Commentary: Le Masque de L'Amant
as requested by snivilis (sorry it took so long ^_^;;)
I would like to begin by saying that this is all snivilis’s fault. So we’d just been to see the Phantom of the Opera movie (again), and we’re hanging out, talking and such, and, for some reason, we start talking about Queen of the Damned, the movie. I really don’t remember how the conversation turned the way it did, but snivilis conjured the image of Gerard Butler as the Phantom (hot) / Stuart Townsend as Lestat (equally hot), and my brain officially shut down. Something followed having to do with sex in a cemetary, and I was officially lost. Then, the writer in me kicked in and started working through the logistics and determined that the time period did, indeed, work out quite well, and thus my sould was lost. It took me month of furious, consuming work to finish, and I still think it’s one of the best things I’ve written. I cannot, now, complete a fic without someone, usually snivilis, saying “Good, but not as good as your Erik/Lestat.” So… yeah.
In the vast ramblings of my narratives, I have omitted this particular tale. I trust you, dear reader, shall understand my purposes in doing so and shall take caution in relating it to indiscreet persons. I like this opening, because it makes the story almost plausible, and it reads a little bit like the start of an Anne Rice novel.
I heard his thoughts before I heard his music. The rich melody of his passion and his hatred wafted and echoed through the dark alleyways of Paris like a symphony of human suffering. I was drawn. Again, I like the metaphor here, the way Lestat perceives Erik’s mind as music; I think it fits.
Through the cold night I followed the bitter wailing of his unguarded mind until, nearing the ancient cemetery, I heard also the deep strains of his violin, rising and falling in perfect harmony with the chords of bare emotion which had led me to him. And the metaphor continues.
Entranced, I crept closer to the source of this breathless beauty. I had already fed and so did not thirst for the blood of this tortured genius, but my curiosity drove me forward, needing to see the face behind which dwelt a soul so full of such unspeakable brilliance and sorrow. This is so very much classic Lestat; it’s all about curiousity and possession. He’s found something that intrigues him and he’s going to follow it to its end, dissect it and destroy it. You see this kind of response with some of his more interesting victims, for instance, Roger and David.
You think, perhaps, that I am being overly romantic, quite uncharacteristic of the Brat Prince you’ve come to know and undoubtedly love as much as hate. Bear with me, loyal reader, my story is only just begun, and you shall see, before the end, what in this singular soul moved me such that I speak of him still in this tone. One of the great things about some of Anne Rice’s novels is Lestat’s voice. You can almost hear him telling the story and he never breaks tone. I tried to manage that here, to an extent.
Sliding silently among the grave pun grey alliteration monuments, I drew carefully closer until at last I caught sight of him, hidden deep in the shadow of a looming mausoleum. He was turned from me so that I saw only the pale corner of his jaw and the smooth motion of his arm as it worked the instrument bow, rising and sweeping beneath the heavy black cloak that covered and obscured his folded form.
I thought to do nothing more than remain where I stood, concealed from sight and sense, to listen and be stirred by this unearthly music in the still winter night. I did not count upon my beloved composer having senses in some ways nearly as sharp as my own.
The sound of his violin softened and silenced so gently I did not realise, at first, that he had ceased to play. In the quiet still echoing faintly with the strains of a sonata never heard before and never played again, he turned.
“Qui est la?” His voice was pure, deep and melodic, like his song and the dark river of his thoughts which still ran through me. I could imagine him singing. I said nothing, praying he would resume the rich tune I had apparently interrupted. And now, our narrator is even more fascinated, because this is the rare victim who is able to take him, at least a little, by surprise, and continues to do so throughout the story.
Until now, he had looked around just enough for me to see his even and graceful profile. He was pale and strong, a man, certainly, with no trace of the boy lingering in the lines about his firm mouth. His eyes shone black in the darkness. Then he moved to look behind him, turning so that the other side of his face was in my vision. My breath caught in my throat with a soft preternatural sigh.
The face which I now saw was almost completely covered by a smooth white mask, sloping from his jaw over the high curve of his cheekbone, extending past his forehead into the jet of his hair. A wickedly cut hole for his eye cast dim shadows, giving the mask a look of emptiness and death, as though the skin had fallen away and his skull were pushing through. As an actor by nature, I think Lestat would have been fascinated by the presence of the mask. He would have wondered what it meant and been greatly excited by the mystery.
“Qui est-ce?” His voice called out louder this time. “Qui se cache derrière ces pierres tombales et trouble ma solitude?” I speak French, but not that well; I had help with the translation. The reason Erik’s lines are in French is because this entire exchange would have taken place, you guessed it, in French. The reason Lestat’s lines are not is twofold. One, most of what he says is relatively important so you have to be able to understand it, and, two, his narrative voice is in English so it serves to reason that his actual voice would be, as well.
