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Post by Armand on Dec 18, 2008 23:25:07 GMT -5
(( Or: How Armand and Nicolas Learned to Settle Their Differences and Get Along. Or at the very least, How Armand Did Not Kill Nicolas. Continuation of this.)) By the time they'd reached the tower, Armand's seething fury had settled into something much calmer, more controlled, and considerably colder. The run- literally, as he raced through Paris and both expected and knew Nicolas would keep up- had taken his fine trembling anger and replaced it with this. After Vincent had dropped by, Armand had taken some care to refurnish and restore what now truly was as close to a parlor as the tower had. The room had been cleaned, the fireplace cleared out and filled again with fresh fuel, and there were candles on a small table near to the door. The chairs were the same, simple and wooden, and the stone bench had been kept, but the rotting frame of a broken bed in the corner was gone. Banished to another room, in fact- Armand would not throw a thing away in the tower. Not because of any sentiment of Lestat, but because he was liken a magpie, and the rot and the filth didn't bother him when it was on something that once had been useful or beautiful. Armand knew the effect of light and heat on vampires- a remarkable effect, even- but he didn't move to light the fire. It was too cosy, too inane, to think of bending over to coax it into flame when he'd finally caught Nicolas and had him here. Instead he turned when he was through the door, chin raised, eyes narrowed and fixed on the violinist with poisonous disdain. "This is what you wanted, wasn't it, my undivided attention? You have it. Speak. I want to see what asinine excuse, if any, you've thought to give."
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Dec 19, 2008 18:18:58 GMT -5
Nicolas' manic delight had already faded just before running, and so when he reached the tower, his excesses of emotion had long since fallen away into a more composed mood.
Still, by the time Armand was speaking to him - and there was no chance at all of this being anything other than reality, no matter what theories the strange Madame Claudia had - he had no chance at all of finding the proper response. His reasoning for these murders, the mind that had conceived them, had been feverish, burning; it had come to him in the spore of the wound of Armand's calling him by that nickname, and been carried out in mania and desperation.
And, separate as these things were from his calm, he could not even begin to grasp at what his reasoning was. He looked at Armand in gentle alarm, as though he could not begin to understand what atrocities he was being accused of. His lips parted as though to reply, but he could only shake his head.
Armand had his undivided attention more than he felt he had Armand's, and he couldn't even think of something to distract himself. He tilted his head and gazed back at him almost soulfully, as often he did, when looking into Armand's eyes and trying to understand him. This cold anger, the gracious elderly spirit he had stirred, they were as remote from him as could be; he would have liked to understand Armand, but that was surely impossible. He spoke after a moment. "And what excuse can I give? Is there any excuse for what I've done? If I offer you a confession, perhaps you'll redeem me, if you have any desire to play at the priest; but if I tried to reason my way out of it, it wouldn't really be repentance, would it?"
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Post by Armand on Dec 21, 2008 12:05:50 GMT -5
Armand's lips drew up from his teeth in a small sneer as Nicolas only stared and shook his head. It was as though he were not capable of understanding what he'd done, or why he'd done it, or even why Armand was angry, but that couldn't be the case. Armand knew Nicolas was more intelligent than that. His mania and his violence didn't rule him all of the time; he spoke with an eloquence that never deserted him. That he would play at this made Armand's blood boil, a delightful little human expression that felt true by the prickling and tingling in his skin, that strange vampire skin that felt changes in temperature so keenly. Had Nicolas not spoken, perhaps Armand would have flown into a rage of his own; it was unlike his usual control, but that control was not of an iron constitution, and when it was shattered as it was now by a string of such insulting and stupendous murders -
He didn't need to hear an excuse, really, or what Nicolas's reason had been. He knew it. It wasn't selfish, to think that it had been done for his own benefit, not when he knew Nicolas as well as a very few, surpassed only by- perhaps- Lestat. But this was not enough to prevent the seething temper and pricked pride, even as Armand felt he'd lost the right to be so angry. He wasn't the coven master any more; there was no coven, no theatre, no one left in the burnt out chamber under Les Innocents. Not even the wailing ones in the walls there had been spared, and now there was not a one in Paris who knew of Armand except the very few, not even enough to count on both hands, and still he was angry, and wary of the populace for the benefit of no one, he realized, but himself.
This helped nothing.
"You don't want redemption; you regret nothing. The methodical manner of your kills show your full responsibility. These weren't sacrifices to your sanity, and as many as you could take each night- one directly in front of my door, and you say you have no excuse!"
