(no subject)

[rebness]

So, RL has dragged the writing of this Vampire Chronicles fic out to such a ridiculously long time that I think I lost the will to live for a while. Anyway, if nothing else, it was fun to write with that wench saffronlie again and now it's out here, on my journal and it CAN LEAVE ME ALONE.

Human on My Faithless Arm

By Becky Durden and Lady Goodman

*

 Too much pain to be reinvoked. It was like taking pictures from the attic, cleaning away the dust and finding the colours still vibrant. And the pictures should have been portraits of dead ancestors and they were pictures of us. –  Lestat, The Vampire Lestat

Because I show you my pain, I do not of necessity love you. – Armand, The Vampire Armand

*

It was a quiet night on the island, warm, a little breezy. The usual hordes crowded the public spaces, one thick wall and soundproof carpeting away from Armand's silent chamber. He watched television, the news from the mainland, astounded at the ordinariness of this little situation. He didn't actually care what was happening in the world. He could reach out his mind and in an instant find five more news-worthy stories than these, but in the end, it was all only so much background noise. 

He sensed the vague approach of another vampire and thought it must only be Daniel in the hall, no threat. When Lestat stepped through the room's door without knocking or announcing himself, Armand's surprise and anger showed for just a second, in the disturbance of his features, but he closed his mind and his body almost immediately. He remained seated. Stillness. Muted gunfire on the television.

They stood staring at each other, until Armand muttered, "Let me guess. You've brought about the apocalypse."

Lestat said nothing. Armand said nothing back. Get the hell off my island just didn't seem to be an appropriate greeting.

The blond-haired bastard was dressed beautifully, of course, and his tall frame was as dramatically striking as ever.  "I want to talk about Louis," Lestat said finally, and the casual mention of the name, the surprise at this hitherto taboo subject being boldly thrown into the air between them, startled Armand into thinking of Louis before he could help himself. He thought of green eyes, black hair, feline limbs. The rush of images arrived unbidden in his mind, perfectly remembered and exquisitely detailed. Strange to think of him now, like that, to remember this way. Strange, and painful. He almost never allowed himself the luxury of slipping back in time… it was Lestat's doing, always Lestat's fault, pushing him one way or another. Lestat, who sat down now and twisted his long lips into a smile with no warmth about it, who twined his long, thin fingers together and squinted at Armand above his hands. He looked pleased with himself. Armand wanted to wipe the smug expression off his face forever. 

"Why?" was all Armand could manage.

"Humour me."

"I don't see why I should. Why don't you humour me, and leave?"

"You do not want to talk about Louis?" Lestat asked, his voice slightly accented. "You have nothing you could say on the matter?"

Armand shook his head dumbly, imagining all the things that he could say. He could pick a night. Pick one at random. Pick one of a thousand and one nights in the company of a stranger, passing through the familiar realms of Europe. Cities are strange at night time, and made stranger by the gulfs between people. He had followed Louis around in silence, desperate for a connection. 

Strange to think of it now.

Curious to be here with Lestat, of all people; to be discussing Louis, of all lovers. Daniel somewhere nearby, maybe, listening, or not; it's not as if Armand would ever know. Lestat might, perhaps, but no way would Armand ask him. He let Daniel wander where he would. He was safe as long as he remained on the island. 

Armand had wandered the whole world and found safety nowhere.  How easy it was to let those memories engulf him in a veil, separating him from the harsh reality of the present. He shook his head, irritated. He wouldn't share these things with Lestat, not without knowing why the sudden interest. He rubbed his temple, thinking. "Let me get this straight, Lestat. You just happened to be passing by your neighbouring state and thought you'd drop in to ask me about someone I dallied with decades ago?"

Lestat nodded. "That's about it."

"Forgive me if I don't humour you. Shut the door on your way out."

"It was already open," retorted Lestat, throwing himself down on the couch opposite. Armand glared at him. He considered berating Lestat about how much the fine leather had cost, but remembered Lestat was nouvelle-riche in his book and therefore should be excused poor taste.

"You know Louis better than I do," said Armand, "Go and talk to him."

"You know my fledgling in ways that I don't." said Lestat evenly. "I'm not pretentious, Armand. I'm a man of action. Paint me one of your insidious little portraits—tell me about Louis. What you think of my Louis."

"Your Louis?" scoffed Armand.

"Well, we both know he was never yours."

"Louis," said Armand, "is a person of whom I don't care to talk much."