Momentarily disconcerted, I was at a loss. I had intended to reveal myself gracefully, if at all. Coming silently behind him, embracing him, running icy fingers down the warmth of his skin, leaving him reeling and full of new inspiration for his music.
Instead, I said the first thing that came to me. “I am not going to harm you.” Not my most memorable introduction. Momentary chagrin, here.
He laughed. Oh damnable audacity which is a fantastic phrase, by the way , the miserable creature threw back his head and laughed, a deep and dangerous sound shooting toward the stars like fireworks.
“Me Blesser? Monsieur, Je ne vous encouragerais pas à essayer.”
He was chuckling. In all of my immortal life, from the night of my violent birth to darkness to the very moment I sit writing these words, no mortal has laughed in my face so fearlessly as he. Lestat is now officially in love.
I stepped forward, thinking to subdue his amusement with my remarkable appearance. To my credit, he did pause, briefly startled. But though his smile did not return, no look of fear replaced it.
“Êtes-vous la Mort, monsieur?” He spoke calmly, with the faintest echo of mirth. “Si c’est le cas, je suis désolé mais vous êtes un peu en avance. J’ai certains projets dont je dois encore m’occuper.” Translation: Are you Death, sir? If so, then I am afraid you are a bit early. I have certain plans to which I must still attend.
Carefully, he bent to place the violin in its case, then began to walk away, as though my presence were already forgotten.
Employing my preternatural speed, I immediately stood before him, baring his path, my curiosity now thoroughly piqued.
“What kind of man,” I wondered aloud, “turns his back on Death?” He halted and took a startled pace backward. I smiled. “Surely,” I continued, “only one who wishes to be pursued.”
He frowned, clearly annoyed. Good. I would take great pleasure in riling up this mysterious wearer of masks.
“Je ne souhaite ni être poursuivi ni être suivi.” He fixed me with a threatening stare. his eyes were not black, as I had first thought in the shadows, but rather shone in innumerable hues and burned sharp and wicked in the double-toned paleness of his face. “Je vous le demande, monsieur, s’il vous plait, laissez moi aller en paix.”
His speech was polite and formal, but held distant by that hint of condescension that is singular to great genius which is aware of its own brilliance. My fascination grew by the moment.
He attempted to simply pass around me. Again, I blocked his path and stepped to within arm’s reach. This time, he did not back away.
His frown deepened to a vicious scowl. “Qu’est-ce que c’est? Que voulez-vous?”
I affected a quizzical little smile and cocked my head just slightly. “Forgive my forwardness, cher monsieur, but I simply must know the story of that lovely mask.”
The rage rising in his face and the blood that rushed with is was nothing short of tantalizing to me. A gloved hand came up with stunning speed to grip my throat, intending, I’m sure, to fling me aside. I was surprised by his strength, and he actually managed to shift me just a bit. My own hand gripped the back of his neck as the other pulled away his wrist in a blur of motion. He was startled and immobile, suddenly aware of the bounds of his helplessness.
He was strong; I could feel that now beneath my hands, feel the graceful tone of muscles running through his body. His mind was vast and powerful. He was undoubtedly the master of himself and his surroundings. Yet here he was, helpless and frozen, my prey. Had I been mortal, he could have snapped my neck like so much kindling, and here I held him so utterly at my mercy. There are not words for my excitement at this. I like taking characters who are relatively powerful in their own right and having them brought down by someone who is, ultimately, more powerful, though not necessarily better. *coughmystiquecough*
“Qu’attendez-vous de moi?”
I grinned, a cold and wicked smile, and spoke softly, breathing against his skin. “Only to satisfy my curiosity.” I slid the long nail of my thumb gently beneath the white edge of his mask, and paused. Through the heat of his anger and frustration, there suddenly drove an icy spike of fear. And here we find the crux of the matter.
Until this moment, he had shown no sign that he was in the least afraid of me. Rage, annoyance, suspicion, yes. But not fear, not until my fingers touched the extremity of that pale fortress. So I hesitated. If the threat of being revealed could produce such a reaction, I thought, my enjoyment of him might be prolonged considerably.
“What do you have hidden under there,” I breathed into his ear, sliding my fingernail across his uncovered face to gingerly graze his lower lip. He shivered. Softly, tenderly, I pressed my lips to his pulsing throat, tongue easing out to taste the bitter salt of his skin, only just beginning to sweat as fear rose in him.
Snakes tense before they strike, and so do humans. I had released my hold on his wrist, and he now swung his arm, but the blow he aimed at my head fell instead on air. The precious violin case fell carelessly to the ground. I had to add this sentence later, because I forgot all about the violin. I was pressed now behind him, laughing.
“Yes, yes!” I cried, catching both of his wrists in my unyielding grip and drawing his arms over and behind his head. “Fight me! I shall relish this so much more if you struggle!”
