Three at the Crossroads
© Persephone & Siren
degas.ballerina@gmail.com

Spoilers: Up to The Vampire Lestat
Rating: PG-13
Status: Incomplete
Characters: Lestat, Louis & Armand
Summary: AU. What if Armand hadn’t been left behind in Paris in the year 1780?



Let us become three, Armand had said that night in the crypt below the crumbling medieval tower on the outskirts of Paris.

Gabrielle had refused. Lestat had refused. Armand had begrudgingly understood.

But when it came down to it, Lestat could simply not let him go. Not like that.

And so, even after all was said and done, the next night when they left Paris, they had been three. However, as they took off like renegade demons down the years and miles of the Devil's Road, it was rarely ever that they were three at once.

And when the ferry had taken them up the Nile from the Mediterranean coast, they had really been only two for quite some time.

The sand burned even at night in Cairo. Armand felt it whip about his face, stinging yet delicious; it made him feel alive.

He stood in the doorway of the house that he shared here with Lestat. Gabrielle had never lived with them in this house; it had been years. Despite how it had begun, Armand did not hide that he preferred being without her.

The door was propped open, admitting the late night air. Armand listened to Lestat's movement within with the same rapt attention he'd been employing for the gloomy weeks since Lestat had learned of the death of his Nicolas.

Lestat had wanted to find Gabrielle when that letter had arrived. Of all things to say, he had said he needed her. For a reason he would not explain to Armand, he thought that she had come to Egypt as well, but was certain she would be out in the wastelands of desert. Armand saw to it that they remained in the city, but he could not keep Lestat from seeking out a lost, ancient wall to scratch out yet another message for different sort of Lost Ancient. At least there had been no nights filled with engraving since then.

Tonight, Lestat was rearranging the settings of potted trees in the house's central courtyard to make room for two new bird cages. The noise he was making had the pleasant pattern of home in a land that belonged to neither of them.

The house was decorated in warm tones. Armand had little input when it came to décor, though he sometimes made the final decision if Lestat was ambivalent. In truth, little else interested Armand besides the company, and he was always near.

Ever since Armand had forsaken his coven robes, he'd allowed Lestat to pick clothes for him. Often it was nearly as though Armand feigned helplessness, and it was during these times when it was obvious that he enjoyed the routine. No more sable; it was always light colors. Silk, satin, velvet brocade with lace. Gabrielle's rebellious choices of attire never pleased Lestat. Armand was patiently allowing and never refused what he was given.

Now that they were in the desert, nicer things had been put away for safekeeping. It was all white and beige linen. The Sahara could make anything crumble.

The wind picked up and the sand began to rotate, swirling into a great whirlwind, and it quickly began to litter the hallway.

Armand closed the door.

One of the caged nightingales was singing, or perhaps chittering would have been a more appropriate way of putting it after it wore on for a few minutes. High pitched and repetitious. There was a flicking metal sound and it stopped briefly only to begin again more incessantly. It lasted a minute longer before a loud metallic clang transformed its warbling into an abrupt squawk and then there was silence.

Lestat looked up at Armand when he emerged through the courtyard doors and then shook his head and looked back to the panting silent bird that huddled against the far side of the elevated cage.

"It wouldn't shut up," he muttered sullenly. He frowned, then sighed in aggravation and turned away to move across the flagstones.

Quietly by the doors, Armand was motionless. He didn't even look at the bird. "We can be rid of them." It was an offer, even though the birds had been Lestat's idea. "There are quieter ones."

Lestat waved a dismissive hand and only adjusted the angle of another pot.

Armand didn't blink once as he watched him, but then he finally approached. His coat sleeve fell too long over his hand when he lifted it and took Lestat's arm. He frowned in a perfect expression of concern. "You've been out here far too long."

Lestat glanced down at him, nearly warily. "Too long for what?" he answered difficultly, and then he turned from Armand to move around the tree. He plucked a small unsuspecting lizard from one of its broad leaves and studied it gently before stroking a fingertip between its eyes as if it were a kitten.

In an instant, Armand had moved around the other side of the tree as though to intercept him, but he did not touch him this time. The lizard seemed to escape his attention, or perhaps he ignored it.

