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Nicolas lies motionless on a bed inside the tower, in the same room Lestat was reborn in the blood.
His arms are folded in a corpse-like pose. His glowing red eyes are wide open, gaze fixed on the ceiling, pupils dilated. He’s been like this for two days and two nights, showing no sign of wanting to speak or move. Lestat had to carry him down the stairs and place him in a sarcophagus so he wouldn’t be burnt by the sun, then lay him back on the bed the next evening. A never-ending cycle.
Now he sits beside Nicolas, cheeks streaked in pink tears. He squeezes his hand, whispers sweet words in hopes of waking him from the slumber that began just after his turning. His inner left wrist is purple and dotted by tiny punctures; he tirelessly tried to feed him his blood, but Nicolas’s body didn’t adapt: the blood enters in rivulets and his fangs come out, yet he shows signs of suffocation once the liquid starts flowing inside his mouth. Lestat patiently rolls him on his side and pats him in the back to help him spit the blood, like a newborn.
-Nicki, my love. If you’re listening, give me a nod. I’m begging you. You don’t have to speak, just move your fingers.-
Nicolas would really like to meet Lestat’s request; he’d like to nestle against his chest and stay in that position for hours, but he can’t control his body. He’s stuck in an ink puddle, the viscous liquid seals his vocal chords.
He has no control over his body. He’s a corpse.
Not even Gabriella managed to wake him up through their telepathic connection; his mind is a blank canvas. There’s nothing to hold on to.
-Oh, Nicki…- Lestat wipes away his tears, then he places a hand on Nicolas’s cold cheek, so wan it looks like glazed porcelain. -Come back to me, please. I love you. I love you. If you’re still angry because of my disappearance, please forgive me.-
Nicolas’s heart starts beating unevenly, moved and upset at the same time, because he can’t give him an answer. However, he manages to contract his fingers clenched in Lestat’s hand, to slowly unseal his lips. He tries to lift an arm, but the gesture requires too much effort.
Lestat’s eyes widen, and he hints at a smile. He kisses his bloodless lips, and he whispers words of encouragement. How patient he is! Nicolas doesn’t deserve such pure love and devotion.
Gabriella once told him, as a joke, that Lestat is as loyal as a dog in regard to loving somebody, and he couldn’t agree more. He’d like to tell Lestat about the exchange he had with his mother to make him laugh, but he emits only a suffocated groan. This seems to be enough for the other vampire, who gives him another kiss of approval.
-Are you hungry? Here, let’s try again.- Nicolas lets Lestat guide him towards a self-inflicted wound on his wrist, a gentle palm on his nape. His hand keeps supporting him while he glues his lips on the freshly opened cut and starts sucking the scarlet nectar, flowing so copiously it stains the bed sheets. He takes a sip, tries to spit the blood out of his mouth again, but then he finally swallows some more.
Lestat is radiant, as if he received some great news.
Instead, he’s stuck in the tower with Nicolas, playing nursemaid.
Lestat has left the Thêatre des Vampires because of Nicolas.
He spewed the vilest insults at him and commanded him to get lost, perhaps because he couldn’t stand his presence anymore. In his confused state, he had been firmly convinced that Lestat was entirely to blame for his sickness, even though he had constantly looked after him, and it was Nicolas himself who had forced Lestat to turn him into a vampire.
He can’t tell how much time has passed since he last saw him, but he longs for him now more than ever.
Armand, that vile demon disguised as a young cherub, is with him. He knows he’s gone completely insane at this point.
The vampire had come to reattach his hands and offer him a human to drink from; he hadn’t allowed him to eat for five days straight, and Nicolas didn’t know what was real anymore. He opens and closes his hands, an absent-minded look on his face while he examines the ugly scars circling his wrists: he’ll remember the pain of his phantom appendages, of not being able to play his violin forever.
He drains the man in a messy fit of hunger, then he stands still at the centre of the room, on his knees. The skin of his throat is drenched in blood, but he doesn’t know how to clean himself up; his body and his mind have unlearnt how to do daily activities.
Armand sighs and makes him sit on the bed, making himself comfortable next to him. A handkerchief soaked in water and a hair ribbon are in his hands. He’s never fed him his blood, not even when Nicolas couldn’t make his fangs come out.
-I’m coming. I just need to grab a handkerchief.-
True to his words, Lestat comes back in the blink of an eye with a wet cloth and lowers Nicolas back onto the mattress. He sits beside him, holding his head to the side to clean the blood that's smudged on his chin and nose.
