Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

men like us pretend to have heart and souls;
but underneath that, only darkness

Henrik Mikaelson had lived through more than most. Barely sixteen, he felt like he carried the weight of lifetimes, worn down by the relentless pull of time and the crushing burden of guilt. "Better to have loved and lost," Tennyson once wrote, but those words meant nothing to Henrik. What did Tennyson know of true loss? Of grief so consuming it left nothing untouched, a vast emptiness that swallowed the light from the world? How could he, or anyone, understand the suffocating guilt of being the cause of your loved ones' suffering, the very reason their world fell apart?

Love, for Henrik, wasn't a romanticized ache; it was a curse—a binding chain of regret and guilt, reminding him that those who cared for him would inevitably pay the price. Every familiar face was a reflection of the blood that stained his hands, wounds that would never heal. Tennyson could not have known what it was like to live as the catalyst of his family's suffering, to exist as a creature born to defy the laws of nature, a source of darkness in a world already filled with it.

Henrik had never experienced love as something fleeting or beautiful; for him, it was always intertwined with the curse of his very being—a being that had brought ruin to the Mikaelson family, a bloodline that had endured a thousand years and survived far greater foes. Even after centuries of surviving enemies, betrayals, and unimaginable threats, the source of their greatest suffering seemed to be Henrik himself — a child they believed to be their miracle and their legacy, unaware he would turn out to be an insurmountable challenge the family could never escape, no matter how powerful or united they had once been.

The grief Henrik bore wasn't the kind written in poetry. It was a visceral weight that crushed his bones, suffocated his spirit, and left him standing still while everything around him unraveled. No one who believed in the beauty of love and loss had ever felt the immense sorrow of being Henrik Mikaelson—someone who was never meant to exist.

Born into an ancient line of witches and the child of a werewolf and a vampire, Henrik had always been an anomaly — The only one of his kind, a Tribrid. Even as a child, he possessed unparalleled power that made him a target for the darkest forces imaginable, especially the Hollow. His existence alone drew danger like a beacon. Every time the Hollow resurfaced, it was his family who paid the ultimate price.

In his quiet moments, Henrik often tried to imagine a life where his family had been spared . But those visions always fell apart. His mind refused to entertain the possibility because his family's suffering had always been tied to him. He was the curse they could never outrun, the key to their doom. And no matter how much love they poured into him , no matter the sacrifices made, that truth remained unchanging.

It all felt inevitable.

He was inevitable.

So he could at least admit to himself that it was his guilt, and his self-hatred pushed him to the one conclusion he felt made sense—self-sacrifice. He believed his redemption could come through stopping Malivore, a monster that could only be defeated by the blood of a Tribrid. Jumping into that dark abyss seemed the only way to give meaning to his cursed existence. It wasn't heroism that guided him , no , but the desperation— His need to confirm. He needed to prove, at the very least to himself, more than anyone else, that the lives lost for him had not been in vain.

Yet, the universe had other plans. Instead of finding death and salvation, Henrik was cast into another world, far from everything he knew and the life he had tried to leave behind.

The world seemed to have shifted beneath his feet. Or at least, that's how it felt when he awoke. Which, in itself, was strange: to wake. When had he even gone to sleep? His memory was a blur, tangled in fragments of past events that refused to coalesce . But that was an entirely different matter —one he wasn't ready to face just yet.

Everything around him seemed altered, as though the very fabric of reality had stretched and reshaped itself while he lay unconscious. His body ached in ways that felt unfamiliar as if he had been fighting a battle he couldn't recall. He pushed himself up slowly, blinking against the unfamiliar light, trying to make sense of the disorientation clouding his mind.

Then it hit him, a sharp pain in his temple. His last memory rushed back: leaping into Malivore, a final, desperate act to be a martyr. He had thrown himself into the void, hoping to destroy the monstrous entity that had plagued the world, shortly after saying goodbye to Alaric Saltzman, his teacher and mentor since he was six.

Is this the afterlife, then? Henrik wondered. Had he truly defeated Malivore—the golem that had turned on its creators, the creature that sought to be revered as a "god" for ridding the world of supernatural threats to humanity?

Maybe he had succeeded? This didn't feel like the endless darkness where Malivore would imprison and isolate him. Instead, there was life here—a cacophony of sounds, human laughter, voices merging with the vibrant notes of music just around the corner. It was almost too familiar. The brass of trumpets and rhythm of jazz reminded him of New Orleans, of nights steeped in the rich tapestry of the city's sound and soul.

A wave of sorrow washed over him as he thought of his home—distant now, an unreachable dream. His heart ached at the thought of his family, his aunts and uncles. Would they grieve for him? He shook his head, the relief mingling with the familiar ache. They would have to remember him to mourn, but that was the mercy of it. Lucky for him, Malivore didn't just kill; it erased. It was a permanent death—a fate Henrik had long yearned for. Henrik understood, more than most, what it meant to stand at the edge of a grave, leaving behind nothing but the weight of loss and the hollow memories of the people he once loved.

The weight of loss had always lingered over him like a dark cloud, almost like a shadow, ever-present, suffocating. Now, as he stood in this new world filled with vibrant sounds and colors, he couldn't help but wonder if he had finally found that escape, would he be able to meet his parents—or if it was just another cruel illusion crafted by his mind in the aftermath of sacrifice.

Very slowly, with the muted rustle of garments, Henrik rose to his feet, pressing his fists against the ground for support as he groped along the grimy stone passage of the alley. His limbs ached, a dull throb pulsing in his head, resonating in his ears like a relentless drumbeat. He rubbed the backs of his arms with his hands, attempting to soothe the protesting muscles as he staggered out of the alley. But what he saw beyond its shadows made him stop dead in the tracks.

Henrik stared at the scene before him, disbelief washing over him like a cold wave. He watched, harder and harder, convinced that with enough focus, he could unravel this powerful illusion. Yet, the more he looked, the more his magic whispered the truth—this wasn't an illusion. This was reality.

The storefronts, the bustling crowds, and the rumbling old cars driving down cobblestone streets all screamed of an era long past. The men wore waistcoats, hats perched at cocky angles, while women strolled in vintage dresses, their gloves and pearls a picture of elegance. Young soldiers clustered around the street corners, laughing, cigarettes dangling from their lips. It looked like something out of a movie from the 1920s.

And there, to the right, a café bustling with life. Above the door, the sign hit him like a punch to the gut: "WHITE ONLY" and "NO COLORED ALLOWED" scrawled in big, bold letters.

"What the fuck?" Henrik's voice echoed in the narrow alley, a mix of disbelief and rage spilling out before he could stop it. No, no, no—this couldn't be real. This had to be some twisted trick of Malivore, a distorted reality meant to torment him. There was no way he was in the past. That was ridiculous. Impossible.

He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his racing heart, his mind scrambling for answers. This had to be a nightmare, a cruel, vivid dream crafted by Malivore to punish him. To throw him into a time so distant , a time where everything felt alien, forcing him to confront a world he barely understood. But this didn't feel like a dream. The air was thick with laughter, jazz music floated from open windows, and conversations buzzed around him.

Could I really be in the past?

He kept walking, the ache in his limbs growing heavier with each step. People glanced at him, strange looks that prickled the back of his neck, suspicion, and curiosity in their eyes. People eyed him with curiosity and suspicious murmurs even as if he didn't belong—and truth be told, he didn't. His clothes were out of place, a far cry from the sharp, tailored suits and flapper dresses the passersby wore with such ease. And yet, it was their world that seemed so alien to him.

His stomach growled again, the hollow ache clawing at him with a strange insistence. His throat burned with thirst, each dry swallow a reminder that something was wrong. He shouldn't be feeling any of this. If he truly had been consumed by Malivore, he was supposed to be erased—forgotten, dead, and cut off from the world of the living. Yet his body rebelled against that understanding, reminding him he was still bound to this reality in some inexplicable way.

Henrik's thoughts flickered like flames in the wind, darting between disbelief and a dangerous sliver of hope. He didn't want to give it any power, but it was too late. Just the mere idea that he might truly be alive in a world that existed before all the pain and bloodshed ignited something alive in him. Could he see his family again before everything went so horribly wrong?

The Tribrid bit the inside of his cheek, shaking his head to clear the intrusive thoughts. Hope had never brought him anything but ruin. He had learned that the hard way—time and time again. Hope had led him to believe that he could protect his family , that he could be more than a burden. And every time, it had shattered into jagged pieces, cutting him deeper than before.

But the noise, the smell of tobacco smoke, the heavy scent of alcohol wafting from the speakeasies, the laughter of men and women, everything was too full of life to be anything but real .

If this was real, if Henrik truly was in the past, then what did that mean for everything else? If there was even the remotest chance that this world was real, that he was alive, he couldn't help but wonder: what if his family was out there, too? Despite his best efforts, the gnawing curiosity only grew. Henrik scanned the streets, searching for something— anythin g—t hat might tell him where, or more crucially when he was.

It did not take long for him to find it. The evening newspaper at the little stall by the corner revealed everything he needed to know: June 30, 1913 . Okay, that's good. That meant his family was still in New Orleans, still alive, still thriving. His grandfather hadn't yet unleashed his wrath upon the New Orleans Opera House, a fate that would endanger everyone within, including Marcel. The thought filled him with a flicker of hope—fragile yet undeniable.

The Abattoir. The thought echoed in Henrik's mind like a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters. Yes, Abattoir. He needed to go there, to see it for himself, to confirm that his family was truly here, just as the newspaper had hinted. The very idea filled him with both anticipation and dread. And no, he wasn't entirely sure how he would explain his presence to his probably murder-happy family or even how he would get through the front door, but he resolved to cross that bridge when he got there.

Henrik had to trade his watch for a ride from Algiers to the French Quarter, the only thing of value he could spare. When the horse-ridden carriage clattered to a stop on a side street, Henrik had stepped out, breathless, letting his feet guide him to the one place that had once held everything—his family, his home. He doubted he'd even caught his breath until he reached the street, his heart racing as the familiar outline of the Abattoir came into view.

But once he stood behind the wrought-iron gate, the thread of hope he'd clung to disintegrated into nothingness.

The house was dark, its windows black and hollow, devoid of the life and warmth he had once known. Beyond the open gates lay the overgrown garden, the once beautiful fountain now filled with weeds, a bitter reminder of a life long gone. There was no sign of his family, no trace that anyone had ever lived there. It felt like stepping into a nightmare, one that wrapped around him and refused to let go.

A low rumble of thunder echoed above him, and the sky opened up, releasing a storm of bitter rain that pounded down on him, cold and relentless. The streetlights in the distance flickered, their bulbs hissing in the downpour before they exploded, one by one, with a terrible shriek. Shattered glass rained down on the polished cobblestones behind him, but Henrik's mind was blank, consumed by the emptiness before him. He didn't even look back as each light burst. His footsteps, heavy with despair, carried him back from the house of horror before him, his heart sinking deeper with every step as his stomach churned in his guts, a wave of nausea passing over him.

All that remained was the storm and his unstable magic that flickered dangerously, crackling in the air around him like static, threatening to spiral out of control and engulf everything in its wake. The world around him seemed to pulse with the energy he couldn't contain, as though his very presence was bending the space around him. It throbbed within him, teetering on the edge of release, as the emotions he had kept bottled up for so long clawed at his insides. The loneliness, the pain, the crushing sense of abandonment—they all surged, threatening to tear him apart.

Just then, a voice cut through the storm, low and mocking, from the shadows to his right. " Mon Dieu , and here I thought the great surge of power belonged to something... more impressive. To think it was from a boy. How deliciously reckless.

Henrik's head snapped toward the voice, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing as the stranger moved with the grace of a predator in the desolate rain—a vampire, but unlike any he had ever encountered before . The man's laughter was hollow and sharp, almost playful, as he observed Henrik for several long moments, the storm swirling around them.

The stranger stepped closer, eyes never leaving Henrik. "Tell me, petit sorcier ," he purred, his voice dripping with amusement, "What are you doing, alone in the rain, with all that magic crackling in the air around you? Are you trying to send a beacon for every supernatural creature in the vicinity?" His smile widened, flashing the faintest hint of fangs. "Ah, but of course, you wouldn't know who I am. Allow me to introduce myself." He offered a theatrical bow. "I am the one and only Lestat de Lioncourt... and I must say, I am intrigued ."

And that was how Henrik Mikaelson met his first preternatural being in the strange new world.

Chapter Text

We all got that one friend who thinks
they can outwit the gods and evade their fate

The boy was a strange one. His thoughts were even stranger. Well, Lestat couldn't read them anymore, not since the witch boy had erected a block around his mind when he realized Lestat could read his thoughts. But the vampire could sense the confusion and wariness rippling off him. And he needed answers. For example, what on earth was a "Twilight" vampire? And why was the boy wondering if Lestat was going to  sparkle  in the fucking sun, of all things?

What bizarre literalism has the young one inherited? Lestat mused silently, a trace of irritation creeping in. The idea was absurd, laughable even. But the boy—Henrik, was it? He seemed genuinely concerned, his wide eyes fixed on Lestat's own luminous gaze. Something about deep red and honey-gold eyes that changed color based on a vampire's diet, according to some fictional book his friends MG & Lizzie had been fulminating. Though, in fairness, the palpable relief that flickered across Henrik's face when Lestat did  not  burst into a shimmer of light was almost amusing. So Lestat suspected the boy hadn't liked the book very much.