Dear reader, if you are familiar at all with my adventures to date, you should know that I am not sadistic. I hear that disbelieving laugh, but it’s true. Lestat does some really jackass things, but never out of spite or for the pleasure of causing pain. He really just does whatever he feels like. A tad malicious, perhaps, but not sadistic. Something in me, though, something thoroughly dark, exalted in the bringing low of this stunning creature. And this would be the sadist in me speaking. His imminent pain, his rising fear, were like rich wine to me, like sweet blood. I was intoxicated.
With one hand, I forced him to his knees, still clasping his wrists above him.
“Je pensais que vous ne me vouliez pas de mal,” he said with just the barest hint of irony. I could sense his suppressed horror, his rage at being so utterly helpless.
I laughed. “I have no intention of harming you.” He turned his head, trying to look at me. The moonlight glinted off his pale mask, and my excitement grew. “I mean only to enjoy you.” I circled slowly around him. “To bask in your terror.” I released his hands and stood before him, looking down into his divided face. “To taste the sweet anger that sings in your blood.”
There was a moment of absolute stillness in which he stared up at me, brilliant eyes closed of any emotion. Then he darted to the side so quickly no mortal could have caught him, but no sooner had he moved that my hand was on his throat. I flung him to his back and set myself atop him, straddling his hips and pinning his hands to the ground. The cloak he wore was spread beneath us like a bed of shadow on the virgin snow. He writhed desperately under the pressure of my body.
“Si votre intention est de me tuer, allez y,” he spat, flushed from fruitless struggle and impotent rage. “Mais arrêtez ce jeu. Vous avez gagné.” Translation: If you mean to murder me, do it. Only stop this game. You have won.
“Oh no, no, mon cher.” I pouted. “You cannot surrender so easily.” Leaning close to his face, I brushed the tip of my tongue against his ear. His answering growl shot through my veins and into the pit of my stomach. “My game is only just begun.”
I drew one of his hands up toward me and, with a wicked grin, slid my thumbnail into the small space beneath his black glove, leaving a tiny scratch that welled dark blood onto his pale wrist. My eyes were fixed on his face, and I saw him watch in horror as I ran my tongue across the tiny font of his life. Just a taste, just the faintest touch in my mouth. I pushed his lips apart and let him savour some small bit of his own self.
He bit me. Glorious, glorious creature.
I breathed in his gasp as my blood trickled down into the crevices of his mouth. He twisted violently beneath me, hips squirming in desperation between my thighs. I could feel him beginning to harden, feel him fighting the need stealing slowly into him. Because vampires just have that effect on people. I lifted my face and grinned wickedly down at him.
With an angry jerk, he spat into my eye a mixture of blood and saliva. Laughing, I released one of his hands to wipe my skin, but I had no sooner opened my grip that he once again tried to push me from him. In a second, my fingers closed around his throat. Tightly, I held him, and he choked, gasping for air that would not come, his body convulsing with the effort. He clawed at my wrists, digging his fingernails futilely into my glassy skin. I loosened my hold just enough to allow him the barest amount of air and, with my other hand, began opening the fastenings on his coat.
He strained against me, and I could feel his sex, growing still harder in his desperation. I did not want him overtaken before I had finished with him, so I shifted one of my legs between his own, pressing my knee firmly into his groin. He let out a strangled groan, and I laughed, continuing to work open the layers of rich clothing that separated me from his strong, twisting body.
On a technical note of interest, for those not familiar: Rice’s vampires cannot have normal sex; their parts don’t work, seeing as they’re dead. Drinking blood is the equivalent of intercourse, which is why you often see so much foreplay.
I ripped apart the final piece of white linen and looked at him lying there beneath me, spread open and devastated like a blown rose, black petals unfolded and lifeless around him. I love this image.
He convulsed violently, fighting with the last of his dying strength to grasp at some hope of the life I would drain from him. What would he do, I wondered, if I allowed him to keep that life? If, this very moment, I released him? On that whim (for I am, if nothing else, a creature of whim), I stood, taking all pressure from him and leaving him suddenly free. Of all the things Lestat does in this story, I think this is the most in-character.
He rolled to his side, gasping, hands pressed to his throat where a bruise was beginning to flower. Eyes slitted, he glared up at me, calculating. Slowly, without taking his eyes from my still form now a few metres away, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. Still watching me warily, he began to stumble past me, leaving a wide berth. I stared after him with measureless interest. Surely he would not simply walk away without so much as an insult? No, I had seen the pride in him, felt the steel which composed the core of his conscious. No, he was not finished. I waited.
I doubt yet that any mortal with less speed and strength than his own would have seen the motion, much less understood its meaning in time to catch the vicious noose which sailed fast toward me. Deftly, I caught the thin rope in one hand and flashed my prey a bemused smile. So full of surprises, this lovely vision of mystery.
