pausing again, Gabrielle made her way back to the settee and sat, hunched forward, her head bowed and hands clasped together, between her knees. With a heavy sigh, she continued. "Naturally, in those days there was little to be done to prevent pregnancy. Despite our best efforts to keep the inevitable from happening, it did, indeed, happen. At that point, I had been avoiding your father like the plague, not allowing him into my bed if I could get away with it. So there was little doubt in my mind when I realized I was with child, that it was Jean-Paul's and not my husband's.

"I hid the pregnancy as long as I could - this is when I began spending more and more of my time at the castle in my rooms, reading, interacting as little with everyone as possible. But eventually, the obvious could no longer be hidden. This was when the fights you dream of began. Your father was not a bright man, but he could recall when I had and had not allowed him to touch me, and it didn't take him long to come to the conclusion that the child was most likely not his. In the mean time, Jean-Paul's wife had long suspected there was something between he and I, even before we ourselves had realized it. When gossip made way to her ear that I now carried his child, she was sick with grief. They had been married several years already, and she'd been unable to bear him a child at that point, having lost two early in pregnancy."

Gabrielle stood again, pressing the palms of her hands to her temples as if her head hurt, then smoothing back her hair. Pacing several steps between the settee and the French doors, she resumed her story, her eyes wandering about the room, not settling on any particular thing.

"Your father, naturally, wanted nothing to do with the child; as you said, he declared it to be a bastard not of his line, and that he would kill it were he given the chance. After many fights and hard words, the two of us met with Jean-Paul and his wife, hoping to come to some determination of what should be done. Knowing my husband's feelings about this child and her own pain of lost children, it was Jean-Paul's wife that came to the final solution. If we would give them enough money to leave the Auvergne, to go far away from that place, and me, they would take the child and raise it as their own."

Finally, I could hold my tongue no longer. "So this is what you did? Bore the child and gave it over to them?"

With a small shrug of her narrow shoulders and a sad smile, she turned and looked at me. "What else could I do, Lestat? Stand by and let your father kill it? That was his way of thinking, you know. Kill that which was not of his line. Very provincial, very narrow minded. So yes, when the child was born, he was given over to Jean-Paul and his wife. We sold several acres of our land to the farmer the next lot over in order to give them the money they needed to leave. They sold their shop and land there as soon as they could after the child was born, and set off for the New World. I'd hear from them from time to time, telling me of what they saw, of the growth of the child.

"Being French, naturally they were drawn to what was familiar. They came here, to New Orleans, actually. Jean-Paul decided that he wanted to become a planter, that this was his calling in life. So he purchased a great tract of land an hour or so outside of town, built a fine house, purchased a few slaves and began in earnest. He was right - the plantation thrived. Within a few years, they'd become wealthy enough to expand the house, buy more land, more slaves. Also, his wife had finally had two successful pregnancies and bore him a daughter and son."

Here, Gabrielle folded her arms across her breasts, her hands holding the backs of her arms, as if she meant to protect herself from an impending attack.

Shaking her head, she gave a short, mirthless laugh. "It's funny, how things work, sometimes, how the bond of blood and familial relation can be so strong that it draws two people together who have no clue that such a relationship exists..."

For some time, my eyes had not been on Gabrielle, but on Louis, whose gaze was riveted on her. An expression something between shock and horror came over him as he listened to her words.

"Gabrielle," he began, his voice hoarse and thick with emotion. "All of what you say - Jean-Paul and his wife taking the child from France, coming to New Orleans, the plantation and its' success... You mean...?"

She nodded slowly as Louis spoke. He stopped, hand clamped over his mouth either to stifle a cry or to keep from becoming ill, perhaps both. Only then did my mind begin to wrap itself around what had passed between the two of them.

"Yes, Louis," she whispered. "You are the child born of my brief love affair with Jean-Paul..."

At hearing this confession, I leapt to my feet and grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face me.

"What are you saying, Gabrielle?" I cried. "That Louis and I are brothers? That all these years you've known this and still remained silent?"

She could only nod in affirmation of my statements. Louis sat doubled over in his seat holding his head in his hands.

Shaking her roughly I cried "Why! Why did you sit placidly by and allow us to live as lovers, knowing this was incest?" I could feel the sickness rising in my throat. Gabrielle was crying again, the tears flowing freely down her face.

"It was only after you'd given the Dark Gift to Louis, when you wrote and described him to me - the perfect replica of his father - and the house, the land, the situation, that I realized he was my child. By that time you were so smitten with him that nothing could have dissuaded you from your pursuit of him. And please don't forget that this was only twenty-five years past the time of my great humiliation; I wasn't eager to drudge all of that emotion back up then and there. So I kept quiet."

Her hand came up to my face, stroking my cheek, brushing away my tears, the cool fingers tracing over my lips. "Besides, what does it matter now, really? The Gift changes everything, doesn't it? Were we not as lovers the night you made me? Were we not also as lovers as we traveled the world together? I tell you that those mortal bonds of family cease to hold meaning once the change is made."

~ Louis ~

I read all this over Lestat's shoulder as his pen flew wildly over the pages and, finding it rather repugnant, shook my head. "This is obscene, even by your standards, 'Stat." He giggled madly at that statement. "You mean to put this in one of your books, do you? To tell them such a horrid fabrication, that we're long lost brothers?"

He looked back at me, his gray eyes glowing almost demonically with a mischievous light, and a wicked smile spread over his lips.

"Why not?" he asked gleefully. "My devoted readers believe damned near anything I tell them! They believed that tripe David and I concocted about me going to Heaven and Hell. They believed you made a vampire out of that whore witch Merrick. Why, then, shouldn't they believe that we are not only lovers, but also brothers?"

Again I shook my head at him in exasperation of this newest show of his well-known brattiness. "You're a fiend, Lestat." This brought a crazed, chortling laugh from him; he was well pleased by this assertion.

"Why, thank you, mon cher!" He rose and turned to me. "Let's go out, shall we? I think Loyola University's department of drama is staging Macbeth tonight." He sighed wistfully. "Ah, Louis, it's been ages since we've seen Macbeth! Remember the old days? We'd go weekly if it were playing!"

I cringed at the name Macbeth. It had been more like nightly in those days; the play was Lestat's obsession, and I feared it might again become so. Silently I prayed for it to be a short run, and replied "I remember, Lestat."

Flipping his notebook closed and setting the pen atop it with a flourish, he set off to ready himself for the outing, with the words spoken almost reverentially: "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...!"