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Description
Interlude

“Save me” The finger which had written these words still lingered on the last letter, feeling the cold of the stones and pushed against the wall as if to gore it. Then, very slowly, the other fingers, which had been pressed against the palm, opened , touching the blood that was already drying. With deliberate movements the hand now smeared the words, erased their meaning until nothing was left of them but a dark, wet spot on the bare stone wall. Fixed firmly on the blotch were two big, hollow eyes, starring at the wall as if they were able to penetrate it and see through it into another world. These eyes were all but dreaming, when suddenly they narrowed, the opal irises turned into beaming embers and the widened pupils contracted. The body to which the fingers, hands and eyes belonged tensed and rushed out of the hobnailed door, to the window of the adjacent room and yelled: “Don't you dare to go to him!”

The lonely figure walking towards the tower stopped and looked up: “Armand, I beg you, calm down and let me in. I must talk to you.”
The woman outside waited until the shadow in the window gave her a sign to enter. This took quite a while to happen but Eleni was patient. She knew, letting Armand on his own now wasn't a good idea, especially not if she wanted to... Eleni locked her thoughts deep inside her soul, it was not wise to upset the coven master further in this matter. Then she took the key for the wooden door which age and weather had distorted out of a small embroidered purse and unlocked it. Besides Armand she was the only one with a key for the tower and only because it had been entrusted to her by Lestat. Maybe he had foreseen...
The petite vampiress absorbed the wet and a little foul smell the old walls exhaled. She didn't particularly like to come here although Armand had renovated and furnished the upper rooms almost luxuriantly because the place reminded her of the graveyard, where she had lived for so many years. Until this radiant, frantic lightning struck into their midst, blowing away the old coven like dusty cobwebs. Sometimes she wished she had gone with Lestat to re-discover the world but he had had eyes only for his mother who was independent and free like himself. What's more, she could not have abandoned the others, not even Armand, who would have given her over to the flames without batting an eye. Before ascending the stairs, Eleni glanced at the door which led to the basement. While she didn't know what exactly had happened, her inner voice told her, he was down there. Slowly she took one step after another, just like a mortal woman would have done, with every stride clearly audible. This was one of the aspects she so loved about her new life: She wasn't invisible any longer, she was solid flesh and blood, not a shadow. If men turned their heads on the street or when she was on stage , she enjoyed the looks of mortal eyes on her person. She was there and she was someone.
Having reached the top of the staircase nobody was to be seen but the heavy stone that closed the secret passage to the upper rooms had been removed. An invitation.
Eleni crawled through the narrow tunnel, even with a delicate body like hers it wasn't that easy. On the other side she found Armand, seated in a high backed chair and starring at the empty fireplace with a blank expression. She could only see his profile and he was playing with strands of his auburn hair. Blood was on his hand and he had smeared some of it in his curls. Stepping closer Eleni saw Armand's pants were also soiled with blood, blood dripping from a bundle in his lap. Although her senses were on alert, she could detect neither the scent of humans nor of death or decay. “Armand...”, she began to speak but was interrupted at once.
“He had it coming. I didn't have a choice. You and the others, you have no right to criticise me. You enjoy living in the lights of the stage but you are like children, you know nothing.” Armand's voice was bitter, his jaws tensed and his whole face resembled a stone mask without any warmth or softness. Despite the fact that Armand had been younger than she when made a vampire, Eleni had never been able to see him as a boy. Only to his victims this face sometimes showed a mild, innocent or vulnerable expression to lure them into his arms, binding them with a deadly spell. But now his youthful face looked even colder than usual.
“I haven't come to reproach you”, Eleni said. She stood a few steps away from Armand's seat.
“Ah, you haven't. But why have you come? To beg for mercy for him? Not this time, this can't go on.” Armand's gaze had left the cold fireplace and he looked Eleni over. “What does it matter to you anyway? You should have never been admitted into the coven, you're too soft. Just look at you, how you ran from me as if I were the devil himself and into the arms of that fool who'll one day shatter the whole world with his madness and then he'll cry over the shards with unbelieving eyes. I've seen the look on your face when you read his letter and when you dance on the stage, you thank him for freeing you from the darkness. Lestat is an arrogant idiot. One day he'll fall and hurt his pretty face.”