Still, would you look at that—someone had gone and penned a novel, using Louis as the basis for their story? Lestat nearly laughed. Nevertheless, the witch boy's thoughts were peculiar. When the petit sorcier wasn't preoccupied with whether Lestat would sparkle, he seemed to genuinely believe that he had stepped right into a fictional world. At least, from what little Lestat had glimpsed, the boy wasn't raving mad like Louis's brother or anything. He had an immense human soul, fearless, yet half in love with despair. And his strength. Oh, his strength was so complex and obvious; it pulsed like a quiet storm beneath the surface.

He was glad he'd chosen to stay in the Quarter tonight rather than venture to the outskirts for a hunt. Yet, with the boy's magic cutting through the night air like a foghorn in a harbor, Lestat doubted he could've missed it, even from miles away. The pull was undeniable, intoxicating, gripping him from the moment he sensed it. He wondered, distantly, if Louis, his fledgling, had felt it too, all the way down on Liberty Street—the same siren call that had shaken Lestat's control from the very first second.

Would Louis feel the blood in this boy's veins calling to him as it called to Lestat? The force of it was like nothing he'd experienced in over a century. It's almost embarrassing how hard he had to fight the instinct to bare his fangs. The hunger thrummed within him, white ivory aching at the edge of his lips. He couldn't help but wonder—what kind of power could be unleashed if he tasted the boy's blood? Would he be able to harness the same magic that coursed through him, as potent as it was alluring? The thought clung to Lestat's mind, heavy and tempting.

Ah, mon cher, Lestat mused with wry amusement. What an interesting specimen he found himself.

"Would you stop staring at me like I'm the last sausage on earth or something?" the boy snapped, taking another bite of his sandwich, crumbs falling onto the plate. He was a pretty one, even in his subpar clothes (though Lestat had to admit, he was a little smitten by the boy's leather jacket). He had an old aristocratic sensuality even when the wind had whipped his wavy hair into wild tangles.

Lestat had to give him credit—there was something striking about him. If he had come before any other vampire, they wouldn't wait another second to turn him into one of them. But that temper—oh, and the magic to match it. The cut Lestat had received after being hurled into a light pole had healed, but a faint tingle of pain still lingered as a reminder of the boy's raw power.

"Christ, this is so fucking strange," Henrik mutters to himself, almost as if reading Lestat's thoughts.

Lestat, lounging lazily in his chair at the old, greasy Café du Monde — not his first choice, but the boy was hungry, and Lestat had no alternative but to take him somewhere in a show of good faith — raised an amused brow. But he couldn't agree more. The boy had taken the words right out of his mouth. There was something almost absurd about sitting here, in this dim, smoky café, sharing a table with a witch—a witch who believed he came from another universe, no less. It was the kind of tale Lestat might have laughed at on any other night. And yet, he found himself utterly captivated, unable to tear his gaze away from something that immensely powerful, dangerously powerful, was so contained and standing before him.

Henrik's eyes flickered warily every once in a while as he sipped his hot chocolate between bites, scanning his surroundings as if trying to prove, for the thousandth time, that the humans around him were truly real and not some elaborate illusion. Lestat couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at the boy's futile attempts to ground himself in this reality.

As if sensing something, the boy glanced back at Lestat. "You look nothing like any of the vampires I know," he said at last, his eyes roaming over Lestat's features. The crystalline fingernails, the color of his eyes, the flawless hair, and alabaster skin— everything that made him different from ordinary humans. "Though you do resemble a bit of the muggle theory of being unhumanly attractive. What else? Do you need sleep, or are you confined to something so mundane as a coffin like the Dracula?"

Lestat's jaw ticked. Mundane? Who did this boy think he was? Lestat was a vampire—there was nothing remotely mundane about him. And what in the devil's name was a muggle ? "Ah! Ah! Ah! That was not the agreement, mon petit sorcier . I ask the questions, and you answer them," Lestat tried not to show the irritation flashing in his luminous eyes like wavering candle flames, but the boy seemed to catch on it.

"Ah, looks like I struck a nerve," Henrik said, that irritating air of superiority creeping back into his voice. Why did this brat have to be so difficult? Engaging with him felt like, well, talking to himself. God bless Louis for keeping up with his petulant moods. "So you really do sleep in a coffin! Forget what I said about you not resembling the vampires I know. You're a walking contradiction, dude."

"Enough with the bloody coffins!" Lestat snapped, his irritation plain as he shot a contemptuous glare at Henrik. A few patrons in the café turned their heads, startled by the sharp shift in tone, but Henrik didn't flinch. Instead, he casually waved his hand, and Lestat felt a faint ripple of magic surrounding them. A thin, invisible veil settled around their table, muting their words to the outside world.

The humans nearby seemed oblivious, continuing their conversations, unaware of the subtle barrier now insulating the tension between the vampire and the witch.

"That's better, isn't it?" Henrik said coolly, clearly enjoying the upper hand. "No need for the mortals to get involved in our… little discussion." His eyes gleamed with that same infuriating superiority, leaving Lestat with the burning reminder that this boy, for all his youth and audacity, was no ordinary witch.

"For someone who just spent an hour sobbing, you sure have a flair for insolence, boy ," Lestat spat, his voice laced with menace. The sheer audacity of this lad was almost refreshing. Almost. If only it weren't aimed at him. "And no sense of self-preservation, apparently." His eyes gleamed dangerously, the faintest hint of a smile curling his lips. "Now, tell me who you are and what you are before I lose patience and drain you dry."

"Do you think I'm some regular human who quakes at the sight of undead creatures?" Henrik retorted, his tone dripping with condescension. It was the first time he had met a human being who was not spellbound by the sheer beauty of his presence. It is as liberating as it is aggravating. "I could melt your brain this very second if I wanted, so don't test me. And don't ever try to order me around. I'm a Mikaelson. We make the rules where I come from." There was a fire in his eyes as he spoke with a maniacal confidence.

"Should that mean something to me?" Lestat interjected, his voice razor-sharp, cutting through Henrik's words like a blade. There was little affectation in his tone this time—just cool, detached curiosity. Fine. Maybe Lestat shouldn't try provoking the temper of this little devil. After all, who knew what this boy was truly capable of? His magic felt raw, dangerous, and barely contained. Lestat mused if one wrong push could really melt his brain like butter over a flame. And who could say how long it would take to heal from that? Or if he could even recover at all.

"Apparently not," Henrik snapped, his words laced with bitterness. The irritation in his voice revealed just how deep Lestat had cut. Family, clearly, was a sensitive topic. "Considering you wouldn't be lurking in my family's backyard if they were truly here. You know what?" Henrik waved his hands all over the place, exasperated, letting out a heavy sigh. "This isn't getting us anywhere," he muttered with an offhand gesture, his frustration evident. "Let's just stop with the posturing and settle our curiosity with a question-for-question, okay?"

"Very well, monsieur . As you wish," Lestat replied, his tone laced with mock politeness. He could play nice. He could maintain the patience of a saint when and if he wanted to. But, mon dieu ! This boy was really testing it. "Now, tell me, what are you?" Because, for all the teenage angst and bratty defiance, the boy was utterly fascinating. The last time Lestat had been this intrigued by someone who wasn't Louis was during his encounter with Marius—a vampire two thousand years old.

"A Tribrid," Henrik replied curtly. "What about garlic, mirrors, and holy water? And don't tell me Count Dracula is a real thing in this world."

"Superstitions and old wives' tales," Lestat answered, "I love mirrors. But do expand, mon petit diable . A Tribrid of what, exactly, a witch with some cherub blood and a dash of demon's soul in you?" Henrik glared, but before he could respond, Lestat continued, "And why do you seem to be under the delusion that you're not in your own world? Hmm?"

"It is a long story," Henrik muttered, clearly not in the mood for a lengthy explanation. But Lestat was. They had plenty of time before the dawn broke, and Lestat was exhilarated to learn more.

"I have time," Lestat replied smoothly before gesturing to a passing waiter. "One more sandwich for the boy here, and could you also refill his glass, please?" His tone was so casual, causing the boy to huff, but Lestat only smiled, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"I am a Tribrid—one of a kind, even in my world," Henrik said, his eyes glowing a striking shade of ember as if to drive the point home. Lestat, however, couldn't wrap his head around it. Is it even possible to be all three? How is it possible? He heard witches lose their power when they turn into vampires, though. "And I know this isn't my world because the last thing I remember was trying to stop an immortal golem from absorbing all the supernatural beings in my world—somewhere around 2028 in Georgia because nature made it so that I am the only one who could stop him —before I somehow got teleported into this freaky funhouse mirror of a New Orleans of 1900s."

"Great, and now he's a time traveler on top of being suicidal," Lestat muttered under his breath, loud enough for Henrik to hear when he realized the meaning behind the image he saw a while ago of the boy jumping into a black pit.

"It wasn't a suicide, and I'm not lying," Henrik interposed, narrowing his eyes. It was a suicide. But whatever happened after made it possible so that the Tribrid somehow defied death or delayed the soul's termination—something the witch himself couldn't understand. "You can check my heartbeat if you want—wait." His suspicion deepened as he squinted at Lestat. "You do realize vampires can listen to heartbeats and tell if someone's lying, right?"

Lestat, in fact, did not know that. He was so accustomed to reading minds that he hadn't bothered with other senses. But, of course, there was no way he'd admit that aloud. His face resumed its usual air of confidence as he gave Henrik a cool smile, "Of course, petit diable. Though I usually prefer more direct methods of truth-finding." The boy seemed to believe him. Because who would notice heartbeats when you could go through their memories?

"Let's say you are what you claim to be," Lestat concedes, leaning back in his chair. "But how exactly do you know this isn't your world? You seemed to have that belief even before you laid eyes on me. For all you know, you might've just traveled through time."

Henrik met his gaze, his tone sharp and certain. "Because if this were my world, my family would've been in the Abattoir, ruling the French Quarter. New Orleans was the supernatural hub—crawling with vampires, witches, werewolves. By the 20s, every faction was at the peak of their power. In fact, if I remember my family's history correctly, there was an active war between the factions around this time. It should have been chaos." He paused, suspicion in his eyes. "Wait—how many of you are here, currently?"

"Two," Lestat replied

"Two factions?" Henrik asked, his brows furrowing.

Lestat chuckled darkly. " Non , mon cher —two vampires."

"That's it?!" Henrik's voice rose in disbelief.

"Oui," Lestat confirmed, his smirk widening. "Just the two of us. Bienvenue à ma tranquille New Orleans." He says, spreading his hands wide in welcome. "I can only imagine what it would be like if the French Quarter was stocked with others like us. Ah! The absolute horror." The mere thought of sharing his territory with other vampires, especially the insufferable, stupid, cynical flock of Paris Coven, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"God! Could it get any more unreal," The boy muttered to himself. His tangled hair hid his face from Lestat's view when he shook his head in distress.

"Why, how many of us were there where you come from?" Lestat asks,  his curiosity overwhelming him to scan the world in the boy's head. A mind that is surely dominated by an incalculable wealth of information and quick of tongue with an intellect devoted to swiftness. Oh, what he wouldn't give to see all that.

"A lot," Henrik says. "A whole lot. In New Orleans alone, there were Nine Witch Covens, to whom my Aunt Freya is the Co-Regent. My brother Marcel has around 150 vampires under his control, and My mother was an Alpha for at least 50 werewolves." Okay, that just raised more questions for him — A witch aunt, a vampire brother, and a werewolf mother. "I mean, there was a whole lot more before I was born... even after I was born. But there were so many wars, enemies, but that was what was left at the end of it all." The boy sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He shakes his head again, his eyes finding Lestat's once more. "Why are there only two, though? Is turning people into vampires that hard? And what about werewolves and witches?"

"We have great laws that stop us from making more of us without necessary permissions," Lestat shrugs because it is as simple as that. And with how many people end their lives to escape the loneliness, Lestat doubted anyone would want to be immortal if given the choice. "Never met a werewolf or a witch before," The Vampire mused, his tone slightly lighter, though his sharp eyes never wavered from Henrik. "Well, at least not a witch as powerful as you. Tossing me into a light pole? That's something only older vampires are usually capable of."

He ran a hand through his tousled hair. "And werewolves. I believe people burned a good number of them in the past, the same as the witches. Regular menace, or so they say. They're probably in hiding now—or maybe they've just ceased to exist entirely. Who knows? The only reason I found you when I did was because the magic you're releasing blared like a beacon in my mind. It was impossible to miss."

"So you mean to tell me witches and werewolves have zero presence in this world?" He demanded.

"Oui."

"Oh, Fuck it! This is a nightmare. How am I ever going to get out of this place now without their help?" He asks aloud, looking ahead absently.

"I don't think witches have the power to help you cross realities, mon cher," Lestat cautions not to get his hopes up. "The most you may ever get out of them is a divinition and voodoo doll or two that might not even work. The only witches who are worth their salt are those who get their power from spirits, but in exchange for that higher power, they have to fulfill the spirit's obligations, which I am guessing is not your case."

"Okay, first of all, that sounds horrid. And no, I do not receive my powers from the demons, nor do I worship the devil. Witches in my world consider themselves 'the Servants of Nature,'" he made a little air quote in the air with a roll of his eyes with his fingers, "as they make it their duty to maintain balance within the world. But by no means are they all saints. There are also a few darker witches who go so far as to subvert the very laws that govern Nature. And once they do, they are capable of some of the worst atrocities the world could imagine."

