by Anne Rice
Then he felt others gathered around him. He felt the fabric of their garments, he felt their smooth hands.
And only in the distance could he hear Maharet weeping.
The chains were being put around him. He felt their thick links and knew he could not break loose from them. And being dragged further away, he said nothing.
The blood flowed from his eye sockets. He knew it. And in some quiet empty place he was now bound exactly as he had dreamt of it. Only she wasn't close. She wasn't close at all. He heard the jungle sounds. And he longed for the winter cold, and this place was too warm and too full of the perfume of flowers.
But he would get used to the heat. He would get used to the rich fragrances.
"Maharet," he whispered.
He saw what they saw again, in another room, as they looked at each other, all of them talking in hushed voices of his fate and none fully understanding it. He knew that Marius was pleading for him, and he knew that Maharet whom he saw so vividly through their eyes was as beautiful now as she had been when she made him.
Suddenly she was gone from the group. And they talked in shadows without her.
Then he felt her hand on his cheek. He knew it. He knew the soft wool of her gown. He knew her lips when she kissed him.
"You do have my eyes," he said.
"Oh, yes," she said. "I see wondrously through them."
"And these chains, are they made of your hair?"
"Yes," she answered. "From hair to thread, from thread to rope, from rope to links, I have woven them."
"My weaving one," he said, smiling. "And when you weave them now," he asked, "will you keep me close to you?"
"Yes," she said. "Always."
9:20 p.m. March 19, 2000