Spoilers: The Queen of the Damned

Disclaimer: This is a work of speculative fan fiction, and is not meant to infringe on the rights of Anne Rice, Knopf, or any affiliated publishers etc.

Synopsis: Daniel and Armand on a night out in New York, as in 'The Devil's Minion'.

Hello,

I haven't been here in a while, so I thought I would contribute a little something for having been here so long and read so many wonderful pieces of work. Thanks to DarkAngel, who encouraged me to keep posting... I hope you'll come back again with a vengeance! As you always do (-;

Dedication: This is to the one who misses the real Armand, even though I like to pretend I'm not affected by him, too...

Last Dance

By Artemesia

August 2000

"Come, lover, we're going to the ballet tonight.
Come on, I'm hungry, my beloved.
We must go."

"Of course his isn't going to make me what he is, but he isn't going to kill me.

The dance will not end like that."

- Queen of the Damned

His eyes opened slowly, drugged with the wine and the sleep from the night before. The snow fell in drifts outside the window, so white and silent that even he could see it in the moonless dark. Sometime ago, the light had gone out, he remembered switching it on before he fell onto the bed. And yet he was clothed in soft cotton pyjama pants, though he had been sure that collapsed face-down on the pillow fully dressed. He'd been so spent he hadn't cared. A feather quilt was drawn around his shoulders so he hadn't felt the cold. His shoes were laid neatly beside the bed, the toes pointing towards the open door. He sat up, wanting to stop the dizzy feeling inside his head.

A hand reached out to brace him as he swayed.

"Daniel," the silky voice spoke to him. "We're going out tonight. Remember?" So soft, chiding him gently. Like talking to a child. Such an innocent voice, though he knew how seductive it could be. He shook his head slowly, tensing the muscles in his neck.

"You promised to take me to the ballet."

"I promised no such thing." He protested weakly.

But Armand had only laughed. "No matter, you know how I love these things." A finger rested against his open lips. "It won't do to lie."

Daniel moaned, the effects of the wine he'd had the night before numbing his brain.

"I'm going to be sick." He told Armand eloquently. He ventured a smile at Armand before he went pale again and lurched forwards.

The smooth, white hand wrapping under his arms and lifting him up, up effortlessly and into the shower.
The water coursing down his arms, icy cold. He balked, but the arms held him there.

"Only a while, Daniel." Armand whispered through the sound of the falling water. "It never lasts for long, my beloved."

Those words seemed to bid warmth to rush through his fevered body, waking him up to a deeper consciousness. He peeled off the soaked pants that clung to his skin and threw them into the corner. Daniel felt Armand's hands soaping his body. His marble fingers felt almost human, heated by the water like the blood that pulsed through Daniel's own veins.

Daniel had long given up to Armand's ministrations. He didn't flinch as Armand took the towel and dried the film of water from his closed eyes, running through his hair and even the tips of his ears. The thick cloth buffing his chest and back, fingernails carefully trimmed. It was being stroked with sheathed tiger's claws. Such intimacy, in his nakedness, before Armand threw the towel into his lap with a teasing sigh, and closed the door behind him. He would be back again, as if this little dignity was all that was left to Daniel. Then Armand would watch him as he dressed in the clothes that had been chosen. All tailored immaculately for Daniel.

The fine trousers, the silk shirts and the fitting opera coat, the cravat at the neck and even the tiny gold opera glasses in the pocket. Armand took Daniel's trembling fingers from the cravat and tied it for him, the quick fingers drawing the fabric around his neck with infinite patience. And then they would ride to the theatre, like gentlemen from another age, Armand's head resting against Daniel's shoulder.

Armand would feed Daniel, so he couldn't see what he was being given in the darkness, until he tasted the grapes, the brie and caviar on his tongue. Armand's keen eyesight, watching Daniel to make sure that he swallowed every bite. Daniel had disliked it at first, but the last time he had given in, the protest dying on his lips when Armand had pointed out that Daniel would only reach the liquor and couldn't be trusted. There was a wry pleasure to being manipulated by Armand.