"And why is that?"

"Because, Lestat," said Armand, "I find that I have very little to tell of him. He is the one who likes to tell tales."

"You made sure you recounted your own sordid tale with Daniel to me ad nauseum for my book," Lestat pointed out. "Never content to be left out of anything."

"I am sick of telling stories. What matters the past?" Armand said carelessly, but the voice in his head replied, Much, when the pain is still fresh. When the nights past are all he has, when memories of his time with Louis are all that sustain Armand.

In Berlin they went to a ball thrown by the French ambassador and they had danced their way through the room, masked and suited, with woman after woman, or men dressed as women, for who could tell at a masquerade? Young girls commented enviously on the flushed youthfulness of Armand's complexion, and the few who dared to touch were amazed at the hardness of his skin. More than a boy, less than a man. Armand watched Louis moving with his customary grace, his eyes focused on a glove or shoe, never his partner or the room. Less than a man, much more than a boy. Armand was sick of the dance.

At supper they made crumbs on their plates, and shook cold hands with dignitaries and royalty and the aristocracy. How could they move in such circles? Armand adored the luxury of the clothes, the leisurely attitudes of the people. All the time in the world to dance, to eat, to hunt, to play cards after supper. All the time to talk to charming young men, especially the tall Creole from America and his reprobate younger brother – Louis's idea. When Armand introduced himself it was as an heir to a wealthy landowner, but Louis had set the ballroom abuzz with talk of his little brother's antics.

"I've heard naughty things about you," an unusually plain German girl whispered into Armand's ear, and he felt an ache behind his eyes.

"All true," he whispered back, and marked her in his mind as a possible snack for later, then left.

He had kept track of Louis's whereabouts all evening, and now it was easy to find him, to hover behind his chair.

"His debts are shockingly high," Louis was saying in hurried French, making exaggerated gestures of mock despair, "he refuses to work or follow our father's orders, and he has a terrible habit of appearing to annoy me when I'm speaking to other people!" At this, the table broke into laughter, some of them staring at Armand, and he felt the irrational tide of anger rising within him.

"Brother," he said, "Could I speak to you alone?"

"You need to borrow more money? Spent it all on whores tonight already?" Louis said to raucous laughter. There was something garish and wrong in his demeanour. Armand was too angry to speak, but more than that, he was confused. He turned and led Louis through the crowd, leaving by the first door that he saw.

The door turned out to lead to a small enclave, curtained in velvet, where the noise from the ball still filtered through at a muted volume, but they were out of sight of the Vortänzer . He faced Louis and found that he did not know what to say; that it was enough to have him there just now, all height and hair and blank green eyes. The musicians began to play again and before he knew what he was doing he and Louis were dancing, waltzing hand to hand and hand to waist, like Armand would never have imagined that two men could do. Louis was humming the tune, his eyes gazing on Armand's rose gold cufflinks, his face unchanging even after Armand stared at him for several minutes.

"You never concentrate on your partner or the dance," Armand remarked. He was desperately close to Louis but still not close enough, never close enough. He smelled like nothing, like a little blood sweat and the transference of many different perfumes.

"Hmm?" Louis's slight breath danced across Armand's features, and they stopped moving.

"You don't pay attention. To anything."

"You think so, do you?" Armand knew that tone in Louis's voice, knew it was a warning, but he ignored it.

"I see it. You care about nothing. Just your own thoughts."

"And why does this bother you?" Louis asked, snatching up Armand's hand to continue the waltz, forcing him into the steps.

Armand chose not to answer.

"Why did you invent that story? About me being your younger brother?"

"We must always have a story, must we not?"

"Why that one? Why not the usual?"

Louis glanced at him, briefly, his eyes resting for just a moment. Armand closed his own eyes and found the darkness a relief.

"It bothers you." It was an observation, not an answer. At least, Armand hoped that it was not an answer.

"Yes."

"You are young. The pain will quickly fade."

Armand felt the sting more sharply than if Louis had hit him, or stood on his feet, or done anything more than continue to lead the dance, passive and gentle. He couldn't speak.

Every part of him urged him to retaliate, to snap or bite or even to do the unexpected and offer a conciliating kiss. Any one of those options would have been easy. Instead, Armand drew breath and wrestled with the heat that flushed through him.

"Let me tell you something," he whispered in Louis' perfect, passive ear. "The pain is never, ever going to fade or go away. I should know." He drew back, but Louis's face remained unchanged.