Armand stood so still as he delivered these words, his hands held straight at his sides. His eyes were bright and furious, and the only part of him that were alive.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Dec 27, 2008 18:14:05 GMT -5
"I didn't say I had regrets. What is there to regret?" asked Nicolas, gazing up at him almost in wonderment, his lips more often parted than not, even when he wasn't speaking. They were moist, not with blood any longer, but from the simple moisture of his having cleaned the blood from his mouth with his tongue; it was almost childlike. He could have been a young student, an intellectual, listening to stirring poetry or politics or philosophy. And it was the latter, wasn't it? The question of redemption. Nicolas had keen interest for talking about that sort of thing, and particularly with Armand. How like the old days this was! He felt the tide of time ebb away from the tower, as it always did. Armand could have been in a frock coat and stockings, admonishing him for his callous killing, and Nicolas could have been trying devilishly to steer the conversation into these philosophies on evil.
He spread his hands, though they closed almost immediately, as though even in an open gesture he could not quite be so generous with anyone, even Armand. "What's to regret? My criminal actions have rewarded me with your undivided attention. It is what I wanted. How long will I have it for? There are so many things I want to tell you about. And your eyes look like flaming coals when you get like this - shall I light the fire, speaking of which - ?"
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Post by Armand on Dec 27, 2008 21:45:25 GMT -5
Armand's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes also narrowing. He too felt the tug of remembrence, almost nostalgia, for all those years ago. Yet it hadn't done any good, had it, even then, and this little play was so, so old. Nicolas was still so flippant that Armand could simply strangle him for it, not that it would do any good.
"Oh, but I am not done," he said. "So you do admit it. But it was also out of spite, wasn't it, your malicious and petty attempt at revenge. Lestat wasn't the only one to call you by that charming little nickname, Nicki. Think of your pretty little mortal darlings, the actors and actresses of your Parisian youth, your mother, yes. That you would kill and maim over that- " Armand shook his head sharply, but his anger was draining into something a little more resigned. This wouldn't do any good. He could rage until eternity and Nicolas would continue to look at him like that, just like that, waiting for him to be done so they could talk about something else. And he had said it to hurt Nicolas, and he would likely say it again. That Armand hadn't considered the ramifications of Nicolas's mad humor was his own fault. Didn't he know Nicolas couldn't be left unattended? "I don't care. Light it if you wish."
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Dec 27, 2008 22:08:46 GMT -5
"But do you wish, Armand?" he asked with deference, already over there in a matter of seconds and bending to light the fire, finding he did care and feel great interest in the answer, even though he was not at all going to act according to that whim. That was how it always was between them, he supposed. He did so hunger to understand and to hear Armand's desires and motives, even if they never affected his behavior in the end. He looked into the coals and the faggots as he lit a nearby match with his fingers, admiring the awesome flame as he dropped it. The fire enamored him, almost as much as Armand did when he got into a temper. He thought he was the one whose emotions ran to excess, but Armand ran more deeply than he did. He was a veritable Marianas trench.
"How strange, I should be gnashing my teeth and trying to kill you," he murmured heedlessly to the fire, his shoulders slumped, making him look, from behind, vulnerable and defenceless, particularly with the long curls, completely messy, hanging down his back. He glanced back at him, profile sharpened by the leaping flames. The heat made him shudder; it felt wonderful, a hint of what the kill could be. Had been, when he'd done it not long ago. What ecstasy it had been. He ran his tongue over his teeth. "But you do remind me. I suppose he's not. You call me that too, now, don't you?"
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Post by Armand on Dec 27, 2008 22:30:17 GMT -5
Armand ignored Nicolas's first question as his usual- something asked to annoy him, some abruptly probing thing as though Nicolas would understand him when the matters in which he sought to understand were petty and inane. Armand'd already said he didn't care about the fire, hadn't he.
"That you haven't gives me some semblence of hope," Armand said, but rather dryly. What an attractive picture Nicolas was making, and Armand had to wonder whether it was intentional or not. He knew the power of appearence, but he hadn't thought Nicolas ever had. His hair was testement to that, and his inclination to sport blood stains on his clothes, completely heedless to them. "I do not. But didn't you like the reminder?"
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Dec 27, 2008 22:41:55 GMT -5
Nicolas, as it turned out, was completely oblivious to his personal appearance, although he was more than aware of the heat of the fire, the lovely liquid nature of the warmth, as though all the cold vampire blood in his body - for while he consumed living blood, it was warm, but it died when it entered into his veins, and soon became cold, leaving him as it left all of them chilled - was being heated, giving him life again. He was slow to get to his feet, and dusted off his knees more out of habit than of function, as he failed to clear the dust as he would have had the gesture been more thorough than posh, as it happened to be.