Eleni pressed her lips together and broke eye-contact with her counterpart. “You're not fair, Armand”, she whispered. Silence. The night air blew into the room from the open window and the shadows devoured all colours and blurred all forms except the gleaming eyes of the vampires.
When Eleni turned her head, she saw Armand standing right by her side. They were about the same size and his eyes looked directly into hers. He didn't say a word but by the way how he took her hand and gently led her to a bench on one side of the room, told Eleni he was sorry to have hurt her. She forgave him, she had always forgiven him. Out of a box he took pieces of wood, cinder and lighted a fire in the stove. The room regained its colours and Eleni's gaze was fixed on the chair in which she had found Armand. There on the seat lay the bloody, scentless bundle. Following her eyes, Armand also looked at the torn fabric that maybe could have been the remainders of a shirt. He approached the chair, took the bundle and sat next to the woman after placing it in her lap. Without saying a single word the vampiress unfolded it. Indeed, it must have been a shirt. This had been a sleeve and this a collar and this lace, it all looked somehow familiar.
Eleni was unable to suppress a little scream when she discovered the contents of the bundle. Hesitantly she raised her hand and touched these well known, slender fingers, the ring, the nails of glass that were shorter on the left hand in order to not interfere with the strings. Hands that wrote the best and darkest plays for the Théâtre des Vampires, hands that could make the violin sing like a siren or scream like a soul in purgatory. Those hands now lay in Eleni's lap, cold, lifeless, separated from their body just above the wrists. A small string of blood still sipped from the wounds, the clean cut bones were clearly visible. Eleni couldn't look away, not even when she felt nausea coming over her for a moment. “Nicolas... What have you done, Armand?” she began but the rage in the youth's face cut her words off.
She listened, but the only audible sounds were the fire and the dripping of water somewhere from a damp wall. Otherwise the tower was filled with a grave like silence.
It was Armand who finally spoke: “ I was tired of his raging. I needed peace. Peace, just a little peace.” When Eleni touched his shoulder he pushed her hand aside, not harshly though: “ Let's go back to the theatre. An enterprise like this must not be dependent on a single person, meantime we have to find another playwright.”

Back in Paris the troupe greeted Eleni and Armand with shy silence. Everybody knew how Nicolas had behaved during the last weeks, how he had wandered the boulevards, asking mortals if they knew evil lived in their midst, how he had showed up on public places, stained with blood from the hunt. His unfortunate victims had been found all over the city, in the gardens of the queen, on the rooftops of Notre Dame de Paris and even next door to the Théâtre des Vampires. Personal items belonging to Armand had been found with them. They all knew Armand, as the unofficial leader had reacted to this dangerous provocation but nobody dared to ask. Also Eleni kept her mind well closed and thus a heavy silence of unspoken words came down on the little vampire community.
Nevertheless, on the next night the show went on as usual, Armand didn't allow negligence of any kind. But even before the curtains were drawn he was on his way out of Paris and to Magnus' old lair.
Any mortal would have heard the angry shouting before the door to the basement was ever opened. Holding a torch, Armand climbed down the ancient stairs. For a moment the screaming stopped, only to commence with new, rage-driven force. Untouched by the noise the vampire continued his way till he reached a heavy, iron-bolted oak door. Armand removed the bolts, turned the key in a lock that appeared to be very new and entered the windowless room behind the door.
