sage only has room for (ardency) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-04-05 05:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | !great gatsby, *narrative, armand |
narrative
Who: Armand
What: Cleaning house
Where: Gatsby
Warnings: NPC death
Armand had spent more than the last two months in West Egg, burdened with the weight of his gift's mortal preoccupation after he had first come to the house that he and Alexander shared. The boy, Daniel, he was a weakened shell of a human now, and he'd come at a time when Armand still had the habit of walking alone in the streets at night, starving himself as he occasionally did when he settled in one place for a while. Not out of any necessity - it wasn't like that. Because Armand fed on criminals and deviants when they presented themselves, with relentless apologies to the broken shell of his human companion that made a scene and caused him to dig his heels into the soft ground. Except for when he didn't. When he was too apathetic. Were they here, Lestat and the others would have forced him to hunt on the outskirts of the suburbs, next to the lake, where there was an abundance of cutthroats and drug dealers and the bad sort of men with the angle of unforgiving knives working against flesh. But left to his own devices, and with the pressure of Daniel's hands clutching tight against his wrists each night, Armand had neglected his fill. To a certain extent. He ate on the nights when he could not resist, but he didn't make a habit of hunting within the city limits - but that wasn't unreasonable. He was old enough for that sort of control. Not like Alexander, with his trail of young and female bodies that he thought Armand didn't know about. For now, he was able to keep Daniel close and to indulge in the little drink when it suited him: biting down on the tip of his own tongue so that a trickle of red warmth flooded into the boy's mouth as he angled against it, presenting him with the gift of heightened senses and the pounding blood-rush that drove him to clutch at the back of his own head and speak in twisted tongues when he began to hurt. Drinking from the soft hollow of his neck in return. Because that madness was better than the screaming, and the madness was still a gorgeous thing. The mad man. The worn threads of his clothing, the dirtiness of his hair, those things might obscure it, but only slightly. He had the tall, broad build of the modern young man, so unlike Armand's own, softer, more compact frame. His blank, slightly cynical stare and loose-limbed walk were very much a product of his time, but those eyes - they were an inhuman shade of violet, and they were dangerous. They were deadly like the flash of Alexander's inexperienced teeth or a bone-handled knife, and they had also begun to leave a trail of bodies in his wake. On the night when he couldn't stand it any longer, the cut of Armand's gaze uncovered sudden darkness in the boy's shadow, the street light blown or vandalized, and the opportunity was there. Quick and irresistible, and tragic in kind. Armand was a blur, and his human had no chance. His embrace was swift, his fangs bringing sweetness which soon seduced the writhing, the struggling in his arms. The blood was an explosion in his mouth that he was prepared for, vivid and burnished on his tongue. Armand made a soft sound against the throat of his kill. For a few moments, he was sinewy and languorous as the one who bled for him. And for even longer than he'd expected, the furious heart of his companion kept up, even outpaced him, beating hard like the wings of a struggling bird as he drew the blood. His thirst made him ache, but not half so much as his dejection, and it wasn't until the heart under his hands began to slow at last that he could bear to bring his mouth away, lowering them both to the ground. Just inside the limits of the property line, a new grave had been dug out. Daniel and the girl that he'd killed in his madness would find rest there, with their arms around one another in death. And for a night, Armand would join them. And then the very sad, very old thing would leave. He did not belong here. |