He isn't self-sufficient, he makes a mess out of everything. He lacks the refined grace of a vampire, he's clumsy.
-There you go. Good as new. - He wants to tell Lestat that he loves him, that he doesn't want to be a burden for an untamable spirit like him, but the words won't come out
The vampire eases his mouth open to examine his canines. With a gentle push of his thumb, he applies upward pressure, then tenderly massages Nicolas’s gums.
-Nicki, these should stay out only for feeding, or you'll risk cutting your lower lip. Can you manage it?- Nicolas answers by running his tongue over his teeth. He focuses on the pressure Lestat is applying and strains to retract his fangs, but the process is slow and draining.
He should be a natural considering his new nature, but nothing about vampirism is natural for him.
-C’mon, a few inches more and you’re done- Lestat encourages him, keeping on massaging his chums, -You’re doing very well.-
After a few tries, he finally retracts his fangs, and Lestat kisses his knuckles. He remains silent for a few minutes, then leans his back against the headboard and moves Nicolas as well, so that Nicolas's head is in his lap and he can stroke his hair. Nicolas closes his eyes, breaths slowly. The viscous liquid still holds him captive, but now he can make tiny movements.
-I’m not slashing my veins open for someone who isn’t my companion- Armand says in a tired voice, washing him from the blood in a meticulous way. -Everyone labels me as their leader, but there’s nothing that I would like more than to leave this place. Even your Lestat thinks I’m a nanny. -
His body doesn’t react, but his heart quivers when Armand mentions Lestat. His brain doesn’t recall his face, but his spirit does. He feels like there’s an invisible string at the centre of his chest that pulls him painfully towards the blonde vampire, whenever he may be.
-Now you have to do something for me, Nicki. Sit here, I want to fix your hair. Are you okay with this?-
Nicolas nods, and as if animated by an external force, he slowly sits up, though in the first few moments, Lestat holds him upright with an arm around his waist. He makes sure he's in a comfortable position and stays still, then unties the green ribbon holding his hair back and lets it fall free, brushing against his shoulders. He runs his fingers through the brown strands, careful not to pull when he hits a knot, and proceeds to comb through them one by one with an open palm.
-I don't have a comb, but I don't think we'll need one. Your hair has always been fine and wavy. It only takes a little to revitalize it. -
Nicolas lets him tidy his messy mane, his chin tilted slightly down to make the work easier for Lestat. He lets out soft sighs as his fingertips pass over his hairline. He had always enjoyed having his hair combed; it was such a simple yet relaxing action.
Lestat seems to intercept his thoughts and chuckles. -I’ve just remembered that time we were at your house, we were in the exact same position we are now. You were panicking because your father almost caught us, and you fell out of bed!-
Yes, I remember! Nicolas wants to shout. I’ve always had so much fun with you! He wished to join in the laughter, but his jaw felt almost paralyzed. Nothing could cheer him up or make him feel better. He continued to let himself be combed like a doll, keeping his gaze down and his hands flat on the sheet.
Lestat uses both hands to gather his hair into a low ponytail, then ties it with a blue ribbon. He turns Nicolas by the shoulders, admiring the result. It's as if Nicolas were an inanimate object, a soulless bust. He caresses Nicolas’s slight dimples with his thumbs, satisfied with his work. He studies every inch of his face, as if taking measurements for a mask.
-Now you're clean and well-combed, just as always. I have to say, I'm pretty good at styling hair! Spending so much time with a mother helps you develop an eye for beauty. Are the clothes to your liking?- he asks, even though he knows he won't get a response. Nothing stops him from always being an optimist.
Nicolas curls the fingers of his right hand to try to make him understand that Gabriella had chosen clothes he liked. He hopes Lestat will understand. He loves the other vampire greatly, but he is still grateful for Gabriella's presence, who had always treated him with great care.
Lestat has the tenderness of a lover, but Gabriella, whether she wanted it or not, has that of a mother. As a human, she had always been understanding toward him; as a vampire, she comforts him with small caresses and Italian melodies whispered in his ear while she undresses, washes, and redresses him.
At Lestat's umpteenth touch, this time a kiss as light as a butterfly's wings on his neck, the pain, anger, and envy he felt during his absence hit Nicolas like a rogue wave, and his head began to spin.
Why has he abandoned him? He doesn’t remember: perhaps he hurt him, and he left him here as a punishment. Wasn't it just a little while ago that she thought it was all his fault, though?