"Who created the vampires in this world?" The boy asked, curious. And he was the most curious. Louis, himself, hasn't asked even half as many questions as the boy had in the past few years. His love was indifferent to vampire lore, concerned only when it touched his fragile, convoluted morality.

But Lestat couldn’t offer the boy an answer, just like he couldn't give one to Louis. Marius had made it clear—there would be consequences if he ever revealed the old gods’ legends or the secrets of Those Who Must Be Kept. To betray that knowledge would invite Marius’s wrath, and he could burn Lestat with nothing more than a thought. When Marius had warned him, it was with the immortals and future fledglings Lestat might create in mind. But Henrik was different, an anomaly, a creature of raw power far beyond the usual dealings of vampires.

And the boy didn't seem like the child of the Christian god, poisoned as with the Christian notion of Original Sin and guilt like Louis or Nicolas, to be maddened or disappointed by their own conflicts. Still, Lestat hesitated. He couldn’t speak the full truth, not when Louis himself didn't know it.

"They say it was a demon," he finally said, with a half-shrug. "There are covens of Children of Satan and Darkness who believe that. But we may never know." Lestat wondered if he was breaking any laws for saying that. But he doubted it. And not that Lestat cared much about the rules like the Children of Satan did. He was sure Armand would have a fit if he were to find out. But that only made the idea more tempting. A smile tugged at the corners of Lestat's lips. There was something undeniably delicious about dancing on the edge of defiance, pushing boundaries to see how far they could bend before breaking.

Besides, what harm could it do? Lestat had always been drawn to the extraordinary, and Henrik was nothing if not that.

"Well, it is my grandmother who turned my father and his siblings into the first-ever vampires out of sheer desperation, and it was my mother's bitch of an ancestor that cursed her clan to be werewolves as revenge against her tribe for killing her."

"So that's where you got the blood of a witch, vampire, and werewolf from," hummed Lestat, the puzzle slotting into place. "Wait, are you telling me Vampires in your world could procreate?"

"No, not at all. My father was a special case," The boy said. "He was born from an affair with the local werewolf Alpha to my grandmother, Esther. Of course, no one knew. Not until he made his first kill. The werewolf curse only comes into effect when you take a life. After which, whenever the full moon crests in the sky, the man will have no choice but to submit to the moon and turn into a wolf by breaking every bone in their body. And my father made his kill after turning into a vampire. He could not control his bloodlust, and when my grandfather found out the truth, he was livid. So Esther decided she'd bind her son's wolf as a way of atoning for her sins. My father then spent a thousand years trying to break that curse, and when he did, voila, here I am."

"Sounds like a horrid bitch!" Lestat says.

"That's because she was," The boy says, a smile on his face that reached his eyes for the first time. There was something endearing about him when he did that, the way his face softened and made him look more like a boy than a man who looked ready to spit poison at Lestat like he had been doing until now. A crack in his armor.

"Alright, enough with the questions for now," Lestat decided, rapping his fingers on the table. "What is your plan now? Because if you want, I have a place I bought down the block, Rue Royale, a Spanish townhouse. Louis and I would be happy to accommodate you till you can gather your bearings."

"That depends," But even if he said that, the boy stands to his feet. The boy is bold, but he has his insane powers to back up that boldness. "What do you want in return? And let me tell you, I can tell if someone's lying to me. So you better be truthful."

"Absolutely nothing," Lestat follows him, dropping the money on the table as he does. "I just wished to know more about you. And what better way to continue the conversation? It's not like you have a place to stay here or anything, no." And well, he thought it would be a nice gift for Louis. His fledgling had been so far removed from the human population for the past three years, and maybe having the witch boy as a friend would help him assimilate a little into their world.

"I feel like you are hiding something, but I will let it pass for now. But what about the other one, Louis?" asked the boy. "Is he as obnoxious as you?"

"Oh, Louis, no. He has a guilt that matches his temper and anxiety. Speaking of him, do not under any circumstances tell Louis about the theory of us being from the devil, his Christian heart cannot take it," Lestat warns, one finger up in the air, before continuing. "And he is on a four-legged diet, unlike me?" He opens the door for him, and the boy stands there with a frown when he hears it. And perhaps even he understood just how strange it was - for a vampire to feed on dogs and rats.

"Why? Is he a Ripper?" Henriks asks, blinking with genuine concern and interest.

Lestat was puzzled. "A what?"

The boy shrugged, and we headed out into the balmy night. "That's what we call the vampires who are so consumed by the bloodlust that they are often completely unaware of what they are doing to a point where the other's morality is irrelevant. Blood is an addiction to them. So most of them stick to animals out of guilt because they know what human blood does to them."

Lestat nods. He had never met a vampire who was addicted to human blood to the point of madness, but he had heard there were many terrible, ancient creatures like that somewhere Far East. "Well, that's not Louis' case. He was turned barely three years ago. Still learning the ropes of immortality. And he's only guilty of killing humans, of taking fathers from children, daughters from mothers." His words, though blunt, were tinged with a strange kind of pride because his fledglings' struggles with morality made him all the more fascinating. "He has yet to grasp what it means to fully let go of that human morality. But he'll learn... or he won't. His hesitation, his passivity—it lingers. Either way, it's what makes him so irresistibly human still."

"Well, if he is so guilty, why couldn't he just snatch, eat, and erase?" The boy says something strange yet again. At Lestat's narrowed eyes, the boy continued, a look of disbelief as he clarified. "Vampires can compel people, right? Just erase the human's memories after feeding and send them on their way?"

"Not everyone has that gift," Lestat explains. "Only the ancient ones. Or people like me who share the blood of the old ones. Louis is young still, a fledgling."

"Oh, wow! How ever did you guys survive with so many restrictions?" Now, it was Lestat's turn to look affronted. But beneath the surface, a flicker of annoyance flared. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration that he lacked the seemingly endless abilities of these otherworldly vampires. No wonder their world has many preternatural beings in it.

"We survived just fine, mon cher, " he replied coolly, though there was a flash of annoyance in his eyes. "We adapt. We endure. That's what makes us what we are. And we don't need an entire arsenal of tricks to make it through the night."

"Okay, no need to be defensive, chill, dude," There it is again. the blasted word. Dude . What does it even mean? "I was just saying. Fine, what about blood bags? They have them in the hospital, no? You could always steal some."

"Can't be trusted. What if there is a dead man's blood inside?"

"Seriously, you can't even drink a dead man's blood."

"No. It will kill us," Lestat replies, his tone clipped. The boy had a remarkable knack for undercutting centuries of vampire existence with casual condescension. In his ability to say, I feel so sorry for you, without even telling it, that made Lestat look at the boy with white rage. But the boy wasn't fazed. He looked like he always did: easy, confident, and slightly bored.

"Well, at least you can read peoples' thoughts," the boy remarked as if offering a small concession; like it was supposed to make Lestat feel better. Lestat raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the boy's attempt to console him. How generous of him. "Vampires in my world are not capable of it. What else? Can you walk in the sun?"

"No. We burn to ashes," He half-expected the boy to boast that the vampires in his world could probably walk on water like Jesus or something as ridiculous. Before Henrik could say anything, Lestat added, "But the older a vampire gets, the more they can withstand against the sun. It takes centuries to build that kind of resilience." He shot the boy a knowing look, anticipating whatever supernatural feat he was about to wave in his face next.

"Vampires in my world also die from exposure," Henrik said, throwing Lestat off for a moment. "But—" Ah, there it is. "Witches are more than capable of creating daylight rings and such, so vampires can walk in the sun without any trouble. Just as they can spell moonlight rings for the werewolves to stop the curse from allowing them to shift."

Lestat's brow twitched in mild annoyance. "Of course they can," he muttered under his breath. "Convenient little workaround, isn't it? Guess we didn't get that memo when we were being made." Henrik laughs prettily at that. "So, these vampires of yours," Lestat said, a hint of sarcasm creeping in, "do they have any weakness, like at all? Or are they perfect little predators running rampant across your world?"

The boy's laughter dies off as abruptly as it started. Not for the first time, Lestat wished he could dive into his mind and see what made him tick, what made him happy. Now, though, the pain on the boy's face was terrible, and Lestat did not know what caused it. "Of course, nothing is ever truly immortal. Not even the true immortals; nature always finds a loophole. When my grandmother created the immortality spell in order to protect her children from werewolves, after the death of her youngest child, Henrik, the first one, during a full moon, she wanted to create beings superior to them. So she called on the sun for fire and used the white oak, one of nature's eternal objects, for immortality. And then they were fed wine laced with blood, and their father drove a sword to their hearts."

The boy told the story as they walked. Gradually, the vibrant colors and noises faded as they moved to the quieter streets. It wasn't like Storyville, where people stayed up till dawn, gambling and whoring. All they could catch here were shadowy movements down alleys and squat shapes on balconies. "And they did become superior. They become stronger, faster, and more agile than the monsters that killed their brother. But it had consequences. The spirits turned on us, and nature fought back. For every strength, there would be a weakness. The sun became their enemy - it kept them indoors for weeks. But their mother found a solution for that.

"The Daylight jewelry," Lestat observed. Because this was the most captivating story, and he is hearing every word of it. The boy nods appreciatively. And Lestat hoped the vampire origin story of this world is half as intriguing.

"But there were other problems," He continued. "Neighbors who had opened their homes to them could now keep them out. Unless the vampire had an invitation, they can't enter others' homes." He turned to Lestat, a question on his face.

"We don't need invitations."

The boy nods twice before continuing. "The flowers, vervain, at the base of the white oak burned and prevented them from compelling people if they ingest it. And the spell decreed that the tree that gave them life could also take it away. So they burned it to the ground. But the darkest consequence that something my grandparents never anticipated was hunger. Blood had made them reborn, and it was blood that they craved above all else. They could not control it. And with that, the predatory species was born."

"So the only thing that could truly kill your family was White Oak, and now that they burned it down, they are truly immortal."

"Like I said, no one can be a true immortal," And there it was again. I could see the weariness in his face, the dull, lusterless sadness of his eyes. Lestat had a strong sense it had something to do with the boy's will to end his life as he stood over the dark pit from his memory. "While they had cut down the tree, another had reborn in its place. And well, that weakness is only for my family." He shook his head, a nice curl falling onto his face. "The vampires sired by them are a little inferior. They could be killed by any wood. As long as you stake or gun them in the heart. There is also the sun, and not every vampire knows a witch. And there is desiccation, a large dose of vervain enough to decapitate them, the bite of a werewolf, even removing one's heart would end their life."

"Are you telling me If I bite, I am going to die?" Lestat asked, moving back from the boy a little to consider him. Because, contrary to what most may believe, Lestat is more weary and wise than he is ambitious.

"No," The boy laughs under his breath. "My blood is the cure, and my bite is death. Though I'm afraid, for I can't say for sure if my bite really means death here or if my blood is still the cure. I don't know if the spell for daylight rings works for vampires here as it did there. I don't know if anything I thought I knew could be useful in this world."

"And you don't know if, should you die here, you'll actually meet your parents on the other side of the veil," Lestat completed for him. The boy turned his head sharply to the side to stare at him. "No, I can't read your thoughts, but it's easy enough to guess that they are dead," Lestat says, and the boy looked very hard now, hard and bitter. "Look, since you've admitted you know nothing yourself, why not just stay here and think it over? When you're truly ready to die, I'll be more than happy to do it myself. Until then," he swept his hand toward the home he made for himself and Louis in New Orleans. " Bienvenue à la Rue Royale. "

Chapter Text

I am a stinking room of self-hate and old blood, and it took years
before I stopped clawing at my own throat like an animal at the stench of good love

Lestat's voice rang out, dripping with excitement as soon as Louis entered the place he had made his home for the past three years, "Oh, Louis, you've missed the most thrilling conversation!" He had this sort of uninhibited, gleeful smile a child would have when they found an interesting bug in the garden. The stranger seemed to share Louis's sentiment, judging by how the young boy had rolled his eyes with the practiced grace of someone far too accustomed to Lestat's theatrics. "Louis, meet Henrik Mikaelson, a witch from an entirely different reality," Lestat announced, his words laced with delight. " N’est-ce pas fascinant? He'll be staying with us for a while, alors s'il te plaît , try to get comfortable with each other, you two."

Louis wouldn't lie and say he hadn't been on edge for much of the week when it came to the white boy Lestat had picked up from the streets as if he were a stray cat. And with good reason, too. Lestat had brought the boy into their lives with no forewarning, as though he'd just plucked him off the street like a stray cat. And as if introducing him as a witch would somehow justify the intrusion, Lestat had stood proud, pleased, oblivious to how this tested Louis's patience.

It had been a long time since Louis had been grateful not to need air—if only so his frustration couldn't manifest in sighs or gasps and stop him from having to breathe the smells in the air around him.

For what really troubled Louis the most wasn't the boy's strange clothing or unusual speech nor his eerie ability to hop between realities for whatever reason—it was the smell of his blood. Sweet, intoxicating, and dangerous. It clung to the air, suffocating his senses, tempting him in ways he hadn't felt in years; it was sweet beyond anything he could have anticipated. Louis had struggled enough to maintain control while subsisting on animal blood, balancing that with the endless pressures of his business. But this—this was a torment he hadn't anticipated. It was as if Lestat had deliberately unleashed this temptation, daring him to confront his deepest hunger, testing the limits of his self-restraint, forcing him to face his indignity.

