#albinus

Once, he had been Albinus, a name woven into the golden days of Venice, when laughter spilled through ancient halls and dreams drifted on the salt-tinged breeze. He and his brothers, Amadeo and Riccardo, lived for music, for secrets whispered in candlelight, for the innocent promise of forever. But the Children of Darkness came, and fire tore their world asunder.

The memory of Venice haunted him: marble corridors shrouded in smoke, flames licking tapestries, the shrieks of the lost. He would never forget the vision of Marius, his beloved guardian, engulfed in fire in the grandeur of the palazzo, his agony echoing off cold stone. Terror rooted Albinus in place before it finally sent him running, heart shattered beyond repair.

Armand, then Amadeo, was two years his junior, a cherub in form but wise beyond his years. His beauty was a marvel, wild copper curls, luminous skin, a face as if painted by angels. Yet it was his eyes, deep and dark, that lingered in memory of eyes that held the storm and the calm, alive with innocence and sorrow. Even as a mortal, Armand was an angel walking a world poised on the brink of ruin.

The chaos scattered them all. Riccardo vanished, rumors swirling that he, too, had fallen to the Children’s hunger. Whispers claimed Albinus himself had perished in the carnage, another soul devoured by darkness. Only Vittorio, enigmatic and kind, knew the truth, he had found Albinus in the ruins and bestowed upon him the bittersweet gift of immortality. Hidden away in the Tuscan hills, Albinus became Allie, leaving behind the battered name of his youth.

Centuries unfolded and Paris became his sanctuary, a city of shadows and golden light. Versailles ensnared him with its splendor, its endless mirrors and opulent salons. In the glittering heart of the court, Marie Antoinette herself drew him close, claiming him as her angel in silk, her confidant and secret muse. Together they strolled moonlit gardens and shared confidences beneath whispering fountains, their laughter mingling with the night-blooming roses. He watched her dance in candlelit salons, her joy radiant and reckless, both of them suspended in the fleeting spell of beauty. But history would not be denied. Revolution swept Versailles away, and the queen was lost to the tides of fate. Allie vanished into the Parisian dusk, carrying with him the memory of masked balls and the ache of beauty forever out of reach.

In every age, a new darkness threatened, but nothing compared to the terror of the 1980s, when the Queen herself awoke. Akasha’s fire swept across the world, burning half the immortals to ash as easily as dousing a candle. Allie and Vittorio sat in the shadow of death as the ancient queen peered into their souls. She saw Marius in Allie’s heart, a tidal wave of memories, devotion, and pain and for reasons known only to herself, she passed over them both. Allie survived the inferno, left with the ghost of fire flickering in his mind, the world forever changed.

Beyond all splendor and sorrow, the ache for his brothers remained. Every city’s joy was tinged with longing; each fleeting pleasure a ghost of Riccardo’s laughter and Armand’s gentle curiosity.

Then, hope, a whisper that grew into certainty, confirmed by the Lestat himself. Marius and Armand, both immortal, had survived the inferno. Armand, no longer Amadeo, bore his centuries with grace and mystery, yet still carried the angelic spark cherubic face, copper halo, and those deep, searching eyes.

Now, Allie stood at Trinity Gate, heart trembling with memory and hope. He pressed his pale hand to the rain-dappled door, longing for reunion, for redemption, and for the glimpse of a beloved angelic face, his brother lost and found across five centuries of night.

Under his breath, barely audible, a prayer, a plea, a name from the golden days.

He whispered, “Amadeo.”