He recalls the kindness with which he always treated him, the devotion he showed shortly after transforming him into a vampire. How he washed him, how he combed his hair. He was so different from Armand, so gentle. Every single gesture was full of love, aimed at Nicolas' well-being. Armand, on the other hand, performs every task with little care, with an almost aggressive touch.
He pulls his hair too hard while trying to remove a hair knot, but pretends like it's nothing. At this point, he's even afraid to think, knowing how easily Armand can pick up on other people's thoughts. He doesn't want to bring out the monster hiding inside that eternally young man’s body; every time Nicolas irritates him, he makes him pay for it.
-I don't know what to do with you anymore, Nicolas- Armand murmurs, lifting one of Nicolas’s hands to observe the scars on his wrists. He strokes them almost thoughtfully, as if it wasn’t him who was responsible for such brutality.
-You have a place to stay, friends you can count on. And what do you do? You run out into the streets and try to massacre poor, innocent Parisians, you curse us all, you try to tear out your hair and clothes, to bash your head against the wall to see how much blood comes out. You refuse to write new plays. You, our artist, the owner of this wonderful theater, refuse to compose new creations for your brothers and sisters. -
Nicolas tries to pull away from the unwelcome touch, but Armand grabs his wrist and forces him to stay still. He sighs, and with his free hand, he starts stroking his hair again. A flash of Gabriella's face comes to him, but Armand tightens his grip on his wrist, on bones still mending by themselves, and the vision disappears as quickly as it came.
Their happiness was stolen forever: Lestat had become a monster, and Nicolas had foolishly forced him to turn him into a vampire too, perhaps hoping to no longer feel despair, or maybe to feel like his equal. Lestat, too weak to refuse him, had agreed to make him immortal, a bloodsucker with immense powers. But neither of them took into account the fragility of Nicolas's mind, and so he became immortal, but reassembled in a completely wrong way.
He didn't transform into a god like the two Lioncourts. He turned into a lump of dead flesh, falling into a comatose state that doesn't even respond to the call of blood.
He hates Lestat for being perfect even in death. He hates Gabriella for being free.
He hates himself for having believed he could escape evil.
He finds this thought unbearable, and hot scarlet tears stain his cheeks. They soak the white linen shirt, settle on his glass-like nails, and irrigate with suffering both his and Lestat's souls, who cannot bear the sight of Nicolas reduced to this state.
-No, no. No, Nicki, don’t cry- Lestat pleads with a trembling voice, holding him tightly against his chest and cradling him in his arms. -You are my sun, my boy of infinite beauty and sensibility. Everything is going to be alright. -
In spite of his reassurance, Nicolas can’t stop crying. His body keeps shaking, his sobbing resembles the lament of a dying horse. The viscous liquid has caged him again; it’s drowning him. He can’t feel his limbs.
Lestat, kneeling on the mattress, strokes his head while rocking him like a newborn child. -Nicki, my love. Why are you crying in such a desperate way? Tell me, please. Nicki, speak to me!-
He can only manage a choked sob and put all his weight on the vampire's chest, but this seems to be enough: Lestat understands.
Lestat stays until sunrise to hug him, to give him small, light kisses, to try and feed him again.
-I can call her if you want. Gabriella, I mean.- Armand makes the offer in a shy, almost seductive tone, a complete change from the way he sounded earlier. -I can tell her you wish to be taken away from this place, and she will report the request to your maker. But you know, I’m not sure she’ll tell him. I heard her the day you and Lestat fought, that bitch prayed for you to leave with us. -
Nicolas squeezes his eyes shut, hoping Armand will cease tormenting him and disappear. He’s sure he can't be anywhere but in hell right now, the suffering is too much. And Armand is the devil in charge of tormenting him with his forked tongue, with his unpredictable escalations of violence.
-No.- It's the only thing he manages to whisper before his throat closes up and his vocal cords turn to stone. Armand chuckles, and his feline laugh makes the hairs on his arms stand up.
-Why would I lie to you? I don’t care about Gabriella, fledgling. I can get in touch with Lestat, if you wish. I’m an ancient vampire, it would be as easy for me as piercing an artery on the first try.
No, no! Nicolas feels his chest tighten, his breath coming in short gasps. He doesn't want Lestat to see him like this!
Armand lays it on thick, speaking in a mellifluous tone as he continues to stroke his head like a caring parent. -Yes, I could. Lestat would come for you in a flash, on his white horse with that beautiful red cape he always wears. Just like the knights from those medieval novels you had at home, you would be the main character. A prince lost in the woods, looking for his savior. -
I don’t exist in virtue of Lestat, Nicolas thinks, annoyed by the insinuation. I am me, and he is him.