The open door and the dim glow of the streetlight, snow muffling the sound of voices in the still night air. Armand enjoyed walking into the foyer, loving the crush of the black coats around him, the hush of beaded dresses and the click of heeled shoes on the red carpet. He looked brazenly at the berry redness of the women's lips, smelt the musk of cologne and perfume. The chandeliers shone above his head, casting light onto his hair like a pale flame. Daniel wondered if this was what Armand had looked like, when Lestat had seen him at the Palais Royale. Hard to imagine, as Armand waited to buy the programmes, playing with the silk tassel as they were seated.

He gripped the velvet armrests, hearing the faint sounds of the orchestra, hidden from view. Why have a live orchestra if you could not see it? The nuances of such a luxury escaped him, although he was definitely used to it, time after time. His breath still caught and he would still let out that sigh with the others, like one being called the Audience, as the curtain rose. Lights scattered erratically, trying to find the dancers.

The figures on the stage would come to life with the touch of the light on their shoulders. He would see the white faces and limbs of the dancers as they moved together in their dance, one catching the other weightlessly.
The pair were bound to each other as if there were no-one else living on the Earth. Their heads turned to see only the other's, every poise meant to include the other. There was something keening on the verge of words, but not needing to be expressed in any way other than this. Endless form and movement.

"You see, they do not need to speak either,' the soft voice sighed, "They have a language of their own."

And it was true, Daniel thought, mesmerised by the fluid arms, the expressions on the sweet, painted faces. The woman, her features as perfect as Michaelangelo's Madonna, the eloquence held in the strain of music that paused as she paused, each note caught to her every movement. And Baryshnikov! Ah, Baryshnikov… Armand was riveted to his steps, the magnificent leaps and pivots in the empty air that he defied. Surely, this could not be a mere mortal, captive to the raw workings of muscle and bone.

"They are more immortal than I am." A little whisper, against Daniel's own thoughts.

He let himself fall forwards to lean on the ledge of the private balcony. His head swung back to face the other.

"You say that because you hold me in your power, Armand." Daniel said.

"You say that because you do not know any better, beloved."

It was enough to be quiet for a while, to let Armand think that he would listen, that he would surrender.

"Then teach me." he said, the plea choking him. "You should teach me so that I might know." Devil, devil. And he was such a willing Faust, eager to offer his soul like plucked grapes .

"And what for?" Armand had said, sadly. "So that you might know what the sadness is that lies inside my heart, this sadness that is my love for you?"

"Ah, but you do not love me." Daniel laughed, cruelly. "At least I can see that much." Armand was silent, but held his eyes, glittering with unshed tears. Daniel had to look away.

"Such things you say!" Armand whispered sadly.

"Why not?" he replied, "I feel no remorse." For how could he, Daniel, Daniel who was frightened by what he had become.

He lifted his opera glasses, watching the stage. The slim ankles lifted in the air, the pointed toes in such precision that it would almost have been painful. Watching the woman's head whipping from each pose into the next, tied to her partner. Beauty on the edge of a knife. How it suited Armand.

"They live and die every night. For them, each performance is a lifetime, taken out of the box of puppets and given breath once more, before the life is shed yet again."

Somebody cut the strings! He felt half-mad, delirious. He felt gagged.

"Why do you say such things." Daniel said, rudely. He'd meant to hurt Armand, to make him say something more so that he could fight back. Deny wanting him, and needing him this much.

Armand had looked at him with such sadness, such desolation in the two brown eyes. In his anger, Daniel had thought that there was a hint of understanding, such tenderness that he felt something begin to thaw from within. Something had snapped inside of him.

"You tell me things like I should know, and then you look at me like that when I say you bore me." Daniel stood up from his seat and turned. "I won't stand for this!" he hissed.

