The Courtship of Mr. Lioncourt
Becky Durden


So I've been reading some of KC's Grimm BS and was inspired to write my own. I thought Red Riding Hood was a good one to do, but then I rather plagarized Angela Carter's "The Company of Wolves." I can't help it; she's just so bloody good. Don't bother telling me she's been ripped-off; I know that already. :-)

Oh, well, I can't help but imagine Louis/Lestat in the roles of the story. So here it is.

As most of you will probably know, the title is taken from one of Carter's other stories, "The Courtship of Mr. Lyon." It just sounded good.

Spoilers: Eh, no.
Dedication: To Danny-Boy. Not Molloy, but my own
little Danny. Hey, sweetie.

Disclaimers: Do not own any works by Mater, Grimm, or Angela Carter. Non-profit work, and stuff.

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The Courtship of Mr. Lioncourt--

The wolf and winter are entwined as one; both are cruel, savage and beautiful. Both will have you spellbound before crushing the life from your body. It is said that no person has ever took the wolf on and won; you may kill them, but their savage souls and eerie howls will haunt you for the rest of your life. Dreams are chased by wolf-shadow; hear the footsteps of someone at the door and your heart will quail- for once the wolf has hold of you, he will never let go.

This tale concerns a youth who proves this point.

In a secluded mountain village of Northern Europe, a young man was preparing to leave his family home for the day to visit a friend who lived deep within the forest. Now, the forest was the place of nightmares; most hunters steered clear, because the earth and the beasts conspired against man to lose him in its dark netherworld.

The forest was as large as it was dark, and always, its shadow loomed over the villagers. The small village cowered in its wake; and when the wolves and bears and other wild nightmares snarled and howled in the night, children would cry in their sleep, their parents huddle together and curse their bad luck at choosing such a place to live.

So it is unsurprising that the young man’s family were so concerned for him. They did not consider it a wise move to go and visit someone who was stupid enough to live in the forest, anyway.

“But, Louis, it’s too dangerous!” said his mother, a woman who, through her constant nagging of him and his siblings had gone prematurely grey, though her delicate bone structure betrayed her beautiful youth.

His sister joined in, “…And what of the wolves?” she asked. She knew this would make him stop and consider; the beasts had carried off men much stronger than him in the past few months. They were more daring and ready to take on any man.

But he was as stubborn as he was beautiful. He knew fear, and he knew suffering. But, more than anything, he knew compassion, and his friend, Babette, had been ill over the winter and needed tending to. He ignored their pleas and shut the door, making his way into the forest.

He had thought to take his horse, but had reconsidered. *I would not want the wolves to kill her.* he thought, and then laughed. He had not even considered his own safety.

As he wandered deeper into the forest, he found himself clasping the wicked knife he always carried whenever he went near this place. It could slit a wolf’s throat in an instant; but he knew he could only ever take on one. An entire pack would tear him apart before he knew it.

There was little more than a breeze in the closed confines of the forest, but the air was chill and his cheeks were red with the stinging cold. The redness of his cheeks, however, were as nothing to the blood-red cape that hung from his shoulders; his father’s proudest possession, which had been bequeathed to Louis upon his father’s death. Its rich crimson was becoming on him, as dark and vibrant as each startling colour on his body.

His skin was smooth and pale; he had led a sheltered life and inherited the delicate features of his mother along with the dark colouring of his father. He was a study in contrasts; his skin, so pale, milky, contrasted sharply with his jet-black hair, his long eyelashes.

But the most striking thing about him was his eyes; crushed emeralds that betrayed his every emotion; green like a wolf’s in the moonlight, but touched with effortless humanity that the beasts could only envy. There was a saying, in the village, that even a wolf could love him.

Louis found himself hoping that this was true. It would be his only defence, but a starving wolf would not care for such aesthetics.

Although he had made this journey a good few times over the winter, always, he was nervous and wary as he made his way into the forest. He sung to himself, low, softly, so that he could hear the affirmation of his own voice in the silent and ominous world around him.

After a little while, however, he stopped singing and began to listen, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. *Something* was out there; and he knew that it had been following him for some time. The forest had been *too* quiet; the birds had stopped singing, the air was still. A predator.

Cursing himself for day-dreaming, and walking into this trap, he stopped and listened. Whatever was following him was artful; it made no sound. “Is anybody there?” he called out, praying that it was another human. Even a murderer would be less of a trial than a wild beast.

Silence.

