Foster Fledgling
Chapter Six
Louis was stunned. Before he could think of any words of comfort, François broke down completely, and great wracking sobs shook his slight frame. Louis sat up, and gathered François into his lap like a small child, holding him tightly.
François made an attempt to pull away, shaking his head violently. "No! Don't be nice to me!" he cried. "You shouldn't be so good to me, I'm a killer! I killed that guy tonight, he never did nothing to me, and I killed him, and I don't even feel sorry about it!"
Louis refused to turn him loose, and after a few more moments of futile struggling, François gave up and clung to him. Louis began rocking him slightly, murmuring soothing words in the patois of his youth, stroking François's hair, patting his back. Slowly, the sobbing subsided. By now, the film had finished, and Louis idly picked up the remote, shutting down the equipment. The room grew quiet, save for the soft weeping of the child and the few, silent tears of the man.
Physical comfort, that much Louis could give, and easily enough. But how could he provide any answer that would give comfort to François's soul? How could he, who knew his own nightly actions to be evil, his very existence to be evil, how could he reassure this child of a salvation in which he himself had no faith?
Well, if he'd learned nothing else from his years with Armand, he had at least learned how to disguise a bitter truth with an acceptable, if unsatisfactory, falsehood, or at the very least, a more palatable half-truth.
"François, you cannot go to Hell unless you die, and you cannot die." Louis reached up to his own face, and discreetly wiped away the dampness on his cheeks. "Your body died when you were made a vampire, and that is the only death you will ever know."
"But, Louis," François protested. "What we do is wrong, it's dead wrong! Thou shalt not kill? Remember that? The Ten Commandments, it says it right in the Bible. We learned that in first grade, it's wrong to kill. It's a mortal sin."
"Yes, that's what it says," Louis agreed. He paused, thinking furiously. Suddenly, a thought occurred, a dim glimmer of an idea forming. "But, then, we are not mortal, are we?"
"We're not?"
"No," Louis said, the glimmer getting a bit brighter. "We are immortal, we will live forever. That's what I meant, you will never know death. You are immortal." He breathed a sigh of relief.
"I don't think that's what it means," François said, reaching up to wipe his eyes. "And anyway, it's still wrong to kill."
So much for a quick answer. Louis shook his head. He should have known better, he told himself. It was what Daniel would call a "smart-ass" answer. For that matter, he would have said the same; he would never have accepted such an answer from Lestat.
"What about suicide, François?" Louis asked, another idea forming. "Suicide is a mortal sin as well, isn't it?" François nodded. "If you do not kill, you will starve to death-"
"I thought you said I can't die," François interjected. "You just said -"
"Yes, I know," Louis sighed. He reached up with his free hand to rub his own forehead. "Under normal circumstances, you won't die. But if you do not feed, you will die. And that will be by your own hand, won't it?"
"Yeah, I guess so," François replied, chewing on his lower lip. He looked off into the middle distance, thinking.
Louis felt an argument forming, and was surprised that he had not thought of it before. "If you choose not to eat, that is no different than putting a knife to your wrist or a gun to your head. Taking your own life is the same, no matter the means."
"Okay, so that would be suicide," François admitted. "But what difference does that make?"
"François," Louis said evenly, trying to recall the catechism he'd learned over two centuries before. "Tell me, if someone comes at you with a gun, and tries to kill you, would it be murder to kill him?"
"Uh, no," François shook his head. "That would be, what do you call it, self defense. Yeah, like on cop shows, it's self defense. But, that guy wasn't trying to kill me, he -"
"Shh." Louis put a finger on François's lips. "I'm not finished yet." François scowled, but kept quiet. Louis continued. "So, it is acceptable to kill if it means your own survival, yes?"
"Can I talk now?" François asked petulantly.
"Yes, now. Just answer the question, though," Louis cautioned. He smiled slightly. François was no longer tearful, and his usual buoyant cheekiness was beginning to creep back to the fore. This was a very good sign.
"Yeah, you can kill in self defense, but -"
"Self defense meaning your own survival?"
"Well, yeah."
"Then, how can it be a sin for you to kill, since it means your own survival?" Louis was rather pleased with himself, he'd never been very good at rhetoric, yet here he was presenting a bit of logic of which even Marius could approve.
"But, Louis, we don't have to kill people, do we?"
Louis froze. "Well . . ."
"In your book, you said -"
"Yes, yes, I know," Louis said, irritably. "That damned book again! But drinking from animals, it isn't good for you. It's like . . ." He searched for a comparison from mortal life. "It's the same as if you ate nothing but sweets, as a mortal I mean. You could survive, but you would not be healthy."
"Oh," François replied, his voice small. "You're mad at me, ain't you?"
"Aren't," Louis corrected. "And no, I am not angry with you." He gave him a comforting squeeze. "I'm sorry if you thought I was. I only want to make you understand."
"S'okay," François replied, his voice still betraying an uneasiness. Louis kissed François on his forehead. This brought a small smile, and Louis responded with one of his own.
"That's better," he said. He gave François a curious look. "You question everything, don't you?"
"Yeah, that's what my mom's boyfriend always said," François shrugged. "He said it'd just get me into trouble."
"That's not true," Louis objected. "Questions are a sign of intelligence. Only a very stupid man has no questions." He ruffled François's hair. It was a familiar refrain to him, after all. 'Why must you ask so many damned questions?' Lestat had demanded it of him constantly, back in the early days. "Ah, Lestat, I never knew how right you were," Louis said, under his breath.
"Huh?"
"Oh, nothing. Where was I?" Louis thought a moment. "Oh, yes. We kill to survive, that is all. If we don't kill, we die. Every living thing must kill to survive, whether it's animals, or plants. All life is based upon death, ultimately." He gave François another squeeze. "It is not pleasant, but it is true. That's how life is, sometimes."