"You ought to know. You gave me this pain," Louis said as conversationally as if they were discussing the weather.

"Why are you punishing me? I've done you no harm."

"I am not punishing you, Armand. It's all in your head."

Armand had gazed at the soft, still-mortal lines of Louis's face, the fringes of his fine lashes, the black, slightly unkempt curls of his hair. The soft glow of passivity all over him. He didn't know what to say. They were still dancing, but slowly, and for Armand, the room was spinning.

"Shall we return to the ball?" Louis asked innocently.

Armand said nothing.

"Fine," Louis continued. "Ask me how many dancing couples there are in there. Ask me to describe the paintings we saw last night. Ask me exactly how many different suits you own and which shoes you wear the most. Ask me what the engraved message on your pocket watch reads. And don't ever accuse me of not paying attention when I see everything in exacting detail, and the only thing that I do not properly know is you, because you do not want me to."  

It was not an enjoyable memory to relive but Armand clung to it anyway, replaying in his mind the time in his life when all he knew was desperation and choking intimacy. Dancing in an enclave. Arguments out of nothing. Aching with a longing that never stopped…

*

"Well?" said Armand suddenly, and the scene I had been reliving vicariously faded in an instant. We were back in Armand's modern chamber. I scowled. It seemed cold and clinical all of a sudden. The modern world often catches me out like this; I expect soft candlelight and the sound of horses' hooves outside, but I open my eyes to the harsh glare of glass bulbs and the blare of a television, or a car.

"Well, what?" I asked, irritated at being so startled out of my reverie. I wondered if he knew how much he had let slip in that brief minute. I wondered if he was at all aware that I had been privy to such a humiliating experience for him. He let his guard slip for that one memory—how long was that, really? A minute's worth of recollections? It was enough. 

"What does it matter? What do you want me to tell you?" he demanded.

I coughed. "Well…uh…" 

And don't ever accuse me of not paying attention when I see everything in exacting detail… 

"Well, what?"

"Well… how did he ever stand to travel with you, Armand? I mean, you're such a drag, really, aren't you?"

"What, pray tell, is a 'drag'?"

"A dork, apparently." 

He paused. "Oh. What's a—" 

"You don't want to know."

Armand shook his head. "Lestat, only you could be proud of adopting the lingua franca of modern children." 

"You should try it," I suggested, "You'd fit in quite well." 

He was sneering at me then, firing off sniping insults, but I blocked him out to think. I'm good at that—I've learned to ignore my fledglings through their lectures. I was thinking about how vicious Louis had been with Armand, though his expression hardly revealed a thing in Armand's recollection of that ball.

I am not punishing you, Armand. It's all in your head.

I shuddered slightly. What a perfectly cruel game to play. I had to actually bite down on my tongue to stop myself from grinning. That sneaky fledgling of mine. Completely unoriginal, of course; he'd stolen my tricks that I'd used on him a thousand times before. The outrageous stories. The cutting asides. Of course, he'd added to it his own unique brand of malice, his ability to humiliate a person simply by refusing to look them in the eye. But it hadn't been enough. He had evidently thought that the most cruel thing he could do to Armand was to act like me.

Well, it was hardly a compliment, whichever way I looked at it. Those balls… they had been fun for me. I had loved riling him, but I never… I never meant to hurt him.

Ye gods, did Louis think that I had been mocking him? It had been affectionate, our familial joke at the expense of our wide-eyed mortals. And he had borne it all silently, ruefully. He had never turned on me at one of those balls, never, though I paraded him up and down like some prize to be mocked (his viewpoint, the sullen clod) or revered (mine). And afterwards, in the carriage back to the flat, he'd been full of fury. I'd ruined our cover by piling yet more silly details onto our 'story.' I'd flirted too obviously with some staid Creole man. He'd rather I didn't bring Claudia to these balls if she was going to witness me behaving like a total buffoon. 

And I'd laugh, right there in his face. If Claudia were with us, she'd be full of glee at how I'd misbehaved, my little co-conspirator. And he'd soften, if only for her. Maybe his eyes would meet mine over her shoulder as she hugged him and proclaimed him a worrywart. And he'd be forgiving. He always forgave me everything. He forgave her everything, even what she did to me. 