Hands trembling, he carried on walking, shifting the rucksack of provisions for Babette restlessly along his shoulder. He should have stayed at home, he should never have thought himself invulnerable to the wilds, he—

He cried out in terror as something darted from the bushes to block his path. His hand flew to the knife at his side, and he unsheathed it, pointing it towards his aggressor.

Standing before him was a young man. He looked a little younger than Louis, but was broader across the chest, and his cocky grin betrayed a self-assured personality that was in stark contrast to Louis’s gentle and watchful personality.


The stranger had skin as pale as Louis’s- paler, like the snow itself- and blue-grey eyes like wolf’s bane. He was slightly taller than Louis- and slender, but so strong. He carried his weapons with practiced ease.

Over his shoulder was a hunter’s bag, lined with the fur of some animal or another, whilst pheasant feathers and a couple of rabbit’s legs protruded from them. Louis sighed in relief. A hunter. And where there were human hunters, there were never wolves.

“Y-you scared me,” he whispered, putting his knife back into his pocket again.

“Did I?” asked the hunter, “I suppose I should; what an idiot you are, walking this forest with nothing but a knife to defend yourself and singing so every beast in the whole damn place can hear you.”

Louis scowled. “I’ve been doing well enough so far.”

He expected the stranger to give some scathing comment, to nag him like his mother, but instead he broke into a grin that was infectious in its own way. “And where are you going?” he asked jovially.

Louis gave a coy smile. “Not that it’s any of your business, but to my friend’s home.”

“Really?”

Louis patted the rucksack on his shoulder, “She’s been ill, can’t get out to the markets. I bring her provisions once a week.”

“What a nice idea. But you really are still a fool for coming through here. And don’t you know that the wolves watch the paths? You’re better off in the thick of the forest.”

Louis gazed at the dark flora around him. He seriously doubted this; but then, he exposed he was out in the open! Anybody could just—

“Do you want me to prove the point?” asked the stranger. “Shall I attack you, rob you of your possessions?” he swaggered forward menacingly.

Louis took out the blade he had been given, his jaw set determinedly. As he lifted it, however, his hands trembled; his resolve wavered. Was the stranger being serious? He gazed at the wolfish grin, and then realised that it was more that he could not…

The feral gleam in the stranger’s eyes reflected his trembling form. “Are you afraid of me?” the hunter mocked gently.

This time, it was Louis’s turn to growl. He tipped his head proudly and held the knife out to the hunter. “Here, take it.”

The hunter’s eyes locked on Louis’s own and held his gaze, even as he slipped a hand around the blade and pulled it from the gentleman’s grasp. He toyed with the knife for a moment, feeling its blade against his skin. It cut him, such a small cut that it was barely a graze, but he gasped and held his hand up, licking the small drop of blood away all the same. He stared at Louis, and something fleeting, almost malicious, passed over him.

Louis wished he had the knife back.

Then the stranger’s face was filled with a happy grin, and he tucked the knife away amongst his own weapons. “For trusting me, Beautiful One,” he said, “I’ll do something I very rarely do and tell you my name.”

“And what is that?” Louis asked, fighting to quell the panic rising in his throat.
“Lestat.”
“Merely Lestat?”
“That and nothing more,” he smiled, and extended a hand. He grasped Louis’s and shook it warmly. “Pleased to meet you.”

Louis nodded. “So, Monsieur Lestat, will you guide me through this forest, as you promised?”

Another grin. “Why, of course, Beautiful One.”

“Louis.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My name’s Louis.”

“Oh.” A short laugh.

They had been walking for some time. Always, Lestat kept him to the path. Louis protested, saying that the wolves would know their trail, but Lestat would tell him to hush, he was with him, he was safe, and Louis pushed away his fears and allowed the hunter to guide him on.

They had been talking of trivial matters, favourite plays and my, how long the winter had been this year, when Louis heard the first howl. It was joined by more, and more, until a hellish chorus had been struck up. Thankfully, the wolves seemed some way off.

Louis shivered. “The wolves are out in force tonight,” and he grasped Lestat’s arm tighter.

The hunter gave a toothy grin. “Don’t worry; they won’t attack us.” His eyes narrowed and he gazed at his charge. “Do you want your knife back?”

“Why?” asked Louis.

“To defend yourself.”

Louis smiled. “I’m sure you can defend me well enough.”

