| Journal Closed |
[Aug. 3rd, 2008|08:42 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | exhausted | ] |
This journal is now closed. It will remain as an archive only and from now on I will be updating only at Livejournal:
http://jadedcontrition.livejournal.com/ |
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| Truth or Dare - For MeshiaDemoness |
[Apr. 5th, 2008|03:15 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | nostalgic | ] |
Your truth is this: I'm just curious what it is that you loved so much about Claudia. What drew you to her so much?
Claudia is never an easy subject for me to discuss. The mere mention of her name stirs memories which I keep safely locked away and leaves me feeling lost and defeated. Try as I might to leave the past where it belongs, thoughts of her still haunt me as I close my eyes each morning.
I think I loved her the very first moment I saw her, but it was not the same deep and timeless love I still feel for her now. No, this was the love we feel for every life we take - a love that can only come from the intimacy of a vampire’s embrace. I didn’t understand it then. It seemed so terribly wrong that a creature as damned as myself could feel such overwhelming affection. I thought that I should hate her for rousing that dark desire I had suppressed for so many years, but as I held her in my arms and moved my lips over the warm skin of her tiny neck I was certain that my heart would burst from the intensity of the emotions I felt for her.
That she fought death made me love her even more.
Claudia was no normal little girl, and I don’t mean that in the way you might think. Even in the early years following her transformation she did not act like other children I had known. She was quiet and mysterious, rarely speaking but forever listening. Her thirst for knowledge was insatiable and even at little more than six or seven years old, I could talk to her for hours and feel that she had understood every word. She was an amazing creature and I was completely captivated by her innocence, her youth and her beauty, but what drew me to her more than any of those things was the fact that she needed me just as desperately as I needed her.
As the years passed I became more disturbed by her presence, unsettled by the sensual way she moved and the seductive tone of her voice as she whispered the most terrifying things in my ear, but that love never faded. She had become a woman and though I could never give her what she wanted, I continued to provide her with what I felt she needed. I played the part of the doting father, transported her from place to place, buying her whatever she desired, bending to her every whim and away from the prying eyes of the waking world, I played the part of a lover.
I don’t know when I became so dependent on her that I lost all will of my own, but by the time we reached Paris there was nothing she could ask that I would not do. I was her servant in thought, word and deed. I found myself obeying her every command like some puppet on a string, yet I could not hate her for it. I existed only to please her and the distraction she provided was necessary. The pain of my own thoughts was more than I could bear.
Preparing to leave her was the most difficult thing I have ever done. To hear her tell me how much she loathed me was to feel her turning the knife deep within my heart. I loved her enough to realize that I had nothing more to give her. I thought that she would be better off without me and so I let her go. It was love and the need to know that she would be safe that made me grant her final request. I did something I swore I would never do in giving her Madeleine and though a part of myself was lost that night, I was both excited and terrified by the idea of a new life without her.
For a short time in those final weeks, I actually felt as if I had made the right decision. To see them together, vampire mother and demonic daughter, was to catch a glimpse of a word I could never be a part of. There was an understanding between them that Claudia and I had never shared.
I won’t recount the rest of the details here. I can’t. Anyone who might be reading these words knows the tale as well as I. You know how I felt when I came upon that gruesome scene in the air shaft at the Théâtre des Vampires. You know how the heart that once beat only for her turned cold and hard as stone that night and you also know that I still hold myself responsible for it all. The years have changed nothing.
The truth ends here. I have answered the question asked and said all I have to say.
This is no confession. There is no atonement for such an unspeakable sin. This is merely a reaffirmation of a love that has never faded and never will. |
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| Ink on Paper |
[Mar. 14th, 2008|11:55 pm] |
I realize that it's been quite some time since I last updated this virtual journal of mine, but I've been doing things the old fashioned way recently - recording my thoughts in ink on paper as I did years ago, before technology made it possible to do otherwise. I've never been comfortable with sharing my more private reflections in a public setting such as this. For those I keep a small leather bound journal, one of the few possessions I carry with me as I travel from place to place.