-You're right, forgive me- Armand says, unfazed, as he playfully undoes the locks of Nicolas’s hair he had just fixed and gathers them back into a low ponytail. -You hate him now. Maybe you'd prefer to hurt him with your claws, or you still love him too much to disfigure his handsome face?-
Stop! Nicolas screams in his head. He knows Armand will hear him; he always does. Sometimes I don't even know my own name. Stop confusing me! I don't want to write anymore, I don't want to play music anymore!
Armand changes position to kneel in front of him. The burning embers that are his irises gleam maliciously in the candlelight. -Oh, poor Nicolas. Your head hurts, doesn't it? We'll go out soon, you'll see, you'll feel better. You have to try to find your artistic spark again; otherwise, what will you do here at the theater with us? Lestat left you with the others not only because you wanted him to, but mostly because he didn't know how to handle you. -
He rests a cheek on Nicolas’s knees, as if to show he's a harmless being. But Nicolas watches the blood-stained handkerchief out of the corner of his eye and remembers the pain in his hands. The blood, the screams. -I'm sorry to have to tell you, but I'm telling the truth.-
In Nicolas's eyes, Armand is such a strange creature. He's sure a kind of bond has formed between them because of the time they've spent together and Armand's teachings on vampirism. And yet, there are moments when he just can't stand Nicolas. He's so jealous of not being the center of Lestat's attention that he desperately wishes Nicolas would die so he could take his place.
His temples are pounding, his vision is blurred. He wants to scream until his lungs burst, to smash his head against the wall, but all he has the strength for is to cry in silence.
-Nicki, don't cry. - Armand calls him by Lestat's nickname. He can't stand it. He can't stand it!
Swollen with rage, he slaps the vampire. But before he can even think about Armand's reaction, the vampire surprises him. He touches his slapped cheek, then places a hand on Nicolas's own, which is stained with tears of blood. A sad smile frames his lips.
-You're even more beautiful when you're drowning in pain. Lestat must have felt a lot of sadness letting you go. Everyone who ever laid eyes on me has wanted me, but he's the only one who resists me. Is your music some kind of spell that holds him captive? Is that why you didn't want to teach me to play the violin? Because of jealousy?-
He decides not to take the bait. Armand doesn't have the courage to kill him with his own hands because he made a promise to Lestat, so he's pushing for Nicolas to get rid of himself. That's why he tortures him, acting first as a mentor and then as a jailer. He wants to drive him so mad that he'll kill himself.
As the sky lightens, Lestat picks him up and carries him to the room containing the huge, ancient coffins where they can rest. Nicolas is afraid of being shut inside it alone; his chest tightens at the mere thought of being confined within four marble walls like the dead he saw as a boy. He tries to lift an arm to signal Lestat not to leave him there, but this time, the vampire ignores his gesture and places him inside the cold, dusty coffin.
He groans, desperate to be understood. Don't close the lid, please! he screams inside his own head.
-Sleep, now. The sun is deadly to us, and if something were to happen to you... oh Nicki, I could never forgive myself!- Lestat exclaims, leaning with his arms on the edge of the open coffin, his preternatural eyes fixed on Nicolas in terror. -If you die, I die too. I have to protect you, I must take care of you. If I lose you, I lose my anchor to humanity.-
So you forbid me to leave, to expose myself to the sun, Wolfkiller? Nicolas thinks as he weakly pounds against the marble. You only want me because you see me as an effigy to pray to for salvation? Am I a lucky charm to keep close for good luck, or your beloved musician? We are lost, I tell you, there is nothing we can do now to get into heaven! You can keep me locked up with you and your mother in this tower for eternity, but it won't change anything.
Lestat bends down to give him one last kiss, and despite his anger, Nicolas gives in to the touch.
-See you tomorrow.-
Lestat closes the lid, and he's engulfed by darkness, as if the black sludge in his brain wants to trap him physically as well.
He doesn't have time to think or panic, because his eyelids close on their own and he falls into a deep sleep.
-Come with me, let's get some fresh air.- Armand kisses him on the mouth, as he sometimes does when he's desperate to pry out his secrets. He wants to understand why Lestat has become so attached to him, to the point of running away from home.
But Nicolas doesn't know how he won him over; his lips don't conceal an unspeakable secret.
His lips are not those of a god; he was just a boy, despised by his family for being too sensitive, a musician who fell from grace. His skin doesn't exude nectar, only black ink, like his soul.
