It was much later when Lestat at last opened his eyes. He remembered
with vivid detail the monstrous thing that had entered the dining hall.
Its face had seemed so terribly wrong somehow, as though some madman, in
trying to bestow some semblance of humanity, had wildly failed. Its
distorted body, bulging in some places and concave in others, was burned
into his memory, forever leaving him with an endless supply of nightmare
images. Then of course, what he had done to Black Cat...
It all had the hazed vividness of a dream, yet Lestat knew all too well
the reality. Black Cat was dead and, as the creature had pulled away, the
feeling of his own extreme blood loss left him stunned. The world had
suddenly seemed to slip away into comforting darkness. He had not entirely
expected to survive.
So it was shocking to feel a cool damp washcloth placed upon his
forehead, and he gasped at the sensation. All of his senses began to
function once more in an unexpected rush. He was aware of the heavy
blankets surrounding him and the scent of cedar burning with so much
crackling that it could only issue from a fireplace. He was aware that he
was naked and warm, covered in blankets and obviously well cared for. It
was as though all the terrible things had not really happened and that
Black Cat was alive. His imagination seemed to run with the image, and he
thought he saw a dark haired man sitting pale and beautiful by the fire, a
book in his hand and a splendid onyx cat purring in his lap, green eyes
slitting and knowing. Like a madman he struggled to sit up, to partake in
what he thought he saw, and he stretched out his arms weakly, his fingers
questing for the familiar feel of the soft black fur so recently grown
cold in death. "Black Cat… are you there?" His voice was weak but
relatively loud enough to be heard by whomever was holding the cloth to
his face; yet for what felt like hours he received no response. All the
while he listened fervently, straining to hear a voice, yet hearing
instead the most unusual sounds. The crackling of the hearth fire was
impossibly loud and detailed, and what was that strange pounding sound,
like fifty drums beating in two distinct rhythms. "I must be feverish," he
muttered and, until he felt cool fingers brush his face and lift the
cloth, nothing else seemed rational.
He found himself gazing into the most stunningly green eyes he had ever
seen, and in possession of those eyes was a man so new yet familiar at the
same time. Lestat blinked, gazing about yet always returning his gaze to
those indescribable eyes. Like twin rivers of tumultuous current, Lestat
felt them drawing him in, pulling him where they wanted to go, submerging
him deeper and deeper until he felt the air squeezed out of his lungs and
nothing else mattered. They held his own eyes captive like things
inhuman...
The thought made him recoil, confused by his own emotions and the
unnatural feel of the entire situation. He felt marked by the emerald
gaze, as though a brand were searing his flesh while meantime his mind,
made dumb by beauty, remained oblivious to the pain. He shuddered, rubbing
his head, and found his voice. "I know you."
The man shifted behind him, making the bed creak before at last
speaking, "And I know you, Lestat".
Lestat nodded, expecting this yet taken totally by surprise. He studied
the intricate carvings in the wooden headboard in an attempt to collect
himself. Strange, he'd never noticed them before. There was a scene, a man
in the forest hunting, but something was very wrong. Instead of the usual
accompanying hunting dogs and a horse, the man was running alone through
the detailed foliage after a buck deer. It was a large bed, the same one
Lestat used every time he visited the castle, yet something about it all
seemed very sinister now. He rubbed his arm absently, noticing that it was
healed and nodded. "Thank you, Monsieur, for caring for me and treating my
wound."
"You are most welcome, but please, the time for formalities is long
since past. You know my name, Lestat, so please use it instead. It's been
a long time since I thought of myself as Monsieur. I'm not sure I'm
prepared for such a formality as of yet."
Lestat nodded. "Louis, then. Thank you, Louis. I... I just don't
understand what has happened here and I'm sorry but this is just too
confusing. The last thing on my mind now is formality."
Louis chuckled a little, a low sound that, Lestat suspected, few people
ever heard. "Very well. I will explain all in time. But first, rest a
little and take some nourishment." The thought of food for some strange
reason made Lestat's stomach turn, he was desperately thirsty but,
strangely enough not at all hungry; but Louis continued as though he'd
expected such a thing. "I'll bring up something for you to drink."
Whatever the thick red liquid was he brought, it tasted like nothing
Lestat had ever before drunk and, after finishing a bottle of the tasty
drink, he fell again into a deeply troubled
sleep.