He dropped the rope end still in his grip and ran as best he could in the deep snow with his limbs still aching and his breath still short. This would be the classic Oh Shit moment. Quicker than thought, I was beside him and slipped his own noose about his neck. I pulled the rope tight and breathed into his ear, “You do not disappoint, mon cher. Ever a new twist of the screw.” Pressing his back to one of the statues rising around us, I quickly bound him to the cold granite. The ropes digging into his bare chest pleased me, the fibres chafing the already tender skin of his throat. Just picture this for a minute; it’s really hot.
Beginning at the hollow just below his binding, I ran a finger down the length of his body, leaving a faint trail of blossoming blood in its wake. At the edge of his remaining clothing, I did not stop; my finger continued downward, just brushing the dark fabric and the growing heat beneath it. Oh yes, his flesh was most certainly enjoying his fate, and he hated himself for it.
I paused. I took my hands away from him and looked directly into his strange eyes. There was fear, yes, and a hatred so deep I have not seen its like to this day. But along side the hate, and just as deep, was sorrow. The same symphony of grief and despair that had drawn me to him. The world had been cruel to this marvellous child of man, and here I followed its example. So he decides to play nice, sort of.
Softly, I spoke to his mind. I could set you free.
The colour in his eyes began to fade as his body, deprived of air, weakened. It occurred to me that I might simply watch him die, let the slow loss of breath bring his troubled heart to stillness. But no. No, such would be unbecoming, inappropriate. Besides, I wanted his life for my own, wanted to feel his existence emptying into my veins. That privilege, that pleasure, I would reserve for myself. I loosened the bond around his throat.
The blood-flush left his face, and the stark contrast between his skin and ivory mask faded faintly. As the air returned to his lungs, he glared at me and rasped out in a hoarse whisper, “Bâtard.”
I chuckled and kissed his cheek. He shuddered and tried to turn away, but I caught his face gently in my hand, cradling the cool of his mask in my palm. So similar, my skin and this talisman of his. I slipped my fingers to the edges and slowly, carefully, pulled the harsh white away from his skin.
The softest and saddest of whimpers fell like a solitary drop of water from his trembling lips. You can start crying now.
I will not say I was not startled by the twisting flesh that crept across the plane of his face, but I was not horrified at its ugliness. Rather, I was captivated. Here was the eloquent tumult of his soul laid open on his very countenance, the striking grace of passion and perfection turning and folding in upon itself, easing violently into a storm of bitter anger and wasted tears. Never had I seen anything of such true beauty. As was pointed out: not beautiful in spite of, but beautiful because of.
He tried again to turn away, to hide his bane against the unforgiving stone at his back, but again I turned him back toward me, my fingertips caressing the lines of his twisted skin. My vampire eyes found every nick and scar in the swirling sea, and I loved them all. With great tenderness, almost reverence, I pressed my cold lips to his face and let a single word echo gently through his mind. Beautiful.
“Arrêtez,” he pleaded. “S’il vous plait. Laissez moi.”
Begging? I thought. For his life? Surely not. I drew back and looked into his wild, startling eyes. No, begging for his sanity, for his soul. His fierce and sorrowful soul whose fate I held, laid out before me like and uncertain victim. So truly horrifying, he was, and so truly breathtaking.
“Why?” I breathed and kissed him softy. I caught his sob in my mouth and tasted the one bitter tear that slipped into the space between our lips.
I moved my face down and pressed a tender kiss to the darkening bruise at his throat, then to the thin line of blood I had drawn down his chest, licking at the delicate rivulet of blessed red. I could taste him, taste his pain and his breaking heart. The breaths he drew were deep and shaking, and his muscles pulled and moved beneath my mouth. Running my hands onto his hips, I slid to my knees, lips lingering at the edge of his waistband. My fingers crept deftly up his thigh, past the dark heat of his sex, to pull at the fine strings that held the fabric to him. As the clothing loosened, one side slipped down, revealing the tantalizing curve of his lower side, the line of flesh disappearing into a fold of heavy material.
Chastely, lovingly, I pressed a kiss to the gentle dip between rises of bone and muscle and whispered a final, unheard word of ecstasy before sinking my teeth into his precious skin.
His blood, his life, poured into me, a thousand whispers of a life without sweetness, without peace, and I could have wept with the pitiful violence of it. He cried out in anguish, a formless noise of fathomless grief that shook my bones and my veins, but still I held, thinking there must be something bright in all this darkness, until a sob shuddered through him and sounded with love and horror the name Christine. The only name mentioned in this story, by the way.
I could not do it, then. I could not take him or make him one like me. There was... too much. I could not. This, I think, speaks entirely to Erik’s love of Christine, that it’s too much for even Lestat to take.
He wept as I untied him, choking on words I could not understand. As the rope that bound him fell away, he collapsed into the snow. Blood covered his side, and his clothing had slid further, leaving him exposed and unravelled. He looked like a broken toy, like a shattered porcelain music box.
I was disgusted. I could not bear to see this fallen grace, so I fled, leaving him, leaving this lovely loathsome angel of music lying amid the graves in the still and lifeless winter night. So it ends, not with a bang, but a whimper, as all things should and do.