"But, Louis," François said. "I don't want to kill people. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I can't even look at a squirrel that's been hit without getting sick." He put his head in his hands. "How can I do what I did tonight, and I don't even feel bad about it?"
"You do feel badly about it, though," Louis said gently. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be so upset now, would you?"
François thought about this for a long moment. "No, I guess not. But I didn't feel bad before. I mean," he crawled off Louis's lap, and began walking nervously around the room, "in the church, I didn't even ask forgiveness. I killed a guy, and went right into a church, and all I could think was 'Wow, that was good. Thanks, God, for a good meal.' Like Thanksgiving or something! I mean," he turned around, and faced Louis again. "What kind of freak am I? What kind of . . . monster does that?"
"A vampire," Louis said, quietly. "That is the kind of monster you are, the kind I am. That is our lot in life, mon cher. I wish I could make it different for you, but I cannot." He rose, and went to François's side, putting an arm around his shoulders once more. "If I could undo this for you, make you a mortal boy again, I would. But, there is no way. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. This is your life now. You must . . . you must accept it, for it is all you have."
François was quiet for a long time. "I never wanted this," he said, finally. "I never asked for it. Nobody ever asked me, neither, as far as I know."
"You were trapped," Louis said, thoughtfully. He, too, was silent for a moment, an idea again flickering into being in his mind, an answer so wonderfully simple, yet irrefutable, even by François's parochial standards. "You were born to darkness entirely against your will; a child born of a rape. The child cannot be held accountable for the sins of the parents." He gently turned François about to face him, and put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "François, you did not choose this life. You did not choose the life of a killer. If there is no conscious decision to commit sin, there is no sin. You cannot help what you must do to survive. You are no more guilty than a cat is guilty for killing a mouse." He looked straight into François's eyes, emerald meeting gray. "The sin was not yours. The only sin was in taking - stealing your life. You had no choice - you have no choice now."
"I don't have no choice?" François asked. "None at all?"
"No, mon cher," Louis shook his head. "If you want to go on living, you must kill."
François was silent once more, his eyes never wavering, as if he were peering directly into Louis's soul, sounding the depths of his conviction. Finally, he took a deep, shuddering breath.
"I don't want to die," he said. "I didn't ask for this, but I don't want to die. I'm only fifteen years old, I haven't even started to live yet, I can't die." He nodded firmly. "Okay. Okay."
"Good," Louis breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you understand. You have nothing to fear, not from mortals, and not from God." He reached up and pushed the hair out of François's face. "You are a good boy, François, you have a good heart. And you will not die. I won't allow it."
Louis was relieved that his arguments had succeeded. He was actually surprised to find that he himself could not easily refute what he'd told François. It was true, the child had committed no sin, at least, nothing to warrant the hellish existence he'd been handed. Whomever had stolen his young life deserved the worst punishment possible, especially considering the suffering that François had already endured. But, just as Louis considered himself damned because of his choice to become a nightly killer, so he was convinced that no loving, just Creator could condemn this child for doing what he must to survive. What was the old saw so beloved by clergy, hauled out at every disaster, funeral, or other instance of the indiscriminate nature of fate? "God never gives us more than we can handle." The words had been different in his mortal life, but the sentiment was the same. Louis had always thought it a load of rubbish, and never more than now; what child could "handle" being murdered, burned, starved, and otherwise tortured? Well, fine, then. If this was somehow the will of God, and it must be, since François had done nothing to bring it about, then François could kill every night, guilt-free, for eternity, with no concern for his soul. In fact, Louis thought with bitter humor, it would probably be a sin to do otherwise.
He wondered if he could locate a news group of theologians, and pose the question to them. Wouldn't that cause a stir! Purely as a moot discussion, of course, nothing but conjecture for academic motives. He would leave it to Lestat to try to frighten them or cause them to question their sanity. He was above that sort of mischief, himself. Totally. Although, it would make for a grand practical joke. But, no.
Ah, well, time enough to debate that later. Right now, he had a young boy who needed his guidance, and the benefit of his extensive maturity.
"Everything is going to be fine, now, François. You just need to learn a few things about our life, and I will teach you everything you need to know. You will live here with me, as long as you like. How does that sound?"
"Oh, Louis!" François threw his arms around Louis, and hugged him tightly. "I think it sounds great. Thank you, thank you!"
Louis returned the embrace, kissing the top of François's head. Then, without warning, he found himself flooded with strong emotions, rushing through his mind in a staggering torrent. Relief, anticipation, fear, hope, sadness, happiness, repulsion, delight, all mixed together and swirled through his mind. It was a kaleidoscope of sound and a cacophony of color. Wave after wave of these wondrously confusing emotions washed over him. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced, yet, it was not entirely unlike the sensations he'd first felt when he'd been born to darkness.
At the same time, Louis also realized that this deluge did not originate with him. He knew, without a doubt, that these marvelous images and sensations came from François, and as immensely gratifying as the sensation was, he had the distinct impression that the boy did not know he was projecting it. Louis didn't care. He had no personal experience with this kind of mental acrobatics, but he knew others who did, and there would be plenty of time for them to instruct François in the art. For now, Louis didn't give a damn about petty things like spell-binding or controlling dark gifts. All that mattered to him right now was holding onto him for dear life. He felt tears running down his face, and he didn't care about that, either. For, shining out above all those jumbled, haphazard, overwhelming emotions, was the most intense feeling of affection he'd ever known, the pure, unconditional love of a child, and the one word, over and over, repeated like a mantra.
Father.
Foster Fledgling - Chapter Seven
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