To complicate things further, the boy seemed completely indifferent to the dynamic between Louis and Lestat, leaving Louis floundering about how to handle the situation.

"Hi. You must be the boyfriend," Henrik said with a wry smile, extending his hand. His sudden shift in demeanor—from mocking Lestat to polite introductions—was disarming. "You must have been a saint to want to deal with," he wrinkles his nose when he glances towards Lestat before completing, "—well, this. "

"Very funny," Lestat looked at the boy sourly, eye twitching at the jab. Henrik responded with a tight-lipped smile, looking as unimpressed as the French vampire. "As if I'd put any effort in trying to amuse you."

Under different circumstances, it would almost make Louis laugh out loud. There was something absurdly amusing about this boy, half Lestat's size, daring to talk back to him with such audacity. Lestat had an unusual beauty about him that most humans couldn't resist any more than Louis could and had rarely found himself faced with such insolence. Yet, Louis was entirely caught off guard by the suddenness of the encounter and bewildered by the unexpected greeting to find humor in anything else.

He wanted to speak, yes, to clarify things, but the words caught in his throat, hesitant. It wasn't like Louis to struggle for words, but something about this situation left him grasping for his usual composure.

No one had ever openly speculated about the nature of his relationship with Lestat—not his family, not even the countless onlookers who had cast their judgmental eyes upon them. And now, here was a boy—this stranger—so casually broaching the subject. It unnerved Louis, the way Lestat had trusted Henrik enough to speak so openly, so freely. And beneath that unease was something deeper, something that burned quietly— a vexation without explanation.

While the boy was undeniably handsome, Louis knew Henrik was too young to be one of Lestat's weekly lovers that he'd drain dry by the end of the week. But it only made the situation all the more indignant to Louis. Because, for some reason that Louis could not yet see, this boy had appeared as something special to Lestat. And Louis wants to know. He wants to fucking hear what the older vampire picked out — what he saw. He wants to know why.

"I never said he's my boyfriend," Lestat speaks out. His words, while addressed to Henrik, were meant for Louis. A clarification. A correction.

"Oh, please," the boy scoffed, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. "For all your complaints about his feelings and feeding habits, you get that dreamy look in your eyes whenever you talk about him. It's almost pathetic, really." He shook his head, exasperated, "Especially coming from someone as old as you."

Louis blinked, startled by the boy's bluntness. Could Lestat truly love him so deeply that a mere child could sense it after a single conversation? Had it always been this obvious? Did others see it? His mother? His sister? Had they known long before Louis dared to admit it to himself?

Lestat shot the boy a sharp glare but said nothing to contradict Henrik's observation. Yet Henrik remained entirely unbothered, standing there with calm indifference as if Lestat's reaction was nothing more than expected background noise. Still, the silence spoke volumes, and for the first time, a flicker of hope bloomed in Louis. It was strange, but somehow hearing this—this unspoken truth—come from a complete stranger made it all the more real. It was the first time anyone had given him such assurance, and it struck deeper than Louis could have anticipated.

The witch turned back to Louis as if the tense exchange had never occurred, as if his words hadn't set off a quiet storm in Louis's mind. As though the weight of what he'd said hadn't soothed all the lingering doubts lying under Louis's pillow. "Anyway, sorry for the intrusion, but Lestat was confident you wouldn't mind me crashing here for a few days. Still, I wanted to make sure you were okay with it — I know this is completely unexpected. And this is as much your home as it is Lestat's, and I wouldn't want to barge into your lives and impose on you without your consent if it makes you uncomfortable in any way."

Louis found himself at a loss. What was he supposed to say? No? The boy looked so frail, almost as if a strong could take him out. His slender frame and delicate fingers gave him an air of fragility. His finely tailored clothes hinted at a life of privilege. Louis doubted if the boy could even possibly survive a night out on his own. But most importantly, he was just a kid, probably half of Louis's age or even younger.

There was boldness in him, certainly—bravery, even if his sarcastic rapport with Lestat was anything to go by, despite his clear awareness of their vampire nature. Or perhaps it was desperation that drove him to seek refuge, however temporary, with two bloodthirsty creatures. Still, there was a tender vulnerability beneath that bravado that made it impossible for Louis to turn him away.

He exchanged a definitive glance with Lestat, whose excitement was palpable, and then looked at the boy—this strange, displaced soul with nowhere else to go. Finally, Louis gave a slow nod. "Of course," he said, his voice soft, strained with sincerity. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need."

"Excellent!" Lestat clapped his hands, far too pleased with himself, its sound almost hurting their sensitive ears. Louis suppressed a sigh. "What did I say?" Lestat throws a hand over the boy's shoulder, steering him upstairs to the empty guest bedroom. "My Louis is too good a man to throw a little boy out onto the streets." Louis bit back a retort. He would have to have a conversation with Lestat later about bringing home strays without warning. He could only hope this would be the last.

It wasn't much of a change, as Louis had expected, having a new member staying at Rue Royale. The boy was a polite guest—quiet, unobtrusive, and cleaned up after himself. Thankfully, after a conversation with Lestat one evening, they had found a solution for his scent — or rather, a way to neutralize the overpowering scent after Lestat's discussion with him the following evening. He had been explaining to Lestat the working of it, something about an amulet and a spell spoken in an ancient and dead language that Louis could not work his tongue around.

And, though, Louis hadn't fully grasped the specifics, nor was he as curious as Lestat seemed to be about the active use of magic. All Louis cared about was that he no longer felt the constant temptation to tear into their guest's neck while he slept on their couch, surrounded by herbs and stones strewn across the sunroom and kitchen—areas no one but the boy seemed to use.

It wasn't that Louis wasn't intrigued by magic; on the contrary, he found it captivating and was quietly impressed by the boy's effortless ability to lift objects with a mere flick of his hand. But that didn't mean Louis wanted to understand the mechanics behind it. Magic was fascinating precisely because of its mystery. Why strip it of that allure by attempting to understand something he, or anyone in their world, could never replicate? What use was there in questioning the sensations of casting a spell when it would always remain beyond his comprehension? So, unlike Lestat, who was constantly pestering the boy with inquiries, Louis was more than happy to remain an observer, watching the spectacle from a comfortable distance rather than trying to participate in it.

That was just simply how Louis was built, and he was content to remain that way.

Still, for all the boy's merits as a good guest, he was a terrible cook. More than a few mornings, Louis or Lestat had awakened to find the kitchen filled with smoke and the acrid smell of burnt bacon wafting through the air. It was a small mercy that the boy possessed his magical abilities; otherwise, Louis was certain he would be a constant hazard to himself in their home. Yet Lestat wasn't willing to wager their house burning down on the boy's magic, and he had all but banned him from the kitchen, promptly hiring a cook to handle the culinary duties. He insisted that they could at least keep up with appearances among the regular folk this way.

"I know how to cook," the boy attempted to argue, a hint of frustration and embarrassment creeping into his voice as he waved his hands to restore the burnt wood, but the black mark stuck. "I just don't know how to work this bloody stove, that's all."

"Which is why I am telling you I will hire someone who can," Lestat responded with an exasperated sigh, gesturing to the mess. "I am not risking mine and Louis' life for a plate of burnt meal. Je ne peux pas risquer cela!"

Louis watched the exchange, shaking his head slightly. "Maybe just a little patience, Lestat. He's clearly trying his best," he interjected, attempting to soothe the escalating tension. He didn't want Lestat to say something he might regret later. The boy was a guest and a young one at that; there was no need for such harshness, even if he secretly agreed with Lestat's assessment. Louis couldn't help the twinge of empathy—he didn't want the boy to feel isolated or unwelcome in their home any more than he had felt after Paul's death.

The boy was an orphan in every sense despite having a family of his own. Yet, there existed an entire world between them—a chasm that Louis understood all too well. So, yes, he felt a profound sympathy for the boy, even though he doubted the boy would appreciate hearing it any more than Louis would have had. Instead, he made every effort to ensure the boy felt welcome; he didn't want him to face Lestat's temper alone. After all, no one should endure that kind of isolation, especially when the weight of loss was still fresh.

Lestat, fully aware of Louis's tendency to cling to everything that connected him to his humanity, shot him a pointed look, his expression a mix of exasperation and disbelief. It was the kind of look that conveyed, of course, you would take the boy's side, St. Louis. "Patience? With a clearly incompetent cook who nearly incinerated our home? Not once, not twice, but thrice! Thrice! Sacrebleu, c'est comme inviter une boule de feu dans notre maison!" Lestat exclaimed, his voice rising in dramatic outrage.

"I said I was sorry. I'm trying," the boy insisted, his voice growing more resolute. "I know I'll get the hang of it in time. I just need time." Louis got a feeling that the boy wasn't merely referring to his culinary skills. He could see the flicker of desperation in the boy's eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the hope he was losing as he sought a way back to his family—or at least a means to communicate with them across the chasm that separated their worlds. It was clear the situation wasn't unfolding as he had wished.

"By which point we might be dead," Lestat quipped, crossing his arms with an air of indifference, completely oblivious to the undercurrent of pain woven through the boy's words.

Without the need to cook or sustain himself, the boy spent most of his time holed up in the local library, poring over newspaper clippings in search of any signs of supernatural sightings. He frequented shops, scouring for herbs and tomes he believed he'd need for his witchcraft. His days were filled with the rustle of occult books and the scent of dried leaves and potions, each excursion outside their home a quest for knowledge and ingredients he hoped would empower his spells.

More often than not, Louis would return home to find the sofas pushed aside, the boy sitting cross-legged on the floor within a circle of salt or a star formation, a map, candles, and a dead animal laid out in front of him while Lestat stood nearby. And, sometimes, he'd watch as Lestat becomes a part of the spell.

"Are you sure about this?" Louis asked, his eyes not leaving Henrik's figure as he moved around in the middle of setting up for a spell in their attic. It was a sight that made Louis's heart clench—a marvel at the boy's dedication and concern for the risks he was willing to take, aware that the path to power was fraught with peril.

"It's really just a simple suspension spell," the boy goes into an explanation as Lestat prepares to take his place at his designated seat. The blonde vampire seemed both delighted and weary at the prospect. "The poison stops my heart, and the spell keeps me from dying for good," the boy added, delivering the information with an unsettling nonchalance as if that were any consolation.

"A poison!?"

"I am sure he knows what he is doing, mon cher, " Lestat replied, his tone overly reassuring. It grated on Louis's nerves, especially since Lestat had confided in him, in the quiet of their shared moments, that the boy might be teetering on the edge of something dangerous, that he seemed to grapple with a death wish, uncertain if his own demise would bring him closer to reuniting with his parents—or if it would cast him into an eternal void. The thought gnawed at him, an uncomfortable truth lingering just beneath the surface.

It reminded him of Paul—his brother who had believed he could see visions, who had never wavered in his conviction for a second, who had died, and it seemed to Louis like he had killed him — Like he was the one responsible for it. His mother certainly thought so, her grief and anger often directed at him, as if his presence had somehow overshadowed Paul's light. And perhaps that was the reason Louis felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility for Henrik. He just didn't want to be haunted by the specter of another life slipping away on his watch, burdened by the weight of regrets he could never shake off.

As if sensing the emotions rolling off him, Lestat pressed a quick kiss to Louis's temple, halting any further words from escaping his lips. They both knew that the boy would go through with the ritual whether they agreed to it or not. Henrik, Louis had come to understand, was far too stubborn for his own good—something he had likely inherited from his mother, as the boy often claimed with a hint of pride whenever he and Lestat screamed at each other.

"Alright, little witch, what am I doing?" Lestat asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he took his seat. Henrik opened his mouth to respond, but as he bent over, his legs gave out, nearly sending him crashing to the floor.

"Whoa, careful," Louis reacted quickly, catching the boy by his arms before he could fall.

"It's okay," Henrik whispered, his voice soft but steady. "The poison is starting to work, that's all." Using Louis's support, he carefully lowered himself onto the floor, lying within the circle of salt. With shaky hands, Henrik outstretched his arm to Lestat. The older vampire extended his own hand, and without a word, Henrik took a small blade, slicing Lestat's palm open before doing the same to his own. Their blood mingled as Henrik grasped Lestat's hand tightly. "I will be channeling you. So whatever happens, don't let go," the witch warned Lestat. Because, for all the shouting and screaming they do, the boy trusted Lestat enough to put his life on the line in his presence. "You will be my link to the living."

Once Louis stepped outside the circle, Henrik lay still, his heartbeat grew fainter, a clear sign that the poison was taking hold. The room grew eerily quiet, save for the sound of Louis's pacing footsteps. Time seemed to stretch, each second dragging as Henrik's breathing became shallow. Then, all of a sudden, the boy began to whimper, his body twitching as if caught in a nightmare. Louis halted his pacing, worry etched into his features as his gaze flickered over to meet Lestat's equally concerned eyes.

What were they supposed to do? Should they wake him? The boy had been adamant they shouldn't intervene unless they were certain he was on the brink of death. Because once Henrik's heart stops, there is a chance he will become a vampire, and with Lestat's blood mingling with his, neither of them knew which version of the transformation would take hold. Nor did the boy seem eager to risk the loss of his witch powers because of it.

So they waited.

They watched as Henrik's whimpers grew into violent convulsions, his small frame trembling. Louis's fingers dug into the armrest of the chair, resisting every instinct to interfere. Lestat's expression remained stoic, but there was tension in the tight grip he kept on the boy's hand, holding the link between them, his life tether.