He straightened and tilted his head. "Do you think I did? Quite honestly? Armand, you lie more than anyone I've ever met, mortal or otherwise. You must have been a liar in mortality as well; it's a trait that seems to have followed you into the grave." He approached slowly, almost shyly, and wrapped a strand of Armand's hair tightly around his fingertip, as though arrested by the sight of him. If nothing else, he did appear quite bemused. "You're lucky to be lovely. If you weren't, and I thought you were lying to me, cher, I would try to break all the bones in your face." He released him, folded his hands behind his back, and walked past him, tilting his head upward, taking note of the refurnishing for the first time since they'd entered in. He would have continued walking but for that; the sight stopped him, and his lips parted as he stared around, almost wonderingly.
"Not that I..." He didn't finish the sentence, although it was obvious what he meant to say: not that I could. "Is this for me?" he said, finally, voice a little faint and almost breathless. He couldn't comprehend why Armand would do that, but naturally he couldn't imagine any other reason. It didn't seem like Armand that he would do it for himself. He looked back at him, confusion that was so acute as to look like vulnerable woundedness written wholly in his features.
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Post by Armand on Dec 27, 2008 23:04:12 GMT -5
Armand looked equally bemused at Nicolas's threat instead of angry as he might have been that Nicolas was, once again, touching him, wrapping his hair around a finger as if Armand were so lovely and so utterly completely for him. "How aspiring of you. If you touch me again, I'll break your hands." Nicolas couldn't manage it. Then again- that was what he had thought about Lestat- but no. Lestat was different somehow. Armand had no inclination to let Nicolas do anything to his face.
He trailed off a little after his own little promise, words lowering to a distracted seemingly self-addressed murmur, "Perhaps not as effective as severing them, but..." His head raised again, expression politely bland as Armand glanced around. It took him a moment to understand, such a leap was it from their previous subject, but his lips tightened, twisted, disdainfully.
"Don't presume that you're my only company." Armand crossed his arms behind his back and shifted on his feet a little, not nervously but merely settling into a stance. "Some of the more dilapidated rooms have been refurnished, including the replacement of the upstairs furniture." Armand inclined his head, smiling a little. "Maybe you're right. Some of it is for you. Your room has been refurnished too." The room that Nicolas had met his mortal death in, and later in which Armand had kept him imprisoned for a week without blood or his hands- yes. Armand hadn't forgotten that room. Had he thought it necessary, he might have added something about the stench of fear becoming finally too repugnant, but Armand prefered more subtle jabs.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Dec 27, 2008 23:15:13 GMT -5
Nicolas frowned slightly at him, then turned his head away, hiding the sudden bruising of his pride - was that all it was? He could scarcely believe it was that, as he wasn't accustomed to being affected in any way and certainly not acquainted with any inclinations towards pride within himself - by turning his back to Armand. He suddenly felt a strong desire to leap out the window and disappear into the night, rid himself of Armand as quickly and efficiently as Armand had banished any humorous tenderness for him on Nicki's part - but rather than acting on the impulse, he paused, as though to see what would become of it, and found that, moments later, it was gone, replaced by something of resignation. He pulled his coat front tighter, jauntily, and continued to step around the room, glancing around as though he admired it.
"If you would like, I could get you some paintings for it," he said, without realizing either that Armand could have done it as easily had he wanted any. He had seen paintings somewhere recently... where? - ah. Oh. Aurel's. Well, he stole anything from there and the man would likely dismember him, and he was feeling just a bit touchy on the subject of being dismembered at the moment, particularly with Armand's barbed little comments. Ah, the pretty liar - Nicolas almost relished it, but he was too broody and sullen at the moment to quite manage. This in mind, he glanced back at him as he slowly completed his circle around the room. He raised his eyebrows. "But don't presume you are my only host. I've found another, you know," he said, finally stopping and facing Armand. A slight crease formed between his eyebrows as he compared Aurel to Armand in his mind and found him wanting slightly - too violent at times, too superior-seeming, and while more gentlemanly, not as deceptively tender as Armand. Armand was doubtless crueller by far - at least to Nicki's mind - but he looked so fine. Aurel was handsome, yes, sometimes very startlingly so, but he couldn't equal Armand in that imitation of innocence, fresh out of the church choir. No one could, really, even though who had the genuine thing.
He looked back at Armand, frowning slightly, as though Armand had been the cause of this crease in his brow and he was puzzled as to why Armand would want to do such a thing. Another impulse seized him suddenly, and he obeyed it without thought, a sudden heedless, bloodless joy as he reached out with a guileless smile to stroke Armand's pretty face and see if he would make good on his needless threat.