Nicolas was ready for him ad hurled his body at him with all the power he had. Armand nearly dropped the torch although he had foreseen the attack. But he managed to gain balance and pushed his opponent to the ground. Unhurriedly he placed the torch in a holder so that it poorly illuminated the little cell. Meanwhile Nicolas was on his knees again but his whole body was shaking and he tried in vane to stand. Armand watched him with a look bare of any emotion. The prisoner wore nothing but culottes and torn stockings, his small back was naked and covered with bruises and grazes of which Armand could identify only a few as his doing. Obviously Nicolas had tried to force the door open, of course with no avail. He was such a young immortal and his maker hadn't been a blood drinker one year when he brought him over. Years or decades would have to pass before these walls weren't strong enough to hold him any more. Besides, he hadn't drunk mortal blood to regenerate. One as old and powerful as Armand could fast for nights without loosing his strength but one as young in the blood as Nicolas needed to drink every night. His face was very white and gaunt, his wild eyes blood-shot and his brown curls were a tangled mess of his head. The arms, useless stubs, he hold pressed against his chest. When Armand looked at them closely, he could observe that the immortal flesh tried to cover the wound, following its urge to heal, but since the hands were missing it didn't succeed. The wounds were wet from tiny drops of blood that still spilled from the severed blood vessels. Nicolas face was twisted in anger and pain. His mouth twitched spastically.
“Are you enjoying it? Yes? Yes? Yes?” He spit out the words in fits and starts. Armand's face was unchanged when he answered his prisoner: “What I feel is of little importance. Your behaviour was inexcusable, I have to protect your brothers and sister from your irresponsible actions. You're a danger for all of us, my beautiful violinist.” Nicolas sank to the ground and turned on his back. He looked up at his jailer, the eternal youth able to emit coldness and rigour that would made demons shudders. He wore his auburn curls tied back with a white silk ribbon, a black cape, white shirt, neck-tie, a silver vest, culottes and silk stockings. Rings decorated his fingers and he wore high heeled shoes. A man of the world, a rich Parisian theatre director, though the Théâtre des Vampires belonged to Nicolas. On the documents which Lestat had signed before leaving Paris was his name, Nicolas de Lenfent.
“Ha ha”, Nicolas laughed, “you can't fool me, great coven master. Even when you're dressed in fine clothes now, you're still the miserable creature crawling through stinking tombs. You're pathetic. Now finish what you started that night under Les Innocentes. Lestat couldn't care less about you and what becomes of me he doesn't give a damn. He threw us away, both of us, like a pair of worn out boots...”
He winced when the tip of a shoe hit his stomach. “Bastard!” He gasped for breath.
“Snakes would envy you for your poisonous tongue, young friend”, Armamd commented, then he sat down beside Nicolas, pulled his body closer and started to examine the mutilated arms on which the raw flesh was visible. He ignored Nicolas furious eyes, as well as the kick against his shin when he touched the wound with an outstretched finger. Alive; skin, muscles, tendons, bones, blood vessels, all tissues prickled and flickered, desperately wanting to join with the missing parts again. Just like the cuts on the hands Armand had locked up in a drawer, together with the hand axe, a theatre requisite, he had used for his cruel punishment.
Next he bit his palm and stroked the prisoner's slashed chest and back. Where the magical blood touched the torn skin it healed immediately. It was plain to see that it costed Nicolas all the restraint he had not to let out a groan. Finally something broke in him and and a desperate and choked plea broke from his lips: “Give...me...blood. Let me... have... a victim. I'm dying, please Armand. Blood...please.” Again and again Nicolas sobbed these words, his whole body quivering. Softly Armand stroke his hair.
“No.”
He put off his woollen cape, covered the miserable vampire with it and left the cell. Carefully he locked the door and put the bolts back in place.

In the third night Armand relieved the conditions of Nicolas' imprisonment. He took him to a room with a bed and candles and allowed Eleni to keep him company. To keep his mind in a tolerably clear state he also provided for him animal blood to drink that was easy enough to get from the butchers. Once Nicolas was again strong enough to curse and taunt his jailer, Armand let him to Eleni's care completely and retreated to his room in the upper level of the tower. After he had made sure the hands were still alive and under safe lock he sat down in his antic chair and fell into brooding thoughts. Why did he do this? All of this. After all he was free now, free to do whatever he liked. Other than many a child of darkness he had known a life before the coven, and now the coven was no more. All his obligations as coven master were no more. Yet, he didn't feel free at all.