:shadowen:
I would like to begin by saying that this is all snivilis’s fault. So we’d just been to see the Phantom of the Opera movie (again), and we’re hanging out, talking and such, and, for some reason, we start talking about Queen of the Damned, the movie. I really don’t remember how the conversation turned the way it did, but snivilis conjured the image of Gerard Butler as the Phantom (hot) / Stuart Townsend as Lestat (equally hot), and my brain officially shut down. Something followed having to do with sex in a cemetary, and I was officially lost. Then, the writer in me kicked in and started working through the logistics and determined that the time period did, indeed, work out quite well, and thus my sould was lost. It took me month of furious, consuming work to finish, and I still think it’s one of the best things I’ve written. I cannot, now, complete a fic without someone, usually snivilis, saying “Good, but not as good as your Erik/Lestat.” So… yeah.
In the vast ramblings of my narratives, I have omitted this particular tale. I trust you, dear reader, shall understand my purposes in doing so and shall take caution in relating it to indiscreet persons. I like this opening, because it makes the story almost plausible, and it reads a little bit like the start of an Anne Rice novel.
I heard his thoughts before I heard his music. The rich melody of his passion and his hatred wafted and echoed through the dark alleyways of Paris like a symphony of human suffering. I was drawn. Again, I like the metaphor here, the way Lestat perceives Erik’s mind as music; I think it fits.
Through the cold night I followed the bitter wailing of his unguarded mind until, nearing the ancient cemetery, I heard also the deep strains of his violin, rising and falling in perfect harmony with the chords of bare emotion which had led me to him. And the metaphor continues.
Entranced, I crept closer to the source of this breathless beauty. I had already fed and so did not thirst for the blood of this tortured genius, but my curiosity drove me forward, needing to see the face behind which dwelt a soul so full of such unspeakable brilliance and sorrow. This is so very much classic Lestat; it’s all about curiousity and possession. He’s found something that intrigues him and he’s going to follow it to its end, dissect it and destroy it. You see this kind of response with some of his more interesting victims, for instance, Roger and David.
You think, perhaps, that I am being overly romantic, quite uncharacteristic of the Brat Prince you’ve come to know and undoubtedly love as much as hate. Bear with me, loyal reader, my story is only just begun, and you shall see, before the end, what in this singular soul moved me such that I speak of him still in this tone. One of the great things about some of Anne Rice’s novels is Lestat’s voice. You can almost hear him telling the story and he never breaks tone. I tried to manage that here, to an extent.
Sliding silently among the grave pun grey alliteration monuments, I drew carefully closer until at last I caught sight of him, hidden deep in the shadow of a looming mausoleum. He was turned from me so that I saw only the pale corner of his jaw and the smooth motion of his arm as it worked the instrument bow, rising and sweeping beneath the heavy black cloak that covered and obscured his folded form.
I thought to do nothing more than remain where I stood, concealed from sight and sense, to listen and be stirred by this unearthly music in the still winter night. I did not count upon my beloved composer having senses in some ways nearly as sharp as my own.
The sound of his violin softened and silenced so gently I did not realise, at first, that he had ceased to play. In the quiet still echoing faintly with the strains of a sonata never heard before and never played again, he turned.
“Qui est la?” His voice was pure, deep and melodic, like his song and the dark river of his thoughts which still ran through me. I could imagine him singing. I said nothing, praying he would resume the rich tune I had apparently interrupted. And now, our narrator is even more fascinated, because this is the rare victim who is able to take him, at least a little, by surprise, and continues to do so throughout the story.
Until now, he had looked around just enough for me to see his even and graceful profile. He was pale and strong, a man, certainly, with no trace of the boy lingering in the lines about his firm mouth. His eyes shone black in the darkness. Then he moved to look behind him, turning so that the other side of his face was in my vision. My breath caught in my throat with a soft preternatural sigh.
The face which I now saw was almost completely covered by a smooth white mask, sloping from his jaw over the high curve of his cheekbone, extending past his forehead into the jet of his hair. A wickedly cut hole for his eye cast dim shadows, giving the mask a look of emptiness and death, as though the skin had fallen away and his skull were pushing through. As an actor by nature, I think Lestat would have been fascinated by the presence of the mask. He would have wondered what it meant and been greatly excited by the mystery.
“Qui est-ce?” His voice called out louder this time. “Qui se cache derrière ces pierres tombales et trouble ma solitude?” I speak French, but not that well; I had help with the translation. The reason Erik’s lines are in French is because this entire exchange would have taken place, you guessed it, in French. The reason Lestat’s lines are not is twofold. One, most of what he says is relatively important so you have to be able to understand it, and, two, his narrative voice is in English so it serves to reason that his actual voice would be, as well.
Momentarily disconcerted, I was at a loss. I had intended to reveal myself gracefully, if at all. Coming silently behind him, embracing him, running icy fingers down the warmth of his skin, leaving him reeling and full of new inspiration for his music.