Just as suddenly as they had begun, the convulsions stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was deafening. Louis strained to hear Henrik's heartbeat, and to his immense relief, there it was—faint but present. His chest rose and fell weakly, but it wasn't over yet.

Time passes, an hour turning to two. And then, the boy's eyes flew open, and he gasped, a sharp, desperate gasp, his chest heaving as he snapped back to life, eyes wide as if returning from the grave. He was alive.

Lestat let out a breath he didn't need to take. " Bienvenue parmi les vivants, little witch ," he muttered, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

The boy doesn't speak for a while after that. Whatever had happened—or he had seen—on the other side had clearly shaken him to his core. Henrik's silence lingered, pressing heavily on their house even though he had only been here for a few weeks now. Louis wondered aloud, one night, as he curled inside the coffin with Lestat, "Perhaps he had witnessed something he never wished to see."

"Or perhaps," Lestat countered, his voice softer than usual, "he saw nothing at all." His gaze was distant, reflective. "Because sometimes, hope can be crueler than any nightmare, my Louis," he murmured, his fingers gently tracing patterns on Louis's arm as they lay close together. "Hope could drive a person to the edge, only to leave them hanging, uncertain, waiting."

Louis said nothing for a long moment, staring at the darkness inside the coffin, feeling the weight of those words settle between them. He wondered, distantly, if Lestat was speaking from experience. After all, Lestat had lived a life spanning more than two full lifetimes before they ever met. He had probably seen it all, lived it all. Had perhaps loved and lost and endured in ways that Louis could only imagine.

A history of it all, resting just beneath the surface of Lestat's sharp wit and playful arrogance—a deep well of pain and longing that Louis had only glimpsed in their quieter moments. Those moments when Lestat's mask would slip, just for an instant. It was a knowledge that Louis suspected he would only ever grasp the edges of, no matter how long they stayed together.

Louis shifted in Lestat's arms, pressing his head against his maker's chest, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth that seemed to pulse through Lestat's very being. "I'm just afraid I will find him like Paul one day." Louis's voice was barely above a whisper, the fear and sorrow palpable in the close darkness of the coffin. The confined space felt both suffocating and safe, a cocoon of intimacy that wrapped around them, amplifying the weight of his words.

Lestat sighed softly, his fingers pausing in Louis's hair before resuming their gentle motion. "Well, don't," he said with an edge of firmness, though his voice held a tenderness reserved only for moments like these. "As much as the boy wished to die that one time, under the guise of being a martyr, he's also brave enough to want to go down fighting. He just needs some challenge, something to pull him out of his own mind."

Lestat's hand stilled, and he gently lifted Louis's face, his eyes steady and unyielding. "And not every bad thing that happens under your roof is your fault somehow." The words struck a chord, a truth that Louis had rarely allowed himself to believe. Lestat's voice softened. "You can't save everyone, mon amour . Let this one go. It is the boy's decision. You can only be there as you've been. But in the end, his choices are his own."

"I know that," Louis murmured.

"Good," Lestat replied, his tone lightening. "Anyway, I wouldn't have brought him home if I thought he'd twist up your sense of guilt any more than it already is." He gave a small, wry smile as if trying to defuse the tension with his characteristic wit.

Louis let out a quiet breath, finding a bit of solace in Lestat's attempt at reassurance. "You say that like it takes much effort," he muttered.

Lestat chuckled softly. "Ah, mon Louis , you and your endless sense of responsibility. I would move heaven and earth to keep you from drowning in it." His thumbs, so hard and cold, stroked Louis's cheeks, his lips, his jaw so as to make the flesh quicken. Turning my head from right to left, he pressed his half-formed kisses with a dainty hunger to the inner shells of my ears.

As Louis nestled closer, he wondered if Lestat could hear the sound his soul would make if he dared to whisper those words—"I love you." But he doesn't. He knows that such an admission would slip from his lips like a prayer, fragile and sincere, laden with the weight of all his fears. Fears of losing something so precious, so utterly entwined with his being, that to speak it aloud felt like tempting fate.

So, instead, he held onto the silence, the unspoken truth hanging in the air between them. Because at this moment, in the confines of the coffin, there was no need for words. The weight of eternity rested on their shoulders, but in this quiet space, Louis found solace in the warmth of Lestat's presence, a reminder that in this shared darkness, beneath the endless stretch of immortality, they were equals.

The boy does emerge a few days later, proving Lestat right. He doesn't speak of what happened during his ritual, and they don't ask. But something in his demeanor had shifted. There was a quiet resolve in his movements, a stillness in his gaze that wasn't there before. Whatever he had faced, whatever he had seen, it had given him the space he needed to make a decision. While Louis was still worried, he felt a cautious relief settle over him. Maybe, just maybe, Henrik had found his way through the darkness, at least for now.

"So, little devil, I take it you're done with your moping," Lestat announced with a flourish, his lack of sensitivity appalling Louis. "Lestat!" Louis interjected sharply, his tone laced with disapproval. "What? Don't tell me you weren't curious yourself," Lestat shot back, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he glanced at Louis, then back at Henrik.

"It's okay, Louis. We all know Lestat is as emotionally constipated as a rock." Henrik's attempt at humor was thin but appreciated. Louis offered a faint smile in return, though the tension in the room remained palpable. "Still, sorry to worry you both like that. I just needed a few days. Anyway, I got the answers I needed." Henrik paused, licking at his dry lips. There was something vulnerable about him, as though he were trying to stand taller, braver than he felt. "Apparently, I can't go back. I am stuck here, permanently."

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, Louis's heart ached for the boy. He wanted to say something comforting, something hopeful, like maybe it's not entirely true , or perhaps you'll find another way . But he couldn't bring himself to speak the empty words. He knew Henrik had already thought through every possibility, spent those days in solitude wrestling with the same hopes, trying to soothe himself with the very thoughts Louis now wanted to offer. But Henrik must have come to terms with the inevitable, or he wouldn't have spoken the way he did now—with a quiet, resigned certainty.

Henrik made a dry, hollow sound in his throat, his voice thick with sorrow that belied his attempt at casualness. "My parents," he continued a rueful edge to his tone as one hand twisted in his hair, a nervous tic that betrayed the depth of his emotion. "It was them who sent me here to live out my life. And apparently, the only way they'll find peace... is when I do."

He looked up at Louis and Lestat, a mix of resignation and determination in his gaze—an odd combination that made him seem defeated and resolute. His shoulders then lifted slightly in a half-shrug as though he were trying to shake off the weight of it all. "So I guess it's time for me to make the most of it while I am at it." His voice was steadier now, the acceptance clear but tinged with a bittersweetness that cut through the room.

Henrik cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um, so, I know I said I'd only be here for a few days—"

Without thinking, Louis stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He wrapped his arms around Henrik, pulling him into a tight embrace. The boy stiffened at first, surprised by the sudden gesture, but then slowly relaxed, his head resting against Louis's shoulder. Louis could feel the tension in Henrik's body begin to fade as he whispered softly, "It's okay, Henrik. You're going to be okay. And like I said, the room is yours for as long as you need."

Henrik exhaled, pulling back, giving Louis a small, grateful smile. "Thanks. I needed that."

Louis held him for a moment longer, his hand resting gently on the back of Henrik's head. "Don't mention it."

From the corner, Lestat chimed in with his usual irreverence, though there was a warmth in his voice. "Ah, would you look at that, mon amour," he said with a teasing grin. "I do good things sometimes too, who would have thought."

Chapter Text

I'm stepping inside a universe
designed against my own beliefs.

Henrik Mikaelson quickly realized that living with two vampires wasn't any less stressful than sharing a boarding school with a swarm of hormonal, hyperactive teenagers. Despite the endless shrieks of little kids, the petty rivalries among witches, werewolves, and vampires, and the constant drama of a new monster at the gates, no one at Salvatore Boarding School could irritate Henrik quite like Lestat did. In his first few weeks at Rue Royale, he spent so much time critiquing Louis's tastes that it could no longer be considered healthy.

What fascinated Lestat often meant little to Louis, yet Louis still followed along. Conversely, what Louis considered a normal life was something Lestat frequently disdained, though he rarely made a scene about it. Despite the tension that could have easily led to them tearing each other's throats out, Henrik was always surprised by how they always managed to reconcile. It was, in fact, rather satisfying to watch, leaving him to often wonder if this was what a usual marriage was all about—constant compromise. Is that how it is with Aunt Freya and Aunt Keelin? With Uncle Kol and Aunt Davina? Aunt Rebekah and Marcel? Henrik couldn't imagine it. His family always went the extra mile to avoid showing him their ugly sides, perhaps to make up for all the stories he'd have to hear about them from the world around him. It was as if they wanted to protect him from the darker truths of their lives. Still, it left him thinking: maybe all relationships, even between immortals, were built on that same delicate balance of sacrifice and adaptation, no matter how dramatic or destructive the individuals involved might be. Even the seemingly perfect unions, the ones shielded from view, probably had their battles.

"He hasn't been feeding properly," Lestat complained to Henrik as soon as Louis left for the night to handle his business down in Storyville. Azalea Hall is a brothel Louis bought two years ago from a member of the town's council or someone similar to it. It had apparently been doing quite well from what little Henrik knew. "He thinks I don't notice—the guilt always rears its ugly head every time he takes a life, creeping in slow, like a shadow he can’t shake, no matter how many times he tells himself it’s just survival."

"Everyone has to find their own pace to adapt, Lestat," Henrik murmured, his gaze still glued to the 15th-century book, Malleus Maleficarum, the vampire had given him a fortnight ago. It was an interesting read—it seemed like a load of absolute trash, but the spirits that surrounded him seemed to find it appalling and entertaining. He could feel their subtle whispers in the air, lingering on the edge of his awareness. "Force-feeding Louis his reality isn't going to work. It'll only make things worse."

Lestat scoffed, pacing. "Worse than watching him waste away?"

Henrik didn't look up, fingers tracing the worn pages. "Yes. Louis has to come to terms with this himself. If you push, you'll drive him further away and it'll only deepen his conflict and just risk making you sound like some pretentious douche canoe."

"It's been nearly three years!" Lestat snapped. And when the man didn't question Henrik what exactly a douche canoe was, Henrik understood Lestat had been serious in his worries. So the witch sighed, finally meeting Lestat’s frustrated gaze. "He's going to starve himself at this rate. A vampire's strength comes from blood—why can’t he get that through his thick, self-flagellating skull? We are killers. It’s who we are."

Henrik set down his book on his lap. "You want him to accept that truth, fine, I am with you, but that doesn't mean you have to choke it down his throat. Louis's not like you or me. You may speak of the general people as mortals and you as vampires, but you are not always one. We had time to grasp the inevitability of death and the fickleness of life—it's a part of us now. You've had two hundred years to adjust. I was born into it. But Louis…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Louis isn't ready for this life," or, it was the conclusion Henrik had reached after months of observing the Creole vampire. "He loves you; that much is clear. But he hasn't fully accepted what it means to love an immortal—someone who's surrendered to death yet continues to walk the earth by surviving on blood."

For a moment, Henrik couldn't name the emotions that seemed to pass over Lestat's expression, the sadness, indecision, confusion, and ultimate perplexity of the situation. "The more he tries to run from this part of him, the more he will only make this difficult," he said finally with the most troubled look across his face. "For both of us. Haven't I given him everything—immortality, love, power? Isn't it enough?"

And Henrik could see by the desperation in Lestat's eyes and the deeper tone which his voice had taken that he, too, was pushing himself towards something that for him was very painful, towards a place where he hadn't ventured in a long time. "You can give him everything, Lestat, but you can't make him want it. He has to find that reason himself." Henrik explained calmly. This is why he hated Love as much as he admired it. "It takes time. Loving you means accepting a life of killing, of darkness. He's not ready to embrace that like he did you. He's terrified of losing himself, of being everything opposite of what society molded him to be. Louis wants ... he wants a purpose. He wants to feel like there's more to this existence than just survival or indulgence. That's why he clings to the belief there's another way. For Louis, being a killer isn't just instinct—it's a betrayal of everything he stands for. Now he is trying to reconcile who he was with what he's become."

Lestat peered down at the fire, his face luminous in the flickering light from the kindling in the fireplace. Shadows danced across his features, accentuating the sharp lines of his face, while the flames reflected in his eyes, making them seem as if they, too, burned with some hidden fire. He remained silent for a moment, lost in thought, before a quiet sound left him. "And what if he never finds this balance?"

Henrik met his gaze evenly. Then you have to be prepared for that too, the tribrid thought cruelly, radically, but didn't say aloud. Instead, he replied softly, trying to be as comforting as he could manage. "He will. Louis is as stubborn as he is adaptable. I mean, have you met his business partners? They are a bunch of assholes, and Louis still managed to thrive in their bigoted circles." Henrik had only ever met those men once for a short while, and the witch was sure if he had senses as heightened as Louis’s, those idiots would’ve been long dead. Though neither Henrik nor Lestat could fully grasp the weight of Louis's struggles, the tribrid doubted it had been a cakewalk, being a Creole Black man in these times. Bein’ too white for Black folks, and too Black for white folks, Louis once commented when Henrik had asked him how it was like growing up in such tough neighbourhood. "That man is still here. Still standing. That resilience is what makes him who he is." He glanced at Lestat meaningfully before continuing. "And he’ll get through this too, Lestat. You just have to be patient and understand that without his beliefs, without the core of who he is, he'd lose what makes him Louis." Henrik paused, then added softly, "That's the part of him you fell in love with, isn’t it?"