Reading through that pathetic memoir of his, I'd wondered at how shocked she must have been when he turned on her after she attacked me, when he couldn't bear to be near her. We'd misjudged him, both of us. We'd thought him passive and forgiving and eternally level-headed, and he wasn't, really. He had made these concessions for us. Because he had loved us, though we used him. Though we loved him and hated him and always wanted to possess him rather than respect him. I think this was one of the reasons why I'll always regard him and Claudia as my family rather than mere fledglings; what friends, what lovers, forgive these things so easily? How many people truly make these concessions outside of the family, offering loyalty and love even when the heart burns with hatred for a past betrayal? Losing him—losing them both—had been like losing a part of myself, without which I just couldn't endure. It had driven me underground, and not even the thrill of the concerts or Akasha had been anything like the horrible, sweet moment when I had seem him walking across that field towards me.  

Armand coughed. Completely for show, of course, to draw me out of my thoughts. "Is something preoccupying you tonight?" he asked. 

"No," I said, and continued to ignore him. He gave an exasperated sigh, but I didn't care. It crossed my mind that I should be a little more human. I should comfort him. Oh, Armand, I wanted to say, it's not your fault. He just had the measure of you and when Louis de Pointe du Lac wants to cut you with those claws of his, he will. But I didn't. And Armand was such an idiot. How did a person endure with Louis all those years, and not learn the meaning of that green gaze?  

I thought about the last time I'd seen Louis. Well, it had only been the previous night. I'd been trying to irk him because… well, I just was, and I remember exactly how he looked at me. I remember I'd told him some fantastic lie just to see the look on his face, and he'd played along with it, his eyes wide, green and sincere. And… because he'd bent that look upon me, I'd ended up doubting myself. Maybe he'd read some theory in some damned book somewhere, and I was just digging myself deeper into it. I'd find out the lesser-spotted Norwegian ring wraith seal truly existed, and then when he asked me to go into detail about its mating habits, he'd reply with a quick 'Aha! The gestation period is seven months!' and then I'd be done for, and all because I'd been taken in by his eyes. 

Verdigris. I smiled. People, they don't realise. They don't know that you always have to watch his eyes. They don't understand that a certain quick glance means he's en guarde; they don't know that when he loves you, his gaze is clear, untroubled. He watches your face constantly when he trusts you. He feels he has licence to do that. If he doesn't trust you, if he doesn't care for you, but you've registered on his radar as a potential enemy (and by enemy I mean anything from an over-interested German teenager or someone like Armand who may have found a way in if you'd only looked in the right place) he'll keep his eye on you. He'll watch your hands. He'll focus on your shoulder; re-focus on your chin. He won't look you in the eye. I'm not entirely sure why, but there it is.  

Me, I had no problem with being brazen. I made sure to continue staring at Armand, until he started in irritation. "Are you going to watch me all night, Lestat?" he demanded, "or is there some other reason you're here?"  

"Tsk. Can't I call in on my friends when I want to be cordial?" 

"You're not my friend." 

"And you're hardly cordial."

He fixed me with a sly smile then, that infuriatingly worldly look that belied his angelic features. "I haven't told you anything that really matters. You know that." 

"Yes," I said with a smirk, "I know." 

"You don't understand," said Armand, "none of it matters." 

"Oh, shut up!" I cried, waving my hand dismissively. So the little snot may have deliberately sent me that recollection. I doubted it. He was probably trying to cover his slip-up, but who cared? "Because you can't interpret it doesn't mean I can't." 

"Of course you can, Lestat." 

"Don't patronise me, you little imp." 

"You're chasing the past." 

I shrugged and leaned back against the sofa, stretching luxuriously. Did I catch him watching me through a veiled look? Of course I did. "When he looks at me the way he looked at yo—" I paused, raised my hand to my mouth dramatically. "Oh, sorry. I mean, when he refuses to look at me as he did with you—" 

He frowned. "Get out, Lestat."

"Make me."

"I have nothing more to say to you."

I snorted. "Yes, you do. Tell me about this wretched couch, if you like. Armand, do I really have to hammer good taste into you? Your nasty black leather is a perfect illustration of your juvenile attempts to fit in with the modern world. No timelessness about you at all." 

"While you prefer to wear black leather?"

"Yes, well," I said, "you haven't convinced me. Thank the stars Louis doesn't go for your adolescent tastes."

Armand shot me a poisonous look. "Careful, Lestat."

"Still," I said, loving to bait him, "I suppose you were flashy enough to catch his attention. Once."