Though I cannot understand why my personal recollections and contemplations would be of interest to anyone other than myself, it has been requested that I post them here from time to time and I may do exactly that.
So if you should happen to stumble upon something here that seems as if it was written in another place and at another time, it probably was. |
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| Ancient Magic |
[Nov. 25th, 2007|04:36 am] |
The match has been extinguished and I inhale deeply as the spicy herbal scent fills the room.
Dragon’s Blood incense. I purchased it from Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo a number of years ago and had it shipped from Louisiana with a few of my other belongings shortly after our arrival here. This is not the colorful pieces of exotic resin or even the fragrant powder used in traditional Vodun rituals. It is really nothing more than a few dried sticks in a colorful box, but the familiar aroma always reminds me of her and of the times we have shared.
On this night, one specific memory forms in the swirling smoke.
It was late July of 1999 and David, Lestat, Merrick and myself had nearly finished the laborious task of obliterating all evidence of the lives we had lived in the city of New Orleans. Merrick’s house had been our last stop and she had watched in silence as the three of us destroyed her altars and burned any article of clothing which may have contained the slightest trace of my blood.
I remained focused on the task at hand, not allowing myself to think about the events of the nights before. There was a dull ache in my chest where the jade perforator had pierced my heart, but I couldn’t tell if the pain I still felt was physical or otherwise.
By the time we were through, the house looked as if it has been ransacked by burglars. David had moved on to his study at St. Elizabeth's and Lestat had disappeared into the night - perhaps gone to replenish the vast amount of blood he had lost in bringing me back. Merrick and I were left alone. I didn’t want to talk about all that had happened, so instead I made one final sweep of the rooms.
When I returned to the kitchen, the scent of incense hung thickly in the air and Merrick, illuminated by the flame of one tiny candle, sat barefoot and cross-legged on the floor in front of a tiny makeshift altar. The items before her had been chosen carefully from the ruins of her most personal possessions. Atop a colorful scrap if fabric stood a small statue of Saint Peter with his hands folded in prayer beneath his white beard. Beside him, to her right, sat three ceramic bowls filled with various simple offerings such as tobacco, corn, rice and some type of dried, smoked meat. To her left was a half empty bottle of rum.
“Merrique,” I said softly, “it’s time to go.”
She raised one hand to silence me, but her eyes never left the objects before her. Smoke was rising from a small cast iron pot - the source of the incense - and into this she splashed a few drops of rum. The charcoal sizzled and spat.
"Papa Legba,” She said in an authoritative tone, “open the way for me to pass through."
I stepped back, unsure of what might happen next. This was all far too familiar.
A sudden gust of wind which seemed to originate from no where swept through the room, whipping Merrick’s dark hair about her shoulders and extinguishing the little candle in a puff of smoke. She appeared to be in some sort of trance - wide eyes staring straight ahead. Her body rocked back and forth slightly and her lips moved, but her voice was barely a whisper. She was chanting her prayers in a language I couldn’t recognize or understand.
Hers was an ancient magic.
With a movement quicker than I would have expected from one so new to these preternatural gifts, she drew a small knife from the pocket of her grey dress, flipped it open and slashed the blade across her palm. She held her hand over the pot and squeezed her fingers into a tight fist until her blood joined the rum as a burnt offering to the Loa. The intoxicating scent of it overpowered all else.
I turned away, suddenly overcome by the feeling that I was intruding upon something private and personal between Merrick and her gods.
After a few short moments, I felt her cold hand on mine. When I turned to look at her, the smoke was fading behind her and her face was lit up with the most contented smile I had seen since all of this began. She told me that she had asked the Loa to watch over the four of us and to ensure that the bond we all shared would never be broken. She said that they had agreed to grant her request.
Though we would leave New Orleans the following night and abandon what had been familiar to us for so many years, she seemed certain that from this point on, everything would be fine.
And she was right.
Despite the tragedies and hardships that have befallen us throughout the past eight years nothing - not even death - has ever succeeded in severing the ties that bind us to one another.
