When he awoke, it was to the feeling of a strange weight atop his
chest. He cracked his eyes to see the familiar emerald gaze of Black Cat.
He was in little pain, though his limbs were stiff. Still, the very sight
of those eyes gave Lestat more comfort than he could have ever imagined.
“Bonsoir.”
Black Cat, though, was less amused. “Bonsoir. Hmm… an interesting
response from a man who was nearly flayed alive this night. Would you mind
telling me exactly what happened?” Lestat groaned and rolled over, forcing
Black Cat to find safer footing. He leapt to the place on the pillow above
Lestat’s head and looked down at his friend with something like worry. Or
contempt. Whatever he felt, though, Black Cat didn’t pressure his wounded
friend. He left once Lestat was asleep, or at least Lestat thought he had.
When he woke next the invisible servants were changing his bandages.
It wasn’t that he was all too terribly injured, more that he was tired
and annoyed at the fact that the wolves, or whatever they were, had been
able to wound him at all. He was sulking, and he knew it. Still, the
sulking went on for another day and night before Lestat rose from his bed
and tested his leg. Amazingly he felt no pain when he walked on it. He was
still limping a little but the bandages held firm. “It must not have been
as deep a wound as I thought,” he mused.
Wandering out of his chambre, Lestat came upon the familiar corridor
that led to the dining hall. Thinking that perhaps his friend was inside,
Lestat pushed the heavy oaken doors open, but the room was empty. He was
just about to move on when a painting caught his eye. It had been hung in
a darkened part of the room, as though someone wished it to remain hidden
from the casual observer. Curious, Lestat entered the room. His bare feet
made a little sound upon the stone floor, and aside from his own breathing
there was veritably no sound. The closer he came to the painting the more
the silence seemed to press upon him, as though the room itself had taken
on a watchful nature. The silence no longer seemed empty, but stealthy as
though someone was keenly interested in the movements of the latest
trespasser.
And despite having lived in the castle for nearly a year, Lestat did
feel like a trespasser. There was something about the castle that he
hadn’t noticed before. The feeling only increased when he came within full
view of the painting, and as he stared Lestat felt his breath catch in his
throat. The man in the painting was perhaps the most handsome creature,
male or female, that Lestat had ever seen. His hair was purest black as
though formed from the feathers of the darkest ravens, and his skin was
pale as cream; but perhaps the most startling feature were the young man’s
eyes. As brilliant as cut emeralds, they seemed to gleam with their own
inner fire. The painter must have been quite the master to have captured
such pure unrestrained beauty in a simple portrait. Nothing was remarkable
about the pose of the man in the painting, as though the artist feared too
much perfection would terrify the observing layman.
Minutes passed, but to Lestat time seemed to have stood still. He
stared into the painted face, straining to see the fine brush strokes, the
inconsistency of oils not fully mixed, or any sort of imperfection in what
he saw; a flaw that might have been present in a normal painting. But the
longer he stared, the more enraptured he became with the young man in the
painting. Not thirty he was, yet not so young as Lestat either. But his
face carried such sorrow, as though he had known the sins of a thousand
lifetimes. It was heartbreaking, yet somehow all the more endearing.
“Ah, I see you have found it.” Startled, Lestat turned around to see
Black Cat perched upon the back of a dining chair, his thin black tail
moving with a sinuous rhythm back and forth in the air. The ebony feline
cocked its head to one side, emerald eyes turning quizzical. “You were
crying?”
Lestat placed one hand to his cheek to feel the warm tears there. He
didn’t know what to say. For the first time, he felt he could not form
words. He stared into Black Cat’s eyes, as though searching for some
answer to a question not yet formed. Finally, he trusted his voice enough
to speak, though blithely. “Who is he? The man in the painting.”
Black Cat closed his eyes. “Ah yes. I see.” He leaped gracefully to the
stone floor, passing Lestat’s bare feet, and sitting to look up at the
painting. His tail was still twitching, betraying his anxiety. “I wondered
how long it would take you. You’re quite clever, more so than you give
yourself credit for.” He stopped, struggling with his words. “The man you
see here is long dead from a broken
heart.”
