Lived long enough to become the villain
"You know how he gets on these tears. Vanishing without a word, leaving us all guessing." David pointed out, hand firm yet gentle on Marius’ shoulder as he guided the elder vampire to the door. His polite smile softened with sympathetic understanding as he pulled it open to see the Roman off. "As soon as he sends any word to me I will let you know first thing, hm? In the meantime, take care of yourself and do try not to fret so."
Once they had parted, when Marius took to Flight to make his departure back home, David closed the door. Twisted the lock. And that polite demeanour dropped with an irked sigh as the Englishman’s mouth twisted down in the corner. Always these questions.
Where is Lestat? Did he vanish? The Sacred Core inside him and shouldn’t someone know where he’d gone?
David made his way into the library. Fingers tugged at a specific book, and he heard the mechanism giving way that let it swing open. Into that passage of cool, damp stone he went. Down in the darkness — ah, some of these candles really did need to be replaced, didn’t they? — to where the barest of flickering light was visible.
The Englishman came to stand near a figure chained to the wall. Sagging in those irons, tempered with care. (Because David had charmed Fareed, after all, just like all the rest. And when he requested a set of irons that might be strong enough to hold even the most powerful Ancient in place, all it had taken on his part was a bit of an affected fluster and mumble about the bedroom. No further questions asked.) His hand reached out, fingers sliding into the curtain of tangled blond hair that hung in front of that limply hanging face.
"Marius came looking for you again tonight. You aren’t sending messages behind my back, are you?" He asked in a cold voice, the lilting music of his accent ringing around the four walls too thick for anyone to catch even an inkling of the presence kept entrapped down here. "Of course you’re not. How silly of me. You’re practically too starved even for words, aren’t you? Come on then. Talk to me."
Lestat’s head twitched. Dry lips, wrinkled into themselves from such a lengthy period of starvation, tried and failed to shape words. The attempt caused David to cluck his tongue, falsely endeared. “Aw. You poor, wretched creature. I ought to take pity on you and give you a taste of this blood of yours, shouldn’t I? Then again, as I observed during that time when you were upon the floor, you were always so much more tolerable when quiet.”
