[ With her, he sees it all. Contained and distant, a quiet observer of her grief and frustration, her fierce love. The pressure of her fingers as his pulse fluttered and faded beneath them. The smell of his cologne on her skin. He understands the sacrifice and the necromancer's desire to understand what lies ahead. It had been the same for Daniel, the frank confrontation of what he knew awaited him. The bright young journalist caught in the failing cage of his body. Armand had loved and hated him for that foolish bravery.

In return, he offers Parisa something he's offered nobody else: memories of blood in his mouth and Daniel's body dying beneath him. Louis nearby, soothing them both. A loving death, a loving rebirth. And also, Daniel, alive and mortal, on Louis' couch in Dubai, rattling off some noble destruction of their arch vampire drama. A desert sunset beyond the tinted windows, a meal being prepared in the wings. Safe in the world Armand had carefully curated. All of it pretence, but oh, it had been sweet to play the part.

He lingers in the vast silence between them, the endless space that's only a breath apart. ]

I wouldn't change it. Love is painful. [ A flicker, Lestat's face. Blond hair. Cruel, beautiful hands. A stray thought: watching a mortal couple strolling hand-in-hand along the banks of the Seine, centuries ago. An observation: ]

But you gave him an easeful death. A gentle death. You wouldn't let him kill himself.