The stick of incense has smouldered down to nothing more than a glowing ember and the night fades slowly into morning, yet the memories remain. It is these thoughts which I hold onto until we meet again.
Joyeux Anniversaire, Merrique. |
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| Excommunication - For Angelina |
[Nov. 5th, 2007|11:16 pm] |
I have not always been the cold-hearted monster than I am now.
There was a time, long ago, when I could easily fall completely in love with every mortal whom I happened to set eyes upon and I often did. This is one of the reasons I found killing to be so very difficult during those early years.
Even my very first victim - that beautiful, dark skinned boy from the camp of runaway slaves found his way into my heart, as his own ceased to beat. I didn’t know him, of course, but I had never experienced such incredible intimacy before. I can still vividly recall every detail of that moment as if it only happened a single night ago. The scent of his skin, the texture of his hair, the wild terror in his eyes as Lestat held him in place and demanded that I take him - all of this was completely overwhelming to my newly heightened senses and I loved him instantly. I didn’t understand it then. I couldn’t possibly realize that I would feel that way time and time again in the many years to come.
Throughout the centuries there have been a few individuals who have taken an even deeper hold on my heart. Babette Freniere, Claudia, Merrick Mayfair - you are probably familiar with their names and the tragic stories which surround them. There have been others as well, though their numbers are few and their identities are known only to me, but each of these meaningful connections has ended in disaster.
I will share the story of one of these relationships here.
( His name was William Lockhart )
Every mortal life I touch, I destroy - be it directly or indirectly, it happens just the same. The guilt and regret I carry with me from those failed relationships is a constant reminder of why I choose to keep my distance. Experience has taught me that no bond between mortal and immortal can ever withstand the test of time. The shared intimacies will be brief, at best. I know all too well what love is and the pain that comes with its loss is more than I can bear.
On the rare occasion, I will encounter an individual who is able to stir those old emotions once again - one who causes me to feel things I have not felt for many years. In those instances, I step back further and widen that great chasm that lies between us. I choose my words carefully, becoming even more cold and indifferent. Shared conversations become nothing more than casual pleasantries until I have created so much distance between myself and that person that nothing said has any effect at all.
My acquaintances here serve as nothing more than threads which connect me to the mortal world - a reminder of what I once was. I understand that they are only temporary and I would not wish for anything more than that. If one of these threads were to be severed by death, it would leave no wound upon my soul. I would not mourn that loss.
I feel nothing.
Those who have referred to me as the most human of our kind are mistaken. The last remnants of my humanity vanished more than a hundred years ago. |
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| L'Azur Infinie |
[Sep. 3rd, 2007|12:52 pm] |
I awoke to the sound of pounding rain, whistling winds and an unidentifiable creaking noise. The Mozambique Channel is no stranger to tropical storms and I had experienced more than one since our arrival in the Indian Ocean. Though violent, they are often short lived.
I crawled out of bed and felt the floor shift beneath me. Various objects had fallen from the shelves while the ship rocked on the waves during the daylight hours. I grasped the side of the desk to steady myself before realizing that this was more than just the usual dizziness I had been experiencing for the past few weeks - the entire room around me was actually tilted rather precariously to the left. There was another loud groan - the sound of wood rubbing against rock - and the lamp on the bedside table crashed to the floor, shrouding me in darkness.
Salt water sloshed beneath my feet as I moved closer to the door and I paused for a moment to watch in fascination as my footprints pooled on the oriental rug behind me. I couldn’t guess when the storm began or how strong the wind must have been to drag the still anchored ship from it’s resting place, but somehow it had.
When I finally opened the hatch to face the fury of the storm I could see just how dire the situation truly was. The ship had moved quite a distance from where I had originally left it - far too close to land for a vessel of such size. The hull must have been rubbing against the jagged rocks for hours to create a hole large enough to allow the ocean to flood into the lower left compartments and I had been completely oblivious to it.
Wind whipped at my hair and rain pounded against my face, making it difficult to see anything at all. I knew that I had to move quickly, but before I could even attempt to lower one of the lifeboats the yacht shifted unexpectedly and I lost my grip on the rail, tumbling across the rain soaked deck into the raging ocean below.