Instead, I said the first thing that came to me. “I am not going to harm you.” Not my most memorable introduction. Momentary chagrin, here.
He laughed. Oh damnable audacity which is a fantastic phrase, by the way , the miserable creature threw back his head and laughed, a deep and dangerous sound shooting toward the stars like fireworks.
“Me Blesser? Monsieur, Je ne vous encouragerais pas à essayer.”
He was chuckling. In all of my immortal life, from the night of my violent birth to darkness to the very moment I sit writing these words, no mortal has laughed in my face so fearlessly as he. Lestat is now officially in love.
I stepped forward, thinking to subdue his amusement with my remarkable appearance. To my credit, he did pause, briefly startled. But though his smile did not return, no look of fear replaced it.
“Êtes-vous la Mort, monsieur?” He spoke calmly, with the faintest echo of mirth. “Si c’est le cas, je suis désolé mais vous êtes un peu en avance. J’ai certains projets dont je dois encore m’occuper.” Translation: Are you Death, sir? If so, then I am afraid you are a bit early. I have certain plans to which I must still attend.
Carefully, he bent to place the violin in its case, then began to walk away, as though my presence were already forgotten.
Employing my preternatural speed, I immediately stood before him, baring his path, my curiosity now thoroughly piqued.
“What kind of man,” I wondered aloud, “turns his back on Death?” He halted and took a startled pace backward. I smiled. “Surely,” I continued, “only one who wishes to be pursued.”
He frowned, clearly annoyed. Good. I would take great pleasure in riling up this mysterious wearer of masks.
“Je ne souhaite ni être poursuivi ni être suivi.” He fixed me with a threatening stare. his eyes were not black, as I had first thought in the shadows, but rather shone in innumerable hues and burned sharp and wicked in the double-toned paleness of his face. “Je vous le demande, monsieur, s’il vous plait, laissez moi aller en paix.”
His speech was polite and formal, but held distant by that hint of condescension that is singular to great genius which is aware of its own brilliance. My fascination grew by the moment.
He attempted to simply pass around me. Again, I blocked his path and stepped to within arm’s reach. This time, he did not back away.
His frown deepened to a vicious scowl. “Qu’est-ce que c’est? Que voulez-vous?”
I affected a quizzical little smile and cocked my head just slightly. “Forgive my forwardness, cher monsieur, but I simply must know the story of that lovely mask.”
The rage rising in his face and the blood that rushed with is was nothing short of tantalizing to me. A gloved hand came up with stunning speed to grip my throat, intending, I’m sure, to fling me aside. I was surprised by his strength, and he actually managed to shift me just a bit. My own hand gripped the back of his neck as the other pulled away his wrist in a blur of motion. He was startled and immobile, suddenly aware of the bounds of his helplessness.
He was strong; I could feel that now beneath my hands, feel the graceful tone of muscles running through his body. His mind was vast and powerful. He was undoubtedly the master of himself and his surroundings. Yet here he was, helpless and frozen, my prey. Had I been mortal, he could have snapped my neck like so much kindling, and here I held him so utterly at my mercy. There are not words for my excitement at this. I like taking characters who are relatively powerful in their own right and having them brought down by someone who is, ultimately, more powerful, though not necessarily better. *coughmystiquecough*
“Qu’attendez-vous de moi?”
I grinned, a cold and wicked smile, and spoke softly, breathing against his skin. “Only to satisfy my curiosity.” I slid the long nail of my thumb gently beneath the white edge of his mask, and paused. Through the heat of his anger and frustration, there suddenly drove an icy spike of fear. And here we find the crux of the matter.
Until this moment, he had shown no sign that he was in the least afraid of me. Rage, annoyance, suspicion, yes. But not fear, not until my fingers touched the extremity of that pale fortress. So I hesitated. If the threat of being revealed could produce such a reaction, I thought, my enjoyment of him might be prolonged considerably.
“What do you have hidden under there,” I breathed into his ear, sliding my fingernail across his uncovered face to gingerly graze his lower lip. He shivered. Softly, tenderly, I pressed my lips to his pulsing throat, tongue easing out to taste the bitter salt of his skin, only just beginning to sweat as fear rose in him.
Snakes tense before they strike, and so do humans. I had released my hold on his wrist, and he now swung his arm, but the blow he aimed at my head fell instead on air. The precious violin case fell carelessly to the ground. I had to add this sentence later, because I forgot all about the violin. I was pressed now behind him, laughing.
“Yes, yes!” I cried, catching both of his wrists in my unyielding grip and drawing his arms over and behind his head. “Fight me! I shall relish this so much more if you struggle!”