His voice was gentle, persuading, "Come inside with me, Lestat. I brought the paper." Armand paused. "The Ottoman military reform is beginning." The information didn't seem to be what mattered; there was a hopeful tone to his voice.

Lestat looked up quickly and let the little animal escape his fingers to disappear back among the leaves.

"Anything about France?" It was his turn to take Armand's arm, but the touch was brief before he was around him again and already heading back toward the doors.

Frowning, Armand followed Lestat inside. His eyes were on him. Softly, "No."

Armand's hair was long tonight, falling over one eye. The inside candlelight caught the auburn glints and they briefly blazed, only to dull again with a slight tilt of his head. "The new drapes have also arrived. They are thicker."

Rotating midstep the second Armand answered him, Lestat instead went into the loggia and flung himself down on the cushions at the lattice. His narrowed eyes glinted nearly silver in the moonlight, like the kind of blue lightning that no longer cuts the sky, merely illuminates the storm cloud and then fades away.

"I didn't order new drapes," he snapped even though he knew it wasn't true.

"We can send them back," Armand replied immediately. There was a hushed eagerness to his voice. "But see them first. I think you will like them."

Lestat sighed and shook his head wearily as he lifted a hand to run it back through his hair.

In a movement that looked like nothing but the graceful folding of limbs, Armand was on the edge of the cushion, and then he shifted closer, his hand moving to rest just against the side of Lestat's knee. "They're gold. They look like caramel."

Shooting out as if on instinct, Lestat's hand grasped Armand's, but he did not wrench it from his leg. Instead it merely held it fast, and then a moment later molded to it, clasping it, and he pulled Armand down against him.

But the embrace was brief and then he turned to press Armand, who was oddly mobile, back against the cushion and lean over him, the wavy ends of his too pale hair brushing over Armand's youthful cheeks.

Armand shifted and leaned back, turning his head just enough so that the silky stands of Lestat's hair fell away, but he was certain to retain the closeness. He met Lestat's eyes, his own burning with an indistinct emotion.

"You know what I think of when I look at you?" Lestat whispered, as look at him he did indeed do, but only for a moment before he withdrew. "Paris. France. I think, What the hell is going on in France."

He shifted back on his knees and once more ran his hands back through his hair before looking up at the light shining through the lattice. "I think the same thing when I look at the moon. I think it in a crowd." He scowled and stood, his back to Armand again, and he stepped up to slip his fingers through the webwork of painted iron. "Or when I am alone, surrounded by all the life-filled flora and fauna I could think to cherish in one square room. And when the song of a nightingale should fill me with nothing but pleasure in the beauty of nature in its little pulsing throat, I beat it back from the bars because the fluttering thing dares to distract me from thinking of it!" His fingertips clenched around the iron, but he only glared at the night beyond.

At first remaining where he had been pushed, Armand's elbows propped against the pillows. His head tilted up and his curls fell over the backs of his shoulders, no longer hiding his face. A look of uncertainty passed over his eyes, or fear, but it was gone an instant later.

Suddenly he was standing next to Lestat, his arm weaving through his and pulling firmly to take it away from the railing.

"We left Paris behind. There is nothing worth remembering there, not since he died." Armand spoke with care, his voice gentle and comforting. His fingers pressed into Lestat's arm, loosened, and then his hand dropped.

Slowly, he stepped up to Lestat's side, his cheek and then forehead brushing against his shoulder. His arm moved around Lestat's lower back in an embrace. "Do not hate these distractions. You should allow them to help you forget. It is past."

Shaking his head, Lestat's other hand gripped the lattice more tightly as if to make up for the loss of the first, but then it too fell away. He sighed in frustration. "Why hasn't Roget written?" He glanced down at Armand as if just then noticing that he was holding him, but then only looked away again. "There should have been a letter by now. I don't like it."

Armand's arm pressed deliberately against Lestat's back, reminding him of its presence. "He will write. Lestat..." His head turned enough so that the two of them were facing the same direction, but still leaned upon his shoulder. The coat was rough against his cheek.

Clenching his teeth, Lestat shook his head again more firmly, and then he pulled away from Armand to move to the door, but he did not enter the main hall. "The Europeans talk of civil unrest! I hear them speaking in taverns above the Arabic gibberish like ironic celestial choirs. Something could have happened." He put a hand against the door column, but his fingers curled deeply into his palm. "Damn it all for a bit of news!"