Description
Interlude

“Save me” The finger which had written these words still lingered on the last letter, feeling the cold of the stones and pushed against the wall as if to gore it. Then, very slowly, the other fingers, which had been pressed against the palm, opened , touching the blood that was already drying. With deliberate movements the hand now smeared the words, erased their meaning until nothing was left of them but a dark, wet spot on the bare stone wall. Fixed firmly on the blotch were two big, hollow eyes, starring at the wall as if they were able to penetrate it and see through it into another world. These eyes were all but dreaming, when suddenly they narrowed, the opal irises turned into beaming embers and the widened pupils contracted. The body to which the fingers, hands and eyes belonged tensed and rushed out of the hobnailed door, to the window of the adjacent room and yelled: “Don't you dare to go to him!”

The lonely figure walking towards the tower stopped and looked up: “Armand, I beg you, calm down and let me in. I must talk to you.”
The woman outside waited until the shadow in the window gave her a sign to enter. This took quite a while to happen but Eleni was patient. She knew, letting Armand on his own now wasn't a good idea, especially not if she wanted to... Eleni locked her thoughts deep inside her soul, it was not wise to upset the coven master further in this matter. Then she took the key for the wooden door which age and weather had distorted out of a small embroidered purse and unlocked it. Besides Armand she was the only one with a key for the tower and only because it had been entrusted to her by Lestat. Maybe he had foreseen...
The petite vampiress absorbed the wet and a little foul smell the old walls exhaled. She didn't particularly like to come here although Armand had renovated and furnished the upper rooms almost luxuriantly because the place reminded her of the graveyard, where she had lived for so many years. Until this radiant, frantic lightning struck into their midst, blowing away the old coven like dusty cobwebs. Sometimes she wished she had gone with Lestat to re-discover the world but he had had eyes only for his mother who was independent and free like himself. What's more, she could not have abandoned the others, not even Armand, who would have given her over to the flames without batting an eye. Before ascending the stairs, Eleni glanced at the door which led to the basement. While she didn't know what exactly had happened, her inner voice told her, he was down there. Slowly she took one step after another, just like a mortal woman would have done, with every stride clearly audible. This was one of the aspects she so loved about her new life: She wasn't invisible any longer, she was solid flesh and blood, not a shadow. If men turned their heads on the street or when she was on stage , she enjoyed the looks of mortal eyes on her person. She was there and she was someone.
Having reached the top of the staircase nobody was to be seen but the heavy stone that closed the secret passage to the upper rooms had been removed. An invitation.
Eleni crawled through the narrow tunnel, even with a delicate body like hers it wasn't that easy. On the other side she found Armand, seated in a high backed chair and starring at the empty fireplace with a blank expression. She could only see his profile and he was playing with strands of his auburn hair. Blood was on his hand and he had smeared some of it in his curls. Stepping closer Eleni saw Armand's pants were also soiled with blood, blood dripping from a bundle in his lap. Although her senses were on alert, she could detect neither the scent of humans nor of death or decay. “Armand...”, she began to speak but was interrupted at once.
“He had it coming. I didn't have a choice. You and the others, you have no right to criticise me. You enjoy living in the lights of the stage but you are like children, you know nothing.” Armand's voice was bitter, his jaws tensed and his whole face resembled a stone mask without any warmth or softness. Despite the fact that Armand had been younger than she when made a vampire, Eleni had never been able to see him as a boy. Only to his victims this face sometimes showed a mild, innocent or vulnerable expression to lure them into his arms, binding them with a deadly spell. But now his youthful face looked even colder than usual.
“I haven't come to reproach you”, Eleni said. She stood a few steps away from Armand's seat.
“Ah, you haven't. But why have you come? To beg for mercy for him? Not this time, this can't go on.” Armand's gaze had left the cold fireplace and he looked Eleni over. “What does it matter to you anyway? You should have never been admitted into the coven, you're too soft. Just look at you, how you ran from me as if I were the devil himself and into the arms of that fool who'll one day shatter the whole world with his madness and then he'll cry over the shards with unbelieving eyes. I've seen the look on your face when you read his letter and when you dance on the stage, you thank him for freeing you from the darkness. Lestat is an arrogant idiot. One day he'll fall and hurt his pretty face.”