Dear reader, if you are familiar at all with my adventures to date, you should know that I am not sadistic. I hear that disbelieving laugh, but it’s true. Lestat does some really jackass things, but never out of spite or for the pleasure of causing pain. He really just does whatever he feels like. A tad malicious, perhaps, but not sadistic. Something in me, though, something thoroughly dark, exalted in the bringing low of this stunning creature. And this would be the sadist in me speaking. His imminent pain, his rising fear, were like rich wine to me, like sweet blood. I was intoxicated.
With one hand, I forced him to his knees, still clasping his wrists above him.
“Je pensais que vous ne me vouliez pas de mal,” he said with just the barest hint of irony. I could sense his suppressed horror, his rage at being so utterly helpless.
I laughed. “I have no intention of harming you.” He turned his head, trying to look at me. The moonlight glinted off his pale mask, and my excitement grew. “I mean only to enjoy you.” I circled slowly around him. “To bask in your terror.” I released his hands and stood before him, looking down into his divided face. “To taste the sweet anger that sings in your blood.”
There was a moment of absolute stillness in which he stared up at me, brilliant eyes closed of any emotion. Then he darted to the side so quickly no mortal could have caught him, but no sooner had he moved that my hand was on his throat. I flung him to his back and set myself atop him, straddling his hips and pinning his hands to the ground. The cloak he wore was spread beneath us like a bed of shadow on the virgin snow. He writhed desperately under the pressure of my body.
“Si votre intention est de me tuer, allez y,” he spat, flushed from fruitless struggle and impotent rage. “Mais arrêtez ce jeu. Vous avez gagné.” Translation: If you mean to murder me, do it. Only stop this game. You have won.
“Oh no, no, mon cher.” I pouted. “You cannot surrender so easily.” Leaning close to his face, I brushed the tip of my tongue against his ear. His answering growl shot through my veins and into the pit of my stomach. “My game is only just begun.”
I drew one of his hands up toward me and, with a wicked grin, slid my thumbnail into the small space beneath his black glove, leaving a tiny scratch that welled dark blood onto his pale wrist. My eyes were fixed on his face, and I saw him watch in horror as I ran my tongue across the tiny font of his life. Just a taste, just the faintest touch in my mouth. I pushed his lips apart and let him savour some small bit of his own self.
He bit me. Glorious, glorious creature.
I breathed in his gasp as my blood trickled down into the crevices of his mouth. He twisted violently beneath me, hips squirming in desperation between my thighs. I could feel him beginning to harden, feel him fighting the need stealing slowly into him. Because vampires just have that effect on people. I lifted my face and grinned wickedly down at him.
With an angry jerk, he spat into my eye a mixture of blood and saliva. Laughing, I released one of his hands to wipe my skin, but I had no sooner opened my grip that he once again tried to push me from him. In a second, my fingers closed around his throat. Tightly, I held him, and he choked, gasping for air that would not come, his body convulsing with the effort. He clawed at my wrists, digging his fingernails futilely into my glassy skin. I loosened my hold just enough to allow him the barest amount of air and, with my other hand, began opening the fastenings on his coat.
He strained against me, and I could feel his sex, growing still harder in his desperation. I did not want him overtaken before I had finished with him, so I shifted one of my legs between his own, pressing my knee firmly into his groin. He let out a strangled groan, and I laughed, continuing to work open the layers of rich clothing that separated me from his strong, twisting body.
On a technical note of interest, for those not familiar: Rice’s vampires cannot have normal sex; their parts don’t work, seeing as they’re dead. Drinking blood is the equivalent of intercourse, which is why you often see so much foreplay.
I ripped apart the final piece of white linen and looked at him lying there beneath me, spread open and devastated like a blown rose, black petals unfolded and lifeless around him. I love this image.
He convulsed violently, fighting with the last of his dying strength to grasp at some hope of the life I would drain from him. What would he do, I wondered, if I allowed him to keep that life? If, this very moment, I released him? On that whim (for I am, if nothing else, a creature of whim), I stood, taking all pressure from him and leaving him suddenly free. Of all the things Lestat does in this story, I think this is the most in-character.
He rolled to his side, gasping, hands pressed to his throat where a bruise was beginning to flower. Eyes slitted, he glared up at me, calculating. Slowly, without taking his eyes from my still form now a few metres away, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. Still watching me warily, he began to stumble past me, leaving a wide berth. I stared after him with measureless interest. Surely he would not simply walk away without so much as an insult? No, I had seen the pride in him, felt the steel which composed the core of his conscious. No, he was not finished. I waited.
I doubt yet that any mortal with less speed and strength than his own would have seen the motion, much less understood its meaning in time to catch the vicious noose which sailed fast toward me. Deftly, I caught the thin rope in one hand and flashed my prey a bemused smile. So full of surprises, this lovely vision of mystery.
He dropped the rope end still in his grip and ran as best he could in the deep snow with his limbs still aching and his breath still short. This would be the classic Oh Shit moment. Quicker than thought, I was beside him and slipped his own noose about his neck. I pulled the rope tight and breathed into his ear, “You do not disappoint, mon cher. Ever a new twist of the screw.” Pressing his back to one of the statues rising around us, I quickly bound him to the cold granite. The ropes digging into his bare chest pleased me, the fibres chafing the already tender skin of his throat. Just picture this for a minute; it’s really hot.
