"Well that depends on your premise, monsieur journaliste."
Daniel and his little network of unreliable narrators. Their fucked up gothic romances. Well, Lestat supposes, Daniel is one of them, with his own. He wonders if he should be saying: the bond is real, and whatever it is you and Louis choose to be together, you will need to accept my undying and continued presence in his life. It would probably be jumping the gun. Maybe someone should.
But they are talking of Armand. So.
"What is real, what is the bond," Lestat continues, a minor bodily tip to the left and right to indicate this binary. "No difference, I think. The bond is real. It is not phantasm, or delusion. It is not even, it is not fair. It is entirely within Armand's power to manipulate the situation, to harm you, to use you. To, perhaps, fail to care for you as he should."
Like a parent, like a lover, some perverse combination of the two things. Lestat's voice glances light off these words, like touching the surface of waters that go far deeper. "But I believe it permits us something else, when embraced. Revelations. A kind of,"
and he pauses again, searching for the word. "A terrible sympathy."
Reaching for Magnus. Recoiling from Nicki. An odd pride, as he lay in a pool of sticky blood, Claudia's eyes blazing down at him.
no subject
Daniel and his little network of unreliable narrators. Their fucked up gothic romances. Well, Lestat supposes, Daniel is one of them, with his own. He wonders if he should be saying: the bond is real, and whatever it is you and Louis choose to be together, you will need to accept my undying and continued presence in his life. It would probably be jumping the gun. Maybe someone should.
But they are talking of Armand. So.
"What is real, what is the bond," Lestat continues, a minor bodily tip to the left and right to indicate this binary. "No difference, I think. The bond is real. It is not phantasm, or delusion. It is not even, it is not fair. It is entirely within Armand's power to manipulate the situation, to harm you, to use you. To, perhaps, fail to care for you as he should."
Like a parent, like a lover, some perverse combination of the two things. Lestat's voice glances light off these words, like touching the surface of waters that go far deeper. "But I believe it permits us something else, when embraced. Revelations. A kind of,"
and he pauses again, searching for the word. "A terrible sympathy."
Reaching for Magnus. Recoiling from Nicki. An odd pride, as he lay in a pool of sticky blood, Claudia's eyes blazing down at him.