Eleni pressed her lips together and broke eye-contact with her counterpart. “You're not fair, Armand”, she whispered. Silence. The night air blew into the room from the open window and the shadows devoured all colours and blurred all forms except the gleaming eyes of the vampires.
When Eleni turned her head, she saw Armand standing right by her side. They were about the same size and his eyes looked directly into hers. He didn't say a word but by the way how he took her hand and gently led her to a bench on one side of the room, told Eleni he was sorry to have hurt her. She forgave him, she had always forgiven him. Out of a box he took pieces of wood, cinder and lighted a fire in the stove. The room regained its colours and Eleni's gaze was fixed on the chair in which she had found Armand. There on the seat lay the bloody, scentless bundle. Following her eyes, Armand also looked at the torn fabric that maybe could have been the remainders of a shirt. He approached the chair, took the bundle and sat next to the woman after placing it in her lap. Without saying a single word the vampiress unfolded it. Indeed, it must have been a shirt. This had been a sleeve and this a collar and this lace, it all looked somehow familiar.
Eleni was unable to suppress a little scream when she discovered the contents of the bundle. Hesitantly she raised her hand and touched these well known, slender fingers, the ring, the nails of glass that were shorter on the left hand in order to not interfere with the strings. Hands that wrote the best and darkest plays for the Théâtre des Vampires, hands that could make the violin sing like a siren or scream like a soul in purgatory. Those hands now lay in Eleni's lap, cold, lifeless, separated from their body just above the wrists. A small string of blood still sipped from the wounds, the clean cut bones were clearly visible. Eleni couldn't look away, not even when she felt nausea coming over her for a moment. “Nicolas... What have you done, Armand?” she began but the rage in the youth's face cut her words off.
She listened, but the only audible sounds were the fire and the dripping of water somewhere from a damp wall. Otherwise the tower was filled with a grave like silence.
It was Armand who finally spoke: “ I was tired of his raging. I needed peace. Peace, just a little peace.” When Eleni touched his shoulder he pushed her hand aside, not harshly though: “ Let's go back to the theatre. An enterprise like this must not be dependent on a single person, meantime we have to find another playwright.”

Back in Paris the troupe greeted Eleni and Armand with shy silence. Everybody knew how Nicolas had behaved during the last weeks, how he had wandered the boulevards, asking mortals if they knew evil lived in their midst, how he had showed up on public places, stained with blood from the hunt. His unfortunate victims had been found all over the city, in the gardens of the queen, on the rooftops of Notre Dame de Paris and even next door to the Théâtre des Vampires. Personal items belonging to Armand had been found with them. They all knew Armand, as the unofficial leader had reacted to this dangerous provocation but nobody dared to ask. Also Eleni kept her mind well closed and thus a heavy silence of unspoken words came down on the little vampire community.
Nevertheless, on the next night the show went on as usual, Armand didn't allow negligence of any kind. But even before the curtains were drawn he was on his way out of Paris and to Magnus' old lair.
Any mortal would have heard the angry shouting before the door to the basement was ever opened. Holding a torch, Armand climbed down the ancient stairs. For a moment the screaming stopped, only to commence with new, rage-driven force. Untouched by the noise the vampire continued his way till he reached a heavy, iron-bolted oak door. Armand removed the bolts, turned the key in a lock that appeared to be very new and entered the windowless room behind the door.