"I don't know what I fell in love with anymore," Lestat murmured, staring into the fire. His usual sharpness had faded from his voice, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. "His humanity? His suffering? His voluminous sorrow and rage that he always choked on? Maybe I thought I could save him from it... or maybe I was selfish enough to believe I could take it all away and make him mine." His eyes remained fixed on the flickering flames. "But, yes, I suppose I did love him for what he is... for the way he clings to his absurd beliefs, even when they tear him apart."

Henrik grimaced in mock horror. "Ugh! Could you be any more in love? God! Now I'm going to barf," he said, his exaggerated disgust breaking the solemnity and successfully ending the older vampire's introspection. A slow smile spread across Lestat's face, startling Henrik. Watching a vampire's expression shift like that always unsettled him—it was like seeing a statue come to life, the beauty of their stillness melting away in an instant to reveal something almost human. Henrik blinked, regaining his composure. "Anyway, now that you've completed your daily moping quota..." he added with a faint smirk, "I have something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh? And what could possibly be more important than my well-earned despair?" Henrik could see the curiosity in Lestat's face, the palpable suspicion. It was a rare sight to see Lestat humbled by the need for knowledge. Unlike Louis, who carried his melancholy and impassivity like a cloak, Lestat always held that knowing smirk, as if he understood both the great and terrible things the world had to offer. But now, in the face of more such knowledge, the layers of arrogance Lestat wore like armor seemed to peel back.

"Remember when I had to poison myself to enter the ancestral plane to find some answers?" Henrik began. Lestat nodded silently. The boy continued, his voice lowering, "Well, I have met someone there. Several someones, in fact. They called themselves spirits, and it was them who provided me the answers I needed."

"Spirits?" Lestat repeated, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. Lestat was fascinated, but not overwhelmed. The idea of these spirits, vast and ancient, did little to unsettle him. Perhaps centuries of living as a predator, a creature of legend, had dulled his sense of wonder, or maybe he knew more than he let on, or it simply took more than Henrik's revelations to shake his calm.

Henrik nodded, his eyes momentarily dark with thought as that night came to his mind before he brushed it off. He didn't want to think about it for now. "Spirits," The boy confirmed. "At first, I believed them to be the souls of witches who crossed over to the other side. But not all of them were once human. Some have no recollection of who they were or what they wanted — perhaps they forgot with time or maybe they came into existence without knowing why. I cannot say for certain. They cannot say. It's fascinating, really; they seem to exist in a state of confusion, believing in their own divinity, yet powerless to truly affect the world. "And for whatever reason, they have become obsessed with me ever since I entered the ancestral plane."

Lestat's gaze sharpened, and he glanced around the room, the shadows lengthening as though in answer to Henrik’s words. "Are you saying, they are here right now?" There was a trace of academic excitement creeping into his voice, as he said it, grasped the implication faster than the witch had anticipated. His eyes flickered into the dark spaces, as though expecting something to materialize from the very air.

"They are invisible, Lestat," Henrik said. "They’re always here, but they remain unseen by most. Invisible. Even I can barely perceive them. I feel them more than see them. I can feel them now. Their presence is like a disturbance in the air, subtle but constant. And yet... their true forms are beyond anything I can fully describe. All I see is the tiny cores of physical matter and great bodies of whirling energy which she compared to storms of lightning and wind. And they have the power to shape-shift. But from what I gather, their true size is difficult to imagine, some are even immense, like without an end in sight." He furrows his eyebrows, before going into a deeper explanation of what he knows. "They are not like us, Lestat. They don't follow the rules of the physical world. They are morally inferior creatures. They don't care who you are, they didn't think me an abomination like the witches and spirits of my world would've thought. They are just...there. Beings with no code or purpose other than their own. And they brag endlessly — claiming they can summon storms or earthquakes — but in reality, they can accomplish very little for all the energy they expend. It's... sad in a way, and I suspect that's why they despise humans. We, despite our limitations, have real agency."

"Are they hurting you?" Lestat’s voice was hard, but Henrik couldn’t quite tell if it carried genuine concern or if the vampire was simply curious about the capabilities of the supernatural beings.

Henrik paused, studying Lestat's expression. He wasn't sure what lay behind those sharp, immortal eyes. He could read Louis like a book, but not Lestat. "No," the witch finally confessed. "No, they're not. Not in any real sense. They boast of their abilities—how they can control the elements, and influence nature—but I've seen through them. They're not as powerful as they claim. They're more like echoes of the world's chaos, grasping at forces they can barely comprehend. They lash out, but it's futile. It’s almost... tragic, really." He paused, glancing away for a moment as he thought about the powerful, pitiful beings. "And anyway, most of them aren't evil. There are far more good spirits compared to the malicious ones. The bad ones are more of a nuisance than a true danger. They seem... afraid of me, afraid I might banish them."

Lestat's eyes narrowed on his ears, "And can you, banish them, I mean?"

Henrik hesitated. "I could... but not without great cost. Banishing them all could take my life." Because Henrik knows that, despite being the firstborn child, he is not invincible. He had his own limits, perhaps when he becomes a Tribrid and could still keep his magic, it could be possible. "If I had cursed objects or the help of one of my aunts, I could sever the connection between the planes with less risk. But as things are..." He shrugged slightly. "Still, they're not enough of a threat to justify that risk. I think they've grown bored over the eons. And when someone like me comes along, someone who can interact with them... they take notice and try to make themselves known in hopes to impress them to kill that boredom." Henrik chuckled, recognizing the parallel. "I figured you might understand. Bored immortals, craving attention?"

The vampire didn't look annoyed. Instead, Lestat's smile remained faint, almost unreadable, finding some cool amusement from Henrik's words. "Is that what you think?"

Henrik lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug.

"So there’s no need to risk lives if they’re not being a complete bother, then?" Lestat inquired smoothly. Henrik nodded. "Good," Lestat replied, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of sincerity. "Louis has become quite fond of you, and he'd be inconsolable if anything happened to you. And I'd rather not have to deal with his heartbreak over your early departure."

"Such an empathetic being you are, Lestat," Henrik replied with a wry smile, amusement lacing his voice. "To witness you caring about little ol' me." Lestat’s smirk deepened, his luminous eyes glittering with silent amusement, but he made no comment, clearly enjoying the banter. Henrik shook his head, continuing, "But that's not why I'm telling you all this. It’s not so you or Louis will check me into a psychic ward if you catch me talking to thin air. The reason I'm telling you," Henrik declared, his tone shifting to something more serious, "is because these spirits... they're ancient, older than we can imagine. They've been here since the dawn of time, watching. And in their boasting, one of them revealed something—how vampires were created."

Lestat sat up straight, his eyes shining. "You found the answer!" The vampire's voice was sharp with excitement, his eyes alight with the hunger for knowledge that had always driven him.

"Yes," Henrik nodded, feeling the weight of what he was about to say settle in his chest. He hesitated, locking eyes with Lestat. He knew this revelation would not only shake Lestat to his core but ripple through every vampire's understanding of their origins, uprooting centuries of myth and belief. "According to the spirit, vampires weren't created by a god or the devil. In fact, Christianity hadn't even been introduced when it all began."

Lestat leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with intensity, every ounce of his attention focused on Henrik.

"Apparently, it started around 4000 BC," Henrik continued, "with a queen named Akasha, who married the King of Kemet, Enkil—that’s what Egypt was called back then. Akasha and Enkil were rulers who wanted to civilize their people, turn them away from cannibalism, and encourage them to farm and eat grains instead. They sought to reshape their world. But then... Akasha learned of two sisters, witches, who could perform what the people considered miracles—Maharet and Mekare. They lived far away in the caves of Mount Carmel."

Henrik paused, watching Lestat’s expression harden in thought, trying to keep up with this sudden rewriting of history.

"Akasha ordered the sisters to be brought to her court," Henrik continued, his voice quieter now, "but they refused. Apparently, the spirits had warned them—warned that a terrible evil would come to them if they went to the king and queen. And they were right. Because Akasha's next request came in the form of violence." Lestat's eyes held rapt attention, allowing Henrik to continue without questions.

"Sometime later, the Queen sent soldiers to the twins' village. They arrived during the funeral of the sisters' mother, just as the villagers were preparing to perform their sacred funeral rites—consuming the heart and brain of the deceased. In their culture, this was an act of reverence, a way of honoring their dead by taking their essence into themselves. But it didn't matter. They were there for one reason alone." Henrik's voice grew bitter. "The soldiers killed everyone, except for the twins, whom they had arrested, accused of cannibalism, and dragged back to Kemet."

"When the twins arrived in Kemet, they truthfully answered all the questions about spirits and gods put to them by the Queen. That her Gods were merely made-up names, and the spirits did not care about human beliefs or politics, they just liked their songs and prayers. Nothing more. However, as their answers did not fit with Akasha's beliefs, they were labeled as blasphemers and were thrown into jail. The next morning, the Queen asked the same questions to them once more. In a bid to prove their power, Mekare called on a mischievous and evil spirit named Amel, against the wishes of her sister. When the spirit started throwing the necklace of her buried and dead mother, it terrified the queen and her husband, King Enkil, and the twins were thrown into jail again for three nights. Akasha and Enkil were worried the spirits would be set loose on them if they harmed the witches, but the priests wanted the two sisters dead."

"So instead, the King offered the twins a choice. Renounce their claims about them having any power and be punished before the court, if any evil demon should manifest himself and seek to abuse the just worshipers of Ra or Osiris, then their pardon should be revoked and they should be put to death at once. So as was the custom, they were treated as slaves and prisoners and were raped by the King's steward, Khayman, in front of the whole court."

"The twins eventually returned to their homeland. But the spirit Amel remained in Kemet, furious at the humiliation of the twins. He pestered the king and queen day and night, throwing and knocking things over, driving the pair mad. And it just so happened that the opposition to Akasha and Enkil was always strong amongst cannibalists, mostly by those who practiced ritual cannibalism as opposed to savage cannibalism. Knowing that they were the cause of a malevolent spirit oppressing Kemet made the case against them even stronger. One night, a group of nobles sneaked into the palace and stabbed the royal couple multiple times, leaving them both mortally wounded. As Akasha's soul left her body, Amel snatched it, intertwined it with his own, and thrust their combined spirits into her body, making Akasha the world's first vampire. Amel got the one thing most spirits wanted, he was flesh and blood once more."

Lestat's face changed a little by the time the story came to an end. There was a faint evanescent confusion and hesitance in him that made his eyes even deeper in their darkness for an instant. "You are telling me Akasha is possessed by a spirit named Amel," he began, and trailed off, as though he was no longer sure what to think of many things. "And that is why she became an immortal?"

Henrik shook his head and threaded his fingers into his hair. "No, Lesat. I am telling you, all the vampires who have been created ever since possess a fragment of Amel's soul in them. Spirits are vast, like I mentioned, too large to be confined to one or two beings. The core of Amel might have been in Akasha, but every time a vampire grants this dark gift to another human, they have to take their victim to the point of death first, at which point, a part of Amel's soul will attach itself to that deceased spirit and transforms them into this immortal being."

Lestat looked down at his own hands, moving his fingers in wonder and trepidation. "Amel's soul won't influence you directly. But the thirst for blood—that comes from him. Something he grew fond of, even when he was just a pure spirit. It is also why vampire's powers depend on the blood they consume. The spirit of Amel gets diluted as it passes down from one vampire to another. In my world, all vampires have the same strength and abilities, but here... yours vary from who your maker is and how many children he passed his dark gift to."

If his words were meant as a comfort to Lestat, he might as well not have spoken, for all the attention Lestat paid Henrik. Lestat’s expression barely flickered. He was no longer truly listening to Henrik. "Those Who Must Be Kept," he whispered, the words laden with reverence and dread. Henrik blinked in surprise, not expecting Lestat to already heard of the moniker of Akash and Enkil.

"Yes," Henrik said cautiously, "that is what the two are called. You knew of them then," Henrik tries to probe. But Lestat seemed too deep in thought to answer him, obviously absorbed in what he'd said, though the vampire would give no admission of it to him. "Anyway, technically it should be, she who must be kept. Since Amel's core is in Akasha, if she were to die, every vampire sired from her would die along with her, so..."

"So it wasn't a demon." Henrik watched the expressions flitter across Lestat's face. Perplexity. Denial. Then something deeper, more profound, as if a piece of his understanding of the world was being forcefully reconfigured.

"Well, if you want to call the good ones angels and the bad ones demons, sure, whatever suits you best, I guess. But really, no, it's not as grand as anyone imagined," Henrik finished. "Just two egomaniacs who got on the wrong side of a pissed-off spirit."

Suddenly, Lestat broke into uproarious laughter, the kind that was deep and coarse, echoing through the room. Henrik had seen this before—Lestat's laughter, abrupt and out of place, often leaving others bewildered. Louis found it obnoxious, believing Lestat was mocking him or whatever serious matter had been at hand. Henrik watched as the vampire laughed now, his amusement bubbling over into something almost unhinged as if the absurdity of it all—vampires being born not of divine forces but from a simple spirit with a taste for blood—was too much for Lestat to process in any other way.

"What?" Henrik asked, unsure whether to be offended or join in the joke.

