The Angels Wept, And The Blood Did Flow
By Kabuki
fleurs_de_ophelia@hotmail.com
March 2001


Preliminaries: Mild and implied violence, angst, et cetera. I make no claim on Mater's creations. Spoilers up to and including MW3.



He opened his eyes, brilliant blue orbs gathering the light of the surrounding space and shifting to a more frosty shade. The room was illuminated by a generous number of oil lamps, their scent hearkening back to lost times and wasted years and mingling with the more prominent scent of mortal sweat and a musky incense. Blood was a veiled reminder in the pulsating, fleshy swaths of mortality which stood nearby awaiting a command and the vision of some religious figure. Outside, the cries of pain that had permeated even the most perfectly insulated home had died away to nothing, leaving the wailing of many voices in prayer. Death hung in the air, and Lestat loathed himself for his own part in such a deed. Not for the first time since she had taken him, a small part of his soul denied that these events could even be real. What he took for the scent of burning flesh must have been mistaken for roast meat in some nearby home. Perhaps the Spanish colonial house or the dark skinned women who stood staring nearby as he in silence stared back were simple deceptions of the eyes. Surely this was a dream. Surely the Vampire Lestat had had no part in this travesty. The voice came less frequently now, like a child growing bored with telling a blatant lie for the sake of another. It always stilled when he blinked a few times or somehow verified that indeed this was the reality. This terror was no dream.

Ignoring the women who still watched him from a reasonably safe distance, Lestat made his way to the balcony and looked out over the land which had come to resemble the others which he had seen thus far at Akasha's side. He had grown to expect it, but never to enjoy confirming his expectations. Madness, utter madness to think he had been involved in such destruction. Funeral pyres burned brightly in various degrees of intensity. Within each of these blazes at least one man screamed to be released, that it hurt what she was doing, to please, please God let him out. A deep pain clutched at the heart of the blonde vampire and he turned away, unable to stand the sight of such things anymore. The women occupying his room took the gesture as a sign of pleasure and bowed low. The thought of them, each of these women who genuflected obediently, murdering their own husbands, fathers, and sons during the day was enough to bring a wave of unease over Lestat. He dismissed them silently with a wave of his hand, and once they were gone he pressed his hands to his closed eyes, overcome. How did it go so far? All he had wanted was to wake the Queen, and now the world itself was in peril. Where was the fledgling that had been brave enough to stand up against Armand's coven in Les Innocents? Lestat couldn't be sure, but with the scent of burning flesh pummeling his sensitive nostrils he wished the courage would come that would allow him to stop Akasha at any cost.

But what was the use in trying? She had enslaved him with her body and her blood. Each time he tried to speak with her, reason or rail against her, the slightest movement of her head, cocking to the side in a silent offering, sent all thoughts of aggression to the wind. Lestat lifted his hand and examined it, turning the palm upwards to reveal the once-delicate pads. White, bleached a solid and luminescent white with a center as cold as long-frozen ice and harder than any stone. He rubbed his fingers together, marveling that such hardy material could give under pressure at all. It was soft, yet yielded only if he willed it. He concentrated, thought of himself as a being of steel, and sure enough he could no longer make the flesh give under his own touch. He clenched his fist and bowed his head, allowing the hair fall into his eyes as he squeezed them shut like a man physically wounded. "My God."

He sensed her presence in the room, from the direction of the balcony but he gave her no greeting or acknowledgement. She moved forward, the shift in the air betraying her motions to his senses, and stopped not two feet from him, staring at his back. "You need not fear any god save for me any longer." Lestat didn't move for a moment, but his Queen was patient, waiting for the response she knew would come. How could she imagine he would have any choice but to resist her design. She read his thoughts easily and nodded. "You have choices, my beautiful prince. I could have killed you with the others, but I did not. You will make the right decision."

"You know I can't possibly do this forever. I can't bear it, and you know it!"

She gave little indication of her anger, but the change in her was evident nonetheless. Anger and dissapointment. But these washed away quickly, so much so that Lestat doubted he had seen them at all. "I will give you time, Lestat, but remember that the lives of your companions, your children, and the others of your kind depend on what you choose. Choose wisely, my prince. I will not allow you to change your mind, much as I would hate to destroy you."

The wind came up from the night-darkened ocean to rustle her luxurious onyx hair. Moments passed, yet he didn't answer. With a smirk that was summoned more from sarcasm than any mirth, the Egyptian beauty vanished into the night from whence she'd come as though the breeze had simply carried her away. He found his eyes moving to watch her as she drifted in the distance for several seconds, seeming to Lestat as tiny and helpless as a white bird in a windstorm, then with a grace he himself would not master for centuries, she turned and descended to her new people. Her feet were bare beneath the simple linen garments, and Lestat found himself staring absurdly at them, the chiseled toes of an ancient being, until they and their owner were lost in a sea of destruction and mortality.

When he was sure she could no longer see him, he sank to the marble floor and allowed the silent tears to flow, wrapping his long arms around his knees. His hair, once a fair shade of gold was nothing less than the curling locks of a heavenly dweller. He lifted his head, staring at his strangely white and vaguely luminescent arm. So white that flesh, and so utterly alien. Inhuman. Unnatural. It was plain that she had no reason to force him, to quell his fury and guilt with words. She knew he would come around eventually, apart from any form of sanity save for her own backward version of it. He sat heavily on the floor, no longer caring about the women who had stood once more and were now taking their leave of him. Outside the pained screams were steadily decreasing in volume. He looked to the open floor-length windows once more, beyond the flapping white curtains stained in one nicked corner with what might have been blood, beyond the perfectly chiseled marble balcony, beyond it all to the sky and the west. Somewhere, Louis was with the others and they were undoubtedly wondering how to avert the crisis. Lestat closed his eyes, barely knowledgeable of the scarlet stains the motion made on his pale white cheeks. So long as Louis and Marius lived there would be sanity yet. So long as Armand survived somewhere the battle might still be won. He thought of Gabrielle, with her long tightly braided hair and wondered if she was with them as well, shrugging off her distaste for companionship for the sake of survival, or even love. "Oh my darlings," he whispered through trembling lips, "I hope you have better luck than I."

Then the spell of longing was shattered by the terrified scream of a new mortal man begging for release. Somewhere, a child sobbed brokenly, the sound almost subdued by the chanting of the women to their new goddess. Lestat closed his eyes, stood, and slipped silently as water into the next room for a private bath and a chance to collect his scattered wits. He needed to be presentable for her when she came once again. He must find a way to reason with the unreasonable and deter this spreading horror before she grew tired of her game with him alone and moved on to the remaining members of their kind. Perhaps he would find some way to prevent the impending disaster he could taste as thick and bitter as tainted blood in his throat. If he failed... something disastrous could well be wrought worse than what he had thus far witnessed. If no one stopped Akasha...

Ah, best not to think on that.





~ Fin ~