( Louis looks at Lestat curiously, head tipped to the side, wearing that focused expression that makes it look as if he's trying to read Lestat's thoughts like a book. He doesn't understand Lestat's feelings for Armand (or Armand's for Lestat, for that matter) any better now than he did when he first read Lestat's novel. He knows that Lestat sees some sort of kindred spirit in Armand, in spite of all the torment that Armand had ever wrought on him; he knows that Armand loves Lestat the way a knife loves a wound. 

But he doesn't understand it any more than he understood Claudia's secret love and loathing for Lestat, and he feels just as lost when he thinks of her sharp little blade plunging into Lestat's heart as he does when he imagines Armand shoving Lestat from the tower to shatter and bleed on the cold stones below. And the truth of it is, though he'd loved Claudia in a way that he'd loved no other being that had ever lived, he had never truly forgiven even her for what she'd done; the gulf between them remained until the bitter end. Is it any wonder, then, that he still feels such trepidation toward Armand?

Louis lets out a sigh. )

I know. I've known for a while now. I can tell just by the way he speaks of his fledgling. He's lonely, and he's in pain, and this time he isn't to blame for it.

( Louis hadn't spared a shred of pity for Armand when they'd parted all those decades ago, but now... )

I feel for him.