"If there was news, we would have gotten it," Armand said, so softly, his eyes filled with bright disappointment. His hand lifted to find the crease between two bars, his fingernails scraping it, and then it slipped back, only to brush against the iron as he moved forward. "It does no good to worry. You will drive yourself mad." Armand's voice lowered. "Come back."

"I'm not worrying. I'm…" Another shake of his head, and Lestat's gaze fell in concentration. A minute later he turned to look over at Armand again, his back against the column instead. He sighed and glanced away, but then quietly he returned to where Armand stood before the windows.

Armand paused in his progress. His hand remained against the lattice, fingers pressing in a slow rhythm, and then it slowly slid down until it was against his side again.

His head lowered and Armand frowned again. With one hand he reached out and gently brushed the front of Lestat's shirt, stroking it the same way Lestat had the tree lizard. "Come with me."

"With you?" Lestat's brows knit while he watched Armand's hand for a moment. "Where?"

"Inside," Armand pressed, and his hand turned and moved down a little. His head lifted again and he smiled, the moonlight illuminating half of his face.

Taking a moment to realize Armand had answered, Lestat met his eyes again, but then he only stepped back away from him and dropped once more onto the cushions. "I want to stay in here." He scowled across the terrace, then looked up at Armand, then through the trellis at the high stone wall of the garden that kept out the sand. "Or I want to go out. Music would suit me now. Or silence. Oh, I don't know what I want. I want a damn letter from France." His fist tapped against his knee and then he glanced up at Armand again. "What I don't understand is how it is a letter will arrive from the Theatre before one does from my own damn lawyer." He looked away again. "Perhaps the man is dead."

Frowning more, Armand shifted where he stood. His lips pressed together, but then he only averted his gaze as though he wanted to see what Lestat was looking at. "All the better if he is."

Lestat rolled his eyes and Armand paused, fingers curling so that his nails pressed into his palm.

"Why would you want a letter after your last one? I don't want to see you like that again. You would hardly let me comfort you." Armand stepped forward, but barely moved otherwise; he seemed to only appear closer.

Silently, Lestat only stared at where the tassel of the cushion brushed against the tiled floor. All the silvery violet light in his eyes from before had gone. "It's not the letter's fault for the news it brings."

"No, but it could have been prevented." Armand shook his head. When he spoke again his voice was lower, respectful. "It is unfortunate that it is not the same for his death." It seemed that he sighed then, and his shoulders dropped as if a weight had been placed there.

Lestat flinched, but then reached a hand to Armand without looking at him.

Armand seemed to be oblivious to the gesture. His eyes were on the stars. "It was meant to be."

Looking up to Armand slowly, the look in Lestat's eyes darkened. His hand fell and curled against his knee. "Didn't you write them? Didn't you tell them what to do for him?"

"I am not their leader here," Armand replied softly. He turned fully from Lestat to face the night, his expression now hidden. "They didn't need to be told anything."

"They didn't know what to do. They didn't know where to begin." There was no anger left in Lestat's voice. All of that had been spent. "They let him run wild and then extinguish himself as if it were just another evening's amusement for him. They begged for advice. What could I say? I offered to return…"

A faint sigh. Armand's response was simple, not cold. "He didn't want you there. I told them what I could, but even I could not have stopped him. He was mad, Lestat... it was inevitable."

"You say that," Lestat began quietly as he sat up straighter as if he would reach to Armand again. "You say it because you wish to spare me guilt of selfishness. But I can't help thinking it—If you had been there…If I had left you behind with him instead of taking you with me, he would have survived. With you, he would have healed. He could have become whole again…"

Shaking his head, one of Armand's hands moved to the iron bar. He delicately twined his fingers around it, their whiteness almost blending.

"Why would he have listened to me?" Armand said finally, gently. "He stopped listening to everyone, Lestat. It would have been no different."

Silenced, Lestat sank back against the cushions. A minute later, he got up and left the loggia.

Armand didn't move at first. It didn't seem that he noticed. After a moment, however, he followed Lestat inside, as if he thought he'd finally been listened to.

