Home / Fan Fiction / V(cough) C(cough) fic / The Chosen of God Part 5

DISCLAIMER: The following stories are all non-profit, amateur efforts not intended to infringe on the rights of Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffen, Warner Brothers, Geffen Pictures, Knopf, Randomhouse, the city of New Orleans, the U.S. Constitution, any copyright holders that I might not have thought of or even a certain author who shall remain nameless but who has a set of initials which are, coincidentally enough, just one letter off from spelling "B.S."

Part Five
by: The Brat Queen

Winner: Best Lestat '98-'99!

Characters: Lestat, Armand
Spoilers: Up to TotBT
Description: In response to Jester of God, Lestat tells his life story.

Rated R for upsetting adult content

Warning: CoG contains triggering elements. If you know what "triggering" means you may wish to not read this. If you don't then just be warned that it and Jester of God are very similar.

It is dark and I am cold.

This was not an uncommon occurrence in a French mountain town like ours.

The time is night and otherwise it is unimportant.

I'm having a fight.

"I'm tired," I say, my voice petulant. I look up at my companion, the one who has shared my bed for so long.

Understand that this is not a transcript, but rather a translation. Many nights not unlike this one, brought into one single memory for the purposes of written clarity.

"Come now," he says, sitting beside me on the bed. His hand trails down my back. My stomach feels ill. "Surely not as bad as that?"

I keep to my position. I do not move away for that would necessitate his coming after me. I would rather lie still and let us remain where we are. "Maybe yes," I say, wanting to test the waters now. I glare up at him. "Or is that not my right to say?"

"Lestat," he says it as a sigh and I can hear the tone in his voice. It is faint, but there. That harsh tone he takes when he is violent. I do not often hear it in these moments, though, and I think he realizes this. He tries to control himself. Tries to prove to me that he is not always so bestial. "Of course it can be whatever you want, Lestat. You have only to say. You know that."

I sigh now. He's smiling at me as he is talking, making it sound as though we are the grandest of friends.

Understand that this is not the beginning of our relationship. Not by a long shot. It has been going on for years now. I have gone beyond fumbling and wondering what it all is and have moved on into understanding. Understanding both of what sex and love is - or so I think - and understanding of his situation as well as mine. He is caught. By the nature of our secrecy he must now try to appease me. Spoiled as I am, I am learning to play mercilessly upon this.

He is always so pathetically glad when I return the attention and affection that he wants from me.

To smooth the waters I turn around. I'm lying on my back now, propped up on my elbows. I look out at him from under my hair which has fallen over my eyes just a bit. I know that he is watching me. The view, for him, is not that bad. "And what then?" I ask. "What will come of this? Won't it be just the same as before? I'm not sure I see the point of all this."

I see it in his eyes. He's hurt. And confused. "But… we will be together, Lestat." He smiles at me. This time it is more genuine. There is true pleasure there, true affection. "As you and I alone can be."

Ah. Yes. There is that.

He reaches out to me and I let him. I first allow myself to sit still for the touch - he merely brushes his hand against my cheek - and then in truth I enjoy it. It is affection. It is a moment of peace and caring and love. Which is something, as you know, I did not see often inside my father's house.

"You do…" and here he is careful. He knows better than to word this directly. Circumspection always, even in this. Especially in this. He lets his expression say it then, asking me to say that I do enjoy this, that I do not hate him as much as all that, to reassure him that I am merely having a teenager's flighty mood and will soon go back to being the partner in his bed that he wants so much.

"Of course I do," I say. The words are snappish, because I want to know I can make him flinch, but they are honest. "You know that." And then, because a small demon possesses my lips, I add "It's not as though I have a choice."

"Lestat!" he is standing now, so much taller over me, his hand raised as though to strike. I meet his gaze head on. He knows I do not fear this. Not after so long. Beatings are the least of my worries. In fact they clear the air.

And, perhaps, if he hits me now it will be the final truth. Admission from us both that he is too violent for this. That his sweet nighttime words are all a lie.

"Why do you do this?" he says, sinking down to his knees and kneeling beside the bed. He looks so much older, now. I see in him the elder man he is becoming, rather than the youthful man he once was. He holds his hands out as though to take mine in them. "Lestat, why? Please."

Pathetic. In every sense for I do pity him. I take mercy upon him then, turning onto my side and running my fingers through his hair. He sags in relief. "Hush," I say. "It's alright. Nothing's wrong."

"Good," he whispers. He looks up at me. He become fierce, suddenly, grasping my hand in a viselike grip. "I cannot stand your pain. You know that, yes?"

"Yes," I say, kissing him on the top of his head dismissing, with that gesture, all of the times he has beaten me into scarring. "I know. Hush. I don't want to talk about this anymore. It makes me unhappy."

My immature manipulations have worked. He's quick to obey. He's defensive of me now. In his mind he has now become the one man who protects me from the world, rather than one of the most painful things in it. He pulls me into his arms, making our embrace more intimate. I meet him touch for touch, forgetting all of the unpleasantness. For the moment it is as we pretend it to be - two caring lovers together in the darkness.

I can enjoy it, for that.

L.