Chapter Text
A deafening crash shattered the dance. The orchestra stopped. The voices stopped.
A great wind swirled through the ballroom, rocking the chandeliers on their chains, and snow descended in a soft silent avalanche of flakes.
The crowd fell back away from the hearth on the far-left wall. Indeed the blood drinkers shrank into the corners. There – by the great fireplace on the left side of the ballroom – stood Rhoshamandes.
He stared at the bloodstained brown robe that Alessandra had given him, the one that belonged to his beloved acolyte Benedict. His eyes roamed over the tattered piece of clothing as if he was trying to read a very difficult text from it.
“He wanted it, my lord,” Alessandra said. “He gave his blood to the young, as the old ones did in our first times together. It was his choice. No one harmed him.”
Rhoshamandes was yet to utter a single word. All he could hear was a strong ringing in his ears and could only pick up segments of his surroundings. The dead silence, the bloodied robes in his hands, Lestat standing near him and staring straight at him. What is Alessandra saying? How could this be? His brain was struggling to process all the information that he was perceiving. Struggling or refusing, he wasn’t sure which one.
Suddenly he heard a great roar of pain echo through the grand hall of the Château. It’s only seconds later that he realized that the deafening and gut-wrenching sound had come from his own mouth. He clutched his torso with his own hands, hugging himself as his face contorted painfully. His skin felt like it was on fire, his very soul was on fire. He felt as if his insides had been taken out of him and all that was left was a scorched wasteland, empty, desolate, bereaved.
This cannot be true! How could it be true? His beloved child had been at his side for over a millennium! He cannot be gone! It is unthinkable!
He could hear the wretches’ quiet debate “Lestat, give the word”, “Give the word, now”, the responses of “No! What has he done?”. That voice was enough to set anew the fire in his soul, this time with unabridged fury rather than grief.
“What have you done to him?” he heard himself shout, his voice still sounding foreign to him, “You with your court and your cohorts, you have hidden him! Bring him to me this instant! Bring my Benedict to me!”
He looked frantically around the great hall, trying to catch the face of each blood drinker there. Looking anxiously for something. Looking for a solution, an explanation, a flash of blondish curls and an angelic face. He peered into their minds, wanting, no… needing, to see answers. He gathered bits and pieces of imagery that floated in the minds of the present blood drinkers, putting pieces of a puzzle together that didn’t seem to quite fit. He saw the gathering of elder blood drinkers with Benedict addressing them, he saw the wretch Armand argue and spit venom at him, he saw the hordes of fledglings descend upon Benedict and then nothing, darkness.
They have taken him! Lestat has done this, he has hurt Benedict and taken him hostage! His fledgling had come here in a state of distress and had fallen victim to the hedonistic bastards of this unholy gathering! The wretch Armand offered to kill him! The so-called-Prince had allowed this monstrosity to occur and had stood and watched from his high throne, or maybe he was even the puppet-master of this morbid play. The ruler of monsters! The most wretched of them all!
“Rhosh, please, he…he is no more, Rhosh. He was in peace, he wasn’t hurt.” Alessandra pleaded with him. He hadn’t noticed when she had moved closer and clutched his arm in a gentle hold.
Rhoshamandes felt his thoughts continue as if on their own accord. They became floating black ravens that flocked and completely blocked the skyscape of his mind. They rang in all languages he had ever known, even if they were not all coherent or consistent. He heard more voices but couldn’t make sense of them anymore. Was this what madness felt like?
No! He had no time for such nonsense. Benedict needed him.
“Bring him to me!” he hissed is a low and threatening tone. He had shaken Alessandra off his arm and was now staring down the monster prince, only moments away from immolating him.
Lestat wasn’t afraid though, nor did he show any mirth about his transgression. Both reactions would’ve been something that Rhoshamandes expected as this felony was surely orchestrated by the brat. But he did not expect the empathetic and tear-filled blue eyes that stared back at him instead.
“I’m so sorry…” the blond whispered. He reached out with one arm as if to rest it on the ancient’s shoulder and was fiercely pushed away.
“LIES! It’s all lies!” Rhoshamandes shouted in return, turning away from Lestat and again frantically spinning and looking around the grand hall. He ran from side to side, pushing fledglings away, as if Benedict is hiding somewhere behind them.
The thoughts in his mind were only noise now, nothing made sense anymore. Everything was pain, erratic heartbeat and panic. His muscles reacted to a brain that he felt disconnected from. His limbs seemed these strange appendages that floated away from him, as well as from the mind he felt no longer belonged to him. Surely this must be madness, is this what blood drinkers felt before meeting the sun?
And suddenly, as if a string tried to his faculties had been pulled, and they all came together again. His limbs felt his own again and his mind was slowing down its sickening spinning motion. He had found purchase once more and felt his feet step firmly into reality as he fixed his focus on his target. His vision cleared as his eyes zeroed in on the old enemy who stood before him.
Armand was slightly crouched holding out a protective arm to shield Gabrielle, his eyes were narrowed and cold. Cold as the catacombs to which he had dragged Rhoshamandes’ children, cold as the feeling Rhoshamandes had when he discovered the devastation he had caused.
