dear_mun | ( finished 'prince lestat' )

Doesn't mean it's painless. All that time in between.

[ How familiar. ]

Waiting until they happen to come a-knocking on your door again.
Whenever that might be.

He won't come to us, not again. His court is to be in France and all will flock to their new Prince of the Savage Garden — even I can't resist him these days, I admit it.

Were you hoping to beckon me here and assuage your feelings with the drop of my name?

The first part seems to have worked out perfectly. [ He offers a hand, taking the liberty of a few steps closer. ] At the very least, don't leave yet.

I suppose you deserve that much.

[ Lestat does nothing to dissuade any advancement meant to close the short distance between then. On the contrary, as he's the one whom initiates a level of contact only suggested by the proffered gesture. First fingertips, the flat of palms and then the whole entirety of one hungry hand encompasses to meet Louis' own. They glide together, his often absent and meandering own into the awaiting shape of another, in the way a long-gone ship both kisses and claims it's awaiting harbor.

There's something decidedly intimate in manner by which an empty hand might be transformed into a declaration of possession when joined by a second. ]

After all, you worked so very hard to lure me to your side. With flattery and a yearning to reunite, no less.

[ A thumb laps eagerly against the shape of a bare wrist whose flesh he most certainly does not own. ]

Adoration looks good on you, Louis.

[ Louis could be the ocean surrounding those ships, patient and watchful, ebbing into the hold as easily as anything as he looks from their hands to Lestat and feels the tug of a wry smile; delicious caress over his inner-wrist. Of course the Brat Prince takes more than is his, and of course Louis humours him. ]

Everybody adores you, these days. I simply enjoy being the last face you look to in a room before vaulting off on your next impetuous scheme.

[ Like hacking up Rhoshamandes before the entire council. Something no one could have done and Lestat managed in two fell swings of his ax, almost literally cutting through the nonsense. Impressive and vicious. They still talk of it, now that Rhosh and Benjamin are gone, but Louis is the only one who never looks uneasy. Not until the subject turns to Amel, anyway, and he's grateful for the telepathic block between he and his maker in those moments.

Intimately, his voice lowers to a murmur though he makes no further move to close the distance, preternatural green eyes lost somewhere around a throat (yet not for obvious reasons). They linger. ]

I have missed you, there's the truth of it.

There, now. That wasn't so hard, was it?

[ There's an irony in how so few words from the right mouth might simultaneously indulge and ground all that Lestat is. His insatiable need for attention and a challenge find themselves temporarily quenched in that ever reluctant, begrudging and entirely frustrating way that only Louis can deliver.

And yet- ( Because, of course, for the two of them there exists lifetimes of those equally paired and ghastly words: 'And yet.' Much like them, it's a set which has cut love stories short and ended great affairs in the most pathetic and cowardly of ways. )

The admission is threadbare and bare-bones with little to bury his teeth into. But just the same it hurls out into the air between them like canon-fire. So quick and hurried are the words it's as though Louis had been desperate to rid himself of whatever visage 'Truth' might actually don and perhaps sink Lestat in the very harbor he's anchored himself to.

Of all the asinine things. I have missed you.
It's a love note delivered like a blow. So sweet until the rolling pang of nothing which follows.

Because it's not quite enough to always, always abrade Lestat with such simplistic facts, whet his unquenchable appetite for the eternal 'more' and then resist divulging in those exquisitely juicy details he forever relishes in.

Such succinctity wedges beneath his skin. ]

Well- [ Lestat thinks better of it. ] Perhaps for anyone else. Anyone at all.

[ He chases even the condescending encouragement away with a jerky flourish of an unencumbered hand, casting off any appeasement such words might have brought about in exchange for tempered exasperation. Or better yet, weariness. ]

But it always is with you, isn't it? Difficult.

You have an irritating knack for turning the most singularly simple things into mountains you must climb alone. Even this.

[ Perhaps in another life of theirs and in an age long-gone these words might have been shouted. And there may have been something keenly sharp, much like a hidden knife, tucked within their folds. But even if the syllables ring the same his words tonight hold no edge but one meant to cut through that old, familiar and so dreadfully tiresome runaround. ]

Yet, here I am.