Lestat wiped the corner of his eye, his laughter subsiding into a chuckle. "All this time... all these centuries... the vampires are under the belief they were cursed or gifted by gods, demons, or destiny. And now you tell me it's just a spirit who likes blood?" He shook his head, still smirking. "Oh, the irony."

Yeah, Lestat was more unhinged than Uncle Kol, Henrik decides. The Tribrid shrugged, letting the vampire's laughter taper off before adding, "Irony or not, I doubt Louis would appreciate the history lesson. So, I figured it'd be better if I told you first. You can decide whether Louis should hear it and when."

Lestat's amusement cooled, his eyes flickering with something deeper as he regarded Henrik. "Yeah," he said softly, though a shadow of his earlier grin lingered. "I don't think he'd find much comfort in knowing all this, anyway."

"Well, you know your boyfriend better than I do," Henrik says, standing up and stretching.

Lestat glanced at him curiously. "Heading to bed?"

Henrik shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. "No. Thanks to you two vampires, my sleep schedule's completely fucked." The witch sighed, "No. Tonight's a full moon. I need to run in the woods for a bit; to clear my head after these past stressful weeks. It helps me cool off. And I need a cool head for what I am planning."

Lestat raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And what exactly are you planning?"

Henrik's smile turned playful. "It's a surprise, Lestat," he said, walking toward the door. "Too bad you can't read my mind."

Chapter Text

We see deadly sins in every corner of the street and 
we tolerate it because it's common. Because its trivial

Louis couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when Henrik shifted from being a guest to a roommate, and then something more—something like family. It had happened as most quiet, perfect, utterly natural things do: without his even noticing. He had only realized it when he started remembering the little things Henrik mentioned offhandedly. When he could recall the way he took his tea, the books he kept meaning to read, the way his fingers twitched when he spoke about art. Or, maybe, it was when Louis found himself picking up a canvas and paints for Henrik while shopping for gifts for his twin nieces as if it were second nature.

Sometimes, he'd come home late at night to find Henrik sprawled on the couch, fast asleep with a 13th or 15th-century book resting precariously on his chest—one Lestat had gifted him just a week prior on a spontaneous whim. Louis would carefully set the book aside, knowing Lestat would bemoan its ruined state otherwise when he'd come across the sight after his hunt and drape a blanket over the boy before heading upstairs.

A week or two later, he'd find Henrik and Lestat in a heated debate about history, art, or music. Anything. What would begin as a quiet discussion would inevitably escalate into a theatrical shouting match in the living room, Henrik's eyes gleaming like embers and Lestat cursing something colorfully in French.

Lestat's laughter would cut through the room like the bold first note of an aria. "Ah, the arrogance of youth," he would drawl, leaning forward with eyes that gleamed with feigned unimpressed authority. "You criticize what you fail to understand. Opera demands a heart capable of profound feeling. Perhaps yours is still too immature to comprehend it. Clearly, being a spoiled only child has done you no favors."

Henrik, as ever, remained undisturbed by Lestat's caustic outbursts. "Or maybe I'm just not as easily taken in by melodrama masquerading as profundity," he retorted smoothly, his voice laced with quiet amusement. "Opera is inaccessible, obtuse—elitist , really . But Buddy Bolden? Now that’s music with soul. Raw, real, and unpretentious. You might actually learn something, Lestat, if you dared to trade the grandeur of the opera house for the grit of the jazz halls."

Lestat recoiled, looking as if Henrik had asked him to put on a tutu and execute a perfect pirouette. "How precious!" His expression twisted with distaste. "Very noble of you to defend simplicity—desperate to democratize beauty, even. But some things aren't meant for everyone , clearly . Great art requires great taste, a rare quality, I fear. If you think opera fails, it's not the art that's flawed—it's the audience."

Henrik flopped down onto the piano bench and stretched out his long legs, his smirk widening. "How convenient for the artist to blame the audience," he mused dryly. "Art is meant to connect people, yet opera seems designed to pander to an audience that wants to feel sophisticated without actually engaging with the music itself . It's all surface-level. Noise and theatrics masquerading as depth. Perhaps that's what you love about it —the spotlight." His gaze flickered with mock understanding. "Ah! I see it now," raising his palm outward as he observes the blonde vampire before him. "It's the theater kid in you , isn't it? All that pomp, all those dramatics sung at an octave bordering on the absurd. You must see yourself reflected in it."

Louis, seated quietly in the corner with a book, glanced up at their exchange, lips twitching in barely concealed amusement. "I guess I can see what you mean about the melodrama," he murmured, finally breaking his silence. His voice carried the faintest trace of a tease.

Lestat turned on him instantly, aghast. "You're insufferable," he declared, his hard, eternal vampire's face momentarily collapsing into very human frustration. "And ignorant ." He bared his fangs at Henrik, far too riled up to see that the boy was merely enjoying the act of goading him. "Just another thoughtless, shallow being. You irritate me. You both do. Your very presence irritates me!"

With an exaggerated gasp, he pressed a hand to his chest, feigning distress, "Oh, how will I ever go on, knowing I've shattered your delicate sensibilities, Lestat? Truly, I might perish from the sheer guilt."

"Ah!" Lestat stormed out of the house with one last dramatic outburst, his voice echoing down the street. Henrik barely waited for the door to slam shut before letting out a triumphant chuckle, eyes gleaming with amusement.

Louis sighed, shaking his head, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed any real reproach. "Must you always provoke him so?"

Henrik smirked, stretching out lazily against the piano. "If he didn't take the bait every single time, I wouldn't bother. But it's just too easy." He let out a chuckle. "Besides, it's funny how someone so ancient can still be so petulant."

Louis huffed a soft laugh, shutting his book with a gentle thud. "One of these days, you two are going to be the death of each other. I wouldn't be surprised to walk in and find one of you actually dead in the parlor."

Henrik tilted his head in exaggerated thought before flashing a grin. "Nah. Not a chance. Even if he storms off like I've just insulted the very essence of his existence, Lestat would be miserable without someone to argue with. Still, if it ever comes to that, bet on me. I'd at least make sure I'm the one left standing—though, truth be told, I've grown far too fond of him to truly finish the job . Just enough to keep him on edge, maybe."

Louis sighed, shaking his head, though amusement flickered in his gaze. "Well, do me a favor and refrain if it ever comes to that. I'd rather not live my immortality caught between avenging one and mourning the other." He shut his book with a decisive snap, though the warmth in his gaze softened the words.

When Lestat finally returned to their bedroom later that night, his scowl was still firmly in place. He crossed his arms, pacing just a little before muttering. "He's absolutely insufferable. How dare he call opera boring?"

Louis stretched comfortably in his coffin, merely hummed in response, extending his arms toward Lestat in silent invitation. With an exaggerated huff, Lestat abandoned his pacing and all but collapsed into Louis's embrace, still grumbling under his breath. Louis ran a soothing hand down his back, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Two days later, Louis and Henrik found themselves being dragged—against the boy's many protests—to the opera house, Lestat muttering something about proper education and uncultured brats . Louis, ever the long-suffering spectator, simply followed with a knowing smile.

Four days later, Henrik somehow—Louis had no idea where he managed to get his hands on the money for it—dragged both him and Lestat to a packed club in the heart of New Orleans, where King Oliver was playing, his own dramatic retaliation against the opera ordeal. Lestat scoffed the moment they stepped inside, eyeing the lively, smoke-filled room with barely concealed disdain, but Henrik only smirked, whispering, "Just wait, you'll be tapping your foot in no time."

And he did tap—begrudgingly at first, then with something dangerously close to enjoyment, before insisting, still, "Opera is still far superior." Louis sighed in the back, realizing this had now become a game, a ridiculous, petty, and entirely entertaining war of one-upmanship that neither of them would surrender anytime soon. He wouldn't say anything to Lestat, of course, but between the two, he'd take jazz over opera any night. At least with jazz, he didn't have to play the role of Lestat's valet just for daring to exist in the same room.

The gaslights flickered above, casting long, restless shadows onto the damp cobblestones as Henrik and Louis strolled through the quiet streets of New Orleans. The scent of magnolias and river mist clung to the air, mingling with the distant notes of a jazz band playing in some late-night parlor.

"Your companions are a bunch of racist pigs," Henrik said flatly after they parted ways with Alderman and Tom. His voice carried a sharp edge, a quiet fury that hadn't dulled even after they'd walked a few blocks away. "No wonder Lestat calls you a saint, Louis. I would've set them on fire if I'd been forced to endure another second of their company."

It was the first time Henrik had asked to accompany Louis of his own accord. Apparently, he'd been struggling with a magical block and, after some thought, had wondered aloud if a change of scenery might help. And so, here they were.

Louis let out a slow breath. There was a reason he'd cut the meeting short with a vague excuse. Alderman's distasteful remarks hadn't surprised him—the man had never liked that Louis refused to accept the place the world had assigned him and aimed for more. Tom, on the other hand, was just as he always was: casually dismissive, wrapped in the entitlement of someone who had never needed to consider the weight of his words. That was simply how things were—how they had always been.

Henrik had picked up on it immediately, with an awareness even Lestat often lacked—the subtle insults wrapped in pleasantries, the way compliments carried an edge, like "You're quite sharp for a Black man." Lestat often found such remarks and prejudices tedious, but he couldn't completely ignore them, especially when it came to Louis— and if Louis had ever brought up his frustrations, Lestat would have simply offered to tear out their throats and be done with it, as if that were a solution.

Henrik, however, felt it. Took it as a slight to himself, than a slight to Louis. He caught every condescending glance, every backhanded compliment laced with quiet derision, and unlike Lestat, who met injustice with arrogance or violence, Henrik seethed —like a storm brewing on the horizon, and he wasn't shy about calling them out on it either. The first time he did it, it had surprised Louis as much as his other business partners. There was no hesitation, no carefully measured silence—just a blunt, unfiltered bite.

Louis could see how Henrik seemed to weigh sharper insults as the night went on, his lips pressing into a thin line, but ultimately decided it wasn't worth the effort when Louis caught his hand in warning. Still, the Creole vampire didn’t miss the flicker of satisfaction in Henrik's eyes when, not two steps later, Alderman stumbled down the stairs. A quiet thrill ran through Louis at the boy's audacity. He sent him a reproachful look, but Henrik only arched a brow, utterly unrepentant.

"It's maddening. Watching them talk to you like that. People shouldn't get away with things just because they have the right skin. You should've let me set them on fire," Henrik muttered after a beat, kicking a loose stone down the street. "Just a little. Singe a sleeve. Burn an eyebrow off or two."

Louis huffed a quiet laugh, though the heaviness in his chest remained. "You'd be setting a lot of fires in this town and tripping a lot of men if that were your response to every slight."

Henrik scoffed. "If that's what's needed, sure. Because you don't deserve that . None of you do." His voice was quiet but firm, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "Maybe we should start a revolution while we're at it. Black Lives Matter."

Louis' steps slowed for just a moment, his gaze flickering toward Henrik, searching his face. There was no jest in his tone, no hint of the dry humor he often used to mask his frustrations. Just conviction, raw and unshaken.

"Black Lives Matter," Louis echoed as if testing the words on his tongue. They felt like something sacred.

Henrik let out a short breath, shaking his head. "Yeah. They should. They always should have." He gave a humorless chuckle, glancing up at the gaslights. "And yet, a hundred years from now, people still have to say it. Still have to fight to prove it."

Louis inhaled deeply, letting the damp air of the city settle in his lungs. He'd spent so long learning when to hold his tongue, when to bite down his burning anger, and when to walk away. Henrik didn't have that instinct. He wasn't made for quiet endurance. He probably never needed to.

"Then maybe," Louis murmured, "it's a fight that never ends."

Henrik's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then maybe," he countered, "it's a fight worth never giving up."

There was something both exhausting and exhilarating about Henrik's certainty. He wished he could hold onto that conviction, that unwavering belief that the fight could be won. But he had seen too much, lost too much, to believe in easy victories.

"I know what you're thinking. That it's just the way things are, that it's easier to walk away, to endure. That's what they expect, right?" His gaze met Louis's as he went on, his voice intense and unwavering. "But fuck that. Let them choke on their expectations."

Louis huffed a quiet laugh, but it lacked humor. Years worth of bitterness simmered beneath it. "Easy to say when you're the one setting fires and tripping men on staircases."

"Yeah? And what about you?" Henrik challenged. "You've been fighting this fight longer than I've been alive, Louis. You built something for yourself in a world that wanted you on your knees. You're not passive. You never were. You just learned to pick your battles."

Louis looked away, lips pressing into a thin line. He had picked his battles . Had chosen silence when words would have cost him everything. Chosen restraint when the weight of his anger could have drowned him. He had done what was necessary to survive, to thrive. But Henrik, with all his sharp edges and righteous fury, had a different kind of fire in him—one that didn't know how to smolder, only to burn.

"You don't understand," Louis said finally , voice softer now. "You come from a future where they have words for it. Movements. Marches. White people like you who stand in the corner for Black folk, who call it what it is and raise hell about it." He exhaled, shaking his head. "But here? It's just the way things are. You push too hard, and you disappear. You know how many men I've seen vanish for asking for less than what I have?"

Henrik's expression darkened. "And you know how many people in my time still disappear? How many still die, even after all the fighting, after all the protests?" His voice dropped lower, raw and unguarded. "The world doesn't just fix itself, Louis. And if you don't fight for what's right, they win. Every time."

"You say that now," Louis murmured. "But what happens when you realize that some fights don’t get won?"

Henrik's jaw tensed. "Then we fight anyway."

