It had been one of those evenings where patience felt like a fragile thing in Lestat’s hands. You’d started fussing again, for reasons he couldn’t quite make sense of. Something small, perhaps, or something that felt enormous to you. The kind of thing children always found a way to cry over.

He stood a few feet away at first, pale and tense in the dim light of the sitting room. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face as your wailing continued. He tried once, twice, to reason with you, but the words came out too sharp, too clipped, the way they did when his control slipped just slightly.

“Enough,” he said at last, voice low but firm, and you could feel that strange pressure in the air that always came when he stopped pretending to be entirely human. His eyes caught the light in a way that made them seem too bright, too still. He took a slow step forward, not entirely angry... but tired, too aware of his own strength and how easily it could frighten you.

When he reached you, his hands were cool as they steadied your shoulders. “Breathe,” he said, there was steel under the word. You hiccuped, cried harder, and something flickered in his expression. Impatience.

He exhaled through his nose and pressed his thumb gently to your chin, tilting your face up toward him. “Do not scream like that, little one.” His voice was acuminate, quieter now, but the edge in his tone lingered. His attempt at softening didn’t quite land.

“Tant de bruit pour rien.”