[ These few simple words wax more fondly than Lestat initially intends to show. Yet, perhaps in the spirit of reunions both current and forthcoming, instead of bucking such honesty he relinquishes himself to it wholly. Bodily. Such that his once articulating hand sets aside it's flapping to instead tenderly root against the slope of a neck framed by locks of such near-darkness that it practically shines.

Far be it from Lestat to deny it the touch ( and precious gift of acknowledgment he dearly adores ) that all glimmering things must surely demand. ]

Don't torture me and mourn my good company when you still have it.

[ He watches Lestat squirm — and squirm he does, inwardly in a way which Louis has witnessed a thousand times before for a thousand different reasons — and gives him nothing more to sink his fangs into. I missed you. It's weighted, despite being simple, and he needs add nothing more to flush out his emotions on the subject; not unless Lestat whines and flusters (and he does, aha) as Louis keeps a sedate line of control over his lips and waits, with a flutter of lashes, for the caress up alongside his neck. Then he leans into it, surrendering more of himself where he once upon a time spurned so much as a glance. ]

You want me to fuss.

[ A low, knowing laugh rumbles in his throat, the apology for it coming in the form of a kiss to a cold inner-wrist. Tangling their already entwined fingers, he noses along the hard sliver of skin visible right before a cuff swallows that arm, letting Lestat soak up as much hedonism from Louis's roaming lips as he pleases.

No bites. Not here where anyone might see. ]

Do I still torture you?

[ His humour is a quiet thing, but present. ]

Heaven forbid. [ What irony. ] Is it even possible for you to acquiesce that much?

[ As if Louis hasn't already surged leagues and light-years beyond his once disenchanted beginnings with Lestat. Not that there will be any acknowledgment of that nor any words spoken in candor on how far they've come. ]

Incessantly.

[ Lestat's mouth elaborately sculpts every syllable of the word as though bequeathing an illustratively tragic back-story to each. It's animated movements, so sharply flamboyant, seem prone to spilling errant pieces of the retort as it proceeds. Such an eager haste. It's as though the audible interjection is some mere obstacle in the way of the actual message behind his response; full of teeth-barring smiles and the threatening promise of an undeniable pull between them. Only when there is nothing further to shape, and lips are left bare after the declaration, does he finally sink into what qualifies as stillness for him; momentarily tamed by his own secret one-word story telling.

Or perhaps that kinetic energy merely transfers elsewhere, such as eyes that unabashedly rake across and over Louis with the resolute intention to memorize. After all, how can he help it?

Even in rags Louis is utterly ethereal.

There's no superficiality there nor a single whiff of anything so trite as skin-deep admiration. Louis's beauty is that of survival: Raw, animalistic and savage as he can be. Lestat revels in it as a child's heart might swell in awe at the first breath of springtime after a long winter. It's beginnings are all the more wondrous as they're ushered in with a littering of fragile wildflowers. A living thing whose skin-thin petals and fleshy blooms thrive through the chill and in doing so astound all reason. Such splashes of color, garishly bold and defiant in their determination to blossom, strike out against a backdrop of what must seem like the indomitable grip of ice and snow. It's a proof of life stacked in opposition to an indiscriminate stranglehold meant to choke the Earth of it's teeming vitality.

In this same fashion Louis endures; A deceptively fragile bauble cresting every storm in full (often fiery) glory.

He adapts. It's one of the most under-appreciated abilities within their 'species' and a gift wholly worth it's immeasurable weight when so few realize their absent grasp of it all too late. Perhaps this form of endurance remains such a slow development across the nearly countless years that it forever takes Lestat by surprise. Shocks and sets him to near stillness how Louis does not clash with the present nor remain trapped in the past any longer. Instead he is altogether timeless.

An accidental masterpiece of Lestat's own impulsive making.

If anything he's the one guilty of perceiving every bittersweet inch of that incomparable age clear as crystal while it surges up within his memory whenever Louis draws so deliriously close. The modern era blinks away, as though so many shifting theater backdrops have been sent whirling about during a scene change, and suddenly he's elsewhere entirely.

