Free Blood and Gold by Anne Rice

as if the terrible battle was over. He had confessed his wrath and it was gone, and he sat still and simple near the fire, the warrior no longer. Such was the magic of words, he thought.
    Then memory came again. Six centuries ago. He was in the cave, and could see the flicker of the firelight. He was bound and couldn’t move. She lay beside him, peering down into his eyes and whispering to him. He couldn’t remember those words, because they were part of something larger and more terrible, something as strong as the threads that bound him.
    He could break those threads now. He could cut loose of the memories and lodge himself firmly in this room. He could look at Marius.
    He gave a long slow sigh.
    “But return to your tale, if you will,” he asked. “Why after the Queen was destroyed, and after the twins were gone, why then didn’t you reveal your rage to the blood drinker Lestat, why didn’t you take your vengeance? You’d been betrayed! And disaster had followed upon it.”
    “Because I wanted to love him still,” said Marius, as though he had long known the answer, “and I wanted to be loved, and I could not forfeit my place as the wise and patient one, as I’ve said. Anger is too painful for me. Anger is too pathetic. I cannot bear it. I cannot act upon it.”
    “Wait for one moment,” said Thorne. “Say this again?”
    “Anger is too pathetic,” Marius repeated. “It’s too much at a disadvantage always. I can’t act upon it. I can’t make it mine.”
    Thorne gestured for quiet. He sat back considering, and it seemed a cold air settled on him in spite of the fire.
    “Anger is weak,” Thorne whispered. It was a new idea to him. In his mind anger and rage had always been akin. And rage had seemed something akin to Wodin’s fury. One summoned rage before going into battle. One welcomed rage into one’s heart. And in the ice cave, he had let an old rage awaken him.
    “Anger is as weak as fear,” said Marius. “Can either of us endure fear?”
    “No,” said Thorne. “But you’re speaking of something inside you that’s heated and strong.”
    “Yes, there is something brutal and hurt inside of me, and I wander alone, refusing the cup of anger, choosing silence rather than angry words. And I come upon you in the North land, and you’re a stranger to me, and I can bare my soul to you.”
    “Yes, that you can do,” said Thorne. “For the hospitality you have given me, you can tell me anything. I will never break your trust, that I promise. No common words or songs will ever come from me. Nothing can make such a thing happen.” He felt his voice grow strong as he spoke. It was because he was honest in what he said. “What has become of Lestat? Why is he silent now? I hear no more songs or sagas from him.”
    “Sagas, ah yes, that’s what he wrote, sagas of our kind,” said Marius and again he smiled, almost brightly. “He suffers his own terrible wounds,” said Marius. “He’s been with angels, or with those beings who claim to be such and they have taken him to Hell and to Heaven.”
    “You believe these things?”
    “I don’t know. I can tell you only he wasn’t on this Earth while these creatures claim to have had him. And he brought back with him a bloody Veil with the Face of Christ quite beautifully blazoned upon it.”
    “Ah, and this you saw?”
    “I did,” said Marius, “as I have seen other relics. It was to see this Veil and to go into the sun and die that our Druid priest Mael was nearly taken from us.”
    “Why didn’t Mael die,” asked Thorne. He couldn’t conceal his own emotion when he said this name.
    “He was too old for such a thing,” said Marius. “He was badly burnt and brought low, as can happen with those of us who are very old, and after one day in the sun, he hadn’t the courage for more suffering. Back to his companions he went and there he remains.”
    “And you? Will you tell me now with your full heart; do you truly despise him for what