Armand paused, apparently lost in reverie. These times always made me feel smug, because it always ended with the sharpest, briefest flicker of pain shadowing his features before he donned his Venetian mask for the world again. He glanced sideways at me, askance, and I was pleased because I had clasped my hands together in the most condescending manner. I allowed my smile to widen, to a humourless, cat-like grin, and leered at him. It worked beautifully; he scowled and turned away from me again, and I'd bested him with no words at all. I wondered if he had made the connection, that this was a pose of Louis' I was copying. My fledgling had worked it on me before, many times when he'd bested me. I could remember just such a pose from those nights at Rue Royale. We'd been arguing (quelle surprise), and I'd said—

No, it didn't matter. I wouldn't dwell on that. I hoped Armand hadn't seen any expression of regret or pain or one of the thousand bleeding wounds those memories dredged up. I should have been kinder to him. Here we both were, nursing wounds from the same poison, but it clouded our minds, too. I'd never forgive him for taking them away from me. He'd never forgive me because Louis loved me, and only he understood why that was such a big deal.  

*

After some time Armand spoke almost without meaning to, the words unfurling slowly, his voice coloured by a smile. "You paint such a touching picture of him in your books, you know. He's all tender looks and soft black hair and gentleness… but you omit things. Or maybe you don't. Maybe you just can't see beyond them." He paused. "He was never like that with me," he whispered harshly.

"Not true," said Lestat, a bitter smile playing about his lips. "He was like that in the beginning with you. You destroyed him with your usual lack of 'people skills', as they say nowadays."

"I never meant to."

"But you did."

"We both destroyed him."

"You can believe that if it makes it easier for you."

"The hell with you, Lestat!" Armand stood up and wrenched aside the coffee table that stood between them, sending it flying into the wall. "What the hell do you know? Nothing. You can't teach me anything." He clenched his fists against the side of his body and breathed hard, the blood rushing about his veins.

"Explain to me why you feel this," Lestat demanded, irritatingly calm. "Tell me why you believe this of him now. Tell me why he's unlovable."

"You still don't know. You never will," Armand raged. "Do you think I have answers? Do you think I pieced together all the clues, solved the Great Louis Mystery? Don't you think that if I had, I would still be with him?"

"Don't you understand? He reveals more of himself to those he loves least."

"I don't care, Lestat!" Armand shouted, rubbing his hands across his face, hating the lighting in this room. He remembered Louis getting worked up like this, asking questions like this, but never getting violent, no, too even-tempered for that.

Even so, Louis had spent every night for weeks after that ball recounting in detail everything that he saw, talking excessively and pointedly, occasionally letting the flash of his eyes deepen into a glare that made Armand very uncomfortable. This seemed more unbearable than detachment, the freneticism endlessly discomforting. His point had been made and Armand seemed to wilt under the weight of this war, unable to match Louis's stubborn anger, tired already of the argument that he'd never intended to start. It always went this way. What Armand wanted he couldn't ask for; what he craved would never satisfy. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? For me to pay more attention?" Louis asked one evening, and Armand only nodded, miserable, unable to communicate that he didn't mean this way, not like this. But that had always been his problem – he wanted Louis, but when he had him… he was not what he wanted. He longed for Louis as he had been when Claudia was still alive – hungry, yearning, open to possibilities, not deadened and disinterested. The Louis who watched the room quietly, and smiled at a lighting fixture. The Louis who responded warmly to Armand's touch, instead of becoming dispassionately pliant. In a paradoxical way, he almost preferred the Louis who had chattered away for weeks just to prove a point, as frustrating as that was, to the Louis who remained unaffected by everything that they saw. At least when Louis had a fire in him his heat evoked what little warmth was left within Armand.

There were other nights, better ones, nicer ones, times when the pain was less unbearable, when Louis's gaze did not wander, when he talked to Armand without first being spoken to. Nights that made the whole of Armand's sordid life, both dead and undead, seem worth it, if just for moments like these. If just to have met this man. But the pain always returns, and there are absences that become wounds and ache like phantom limbs, like memories of a thousand and one nights in the cities of the world and the moment that it all came crashing down by the side of a river, but only Armand heard the noise and after Louis left him nothing mattered.