Beginning at the hollow just below his binding, I ran a finger down the length of his body, leaving a faint trail of blossoming blood in its wake. At the edge of his remaining clothing, I did not stop; my finger continued downward, just brushing the dark fabric and the growing heat beneath it. Oh yes, his flesh was most certainly enjoying his fate, and he hated himself for it.
I paused. I took my hands away from him and looked directly into his strange eyes. There was fear, yes, and a hatred so deep I have not seen its like to this day. But along side the hate, and just as deep, was sorrow. The same symphony of grief and despair that had drawn me to him. The world had been cruel to this marvellous child of man, and here I followed its example. So he decides to play nice, sort of.
Softly, I spoke to his mind. I could set you free.
The colour in his eyes began to fade as his body, deprived of air, weakened. It occurred to me that I might simply watch him die, let the slow loss of breath bring his troubled heart to stillness. But no. No, such would be unbecoming, inappropriate. Besides, I wanted his life for my own, wanted to feel his existence emptying into my veins. That privilege, that pleasure, I would reserve for myself. I loosened the bond around his throat.
The blood-flush left his face, and the stark contrast between his skin and ivory mask faded faintly. As the air returned to his lungs, he glared at me and rasped out in a hoarse whisper, “Bâtard.”
I chuckled and kissed his cheek. He shuddered and tried to turn away, but I caught his face gently in my hand, cradling the cool of his mask in my palm. So similar, my skin and this talisman of his. I slipped my fingers to the edges and slowly, carefully, pulled the harsh white away from his skin.
The softest and saddest of whimpers fell like a solitary drop of water from his trembling lips. You can start crying now.
I will not say I was not startled by the twisting flesh that crept across the plane of his face, but I was not horrified at its ugliness. Rather, I was captivated. Here was the eloquent tumult of his soul laid open on his very countenance, the striking grace of passion and perfection turning and folding in upon itself, easing violently into a storm of bitter anger and wasted tears. Never had I seen anything of such true beauty. As was pointed out: not beautiful in spite of, but beautiful because of.
He tried again to turn away, to hide his bane against the unforgiving stone at his back, but again I turned him back toward me, my fingertips caressing the lines of his twisted skin. My vampire eyes found every nick and scar in the swirling sea, and I loved them all. With great tenderness, almost reverence, I pressed my cold lips to his face and let a single word echo gently through his mind. Beautiful.
“Arrêtez,” he pleaded. “S’il vous plait. Laissez moi.”
Begging? I thought. For his life? Surely not. I drew back and looked into his wild, startling eyes. No, begging for his sanity, for his soul. His fierce and sorrowful soul whose fate I held, laid out before me like and uncertain victim. So truly horrifying, he was, and so truly breathtaking.
“Why?” I breathed and kissed him softy. I caught his sob in my mouth and tasted the one bitter tear that slipped into the space between our lips.
I moved my face down and pressed a tender kiss to the darkening bruise at his throat, then to the thin line of blood I had drawn down his chest, licking at the delicate rivulet of blessed red. I could taste him, taste his pain and his breaking heart. The breaths he drew were deep and shaking, and his muscles pulled and moved beneath my mouth. Running my hands onto his hips, I slid to my knees, lips lingering at the edge of his waistband. My fingers crept deftly up his thigh, past the dark heat of his sex, to pull at the fine strings that held the fabric to him. As the clothing loosened, one side slipped down, revealing the tantalizing curve of his lower side, the line of flesh disappearing into a fold of heavy material.
Chastely, lovingly, I pressed a kiss to the gentle dip between rises of bone and muscle and whispered a final, unheard word of ecstasy before sinking my teeth into his precious skin.
His blood, his life, poured into me, a thousand whispers of a life without sweetness, without peace, and I could have wept with the pitiful violence of it. He cried out in anguish, a formless noise of fathomless grief that shook my bones and my veins, but still I held, thinking there must be something bright in all this darkness, until a sob shuddered through him and sounded with love and horror the name Christine. The only name mentioned in this story, by the way.
I could not do it, then. I could not take him or make him one like me. There was... too much. I could not. This, I think, speaks entirely to Erik’s love of Christine, that it’s too much for even Lestat to take.
He wept as I untied him, choking on words I could not understand. As the rope that bound him fell away, he collapsed into the snow. Blood covered his side, and his clothing had slid further, leaving him exposed and unravelled. He looked like a broken toy, like a shattered porcelain music box.
I was disgusted. I could not bear to see this fallen grace, so I fled, leaving him, leaving this lovely loathsome angel of music lying amid the graves in the still and lifeless winter night. So it ends, not with a bang, but a whimper, as all things should and do.
:shadowen: