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Caught in the fury of living death, Armand found himself haunting his memories of the theatre.
It had been his time caught between a terror of the then modern age and trying to access scraps of the mortal boy, weeping and frightened and locked away deep inside his mind, so much further than he ever had been in the catacombs. Not a terrible surprise to find his mind lingering here, caught in the horrifying purgatory between life and death but given neither the reprieve of death nor granted eternal life in salvation nor suffering, the mirror was undeniable. Caught like a fly in the web of His own design, Armand had prayed for release, for damnation, for something to change and give it all meaning.
All he could do was wait quietly for divine judgement, one way or another, and so, he dreamt of the velvet, the powdered wigs, the grotesque marionettes: he had been just as lost then, grasping for something to desire, something to build himself on without the foundations of a coven master he was trying to leave buried in the fires and all too convinced that mortal child was dead and gone.
Then he had wanted passion, something that would make him walk the streets as if his footfalls were to make a noise, as if he were more than a shadow only ever truly existing by others' reflecting light. No, not a shadow, for a shadow can move and dance and undeniably exist. He had been devoid of matter, hollowed out where Lestat had snatched the world as he knew it away from him - the creed he had lived by and clung to for his very survival smashed to smithereens. Forced once again to rebuild, for what could he do but go on?
There was no salvation or damnation.
At least, not then.
For a brief moment in the church, Armand had believed he had been wrong and in unison, the boy from the caves, the dying apprentice, the old coven master and whatever he could claim to be now wept at the idea he would be allowed to be a fool for God, yes, to find his shaken faith restored and throw himself at His mercy.
Yet he was still here.
“That’s the problem with spending your whole life as a boy on string,” There was a voice now, a familiar one for the theatre that made him wonder if perhaps he was slipping closer to hell. “Once you are no longer a satisfactory marionette, those strings become the hangman’s noose.”
Why couldn’t he have spent his final hours of mortal consciousness and delirium with his vision of his mother? No, that had been snatched from him, his comfort revoked for the sake of the ghost of a viper-tongued violinist.
“I don’t breathe,” Armand responded. “What could a hangman’s noose do for someone such as me?”
“What could anything do to a creature such as you?” Even as his mind was shutting down, the quality of his illusion was infinitely detailed. This wasn’t a spectre of the eighteenth century but a modern incarnation, piercings and darkened eyes, darkened lips and silver chains standing stark on the black velvet of his clothing. A modern gothic romantic with loose hair and a looser mind. “Did you know that they’re weeping down there for you? Your company of immortal fools? The little idiot fledglings throwing themselves to the sun for their damned dark saint who ascended to the heavens only to end up caught on a rooftop?”
“You threw yourself to the fire,” Armand wasn’t sure if the words came out of his mouth or if he’d dropped it into his mind. Could mirages have minds?
“And now I’m freezing my ass off on a rooftop with a blackened poppet,” Nicolas raised both his hands. “You’ve never looked prettier.”
There was something on his fingers, bejewelled with finery that contrasted the messy smush of pale and darkened makeup that looked as if he’d dipped his face in theatre grease and soot.
One of those rings – “That’s mine.”
“This?” Nicolas put his fingers to his hand and twisted it; a taunt. “It’s mine now. If you want it back, come and take it.”
Was that not the point of this, to be cast down or pulled up? He was trying to get there!
“You really are an awful mess, aren’t you?” The way he said it was almost appreciative, as if there was something pretty about the destruction. “Two centuries later and you still can’t face it, can you? There’s nothing out there for you, little monster. There is no reprieve. There is no peace. God, if such a creature does exist, does not want you. If hell does exist, it doesn’t want you any more than it wants me. This is all there is.”
It was an awful truth, too awful for even his mind. “You’re not a delusion, are you?”
“If I tell you,” Nicolas replied. “Where is the fun in this for me?”
“This is fun for you?” Armand asked.
“Seeing you pinned like a butterfly against the glass, so utterly broken that you will not put an end to the ceaseless wailing of your newest little coven and tell them you live?” Nicolas’ smile was so sharp, so real. “Even my genius couldn’t have written such a delicious play to participate in.”
“Then leave me to it!” Armand demanded.
“No, I don’t think I will.” Nicolas had something in his hand, a matchbook and struck one up against the cold. For a long moment, he stared at the fire before he glanced back at Armand. “I wanted my release and you promised it to me. That clearly did not happen. Now it seems that Lestat in his usual fashion led you to what you thought would be yours and now, I get to ruin your attempt as you did mine.”
“I didn’t ruin it,” Armand said stubbornly. “You were gone. You were gone!”
“You almost sound like a real person when you shout like that,” Nicolas replied. “As if you were capable of feeling something. Do you feel things now, Armand? Is it possible you found yourself a fairy godmother and wished very, very hard and became a real boy again?”
This was his mind torturing him. It had to be. If he shut his eyes and opened them again, he would be gone and he could listen to the music again. There was pain suddenly, heat and the sound of cracking and – the ice was gone, but everything felt so painful without it’s pleasing numbness.
And Nicki was still there.
He had dropped the match.
“Why are you here?” Armand asked, finding he could move his leathered skin again. There was something in his mind’s eye, something Armand had seen too, something that had broken his heart – Lestat in his catatonic, the potential that the old ones might decide to end his life as only they could. “You want to see him.”
“I can’t stand the thought of it, truly.” Nicolas looked out across the rooftops. “Something finally dimmed that despicable light of his, forced him to see how merciless and cold everything really is and I should take my joy in it, shouldn’t I? I waited so long. I should enjoy it.”
“Is there joy to be had over the state of him?” Armand asked quietly.
Nicolas’ look was as acidic as his words. “Not for you, you love him. You love him so much his state pains you more than your burns and it’s disgusting, sickening even. He’s not worth it, you know. He’ll only make you hopeful and when you remember how fucked up this world is, you’ll weep for death again, won’t you?”
“You love him,” Armand said bluntly. It was impossible not to, if you knew him as he did.
“I despise his very existence,” Nicolas replied. “And I love him, as it is with all of us, isn’t it? We both love and hate those who bestow this gift, this curse, this – cage of eternity and freedom of time upon us. So yes, I don’t want to see him but I must see him and would have done so tonight if I hadn’t heard you.”
“You heard me?” But he had been shielding his thoughts from everyone!
“You didn’t know I was here,” Nicolas replied. “I’ve been in your head enough to know what your insides sound like. It’s always so pleasant to spend time with you, Armand, because it’s wonderful to not be the most fucked up person in a crowd. So let’s get you someone to eat and you can sit there and weep for your manic pianist – she’s not bad, if lacking in original expression – or you can come and see if Lestat is so truly beyond all hope that they choose to destroy him.”
“They cannot destroy him.” The words were unbidden, but they were etched on his very soul. “I won’t allow it.”
Nicolas’ smile, “Oh, there you are. I thought you’d gone soft in your old age.”
Armand could do nothing but repeat himself, “They cannot be allowed to destroy him.”
“To defy such ancient creatures is sure to end in agony, despair and perhaps even death for those who would attempt such a thing.” Nicki brightened immediately and offered his hand. “Sounds wonderful. I can’t wait.”