The spokes of carriages whirl through dirt streets and mingle with rising communal voices in a mishmash of immigrant or poor-man's slang while the light of gas-light lamps resonate through their Rue Royal home. Ghosts of long-gone days haunt him; dogging at heels until Louis' pliant mouth seduces Lestat from the tomb of those agonizing recollections. Betrayals. Losses. All the incomparable love which filled sixty five years; an entire lifetime by mortal standards. ]

And in every feasible definition of the word. [ Torture, indeed. ]

[ For him to touch Louis is to simultaneously suffer both agony and ecstasy in degrees which are undeniably physical. Visceral. The pair of them coming together is a collision of two opposing unyielding forces ultimately destined to catalyze sparks. It's only a matter of time before those ignite in catastrophe. This is Louis, after all. The barer of cleansing fires which have begun and ended whole chapters in their shared history with the kiss of flames.

How Lestat's cold mouth misses the deep white-hot burn of him. ]

Il n'y a pas de fin à la douleur exquise qui vous évoquez en moi.

[ An old familiar language wafts itself through nebulous stands he's forever loved as lips settle to lit upon places far more benign than they wish. It's a subdued if not tender encounter capable of being cleverly masked in any number of emotions if need be. Anything outside the unsettling sort of tremulation wavering within Lestat's chest; a caged bird made of his immortal heart. One denied as his own till it quells such sudden panic and surging desire. Louis can have his wrist, his hand, the whole entirely of his arm if so desired. Anything if it baits him to touch and draws him in enough to linger.

In the end Louis is not the only one plagued by longing tonight. ]

( There is no end to the exquisite ache which you evoke within me. )

Why wait for time to choose when to see him again? Why not take control of your destiny for yourself? You may prefer to results you get.

I have perfect control of my destiny, thank you. [ For perhaps the first time in his life. Louis remains polite but firm on that. ] In any case, I can show patience. He needs that now, more than the fervid support of all his Children.

Well now, no one has perfect control of their destiny. Let's be realistic now. Personally I think patience has its time and place; if you can take what you want now without many repercussions, why not do so?

But then again, what's a few centuries to an immortal? You have a fair point.

What about in the meantime..? [ he--this.. human? he's not sure--makes it seem as if that's what he's really concerned about. ]

Distract myself, perhaps. That seems the only choice as I'm not predisposed to sulk at great length.

[ In the brighter lights Louis is only human in frame; his skin is more marble, nails of glass, and the green gleam in his eyes is keener than any dull mortal. There's no harshness, despite all of that, and he views the curious stranger with equally polite interest. ]

It's true that sulking only makes waiting worse, really. [ he can only imagine if dorian returns to the imperium-- ] Hopefully you'll at least have interesting distractions.

[ a curious glance, head tilting faintly. ] Will you be.. staying here, or..?

There are others I might talk to in our group. [ Just, well. None like Lestat, none so distracted and busy and important now (and forever). He knows he was comforted by his Maker but all the same, he misses him.

Louis tilts his head thoughtfully. ]

I may be sent away to one of those ... places. I've no idea, really, nothing is definite. And yourself?

Your 'group'? [ like the inquisition? or.. more like the dalish, maybe.. ] I'm sorry, I'm just.. curious. Begging your pardon, but you seem human and.. not.

[ a small, slightly sheepish smile. ] Well, really, I've enough to do already back home, but it seems that wasn't enough for my.. writer. I'm in a 'game', now, as well.

Pardon my manners — Louis de Pointe du Lac. I'm a Blood Drinker, a vampire as some say. We were a disparate people, if we could even be called that, until lately my dear friend united us as a tribe. One that stretches the whole world. [ Louis's smile twists, softly amused. ] And so you see why he's a little preoccupied, and why I miss him.