There was no doubt in the boy's voice, no hesitation. He had the fire of someone who had seen too much, the certainty of someone who had seen a world Louis could barely imagine—a world that had given names to battles Louis had been fighting in silence his whole life. A part of him wanted to tell Henrik that he didn't understand, that he couldn't understand—not truly. That time didn't change the weight of chains, only the way they were fastened. But another part of him, a quieter part, envied that certainty.

"And when they come for you?" Louis asked, voice low. "When they drag you from your home, when they put a gun to your head, when they remind you that the world will not bend just because you want it to?"

Henrik didn't flinch. He didn't look away. "Then I burn it down."

Louis exhaled, something like a laugh but too hollow to be real. He shook his head, looking away toward the Mississippi, where the water gleamed under the moonlight, stretching on and on like it had always been there, like it always would be.

"You sound like Lestat," he murmured.

Henrik scoffed. "Pretty sure I'm less of an asshole than your boyfriend."

That made Louis smile, just a little. "Yeah...I am still not sure about that one yet."

Henrik smirked, but his expression soon shifted into something more thoughtful as moments passed by . "Man, I wondered how Marcel handled all this shit and still came out with that thousand-watt smile." The boy said in a low, contemplative voice.

Louis blinked, caught off guard. "Who's Marcel?"

It was rare for Henrik to bring up his family, usually only mentioning his aunt and uncles in passing—never lingering, never offering more than necessary. Especially, after the ritual that had confirmed what he already suspected: he could never go back to his world.

While he looked fine on the surface—smiling, practicing, tinkering with his spells and stones—Louis suspected that speaking about his past life, about the people he had lost, might be like prodding at an old wound. One that hadn't quite healed, no matter how much time or magic he threw at it after only a few months.

"Marcellus. He's my brother. And my uncle? I mean, my father adopted him. He had been born into slavery—his father was the Governor of New Orleans." A fond smile formed on the boy's face as he recounted the story. " Apparently, my dad saw himself in him—a boy beaten and abused. And since no one had ever saved him, I think he felt like he owed it to Marcel to do what hadn't been done for him. So he took him in, named him Marcellus after the god of war, and called him his ' little warrior .'"

Louis studied him for a moment. It was rare for Henrik to talk about his family like this—openly, without restraint. Maybe he hadn't meant to , maybe , the words had just slipped out before he could think better of it. Either way, Louis wasn't about to stop him.

His expression softened, the warmth in his voice betraying just how much Marcel meant to him. "I've never seen anyone take to leadership like he did. He knew how to earn loyalty, and how to make people feel like they belonged. He took all he had learned and made it his own, built his own empire, and eventually rose to be the leader of the vampire faction in New Orleans. And when the time came, he gave it all up to be with Aunt Rebekah. He swore he'd make himself worthy of her, and damn if he didn't do exactly that."

Henrik exhaled as if shaking off the lingering emotions that threatened to settle too deeply. "Anyway, brother or uncle, he's family," he murmured, but there was a rawness beneath his casual tone, something worn at the edges.

Louis studied the boy in the dim light, the shifting branches above casting restless shadows across his face. There was something closed off about his posture, but grief had a way of making itself known, no matter how much someone tried to bury it. "You miss him," Louis said, reading between the lines.

Henrik opened his mouth as if to deny it, then shut it again, his expression flickering between hesitation and something else—something fragile. He swallowed hard. "Yeah," he admitted, so quietly that Louis wouldn't have caught it if he wasn't a vampire. His fingers curled into his sleeves, a barely-there motion, like he was grounding himself. "I haven't talked to him in a long time. He always liked it when I'd send him little handwritten messages with magic— said it made his day better. I miss him." A small, wistful smile played at his lips before it faltered. "I miss them ."

"You could try sending one now," Louis offered, unsure how to comfort him. "Maybe magic will help reach him. Who knows? It's magic, after all."

Henrik let out a breathy huff, but there was no amusement in it. "I doubt it," he muttered. He kicked at a loose stone, watching it skitter away before adding, "Even if I could, he probably wouldn't realize it's from me. Probably wouldn't believe it even."

Louis frowned. "Why?"

Henrik hesitated, then sighed. "The sacrifice I made to destroy Malivore—it doesn't just take you away. It erases you. Your entire existence would be wiped clean as if you were never there in the first place. No one remembers me." His voice was even, but there was a hollowness behind it, an ache that sat just beneath his skin.

Louis didn't know what to say to that. He barely understood magic, let alone magic powerful enough to erase someone from history itself . Lestat had called him a Tribrid—a witch, a werewolf, and a vampire, though not fully a vampire, even though he had technically died . But had the blood of a vampire running in his veins, which is only possible because his father was both a vampire and a werewolf.

Louis wasn't sure how that worked.

He wasn't sure how a lot of things worked when it came to the boy.

He doubted Lestat did either.

A silence stretched between them, thick with ghosts of things neither of them could change. Then Louis smirked, tilting his head in an attempt to cheer the boy. "Well then, want to help me send one to Alderman? Seems like a real waste not to use something so useful."

Henrik blinked at him, caught off guard for a moment, before letting out a short, genuine laugh—something lighter, something unburdened, if only for a second. "Oh, we are going to get along just fine, Louis," he said, a grin curling at the edges of his lips. "I can already imagine the aneurysm Lestat would have if we teamed up."

And it was true—they had grown closer after that night. Not that they hadn't been before. Henrik had already wormed his way into Louis's life in the way only someone like him could—effortlessly, without asking for permission, as if he'd always belonged there.

But after that conversation, something shifted. There was an unspoken understanding between them now, something steady and quiet. Because Louis realized, it was easy with Henrik. Despite the chasm of years between them, despite coming from different times, there were things they both understood—losses that never quite healed, burdens that never truly lightened. And in that understanding, there was comfort.

Unlike Lestat.

Lestat, who filled silences with music, laughter, and grand declarations. Who would wage war against grief as if it were an enemy to be conquered rather than something to be carried. Who had and will always refuse to acknowledge the weight of things unless it served his performance.

Henrik was different. He didn't demand that pain be turned into poetry or spectacle. He didn't try to shape it into something beautiful or make it more bearable. He simply let it be.

And maybe that was why, despite everything, Louis found himself seeking the boy's company more often. Because, unlike Lestat, Henrik understood that sometimes, the past wasn’t a story you told—it was just something you lived with.

And just when Louis had resigned himself, when he had convinced himself that it was enough—that he could endure a world of isolation, finding solace only in the company of Lestat and Henrik, content with their quiet routines—Henrik offered them something far more profound than companionship or an attentive ear. He presented them with an amulet against daylight. A stunning ring, its design delicate yet powerful, capable of shielding them from the suffocating embrace of the golden afternoon sun, sparing them from crumbling to dust beneath its unforgiving rays.

It all started one morning when Henrik knocked on their door with an urgency that immediately caught both vampires off guard. Louis, halfway through changing into his night clothes , paused mid-motion, his brow furrowing in confusion as he registered the sudden interruption. His eyes, heavy from the dawn's pull, blinked in the fading light of the rising sun. Henrik's unexpected presence yanked his mind into a sharper focus, dragging him out of his drowsy stupor. Lestat, ever the epitome of cool composure, remained unfazed. He leaned casually against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised in silent curiosity .

Henrik's usual calm demeanor was replaced with an almost frantic energy as he stood at the threshold, his hand still resting on the doorframe.

"Okay, look," he said quickly, his voice rushing out in a flurry of excitement, "I know you nocturnal types have your, uh, sleep cycles and all that, but can you just manage to stay awake a bit longer? I need your help with something important, and it can't wait."

Louis blinked at him, still half-dazed from the sleepiness that crept in with the daylight. "You want us to stay awake?" he asked, his voice slow, a slight frown forming as he rubbed his eyes. "Henrik, do you realize how impossible that is right now?" He knew well enough that Lestat, with his centuries of experience, could fight the call of the sun, but he—Louis, still young by vampire standards—wasn't so lucky. The sunlight's pull was strong, and every passing minute made his eyelids heavier.

"What is it about anyway, that we can't do in the evening?" Lestat asked, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and impatience.

"I know, I know. Louis is young and he needs to go to sleep. But I wouldn't bother you if it weren't important. I promise it will only take a few minutes and yes, it needs to be now, when the sun is coming up." He shifted on his feet, his urgency apparent. I'm testing something —a spell from my world. But I think I've tweaked it enough to match with your... world's magic. I need your help to see if I worked out all the kinks, though."

Louis and Lestat exchanged a wary look, then, after a beat, Lestat sighed and gave a theatrical roll of his eyes. "Fine, we'll bite. At least tell us what this is about if we're going to end up being your obligatory guinea pigs. Is it some sort of glowing magic? Or are we about to explode in a cloud of smoke?" His voice was laced with sarcasm, but there was a hint of amusement underneath.

"Well, it neither. Remember the daylight rings I was talking about?" Lestat nodded in acknowledgment, his curiosity piqued as he followed Henrik around the house. The older vampire's eyes glinted with intrigue now, his usual skepticism tempered by the promise of something new. Louis, however, still struggled to fight the effects of the rising sun, tilting his head in confusion. Henrik noticed the younger vampire's blank expression when he turned his head slightly and quickly picked up the pace to explain as they crossed another corridor. "Vampires in my world have this amulet that works against daylight. Without one of those direct exposure to the sun will kill them. But of course, since it was my grandmother who created vampires, she also created the necessary spell to work around it."

Louis blinked, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as Henrik's words sank in. A grandmother powerful enough to create an entire species? His mind was racing now, trying to piece together the implications of such a revelation. No wonder Henrik seemed so confident in his abilities—if his power was anything close to what his grandmother had —a power so profound it bordered on myth.

He glanced at Lestat, who wore a knowing smirk. Of course, the older vampire knew. The two of them had spent countless hours together, dissecting every aspect of magic, the occult, and the nature of their existence. If anyone would’ve been able to pick up on Henrik's potential, it was Lestat.

Louis blinked as the realization began to settle in. "Wait," he said, his voice softening with disbelief. "Henrik. Are you telling me... you're working on creating these amulets to work for us? For us ?" A flicker of hope gripped him, rising quickly in his chest. The thought of being able to walk freely under the sun—something he had long since accepted as an impossibility—seemed suddenly within reach. His breath hitched at the possibility, a strange sense of wonder replacing the weariness that had settled in his bones.

"Well, yes. That's the plan," Henrik shrugged, his nonchalance making it seem like such a feat was hardly a challenge for him—more like an inevitable step in his work. As if reaching for the impossible was simply part of the process. "I've kinda got to know what I can from Lestat about this world, about your kind, your strengths and weaknesses, and the nature and magic behind it. So I've been tweaking the magic to match the essence of your world, your powers."

His eyes were sharp, calculating, yet distant, as though guarding himself against any hope that might slip through. Louis understood that feeling very well— it was a mix of wariness and curiosity, a careful balance of hope tempered with doubt. He could feel the weight of Henrik's words, but his instincts screamed caution.

Louis' thoughts briefly drifted back to something Lestat had once told him about hope. That sometimes, there was nothing more cruel than it. Hope had a way of driving a person to the edge, of making them reach for something they could never fully grasp, only to leave them hanging, uncertain, waiting for something that might never come to fruition. The thought had lingered with him, a reminder of the dangers of believing too much, too quickly.

"And, I think I have got it," Henrik continued, oblivious or simply unfazed by their skepticism as he led them into the sunroom. The morning light slanted in through the windows, gilding the space in warm gold, though neither Louis nor Lestat dared step too close. They lingered in the shadows, watching Henrik with the wary patience of predators unused to trusting anything beyond their own instincts.

Henrik placed a hand on the table before them. Spread across the smooth surface was an array of gemstones, each one glinting softly, their hues ranging from deep blues and greens to obsidian black and dusky purples. They pulsed faintly, as if alive with the magic he had woven into them.

"Just to be safe, I've prepared a few options," he continued, his excitement barely contained, like a kid who wanted to show off. He gestured toward the stones. "In my world, vampires have long used Lapis Lazuli for daylight protection. But I've come to realize there are alternatives—some that might be even more suited to your kind."

Louis glanced at Lestat, who merely arched a brow, unimpressed but listening.

Henrik reached for a sleek, black crystal first. "This is Black Kyanite," he explained. "It's known for severing energy ties—cutting through illusions, breaking curses. In my world, it's mostly used by werewolves to control their transformations, letting them access their full strength without the moon’s interference. But its properties align well with protection against external forces—like the sun. It might hold."

He moved on, fingers brushing against a polished, greenish-blue stone.

"Malachite and Azurite," Henrik continued, tapping the vibrant minerals. "These stones have been used in magical practices for centuries, long before my kind started crafting daylight rings. They were native to Egypt—just like Lapis Lazuli—and were believed to connect the living with the divine. They were used in rituals to protect the soul, enhance perception, and guard against dark forces. Your kind"—his gaze flickered briefly to Louis—"has roots older than mine. There's a chance these will resonate more with you."

Louis exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. Lestat, for all his usual bravado, remained silent. Henrik finally straightened, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off tension. "Anyway, it took me some time to gather them all, but I've cast the necessary enchantments to protect you from sunlight and all the variables that come along with it. So, If I'm right, with these, you'll be able to walk in daylight like any normal, living human. But there's only one way to know for sure." He glanced between them, a smirk tugging at his lips. "So…who's feeling brave?"