There was a flash of pain as I hit the water hard and felt a sharp piece of coral slice into my thigh. It took every ounce of energy I had to fight both the waves and the undercurrent to make my way to shore, but when I finally felt sand beneath my feet, I couldn’t have been more thankful for this forsaken stretch of land I have called home for these past few weeks.
I turned just in time to watch the yacht tip completely on it’s side and begin a slow descent beneath the waves to the reef below.
L'Azur Infinie will never sail again. |
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| YIM Demons Strike Again |
[Apr. 17th, 2007|06:10 am] |
To the thirteen of you who saw me on Yahoo Messenger tonight and tried to contact me - I sincerely apologize for my silence. I was no where near my computer for the latter part of this evening and I haven't the vaguest idea of how long I may have been seemingly "available" for chatting.
The so-called YIM demons have struck again. This is not the first time and I doubt it will be the last. |
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| The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom |
[Apr. 7th, 2007|12:53 am] |
“Do you trust me?”
It was an absurd idea. Only Lestat could have thought of such a thing and despite my better judgement I found myself far too curious to immediately object. It was dangerous, of course, but what if it were possible? I hadn’t seen the sun or even the slightest trace of light on the horizon for more than two centuries. How could I refuse this opportunity?
Countless times since our arrival in this tropical paradise I have asked him to describe the sunrise - knowing that he watches it nearly every morning from our private stretch of sand by the ocean. He’s taken numerous photographs of the dawn for me, though he says they do not do it justice. This is a pleasure he has shared alone for the past twenty-two years. For as long as I can remember I have awoken well after nightfall and I am always careful to make my way to safety long before I feel the subtle warning signs that signal the approach of day.
I didn’t know how long I could fight off that instinctual daytime sleep. I’ve never put it to the test... not until last night.
Trust was not an issue. I have never doubted my safety when he is with me.
Silently, we sat side by side in the wicker lounge chairs beneath the thatched roof at the end of the pier. The view provided by this location made it seem like we were surrounded by nothing but ocean and sky. Time crept ever so slowly as if the earth had delayed its rotation for my sheer enjoyment of the moment. I was anxious but not at all apprehensive. The shrill voices of the nighttime creatures gave way to sounds I rarely heard. A song bird twittered somewhere overhead and a tiny, nocturnal gecko scurried quickly out of sight.
I shifted slightly in my seat in an attempt to ward off that familiar heaviness of my limbs and noticed Lestat watching me. His presence beside me was a sustaining combination of encouragement and animation.
Looking out towards the horizon, I watched the subtle changes in the sky. The stars faded into distant pinpricks of light and a deep shade of blue replaced the blackness I had become so accustomed to. That same blue was reflected in the water - a color I had so desperately longed to see from the deck of the Mariana many years ago. I was so elated by this vision that I might have leapt to my feet to peer over the edge of the wooden planks if I could have willed my legs to move.
A faint mist of grey light appeared as I struggled to stay awake, unwilling to miss a single second of this experience. The few clouds that lined the horizon now glowed pink and orange, pale at first but progressively brighter and deeper with each passing minute. My eyes burned and I felt a reassuring hand on my arm as I fought against the inevitable. It was a hopeless battle - a battle which I lost in one final flash of intensity and light just before darkness enveloped me once again.
I smile tonight as I sit at my desk recalling the most incredible sight I have witnessed in two hundred and sixteen years. |
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| Distractions |
[Nov. 12th, 2006|05:24 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | indescribable | ] |
Well, that was certainly not what I would call an average night. |
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| A Memorable Night |
[Oct. 4th, 2006|07:31 pm] |
Two hundred and forty years. There are moments when such a number seems nearly impossible to fathom. I have lived out more mortal lifetimes than any soul ever should and this date is like a thorn in my side - a constant reminder of those stolen years. Although sickness will never plague me and I shall never feel the icy touch of death upon my skin, immortality is not a blessing. Trust me on that fact.