Lestat stopped. “Quite.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Louis, but his companion ignored him. He had his head cocked, listening to the sounds of the forest. Louis strained to hear, but no sound came to him. Somewhere, snow was melting from a branch and dripping steadily onto the forest floor. The place was eerie in its silence.

“What…” he began, and then an ear-splitting screech, a howl of malice, rippled through the forest. It chilled him to his core.

Lestat turned and regarded him. He had a strange look in his eyes; they seemed wild with excitement, his hair loose and wild. “Let’s play a game,” he announced suddenly.

“What sort of game?” asked Louis hesitantly.

“A race,” said Lestat, “let’s see if I know these woods as well as I think I do. I’ll use my shortcut, and we’ll see who reaches your friend’s hose first.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “Is that such a good idea, what with the wolves? I think I’d rather-“

“Nonsense,” said Lestat smoothly, cutting him off. “It’s an excellent idea. A bit of sport.” He laughed. “We’ll play for a prize, just to make it interesting. Choose something you want, if you win that is.”

Louis considered. What he really wanted to say was, “A kiss,” but he felt too shy to ask such a thing from this fiery stranger, so instead he said, “A rabbit to take home for supper.”

Lestat laughed. “I would have given you one anyway, if you had only asked. As for me, I would like my prize to be a kiss from you.”

Louis’s heart leapt. “Okay,” he said, forgetting to be afraid in the whirl of excitement Lestat had him in.

“Then let’s play,” said the hunter, and with that, he disappeared into the forest.

Babette’s house was not all that far away. In fact, Louis was almost certain that this path would be quicker, seeing as how the surrounding country was covered in scrub and nasty thorns and bushes. He hoped Lestat would be safe, but then he was certain the hunter could look after himself.

He slowed his steps a little, to give Lestat time to make it to the house before him. After all, a tender kiss from that wide and generous mouth was much better than his prize of a rabbit. He imagined being swept up in those arms, to feel the strong jaw nuzzling against his face, and he almost sighed with longing. Then, pulling himself together, he decided to start hurrying to Babette’s house. After all, Lestat must be there by now, and he didn’t want him to see how much he coveted that kiss.

The stars were out by the time he arrived at Babette’s house. Away from the village, the ambient light, they were so pretty, so very bright in the forest. He sighed contentedly. No wonder she loved it so much out here, in the silent beauty of the natural world. Away from the constraints of the family and society.

Babette’s house loomed up in the darkness, and despite his intolerance for society, he found himself happy to see the brightly-lit home, the air of quaint domesticity that surrounded it.

He walked up to the front porch, noticing, with a frown, that there was no sign of Lestat—how disappointing. He must have only been leading him on. He decided to forget the stranger, after all, the purpose of the journey had been Babette.

He made to knock on the door, and then realised that it was open. A cold hellish fear settled over him. Babette was not stupid; the door must always be locked—the wolves would find entry otherwise. As if on cue, he heard one baying in the distance, and hastily entered the little hut.

Inside, the hallway was lit up. It had been this light that he had seen from the path. The place looked the same, as ever; small table with a couple of books, a coat-rack, a lamp. Perhaps everything was all right, he was simply creating fears with his over-active imagination…

… And then he walked into the bed-room, and realised how foolish he had been.

A shadow passed over Louis’s face at the sad sight before him; blood and torn clothes and half a splintered bone, that of a human; and nothing more. The lights had been put out, the bedding ripped and shredded, ornaments overthrown and smashed.

“You know what happened?”

He turned, to see Monsieur Lestat standing there in the doorway. Lestat, blond and leonine in the light, watched him with cold blue eyes.

Louis swallowed. “The wolves,” he said, and though he trembled, he looked Lestat in the eyes.

A sympathetic nod. “The wolves.”

The cry of a wolf sounded in the distance. A moment’s silence, and then a cacophony of howls sounded nearby, and then outside the window, and then a wolf was standing at Lestat’s feet.

Louis swallowed and lowered his gaze. He knew, then, that he was next.

“Are you afraid?” asked the hunter. His voice had that gently mocking tone again.

Louis raised his eyes, glared proudly at him. “No.”

“You’re a fool not to be,” said Lestat, bending down and ruffling the thick fur on the neck of the wolf, “they’re killers, pure and true. I took them on, won, of course, and then I saw…” he glanced down at the wolf, large and savage and beautiful, “…then I saw that we weren’t really all that different, after all.”

“…And my friend?”

