DISCLAIMER: I am beginning a series of short specs dealing with specific, short moments in time from Anne's books. I intend to take these small spaces barely focused upon and allow the character to relive the event/ I hope this goes over well, it's more a writing exercise for me to get back in the swing of things than anything else. If it entertains, do let me know. Constructive criticism is also accepted. Remember, this is only speculative. No infringement upon the rights of Anne Rice or any related parties is intended.
SPOILERS: IwtV - TVL
INFO: This takes place directly after Lestat hit the ground at the base of his tower. Armand has just argued wit him then shoved him to his doom. Claudia is dead. M/M desires and angst.



******








There was pain. A dull throbbing ache in the back of his head from the fall. Pain. It was as though his skull were pulsating with every beat of his preternatural heart. The crumpled and broken form shifted slightly, the ensuing moan so soft as to be inaudible to any mortal. Golden hair rustled, moving to the side slightly as the once proud vampire struggled to lift his head, twisting his body so he might gaze into the night sky instead of the cold cobblestones of the Parisian boulevard. He had hoped to see black, or at least a shock of red hair wafting in the breeze. Instead, he beheld a lightening sky. Night being pushed back as the chariot of Helios rose to herald a new day. The blonde French-born vampire sighed, parched and broken lips pursing to release a single breath of air. It was over, so it seemed. The raven-haired recipient of unrequited love was lost. Emerald eyes seeming to glare in accusation even from the depths of memory, and a shudder passed through the broken form on the cobblestones. He grimaced, the pain causing a heady swoon to course through him as a name passed his once full lips, "… Louis..."

There was little left for him to do now. Oh how Marius would glare at him if he were to know of this broken and dishonored state, and scarlet tears began to form at the corners of the pale gray eyes. He was lost. Marius surely knew what had befallen him, and yet there was no sign of aide. How could anything less be expected? Had there been any saving grace in what he had done? A child vampire of all things … there would be no forgiveness now. He knew he deserved whatever was deemed fit by any god who chose to intervene or exact punishment.

But the more he thought of it, the more Lestat wondered if he really wanted to accept this pitiful fate? Would it be fair to die in such a moment? It didn't seem likely, but there was no real way of telling. One was expected to be somewhat bias in the face on his own death.

Lestat struggled to move once more, the pain not so severe anymore thanks to the speed of vampiric healing. There was no more bleeding, but the wound was still fresh and vulnerable to pressure. There was a gash that had fractured the back of the young blonde vampire's skull, and his spine seemed useless for the time being though it seemed to be knitting together rather nicely. All due to Akasha and Marius of course. Now Lestat knew what Marius had meant about being certain about taking the ancient blood. Was a pain so great worth so much? The fall from the tower, Magnus' tower, combined with the wounds received at the hands of his children should have meant the end of the vampire Lestat. Instead he lived still, but only barely. There was not much he could do save to turn his head this way or that, and such movements only with extreme pain. But he had to see. Was it still there?

He saw it, and wished he could feel the texture of the tiny scrap of yellow cloth clutched to tightly in cold fingers. Her dress. Claudia's dress. The dress of a young and beautiful vampire child. Lestat's child. Never again would her crystalline laugh resound in the Rue Royal flat. The child-like smile was gone for all time, as was the gaze of extreme intellect beneath a girl's face. No more would Louis and himself fawn over their mutual treasure, procuring gifts by the bushel and bestowing as much love and affection as they could. True, she had risen against Lestat's rule, but the blonde vampire accepted that as a direct result of his own foolishness. He knew Claudia loved him, had regretted her actions by what he had seen of her beneath the Theatre des Vampires mere hours before her execution. She had stared with sad, round eyes and Lestat had known. But freedom was what she craved. Lestat could hardly blame her for something like that.

The dawn was fast approaching, and dimly Lestat was aware of a carriage passing by in the direction of Paris. Armand. Armand was leaving for the city? Lestat did not know the reason, only that Armand was abandoning him further do die in the blistering heat of the sun.

Well, there would be no satisfaction for the imp in that regard.

Lestat began to move his limbs, slowly at first but then with more urgency as the dawn began to reopen wounds in his aching back and shoulders. A scream was welling up in his throat as the his flesh began to sizzle in the heat, the scent of scorched hair becoming all too prevalent. He was aware of deep choking sobs breaking from his throat as he dug a grave in the soft earth beside the road. The heat was unbearable, but instinct kept his hands from clawing at the seared flesh of his back instead of the earth. Finally there was enough room and, whimpering like a small child, the vampire Lestat plunged into the earth and covered himself with the cool dirt. There was silence, and he breathed a sigh of relief as his body became more adjusted and began to drift in the death sleep. He would awaken the next evening and begin the long, painful journey back to New Orleans. There was no other place for him now. Paris, which had once held such promise, had become a place of pain. A month long sail across the Atlantic, the slow recuperation after being stabbed then burned, and of course the longing hope that at least Louis would return to him -- all were shattered. There was no one else to blame. There was no refuge. There was only despair and a gnawing ache in his weary soul. Would he always be alone? And if so, what was the use of living?



~ Fin