The accent can come and go. He never sounds quite as if he belongs to any one place, anymore. The French he was raised speaking is no longer spoken as it was anywhere, caught only occasionally in stray inflections from foreign mouths.
Louis thinks to tell him that times can change. Lestat does not have to wonder if he was so arrogant as a young vampire. He was, and is, an absolute monster of vanity. Louis has the grace of intending to warn, not boast, and only this tempers Lestat's churlish impulse to rebuke him.
Or perhaps not only that, as he allows himself to lean towards the lightness of Louis' fingers on his jacket.
"I am not death's master." He drops his hand to Louis' shoulder, brushing imaginary lint from it. (As if Louis, ever particular, would allow such a thing outside of his own house, even under these circumstances.) "I am death's playmate, fickle thing that it is. It is not death I am forbidding from you. It is you I am forbidding from death."
A perfectly sensical notion. Not at all akin to a childish stomping of the foot, insisting that the impossible be made possible only for the sake of his whims. And if it is that, at least it is nothing like an icy pang of remembrance, or the ashen silt of grief on his tongue.
"But if you insist on entertaining this fancy - so be it. I, Lestat de Lioncourt, swear on my adoration for you that not one curious soul will pry the secrets of our existence from your exhausted veins."
There would be fire. The conflagration would burn this accused cluster of hovels to ash, and he would crack whatever empty-eyed skulls remained under his feet as he danced madly amid the ruins.
cw: death, fantasies of violence
Louis thinks to tell him that times can change. Lestat does not have to wonder if he was so arrogant as a young vampire. He was, and is, an absolute monster of vanity. Louis has the grace of intending to warn, not boast, and only this tempers Lestat's churlish impulse to rebuke him.
Or perhaps not only that, as he allows himself to lean towards the lightness of Louis' fingers on his jacket.
"I am not death's master." He drops his hand to Louis' shoulder, brushing imaginary lint from it. (As if Louis, ever particular, would allow such a thing outside of his own house, even under these circumstances.) "I am death's playmate, fickle thing that it is. It is not death I am forbidding from you. It is you I am forbidding from death."
A perfectly sensical notion. Not at all akin to a childish stomping of the foot, insisting that the impossible be made possible only for the sake of his whims. And if it is that, at least it is nothing like an icy pang of remembrance, or the ashen silt of grief on his tongue.
"But if you insist on entertaining this fancy - so be it. I, Lestat de Lioncourt, swear on my adoration for you that not one curious soul will pry the secrets of our existence from your exhausted veins."
There would be fire. The conflagration would burn this accused cluster of hovels to ash, and he would crack whatever empty-eyed skulls remained under his feet as he danced madly amid the ruins.