Some minor internal flinch back when this directive slithers through, like a school of fish startling under a shadow—
But a breath out of Lestat. Perverse, almost, for him to be a source of comfort, for all that he has no issue in accepting it, but. He says, "No," and gets to his feet. A hand out, touching Louis' shoulder on his way to sitting. A hand that flutters up, a touch to his face, ear, back down to the shoulder, plucks at his jacket collar before settling again, eyes roving his features. "You would not wish to forget the boy you saved. You would not want to forget me, even this little bit of me."
A glance at Daniel, some sharp bit of humour making it out of the bloodied feelings of it all. "And you would not have two sets of biographies in the world if any part of you would want any part of you gone, mon cher. Because you are me, and Claudia, and all those you've loved."
Back to looking at Louis. A momentary clutch of affection, different to the usual screaming klaxxons of love that sound off all day every day—his fledgling, still, this whole century later, a possessive feeling.
"Armand wants his kills to ask him to die. He wanted you to ask for it too, these little pieces. It would suit him well, to believe in the story that you did."
no subject
But a breath out of Lestat. Perverse, almost, for him to be a source of comfort, for all that he has no issue in accepting it, but. He says, "No," and gets to his feet. A hand out, touching Louis' shoulder on his way to sitting. A hand that flutters up, a touch to his face, ear, back down to the shoulder, plucks at his jacket collar before settling again, eyes roving his features. "You would not wish to forget the boy you saved. You would not want to forget me, even this little bit of me."
A glance at Daniel, some sharp bit of humour making it out of the bloodied feelings of it all. "And you would not have two sets of biographies in the world if any part of you would want any part of you gone, mon cher. Because you are me, and Claudia, and all those you've loved."
Back to looking at Louis. A momentary clutch of affection, different to the usual screaming klaxxons of love that sound off all day every day—his fledgling, still, this whole century later, a possessive feeling.
"Armand wants his kills to ask him to die. He wanted you to ask for it too, these little pieces. It would suit him well, to believe in the story that you did."