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Post by Armand on Dec 27, 2008 23:30:07 GMT -5
"That would be pleasant of you," Armand said, his eyes following Nicolas's form, a little more patient of the other vampire's sudden inane comments when they were not intended to hurt. His eyebrows raised at Nicolas's announcement, his lips parting in a little smile. It seemed geniune and pleasantly surprised. "Are you going to stay with them?" he asked, although with his own quiet cynicism he was not expecting the answer to be a pleasing one.
Nicolas was like some heedless, monstrous child, touching laughing crying breaking thoughtlessly. He needed to be looked after constantly, and Armand didn't want to be the one who had to do so. But nor did he want something like what had happened these past nights to happen again. Whoever would take Nicolas in would have to be capable of handling him, for they would be tested again and again and again, rather like - yes, just like Nicolas was testing him now. Armand caught the outstretched hand in both of his slender ringed ones and snapped it, the crackling of little bones a pretty little accompanyment to the dark satisfaction he got from doing so.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Dec 28, 2008 17:37:28 GMT -5
Nicolas did not get the chance to answer, and maybe this was not such a bad thing. He wouldn't have really known what to say if he'd continued to give it much thought. So far he had dropped in on Aurel for a couple of nights every few days, and spent the rest of his time in mausoleums and cellars and the like, and indeed, Aurel had allowed him, courteously, to put in a coffin in one of the other rooms, sparing him the intense discomfort - a sort of anti-claustrophobia - of sleeping in that Vincent fellow's bed. But he couldn't imagine staying with him. He was still something of a stranger, and Nicolas was inclined to keep it that way - it seemed so much safer. And if he gave a definitive answer he would be more inclined to keep to it. He had not thought to speak to Aurel about when he would be leaving or how long this arrangement would go on. It seemed temporary by nature, but for Nicki, temporary could have gone on for a century. He did not think of time the way mortals did. Even as a mortal, he rarely had, and it had gotten him into more than enough trouble and confusion then.
He gave a cry and withdrew his hand, dropping to his knees very quickly and clutching it, the excruciating pain gone in a second, though as his bones began to reknit themselves into the shape that was his proper hand, it still hurt very sharply. He felt like he was suffocating; and in a moment, he realized that it was because he was laughing very thickly, blood tears running down his cheeks from both the brief pain and from mirth. It was, in retrospect, a rather insane response. Armand certainly had his work cut out for him. By the time Nicolas felt he had something to say, he was breathless, and his heartbeat was racing. He looked up at Armand, eyes bright, eyelashes slick, an asymmetrical smile on his face.
"Ah, cruel one! How long do you think I will manage without touching you accidentally? You know how often I do it!"
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Post by Armand on Dec 28, 2008 18:00:48 GMT -5
Armand stared down at him, mostly expressionless, although there was something of the quizzical in the slight crinkle of his brows, or maybe in the minute purse of his lips. It almost seemed like he frowned, but his mouth didn't move. He studied the blood on Nicolas's face, then crossed his arms behind his back again.
"I thought negative reinforcement seemed like a nice way to curb that."
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Dec 28, 2008 22:14:08 GMT -5
Nicolas just laughed and shook his head, less in a negation of what Armand had said than in habit, as though he did it for the pleasure of feeling his hair brush against his ears as he did it. He was still cradling his hand, as though it still hurt, although it had already healed.
"Well, try it. Try it. I would like to see."
Nicolas thought the idea sounded quite funny, really, but had no idea just how futile it actually was; his knowledge of himself was too minimal. The fact was, for negative reinforcement to work on Nicolas, he would have to recognize something bad had happened the last time he tried it. It wasn't that he would forget, simply that the information would be filed away to some compartment unable to be reached the next time he automatically reached out to caress Armand's hair.
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Post by Armand on Dec 28, 2008 22:45:01 GMT -5
Armand shrugged, one hand spreading in a we'll see sort of gesture. His gaze as he regarded Nicolas was level, considering to himself things he wasn't sharing aloud. But he seemed to come to a conclusion as he stood there which led him to walk past Nicolas and sit on a bench nearer to the fire, the light flickering on the rings on his hands, gleaming in his hair, making the shadows shift on his face as if his expression were actually changing instead of remaining blank. Head tilted toward Nicolas, back straight, he spread a hand towards another chair like a parody of a gentleman, but truthfully he didn't care whether Nicolas sat like a decent vampire or wanted to remain kneeling in the dust. Resigned to this, his apparent fate- Armand didn't even regret not scattering the ashes the first time around. He'd liked Nicolas once and he was, at the least, never boring. Scolding him never did any good.
"What was it you wanted to tell me?"
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