We moved through the Quarter like two pale phantoms in the darkness. The heels of Merrick’s shoes clicking in a hurried tempo on the sidewalk as she guided me toward whatever surprise she had planned for the evening. The sweet scented silk scarf she had used as a makeshift blindfold was of little use on one who has called this city home for the better part of two centuries. I could tell exactly where we were simply by the nearby sounds of the Mississippi and by the subtle changes in the pavement beneath my feet.
When we finally stopped she left my side briefly to tap upon a glass door only a few feet in front of us. I heard it swing open and I instantly caught the scent of mortals wandering about inside the building. I reached up to remove the scarf from my eyes but her slender fingers caught my wrists and she leaned closer to whisper words of reassurance in my ear.
“You’ll ruin the surprise...” She said in a hushed voice, “we’re almost there.”
Of course, I trusted her completely yet that did not ease the discomfort I felt at being sightless and vulnerable in my own territory. I still couldn’t shake that feeling that we were never entirely alone in this city and that something was amiss. Holding my arm as if I were a blind man she led me through the rooms. I recognized this place immediately. The scent of Creole spice still lingered in the air from the meals that had been served only hours before our arrival. Snug Harbor Jazz Club. I had been here many times before but not recently. Years ago I came here fairly often, lurking at a small table behind the crowds of eager mortals that piled in to see some of the greatest jazz musicians New Orleans has to offer. Yet who was I to spoil her fun?
When I was finally seated she reached across the table to remove the blindfold. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the room around us. The high ceiling and huge mirrors behind the stage made the empty performance room seem twice as large as it was when I had visited this place on other crowded evenings. The tables around us were each lit by a single candle and the exposed beams and weathered wood furnishings gave the entire building a somewhat rustic feel. It was as though the two of us were hidden away in a secluded little cottage someplace far from the busy world just outside those walls.
I was thankful to see that no elaborate plans had been made and that this night had been reserved for her and I alone. I’ve never enjoyed grand social events and this intimate little venue was all I needed on a night that often passed by completely unnoticed.
A waiter approached the table and poured us each a glass of the finest red wine they had available. I nodded in appreciation then slid the glass away once he had taken his leave. The scent of wine always brought the past rushing back again and despite my rather somber mood I had no intention of disappointing Merrick when she had gone to so much trouble to arrange all of this.
The stage lit up as a group of young musicians made their way into the spotlight, readying their instruments behind the projected images of pale green palm tress. And when the music began it seemed to fill the entire room. I can’t say how long we sat silently watching them but their range and variety was incredible. I heard it not only with my ears but with my soul. They must have spanned nearly a century of different jazz styles during that one performance before winding down into a quiet Third Stream piece.
When the stage was empty once again I took Merrick’s hands in mine and thanked her profusely in a hurried stream of old French - most of which probably made little sense to one who came from such a completely different time and place than I did. She was an elegant beauty in her little dark-black dress. Her blue eyes twinkled in the candlelight and her smile could warm the very coldest heart.
I could not have asked for a more perfect gift than this night in the company of such a magnificent woman surrounded by the music that is the very heart of this city we both love.
And so another year passes. The thread of an eternal life, much like the very music which stirs my soul, is ever changing, constantly improvising and reinventing itself to suit this modern world. Quite often it returns to its roots, tapping into those familiar rhythms that started it all. And sometimes, on the rare occasion, it takes another direction completely becoming an entirely new creature with its own unique voice. |
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| A Tragedy Remembered |
[Aug. 29th, 2006|08:07 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | discontent | ] |
One year ago last night Hurricane Katrina made landfall in the gulf coast to wreak havoc on the lives of many - the damage caused by the powerful winds could only be surpassed by the breach of the levees which allowed Lake Pontchartrain to flow into the city. Though the flood waters have now dried up and many repairs have been made, life in New Orleans will never be the same as it was before this momentous, life-changing storm.
Some residents will never return to the Big Easy and those who have survived this tragedy and found their way back home once again are forever changed by the experience. I have wandered through the streets of the Ninth Ward and seen faces wrought with devastation and despair. Many homes are still in shambles with the hurricane season upon us once again. I have heard the whispered prayers to Notre Dame de Bon Secours. These people - the very heart and soul of this city - live in constant destitute and fear.