If Lestat was paying attention to him, it was impossible to tell as he kept his back to Armand while he rooted through the contents of the writing desk. The drawer made more noise than it should have when he slid it shut, and his hands were still empty. He looked back over his shoulder at Armand then with a nearly accusatory glance, but only afterwards moved around the desk to begin searching the drawers of a narrow chest in the same way.

Armand only stood in the doorway. He watched Lestat's movements shamelessly, but without at all responding to the unspoken accusation. Lestat was not hunting the letter. They both knew where that was kept.

"What are you looking for?" There was a heavy tone in Armand's voice now, but the change was difficult to hear.

"I'm going out." Lestat pushed the last drawer shut with a sharp click. He surveyed the room consideringly before scowling and meeting Armand's gaze. "Did you take it again?" He could have only meant the little metal chisel he had used to carve his last few monumental messages that somehow always managed to go missing when he was most thinking of using it.

"Nevermind." He turned away before Armand could answer to move though toward the front gallery. "I'll use a blade."

"No." Armand's face remained perfectly composed, but his eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. Without another word, he reached and caught Lestat's arm, his expression slackening into one of surprised confusion. There was something vulnerable about it. "Now?" he whispered softly, on the edge of his breath. "It's too late. I wouldn't see you again tonight..."

Lestat stiffened, and then turned back to Armand. He hand clenched, but he did not pull his arm away. "Isn't that the point?" he asked less than kindly.

There was something different about Armand's response this time. Instead of appearing irritated or frustrated by Lestat's insistence, he only seemed genuinely surprised.

His voice was soft and disappointed. "You don't want to be away from me, or you would not have brought me." Armand's hand moved on Lestat's arm, and he stepped closer against his side.

Exhaling heavily, Lestat looked down past Armand's shoulder to the carpet behind him. He spoke hesitatingly after a minute or two's silence, "It is all tumult within… What else can be done without?"

Armand frowned, and his head dropped enough so that his forehead lay against the front of Lestat's shoulder. He let go of his arm, only to move that hand to Lestat's other shoulder, close to the side of his neck.

He spoke more softly now that he was closer. "We can go back into the courtyard. I'll go anywhere you want. Do not go. There is no one waiting for you out there. I am the one who is here for you, always here..."

Lestat's arms moved around Armand and drew him close, but he continued to stare dully at the pattern in the rug. "I would have music. You will order musicians? Or has it already gotten too late…"

"It's too late," Armand whispered. His hand on Lestat's shoulder tightened and then it slipped around him fully. His head lifted, but he remained close, only moving enough to see Lestat's eyes.

They closed, and Lestat sighed in feeble disappointment. "Pity."

Sighing in a different way, Armand turned his head against Lestat's, his hair brushing Lestat's cheek. His own eyes were still open.

A moment later, Armand's face tilted so that his lips brushed Lestat's jaw, and he kissed him there slowly.

"Right now," Lestat began on a soft breath, his hands moving against Armand's back. "There is only one who I want to be with."

Armand didn't ask who this was.

He paused, his brow furrowing, and then his head lowered so that his forehead pressed against the side of Lestat's face instead. He took a slow breath and seemed to sink against him, but his grip remained tight. "I could say the same, you know. There is only one I ever want to be with. We don't need anyone else, Lestat... What are you searching for? What do you need that I don't have to give?"

"Searching?" Lestat frowned and opened his eyes. "Yes."

At some point, back in the courtyard, the nightingale had begun singing again. He only noticed it now.

Shifting to take Armand by the shoulders, Lestat pulled from him with gentle firmness so that he could have a look at his face, as if to reaffirm the answer he gave directly after. "Something comprehensible, Armand." His fingers almost brushed through the long curls of Armand's hair, and then he slipped from him. "A way."

Once more, Lestat left him behind to leave the room, his footfalls suddenly very obvious as the floor beneath them turned from carpet to tile.

"I need to talk with Marius. Goodnight, Armand."

Lestat opened the door. More of the swirling sand littered the hallway. The wind had only grown stronger.

"Lestat." Armand went no further than the doorway, and his expression was hollow and strange; the moonlight didn't quite reach him. "There is no one. No one but me."

But he was already gone.

TBC