His glance fell on the balcony outside, lights of the island reflecting against the glass of the sliding doors. Suddenly Armand longed to be out there, away from this room and Lestat, the smug prick who had come to gloat on what he possessed that Armand did not. Armand had thought, sometimes, of showing Louis the island again, of inviting him back, giving him all that Daniel did not want. Companionship and quiet warmth by the fire; someone to watch these abysmal "news" programmes with. Such a stupid vision. Armand felt himself blush involuntarily, and began to chat with Lestat as a distraction, about something inane, stocks or the weather, making an effort to erase his anger of only moments before. He could almost laugh at the farcical tone to the whole evening. He thought about going out to hunt later, if he felt the need, perhaps making Daniel come along, although that silent presence was getting harder and harder to take. I always drive them away. Except Lestat, who always showed up uninvited and always overstayed his welcome.

It seemed to Armand that to go and stand on the balcony, spread his hands along the wrought-iron railings, and look down at the scenes below, the streets and the building and the people and the light, was to see himself as he had been and would be for all eternity: above, aloof and alone. He moved almost without meaning to, without regard to Lestat.

*

I watched as Armand stalked away from me, towards the balcony, pulling the glass door aside and filling the room with the scent and the sound of the wild night for a moment, before he closed it again to escape me. Of course, I followed him.

The Atlantic was a dull roar. I found myself distracted from Armand's thoughts again and again by the ferocity of those waves crashing outside. I never heard the sea as a mortal, but I swear it can't be this wild under the sun. The wind tugged at my hair, sending it flying around me like a lion's mane. I stood watching Armand for a moment, how he clasped his hands and gazed out at the sea, his face as impassive as always. I had no more need for Armand tonight, but I didn't want to just leave it there with him. I never could just walk away from him.

I had kept my reason for coming here completely shut off from him, until the time came to proposition him. Throughout his sullen company, I'd wondered how to phrase it. "Hey, dick. Want to travel with me for a bit?" I'd decided on that. He'd be shocked and disgusted at my use of the vulgar vernacular, but would inevitably scramble to be at my side. Well, I liked to think so, anyway. He never did have any real decorum. Not like my Louis. My gentle, silent, Louis. Locking me out. Never discussing the important things. Never telling me… well, what exactly? He told me he loved me with the least prompting possible. He submitted to each caress I gave him. He always, always listened to me. He just… he didn't talk all that much. Not about anything that mattered, at any rate. 

Always so goddamn polite, watching me with his hands resting on his lap as I paraded up and down the parlour, ranting that David was gone and nobody (turn to face him, glare, watch as he looks right back) was here to keep me company, throwing insults his way when he stubbornly refused to take the hint. Always watching me, like I was some painting in the Louvre that he was trying to unravel. And yet… God, how I craved his attention. How much worse would it be if I stamped about in front of him, and his gaze was cold, if it ever settled on me at all? I think I should go mad. And yet Armand had endured all that for hell knows how long simply to be anywhere near the position I found myself in. Strange, how it took someone else's misfortune to see my own blessings.  

Strange, but damned useful. I had to see Louis. I needed to talk with him; I needed to lay things out. Well, okay, I probably wouldn't spill my heart out to him, but he'd laid his cards on the table and it was time for me to stop bluffing. I needed to lay mine down, too, and see what the sum came to. Certainly, I'd have to apologise for my rant the previous night, and probably my threats to burn him. Too, I might have to explain that telling him I was going to run away with Armand to travel Europe for the next few months rather than suffer his boring company had been an exaggeration.

We stood there, side by side, for a while. I put my hands into my pockets in that way that Louis finds vulgar, feeling very sure of myself and very pleased with our conversation.

"Lestat," said Armand softly, so softly that I struggled to catch his words flung into the wind, "Do you remember what I told you, all those years ago? The Dark Gift – it never brings a person to you. It never gives you what you truly want."

"Oh, Armand," I murmured, "I've learned that I'll always be inherently dissatisfied with my lot. It's what keeps creatures like us going."

He smiled then, briefly. "Perhaps you're right. Probably not." He peered into the distance, then, and frowned. "Daniel will be back soon. I imagine you've got your use of me. There's little else for us to say to each other."

"No," I said awkwardly, shifting a little. I felt restless now, itching to take flight. To confront him, that blasted fledgling of mine. To… oh, hell, I don't know. To do something . I stretched. "I'm going now. Er… thank you. I think."

"Good luck."

"Thanks."

"You'll need it."

I sneered at him. "Charming fiends don't need luck."

I believe that he fired a retort at me, some cutting, dispiriting thing, but I was already gone, flinging myself into the screaming Atlantic winds and shaking off his alluring presence, his sad, tired memories as, my mind resolved, I made my way back to the city and to all that was mine.

                                                                                                   The End