[ He raises his brows interestedly at the mention of a Game, with a glance inviting the stranger to speak more on it if he wishes. ]

A Blood Drinker.. [ a pause, considering that as he lifts a hand to tuck hair back behind an ear. ] Not.. a Blood Mage? You actually.. drink blood? [ he's.. never heard of that. not really. ] Do you take from donors..? [ that kind of diet must make things difficult at times. ]

[ The gentlest of the Coven of the Articulate, yes, but not the wilting wallflower most would paint him to be these days, Louis's smile reveals the fangs he usually keeps hidden. He's amused, very much so, but it's only at the sweetly naive idea of never having to take a life. He doesn't shy from that anymore; the blood of the evil-doer is an acceptable meal, if it presents itself. A sad affair but a natural one. ]

Occasionally, yes. [ Soft-voiced, he nods agreeably. ] And we drink from each other too, sometimes.

[ This is all very invasive, but to make good relations with the Whatever This Is he's discussing such details with, he bears no grudge. ]

And who are you?

[ In essence, 'What are you?' ]

Oh. [ a blink, then he flushes, embarrassed by how rude he's been. (it was just.. quite a surprise.) ] My apologies. [ a polite dip of his chin. ] Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan, formerly of Clan Lavellan of the Dalish. [ his smile returns. ] .. The Dalish, we're elves. For the record. [ since his people seem to be just as foreign to most here as a blood drinker--or vampire--is to him. and anyway, after his questions, it seems only polite to give a little information about his own species.

he hesitates, then touches a finger to his ears. ] .. Our ears tend to be our most distinguishing feature. They're.. somewhat hard to hide. [ unless you want to constantly wear a hood or something. ]

A pleasure, Inquisitor. Louis or du Lac will suffice. I had noticed your ears, that is, [ wow, trying not to be rude, ] I've laid eyes on ghosts who have made themselves almost fully corporeal before and not very much phases me if it happens to be very much a reality. You have a kind look about you.

[ Elves. They had to pop up sometime, he supposes, charmed. ]

Mahanon. [ a quick correction, amber eyes bright with warmth and still clearly a little flustered. it's funny, he supposes. put him in the orlesian court, and he'll play the game without missing a beat. put him one-on-one with someone, without the knowledge and awe of 'the inquisitor' or the 'herald of andraste' between them, and he's just.. mahanon again. ] My title doesn't mean much here. It's simply.. reflexive to use it these days, I suppose.

[ the smile returns shortly, though. ] It's a pleasure to meet you, as well, Louis. .. I apologize for my earlier questions, but I'm also afraid that if you remain acquainted with me for more than an hour or two, you'll find that I'm full of them.

Mahanon. [ Repeated, tasted, and used correctly. ] You may ask me whatever you want, Mahanon, I promise I shan't be angry or offended. No one should be during first meetings, ideally. Don't you think? Tell me if I offend you, of course.

Ideally. I try not to be offensive, generally speaking. [ considering some of the things people have asked or assumed about him, he hardly wants to do the same thing to someone else. still, he's dalish, and other races are still relatively new to him, despite the months he's spent among them now. sometimes, it happens. ] I'm not quite impossible to offend, myself, but after spending so much time around humans, it's fairly difficult these days. You'd probably have to be trying.

[ the amusement's definitely back by the time he's done. the strange twists and turns his life has taken.. ] You seem to be a gentleman, though. At least, based on first impressions, of course.

Time, yes. And whim also. This is Lestat. He prises whim like Greek tragedy prises its kindly Furies - jealously and with craft. Time and whim will deliver him.

Not back to me, Marius, nor would I demand such of him. He has to run an entire tribe now.

A tribe. The market men speak and the world imagines. And will they all play the strings, these tribesmen, the new-found clans?

I should think they'll all follow Sybelle and Antoine's music into submission over the airwaves, if nothing else.

...I know a cave.

[ Gaining a stifled, soft laugh. ]

That would be very useful if I wasn't already under his spell.

Lestat is one matter. Overzealous music, another. Ye gods, to think there is tribe. To think what he will teach them. To think what he has been taught to teach, and who gave him this learning, and why she is not among us now.

You'd let him go without you, even wanting him with you?

( finished 'prince lestat' )

Your Louis is always stunning. Just so you know.

ahw thank you!

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