Though I was born in France, my family immigrated to Louisiana when I was a very young child and I have remained here ever since. I travel often, sometimes taking my leave of this place for decades at a time yet I always return to the one city I call home.
I have been witness to many of the events which have shaped New Orleans into what it is today. I was there that fateful morning in March when news of the Good Friday Fire spread from the city the to outlying plantations. More than eight hundred homes and buildings were reduced to ashes in a matter of hours. I watched the revered St. Louis Cathedral rise from those ashes - made strong by the faith of the people who prayed to the Saints in it's sacred vestibule.
I have stood by this city throughout the years as it has been ravaged by fires, floods, hurricanes, plagues and epic battles. I have witnessed unspeakable destruction and loss of life over the passing of the centuries - the kind that may have easily destroyed a weaker place, leaving it in empty ruin. Those who have lived out their mortal lifetimes here have been forced to relocate and rebuild time and time again. It is this often tragic history - this endless struggle - which has helped the people of New Orleans to overcome one of the most destructive hurricanes the U.S. has ever experienced.
These past few nights have been marked with traditional jazz funerals, candlelight vigils and church services to remember the thousands of lives lost and to bring together those who remain to pick up the shattered pieces left in Katraina’s wake. Despite the constant reminders - white trailers lining residential driveways where debris is still being hauled away by the truckload, abandoned homes and buildings now overtaken by weeds and vines, the many schools and hospitals still closed twelve months after this horrific natural disaster - the heart of New Orleans beats stronger than it ever has before.
"We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival." |
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| Adieu |
[Aug. 28th, 2006|06:02 am] |
Sometimes I forget just how fragile and brief a mortal lifetime can be. Years of future hopes and dreams extinguished in the blink of an eye - as if they never held any meaning at all. Even the very strongest of hearts will eventually cease to beat. I have watched helplessly through the passing of the years as time steals away those I have loved. How many times will this happen before I learn to keep my distance?
Tonight I am haunted by questions that I have asked myself for more than two hundred years. Why did I feel the need to interfere? What is it about certain souls that draws me in causing this selfish desire to know and to be close to them? Is the fleeting time spent in their company really worth the unbearable pain of their loss? These questions remain unanswered.
He may have taken her life yet it was I who sealed her fate.
Adieu Jacqueline,
In paradisum deducant te angeli. |
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| When We Two Parted |
[Jun. 27th, 2006|10:37 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | discontent | ] |
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow -
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me -
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well: -
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met -
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? -
With silence and tears.
-Lord Byron |
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| Lestat |
[Apr. 15th, 2006|06:37 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | mischievous | ] |
Your surprise - Just a little something to show how much you mean to all who read your words here. If everything goes as planned, you should find banners, graphics and other symbols of appreciation all over your friends page tonight. Ah, but this is not the only surprise I have planned for you...
Thank you to all who have joined into this. |
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| Because I will not have a moment's peace until I post this |
[Apr. 10th, 2006|06:53 pm] |
Happy now? |
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| 1791 Revisited |
[Mar. 4th, 2006|10:47 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | nostalgic | ] |
What can be said about a night unlike any most people will ever experience in their brief mortal lifetimes? Much of it has already been said before – thirty years ago the tale was told to an ashen haired young reporter who stared wide-eyed as I spoke of things that I had not told another soul in nearly two centuries.
Even now, exactly two hundred and fifteen years later, I cannot adequately explain it. It seems foolish to describe that moment with mere words when it is so much more than that. Only one other knows what truly happened that night. One who understands me well enough to realize why the story I told was somewhat vague - the details left slightly obscure. Lestat could very easily take up his pen and tell the world exactly how it was, yet somehow I am led to believe that he respects the intimacy of that particular night as much as I do and understands why there will always be certain things I simply cannot not tell. Of course, I may very well be wrong.
