[ Lestat can't think to see in Armand's mind right now so that he can find the true meaning of his pain and his tears - why would he when the assault of a limb being torn away makes perfect sense alone, even if that limb was given to him by the illusion of this house? He remembers how real the ears and tail of his costume had been, how they hadn't given to any of his pulling or his searching fingers looking for a seam, a fastening. It was like they'd been part of him, for a time, and it's all too clear that those wings were the same for Armand. To have them torn away like that, to be held down and have something ripped away.... Understandably, Lestat doesn't want to even think of it, but the thought alone is enough to have him furious that this place would abuse one of his closest like this.
A thought lingers around the rage: his ears had disappeared when they'd left the building, and perhaps if he got Armand up to the top floor and out, then perhaps he'd feel some relief, the loss softened by the strange reset of being away from this cursed house... but in this state, as Armand shudders and cries and clings to him like a child to it's mother, Lestat can't help but think he might not make it that far.
He knows what he has to do. Oh, it would be all too easy to refuse him now like Armand had refused him, blackened and burnt as he had been... but Lestat has never been able to hold a grudge like Armand can. And the thought of leaving him here in this state knocks him sick.
But when he'd been with Louis, when he'd tried to fix the stab wound near his heart, he'd watched himself how slowly the skin had knitted back together. It hadn't worked like it normally does - an obvious product of their weakened abilities here - so that Lestat knows there's little to no point emptying a vein onto these twin wounds on his back and hoping it will work fast enough that Armand won't bleed out in his arms.
There's only one thing for it.
He lifts his hand, pressing it to Armand's face, his wrist to his mouth. His mind is racing, images flashing behind his eyes - Akasha's mouth, Claudia's mouth, Louis' mouth, his blood pouring down his chest, watching it spread in a halo around him as he lay on the carpet, the feeling of being drained entirely - but he pushes it down and simply says: ]
no subject
A thought lingers around the rage: his ears had disappeared when they'd left the building, and perhaps if he got Armand up to the top floor and out, then perhaps he'd feel some relief, the loss softened by the strange reset of being away from this cursed house... but in this state, as Armand shudders and cries and clings to him like a child to it's mother, Lestat can't help but think he might not make it that far.
He knows what he has to do. Oh, it would be all too easy to refuse him now like Armand had refused him, blackened and burnt as he had been... but Lestat has never been able to hold a grudge like Armand can. And the thought of leaving him here in this state knocks him sick.
But when he'd been with Louis, when he'd tried to fix the stab wound near his heart, he'd watched himself how slowly the skin had knitted back together. It hadn't worked like it normally does - an obvious product of their weakened abilities here - so that Lestat knows there's little to no point emptying a vein onto these twin wounds on his back and hoping it will work fast enough that Armand won't bleed out in his arms.
There's only one thing for it.
He lifts his hand, pressing it to Armand's face, his wrist to his mouth. His mind is racing, images flashing behind his eyes - Akasha's mouth, Claudia's mouth, Louis' mouth, his blood pouring down his chest, watching it spread in a halo around him as he lay on the carpet, the feeling of being drained entirely - but he pushes it down and simply says: ]
Drink.