“Forget about her. It’s the living that matter.” He took a step forward. “Now, tell me, my dark-haired beauty; are you afraid? Don’t worry, you can tell me. After all, no secret will ever matter to you again after this.” He laughed, full-throated and happy, and the wolf grinned up at him.

“Never.” Said Louis.

“And do you have anything to say about the sight before you?”

Louis took another look at the carnage around him, and the darkness where before once Babette had filled it with light and goodness, and then he saw how pretty the darkness was, and how the wolf so wanted to rush forward, but waited patiently at its master’s feet.

Its master.

“It looks like you won the race,” he said finally.

“Mmm-hmm. But I got a little restless waiting for you, Beautiful One. And so I got back to the matter at hand; the hunt.”

“…Have you caught enough today?” he asked hopefully.

The grin faded from Lestat’s face. “Almost, pretty Louis. I have one…more… quarry to take.”

Louis watched him smile, and then break into another wolfish grin. The beasts began to enter the house again, one, then two, and then there were a whole pack at his feet, waiting, watching with glittering amber eyes.

“My brothers,” said Lestat, gesturing to the waiting wolves, “they are hungry.” And he grinned to show how entertaining it wall was.

Louis quailed, then forced himself to smile. “And so I should prepare for this feast?”

A nod.

Slowly, he unfastened his red cape. It fell to the floor, and a wolf stepped forward, picked it up in its jaws and began to tear at it hungrily.

“I do wish you’d hurry,” said Lestat, “And don’t worry about your clothes. Rip them off if you like; you won’t be needing them again.”

“I am sure I won’t,” said Louis, but he took his shirt off slowly, allowing Lestat a glimpse of collarbone, shoulder, torso. “I would like to feel their silk one last time before I give myself up to you…” he said. He rolled the shirt up and threw it into the pack of wolves, who complied by tearing that up, too.

“Me…and my brothers.” Reminded Lestat.

“And your brothers,” agreed Louis.

“Take down your hair,” said the hunter, “after all, they don’t much like the taste of ribbon.”

Louis complied, and waves of black, silky hair curled around his face, neck and shoulders. He gave the nearest wolf the ribbon. It snarled and promptly swallowed the red material.

Louis arched an eyebrow. “They seemed to like it well enough.” He said.

“Indeed,” agreed Lestat, “but they, like myself, prefer the taste of blood.”

Louis took off his belt and dispensed with that, too. “Is that all you like?” he asked, taking off the rest of his clothes.

“No, I like kisses, too. And I recall I was promised one, my child. After all, I beat you here…”

“Ah, yes,” said Louis, “I had better give you that first, then.”

Lestat licked his lips hungrily. “Yes- it’s only fair, after all.” He smiled, a cat’s smile, a wolf’s sport, enjoying his prey’s endearing game. “Now, my beauty,” he said, mock-serious, “I must eat you. I have caught you and the rule of the forest is: no mercy.”

Louis laughed. They both knew, he was nobody’s meat. He stepped away from the last of his clothes and stepped towards his hunter. Lestat gave an indulgent smile as he opened his arms and wrapped them around his quarry.

Louis clung to his shirt, the suede overcoat, and raised his head, kissing those sensual lips and tasting the slight trace of blood that tainted Lestat’s lips, where his teeth had scored marks in his own tongue.

All the better to eat you with.

The hunter pressed the beautiful creature to him, rough clothes against too-naked flesh. His fingers ran over the warm chest, over the sharp curve of hip-bone and dipped in the crevice below. He pressed his hand there, caressing Louis as he never had any of his victims, whilst Louis gasped into his ear and relaxed in his arms. He ran his hand over Louis’s body even as he leaned forward and drove his fangs into the smooth neck, as he drank up his quarry’s life as he had promised.

The sun rose slowly over the wintry landscape. Obscured partially by thick snow-filled clouds, it could never seek to fully penetrate the wilderness below. The forest itself was as dark as ever, and still the villagers muttered of the terrible fate of the beautiful Louis who had not returned from its depths. Nobody was brave or foolish enough to go look for him; no man was stupid enough to enter its savage netherworld.

Deep in the glades, the little hut had never seemed so deserted. Wolf-shadow flitted through the house; thick paws crushed Babette’s trinkets underfoot. The wolves guarded their master’s domain with vicious loyalty.

And deep down beneath the floorboards, in a small cavern full of luxurious silks and furs, his neck marked with a dozen tender love-bites, Louis slept safe and content in the arms of the gentle hunter.

The End