Whatever the reasons, it is for him that I choose to recount the tale once again - as it really was. Tonight I will not hide behind a boy and his tape recorder. Instead I will tell as much as I wish to share, leaving virtually no stone unturned. If you are content with that which is already known, then skip past my words if you wish. It makes very little difference to me.
( Continued... )
The rest - as the saying goes - is history. It was the next evening before my body finally stopped tingling and all of the physical facets of being human had died. And it would be another sixty-eight years until the very essence of that same humanity would fade completely.
What I celebrate tonight is not the events that followed my rebirth. They are nothing more than the inevitable consequences of Lestat's choice and mine. That evening was not about the transformation from mortal to immortal, as miraculous as every individual moment was. March 4th, 1791 was about a beginning - the beginning of a bond that has grown stronger with each passing year, even as the world tries to tear it apart. Forever is a word which few but us can ever comprehend.
I gave him my soul that night and it has been his every night thereafter. |
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| Day and Night |
[Mar. 4th, 2006|08:30 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | indescribable | ] |
My Dearest Lestat,
Appearances can be deceiving, can they not? I have been questioned countless times as to how it is that I am able to live beneath the same roof as you night after night, when the two of us are so very different. Although there is a significant amount of truth to it all, it would also seem that much about us and what we share is completely misunderstood.
To look upon us, side by side presents such a startling contrast. I did not realize the extent of it until I caught a glimpse of us both in a darkened shop window. Being born into the same era, both enriched by the cultures of Paris and New Orleans, one would think that we would have much in common.
Despite this kindred creole blood that runs through our veins, our clothing alone tells two very different stories. You with your long crimson coat open vivaciously wide to reveal that trademark, half-buttoned silk shirt beneath. Those black leather pants you favor that appear to be been painted on. I often wonder on the simple mechanics of how you manage to get into them, yet I have decided that some things are best left unknown. You have always had a flair for the outrageous. You turn heads everywhere you go.
Beside you, I am basic black. I disappear. Contrary to what others might believe, and as far as I have a preference, I drift towards this color not because it is symbolic of the grief that has always plagued my soul but because it allows me to blend into the night, completely unnoticed. I need nothing more than my old, moth-eaten sweaters that you so despise, they are only a necessity, a covering. I long to be completely inconspicuous while you strive to stand out - to have all eyes on you and to be the very center of attention. You have never needed flashy velvet, silk or gold to capture my attention. You hold it infinitely.
Beneath that garish wardrobe of yours burns a marble statue of Adonis, bronzed to perfection by the searing heat of the Gobi sun. Every sculpted muscle glows gold in candlelight and that tanned skin of yours could almost look mortal to one who does not know your true nature. The sight of my pale hand against your tanned flesh, makes me realize just how spectral I must seem. Next to you I seem deathly thin. You know that I often hide beneath layers of clothing to appear a little more substantial. I have been told more than once that I look as if I might easily be carried away on the slightest breeze. You are everything I am not, yet at your side I realize how truly unimportant such differences are.
( More... ) |
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| Trip Home |
[Feb. 27th, 2006|10:19 pm] |
Somewhere in the back of my sleep-clouded mind, I could hear a tapping sound. It was not an unfamiliar noise. In fact, I was certain I had heard it before. I murmured some inaudible phrase about being loud and trying to sleep then rolled over again, reaching for the blankets so I could pull them up over my head and drift off into that sweet mortal slumber.
Only there were no blankets. In fact, there was no pillow either. This was not the first time that I had awoken to something unusual and I was certain that it would not be the last.
“It's about time.”
I sat up slowly. The room was dark and nearly empty. Almost all of the furniture aside from the bed had been packed up and was already en route to New Orleans. Lestat sat on the edge of the bed, staring at me and tapping one booted foot impatiently on the hardwood floor. God, how I hated it when he watched me sleep. I could never know how just long he had been there.
He tossed my leather coat at me with a laugh, “Come on,” His words were quiet, but the underlying excitement was impossible to miss. “Let's go!”
