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 ha