He ran, stumbling into the snow. He let the pages of the programme fall out like a trail behind him, tearing the last pieces of paper in his hands and letting it catch in the wind. I want to tear everything to shreds, every piece, Daniel thought. Want to show him that I don't care, that his obsession doesn't own me.

He threw away the silk tassel, not even seeing where it landed.

Start running. I want to see what you do, I want to know what you are…

Well? He wanted to know, blindly. How have I done?

Each thought blurred from one to the next. From one, the dancers on the stage, the blood red roses raining down on them like blood, then the fevered hammering of his heart, the pulse behind his eyes. He fell onto the snow, the cold ground slipping beneath him. The fine clothes were soaked through, the opera glasses had fallen from his pockets somewhere between the theatre and the garden. Oh, but there'd be hell to pay now!

He began to hum, a little tune, he couldn't remember what it was from. It didn't mean anything, just a series of notes that happened to make a melody. It sounded thin and weak even to himself. Desperate.

Where to run to from here? From New York to Paris, from Paris to Madrid and then Dar-Es-Salaam, Cairo or Reykjavik , Anchorage, what did it matter? Daniel fled through each country without any borders, as quickly as riffling through the pages of a book. It frightened him, the world passing him by with the roar of jet engines and the sterility of the hotel rooms he stayed in, something he couldn't escape. He played on the devil's stage.

Damn Armand.

Daniel coughed, the wracking spasms choking his throat. He gasped and lay on his back. Small, cold stars looked down at him, indifferent. The black velvet of the sky held no expression for him, felt no pity as he shivered and clutched this coat closer to his body. Such silent beauty, he thought. His vision flickered on the frame of the bare trees, the strange warm breeze that laid over the frozen garden.

Banished from the garden…

And not even the strength of the bottle to hold on to when he died. It wouldn't matter anymore, he thought, it would be a quick pain and then he wouldn't feel a thing. He felt like laughing.

Daniel. A kiss, pressed against his icy lips, blue with cold.

He tried to open his mouth to say something to Armand, to tell him that it was all right. Hell, it was Daniel who was dying here, and he wanted to tell Armand that everything was great!

"You're sick, Daniel." The words sliding sensuously like a cool cloth to his forehead. "Very, very sick. Lie still, let me take care of you."

Damn you, Armand, I'm dying! He was drifting again, seeing the white faces around him. Daniel saw one eye open, flashing iridescent green, and he reached out his arms, it had to be Louis…

"You can't even begin to know what death is." Armand told Daniel.

"But I want to die." He said simply. "Don't you understand?"

Armand's fathomless dark eyes… They could look so sad, so tragic. But he wouldn't fall for it this time, it was all too much.

Daniel. The blood trickling into his mouth, a thin stream. It tasted of tears. He had wanted it so much, so much and now it was his.

"Die in your arms…."

Daniel. The voice was telling him, and he was saying back, Yes, yes, now I am yours. The stirring of his heart, beating stronger again, the painful feeling at the tips of his fingers as they slowly came back to him. The life flowing back into his body like a crimson tide.

Was this what you wanted? The voice asked him.

"Yes."

You would have it still?"
"Yes!" One word, it should have been softened, with some fool admission. But he didn't have the breath.

And you would do it, even though you knew it would hurt me…

A silence throbbed in the void.

I can't have you, you are the only thing keeping me from the verge of insanity. You know that. If I had you, I would crush you, stain you like blood on snow…

"You won't take me there… my life was a game to you all along." He had opened his eyes, tried to look behind the shadows, finding nothing. He struggled, choking.

"Where am I? What happened?"

And the voice returning to him, a touch on his eyelids like smooth stone. The last thought before the darkness, that he was so young, this could not be his Armand.

It doesn't matter, Daniel. It was just a dream.

"Armand?…" It was a sigh, breathless.

No, Daniel. I am not who you think I am. I meant nothing.

It will mean nothing to you, nothing at all when you wake up, when you leave me in your waking world. I was nothing to you but a monster to run away from, one lonely, dying last dance.