I barely had a moment to rake my fingers through my hair before he stood up and grabbed hold of my arm, pulling me off the bed and helping me into my coat. My boots were lying on the floor only a few feet away and judging by the look on his face, I thought I might have to travel in my socks if I did not manage to tie them any faster. Lestat was always in a rush. No matter where he is going, he has to arrive immediately. Surely this was the reason why none of his footwear had laces.
I was still groggy and only half-awake when he ushered me outside. It couldn't have been more than an hour or so past dusk. London was bustling around us and as we prepared to take our leave of it I wondered if he would miss this city he had come to love, but I couldn't bring myself to ask. He took a quick glance from side to side then stepped forward and swung his arms around my waist, smiling with all the exuberance of a child on Christmas morning. He knew how much I disliked traveling this way yet he had insisted that we would arrive home together. Who was I to deny him such a simple request? Although it was doubtful that I had much choice in the matter one way or another.
“Ready?!” He asked.
“Yes,” I said with a smile, unable to contain my own excitement. “I'm ready.”
At that, I was lifted into the air so quickly that I let out a startled gasp and flung both arms around his neck. I trusted him completely, of course. I always had, yet flying without the aide of a plane was something I could never grow accustomed to. I held fast to him as the city blurred beneath us and the canopy of the night sky opened up in a way that we could never have seen from the smoggy skies below. We broke through the clouds and the stars were just as brilliant as I remembered.
The bitter February wind whipped around us and I buried my face in the crook of his neck to keep it from stinging my eyes. His skin was cold but familiar against mine and I was as comfortable in his arms as I had ever been.
It had been just over twenty years since we last made such a journey. November of 1985, to be exact. The epic battle between good and evil (or was it between evil and a greater evil?) had been and won and a new Queen reigned over our kind. He had asked me if I wanted to go on an adventure. Little did I know that the adventure he had in mind would take us forty-five hundred miles across the ocean to pay a visit to the Superior General of the Talamasca at the Motherhouse just outside of London. The two decades that followed that incident suddenly seemed meaningless to me as we quickly traversed the miles. For once, I had no desire to reflect upon the events of the past. I was content to do nothing more than drift above the world, feeling the air grow warmer as we moved further South.
I think we stopped to rest for a while in Bermuda. Traveling in that manner can be rather disorienting. I distinctly recall a beach and the warm sand beneath my back as I propped my coat under my head. The ocean waves were crashing against the shore. I remember looking up at the stars and knowing that we would be soaring amongst them again soon. I drifted in and out of sleep without a single care or worry in the world. I wanted to hold onto this feeling forever. After a short while, I felt his arms around me as we took to the air once again, heading Westward now – toward home.
I don't know how many hours passed, or how long we drifted before the landscape I glimpsed through the cloud cover began to look familiar. The first thing that came into view was the mighty Mississippi. It was nothing more than a than a thin, curving line to begin with but as we moved closer the river grew wider and the city spread out before us. New Orleans, despite the lingering damage, was as beautiful as I remembered it before it had been ravaged by the winds and rising waters of the storm.
We descended even lower, passing over landmarks and streets I knew well and when my feet finally did touch ground again, we were in an overgrown courtyard which I had not seen in nearly six years. I could see the tiny buds on the magnolia trees and almost smell that sweet scent as they prepared to bloom with the arrival of spring. Jasmine and wisteria vines climbed the wrought iron fences that surrounded the townhouse. Their lush green leaves completely obscured the garden from view to any passers by.
I stood silently with my arms still draped over his shoulders. My hands were clasped together at the back of his neck. It felt good to be here by his side in the city where it all began. My eyes met his, then I leaned closer and kissed him in a gesture of appreciation for this moment and for everything he had done which had led us to where we were now.
“Welcome home, Lestat.” I whispered as I reluctantly pulled away. And with that, I turned and made my way into the house. |
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| Horoscope |
[Feb. 22nd, 2006|08:34 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | enthralled | ] |
Dear Louis,
Here is your horoscope for Wednesday, February 22:
Reflect on your relationship -- both the recent past that led up to your partnership and what the future might hold. You can't appreciate where you are until you've seen where you've come from -- and where you're going. |
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