-Come, Eleni is waiting for us outside. Will you promise me you won't play the violin all day?-
He nods. He accepts the hand Armand offers him and lets himself be kissed on the cheek, clenching his free hand into a fist, wishing he could slap that cherub again. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches for the first and last time the man he drained, now stiffened by Sister Death in the corner of the room.
He has just decided that he will give Armand the satisfaction of seeing him dead, but he will be the one to dictate the terms.
The fire of pyre is blinding, the air electric with vampiric, feverish songs and dances. Nicolas slowly approaches the controlled fire, his eyes closed and swaying like a drunk. He welcomes the music, lets it enter his bones, and empties his mind.
He's about to let himself be burned alive, but he's not afraid. For the first time, he feels determination, an inner peace warming his undead heart. The nightmare his life has been is about to end forever.
Now he feels the warmth of the flames tickle his skin, but he keeps walking until he's close enough to the fire. He stands there and takes a deep breath that he knows he doesn't need, and lets go of the good memories.
They all lead back to music and Lestat. To his scent, to his laughter.
His joyful memories are all tied to Lestat. He was the only person who ever made him truly happy, and he starts to cry once he's overwhelmed by that realization.
He wipes away the tears and moves a hand toward the fire, when he smells the same familiar scent that had just come to his mind.
He freezes. He must be imagining it; it has to be. There's no way it could be real.
-Nicki! Nicki!-
Nicolas withdraws his hand, a sob forced from his throat. Why did the hallucinations have to start just a few minutes before he died? They're an unnecessary distraction, they force him to hesitate.
-Nicki, Nicki!- The voice keeps calling to him, getting closer and closer. He tries to ignore it, but before he can throw himself into the flames, a desperate scream shatters his eardrums, and he's bowled over by a solid body. He falls onto the grass and realizes that the solid body is another vampire with hair so golden it looks like a miniature sun.
His heart threatens to jump out of his chest. It can’t be…
The coven doesn’t dare move. They stand still, eyes open wide. They’re too stunned to speak.
Nicolas's eyes lock onto the culprit of his fall, and he shouts back in surprise.
Lestat is there, in the flash, and his cheeks are stained in red tears, fangs down because of anxiety.
-What were you doing?- the vampire shouts, shaking him by the shoulders. -Why?-
-Dying.- Nicolas's curt retort makes Lestat crush him against his chest, the Wolkiller coat tickling his nose.
-If you were that sick, why didn't you write a letter? Why didn't you have someone from the Coven reach out? I left only because that's what you wanted, but if I'd known you needed me... oh, Nicki. -
Nicolas melts into the embrace as soon as he realizes he's not dreaming, that his Lestat is really there. He would never leave again if Nicolas asked him not to. That’s all it would take to win him back.
But how can he ask him to, in his state? That would be so selfish, so thoughtless of Lestat's own needs. He can't bear to be a burden, to force Lestat to stay with him because he's a danger to himself and those around him. He loves him too much to condemn him to an unlife.
-I know what's on your mind. You pretend to be cynical, but you've always been too gentle for this world. You aren't a burden, and we can count on Gabriella as well. Together, we'll find a way to help you. We have an eternity to find a cure, a way to heal you! And even if she goes her own way, I'll be here. I was wrong to leave you with Armand; I should have known what would happen. -
No one from the Coven pleads with Nicolas to remain. Only Eleni has tears in her eyes, she seems relieved. Armand is frozen in place, his eyes a fiery red. He's livid with fury.
-You don't need to answer. Just take my hand, and we’ll leave. -
-To where?-
-To the New world, to Italy, to the North Pole. I don’t care where we’re supposed to go, but you can’t stay here any longer. - There’s an underlying threat in those words, but the vampires do not move. They’re letting them leave without putting up a fight. They all have a sort of veneration for Lestat, after all, it was he who gave them a new life.
Nicolas cups the vampire’s cheeks, as if to make sure he can't slip away. His wild, red eyes bore into Lestat’s, violet with a tinge of green on the edges.
His best friend. His first love. His companion in immortality. If it were possible, his husband. He’s here with him once again, willing to restore their relationship.
He can’t lose him again. Maybe his return is the proof of a tangible redemption.
So Nicolas accepts Lestat’s hand and agrees to go with him.
They turn their backs on the pyre and the Coven, and leave without looking back once, the light of the moon shining in the night sky as their guide.
Their journey starts now, only God knows how far the road will take them.
And Paris with its cemeteries, its ancient vampires and its decadent art, be damned.