This was the problem, wasn’t it? This court accepted and elevated ones as wretched and inexcusable as this one, yet they persecuted and punished Rhoshamandes and Benedict who were peaceful for so many centuries. Why does this scum even deserve to live? Has he not been the bringer of death and destruction for the majority of his life? Why does he deserve this lavish existence now? Why would he be part of a council that would decide all things for vampire kind who had no say in it? Is Armand a representation of what this court is? Cruelty and viciousness, that’s all this is! And who better embodies it than this one? The one the hedonistic bastard prince calls his own brother in the Blood!
Rhoshamandes takes slow deliberate steps towards Armand and the latter takes a cautious step back. The ancient lifts his hand slowly to hover it near the other’s face, not close enough to touch, but close enough to be felt. How easy it would be to just rip his head right off, and he’s close and fast enough to do it before anyone would be able to stop him. He takes notice of how the younger blood drinker’s heartbeat picks up pace, how there is the slightest tremble to his outstretched arm even if his eyes remained fierce. He is afraid.
“Rhoshamandes, listen to reason, you have no enemies here.”
Rhoshamandes whipped his head to stare down the source of the voice addressing him. It was the Roman, the self-appointed Prime Minister of this charade of a court. He was cautiously getting near him, his hands raised to signal that he means no harm and wishes to appeal to his humanity. Ah but what humanity is there among murderers and kidnappers? Had this Roman not asked Lestat earlier to give the command to kill him? How dare he speak to him now, how dare he approach him? When the Roman is no less of a conspirator in this grand plot against those who chose to stand against the tyrannical rule of Lioncourt.
Ah but it’s obvious why he approaches, isn’t it? The wretch Armand is his fledgling, and he can sense the looming danger that Rhoshamandes poses. Does he feel the same that Rhoshamandes feels for Benedict? Did he turn the little witch so young so he could tie him to himself, the same way Rhoshamandes had done? Does he suffer now that he thinks his own little one is in danger, the way that Rhoshamandes suffers this very moment?
He looks around again and sees several of the blood drinkers either inch closer to him or openly stare at him. Their expressions varied from worry to pity, fear or wariness. They were approaching and the passage of time suddenly became all too real for the ancient. They were not going to deliver Benedict to him, they want to play cat and mouse first! Well, Rhoshamandes will not allow himself to be bullied any longer, especially when Benedict was in peril and had only him to rely on. They would have to return Benedict or pay the price!
With lighting speed, he lunges forward. Strong arms encircle the upper body of Armand and hands clasp together being his back in a vice grip, unbreakable. Rhoshamandes sees the Roman pounce towards him, with his fangs bared and arms grasping, but his attempts are useless as the ancient had already taken flight and exited the Château building through the open terrace.
The wretch struggled in his arms, trying to kick his legs in a feeble attempt to land a blow that would earn his freedom. Rhoshamandes was relentless, the grip he had on the younger blood drinker was absolute and no amount of struggle would make it come loose.
“Master! Lestat!” Armand screamed at the top of his lungs, the sound almost lost to the angry winds that were blowing around them. The snow had intensified and the temperatures had dropped even further. The sky was dark with a soft pink hue to it, it would continue snowing the following day.
Rhoshamandes moved one arm away from the vice grip to grab hold of Armand’s jaw as he continued to scream. The auburn haired one narrowed his eyes at him and suddenly spit in his face, in response he only received a throaty laugh. The hand that held his jaw suddenly jerked to the side, the abrupt motion breaking his neck and leaving him completely limp in the arms of his captor.
Rhoshamandes arranged the unconscious body in his arms more comfortably and spared a look back. The God forsaken court was no longer visible, but he could faintly hear that some of the blood drinkers had attempted to follow him. He recognized Gregory, Marius, Lestat and Sevraine. But they were too far away and no longer could read the thoughts of the horrid former coven master he was taking away. A few simple turns and an increase in speed was enough to get away from them and fly off into the night, undeterred, while the snow swirled in a blizzard around him.
~~~~~~~
Marius and Lestat continued their flight, while Gregory and Sevraine had opted to return to the Château, citing that it’s best to have more ancients there in case Rhoshamandes returns. But the other two remained.
It had been over 30 minutes since they last had heard Armand’s calls and over 20 minutes since they had last caught a glimpse of Rhoshamandes in flight. They flew forward, no hint or clue was there to give them a direction to follow. The only thing that stretched before them was the blackness of the sky and the white tendrils of the snowy blizzard.
“Marius, dawn approaches…we have to turn back…” Lestat whispered gently to his companion through the Mind gift, concern coating his words. He had approached him and placed a hand on the elder’s shoulder.
Marius turned his head sharply to look at the Prince, his speed never faltering. His face was deathly white and tinted blue from the biting cold, frost had accumulated on his hair and eyebrows, the blood tears he had shed had frozen on his cheeks and glistened in the moonlight. In a stark contrast to his frozen exterior, his eyes were on fire, a determination and fury blazed in them such as Lestat had never seen in his mentor.
“Never!” he roared finally in reply.
Lestat bowed his head in understanding and gradually slowed his speed. He spared one last glance at the disappearing figure of the Roman before he turned and headed back to Auvergne.
More tears stung in Marius’ eyes as he pushed forward. His strength was wavering and he could feel the approaching dawn weakening him, yet he pushed on, he would not relent, he would not back down, not this time.
The first rays of sunshine shone through the horizon and started to burn his skin. His body gave up to the physical weakness and he fell for what seemed like hours, until he crashed into the wilderness below. Shrouded by shrubbery and a thick canopy of trees and snow, he slept through the day, but the tears never stopped coming.