Nicolas was ready for him ad hurled his body at him with all the power he had. Armand nearly dropped the torch although he had foreseen the attack. But he managed to gain balance and pushed his opponent to the ground. Unhurriedly he placed the torch in a holder so that it poorly illuminated the little cell. Meanwhile Nicolas was on his knees again but his whole body was shaking and he tried in vane to stand. Armand watched him with a look bare of any emotion. The prisoner wore nothing but culottes and torn stockings, his small back was naked and covered with bruises and grazes of which Armand could identify only a few as his doing. Obviously Nicolas had tried to force the door open, of course with no avail. He was such a young immortal and his maker hadn't been a blood drinker one year when he brought him over. Years or decades would have to pass before these walls weren't strong enough to hold him any more. Besides, he hadn't drunk mortal blood to regenerate. One as old and powerful as Armand could fast for nights without loosing his strength but one as young in the blood as Nicolas needed to drink every night. His face was very white and gaunt, his wild eyes blood-shot and his brown curls were a tangled mess of his head. The arms, useless stubs, he hold pressed against his chest. When Armand looked at them closely, he could observe that the immortal flesh tried to cover the wound, following its urge to heal, but since the hands were missing it didn't succeed. The wounds were wet from tiny drops of blood that still spilled from the severed blood vessels. Nicolas face was twisted in anger and pain. His mouth twitched spastically.
“Are you enjoying it? Yes? Yes? Yes?” He spit out the words in fits and starts. Armand's face was unchanged when he answered his prisoner: “What I feel is of little importance. Your behaviour was inexcusable, I have to protect your brothers and sister from your irresponsible actions. You're a danger for all of us, my beautiful violinist.” Nicolas sank to the ground and turned on his back. He looked up at his jailer, the eternal youth able to emit coldness and rigour that would made demons shudders. He wore his auburn curls tied back with a white silk ribbon, a black cape, white shirt, neck-tie, a silver vest, culottes and silk stockings. Rings decorated his fingers and he wore high heeled shoes. A man of the world, a rich Parisian theatre director, though the Théâtre des Vampires belonged to Nicolas. On the documents which Lestat had signed before leaving Paris was his name, Nicolas de Lenfent.
“Ha ha”, Nicolas laughed, “you can't fool me, great coven master. Even when you're dressed in fine clothes now, you're still the miserable creature crawling through stinking tombs. You're pathetic. Now finish what you started that night under Les Innocentes. Lestat couldn't care less about you and what becomes of me he doesn't give a damn. He threw us away, both of us, like a pair of worn out boots...”
He winced when the tip of a shoe hit his stomach. “Bastard!” He gasped for breath.
“Snakes would envy you for your poisonous tongue, young friend”, Armamd commented, then he sat down beside Nicolas, pulled his body closer and started to examine the mutilated arms on which the raw flesh was visible. He ignored Nicolas furious eyes, as well as the kick against his shin when he touched the wound with an outstretched finger. Alive; skin, muscles, tendons, bones, blood vessels, all tissues prickled and flickered, desperately wanting to join with the missing parts again. Just like the cuts on the hands Armand had locked up in a drawer, together with the hand axe, a theatre requisite, he had used for his cruel punishment.
Next he bit his palm and stroked the prisoner's slashed chest and back. Where the magical blood touched the torn skin it healed immediately. It was plain to see that it costed Nicolas all the restraint he had not to let out a groan. Finally something broke in him and and a desperate and choked plea broke from his lips: “Give...me...blood. Let me... have... a victim. I'm dying, please Armand. Blood...please.” Again and again Nicolas sobbed these words, his whole body quivering. Softly Armand stroke his hair.
“No.”
He put off his woollen cape, covered the miserable vampire with it and left the cell. Carefully he locked the door and put the bolts back in place.

In the third night Armand relieved the conditions of Nicolas' imprisonment. He took him to a room with a bed and candles and allowed Eleni to keep him company. To keep his mind in a tolerably clear state he also provided for him animal blood to drink that was easy enough to get from the butchers. Once Nicolas was again strong enough to curse and taunt his jailer, Armand let him to Eleni's care completely and retreated to his room in the upper level of the tower. After he had made sure the hands were still alive and under safe lock he sat down in his antic chair and fell into brooding thoughts. Why did he do this? All of this. After all he was free now, free to do whatever he liked. Other than many a child of darkness he had known a life before the coven, and now the coven was no more. All his obligations as coven master were no more. Yet, he didn't feel free at all.