"There are twelve pieces of film in each of these packs."
His arm lifts, slings back along the bench behind Lestat. An invitation to consider the math. Twelve times the absurd number of packs Daniel has purchased.
"And how long does a performance last?" is quick on the tail of it, head tipped. "Longer than a photograph."
Lestat, a little at a disadvantage. If all was as it was, this is where he might touch Louis, play his fingertips along the edge of his coat, find an excuse to press knee to thigh. But then, he didn't have those tools in his arsenal when they were out in public anyway.
And so—
"Twelve, then," because the number doesn't matter. It won't matter once the first time has occurred.
"Photograph lasts a hell of a long time, you put it in a frame."
Not even in a frame. Louis' photographs in archival boxes, carried out of Paris. Preserved. Moments frozen in time. Claudia, smiling with her fangs out. Her impromptu snaps of Louis across the table in a Parisian cafe. Her at her dressing table, applying her lipstick. Pulling a face at him. Little moments that are so painful to look at, just as the diaries were agony to touch for so long.
But no. Louis pulls himself back.
"Anytime I ask?" he questions. "Twelve performances, whenever I ask you?"
Louis had never had to ask. But they are a long way away from their home, Lestat's well-cherished piano, their well-appointed salon.
As if this were driving a hard bargain. As if, even with his own tangled reservations towards his return to the piano, it were any kind of burden to create a situation in which Louis is obliged to ask him to perform, and Lestat obliged to do so. As if the idea of Louis asking him for anything, more substantial than his continued existence and proximity, doesn't set off a twee flutter of feeling in his chest.
He is a good enough actor, but not as talented at lying as Claudia had suspected him of being, and the corner of his mouth turns up, unbidden. "Yes," he says. "And I must see the photographs if you were to listen to my performances."
A flicker of discomfort, some self-conscious tension in Louis' face at the stipulation.
Louis who has no idea that Daniel has gone ahead and displayed the whole of what he'd scanned of Louis' work for Lestat's perusal.
He looks briefly away. Strange, to be here. He'd dreamed Lestat in the little shared apartment, looking at his photographs. Critiquing. Flipping through a scattered assortment, eyes sharp. There had been a time where Louis had wanted this more than anything. Lestat, indulging him.
He is more aware now than he was then of how little he has to show off, years of honing his critical ability giving him a better understanding of what his work lacks.
Inevitably, his eyes return to Lestat. Fingers drum on the wood of the bench behind Lestat's shoulders as Louis asks, "How many of 'em?"
And inevitably, a flicker of anxiety. He senses a misstep. Daniel's explanations had emphasised the absence of pressure, the humbleness of the gift, and perhaps demanding to see the end product goes against the thing. Too eager. Selfish. Assumptive, that he would simply have full access to what Louis makes of this.
In this pause, Lestat considers how he might take it back without it going even more off-kilter—
Rescued, maybe. Self-consciousness reflected back at him, but played off with a little shrug. "I hadn't considered the math," dry. "Any you like. They're for you, not me."
"You consider the math, you'd have to adjust how many performances you'd be owing to match," Louis deadpans, unable to resist the urge to speak on potential valuations. Get a little more for whatever mediocre work he produces. No heat behind it. They are playing.
Lestat doesn't push him. It is enough space for Louis to continue on, to tell him, "Not sure they're for me anymore. But I'll come up with some, for you."
A long breath drawn in, and then, "Okay," and here, he can't help himself, Louis will just have to forgive the way Lestat clips a couple fingers around the edge of Louis' coat lapel, a pointless but affectionate little tug at the fabric. Braces against the wave of yearning that rises, crests. Getting used to it.
"Yes," Louis answers, low. A deep ache at the hitch of fingers, this small touch. "It's a deal."
So it's settled. Louis aware that he's gotten away with something, whatever Lestat has to say about fifty years without playing. Louis remembers exactly how talented Lestat is. A singular musician. And Louis—
Adequate.
He sets the camera down on his thigh. The mess of film remains where it settled in his lap.
If they stay on this bench any longer, he'll be fending off the urge to practically climb into Louis' lap, he thinks.
So. Lestat unfolds his legs and gets to his feet in one smooth motion, snagging up the strap attached to the keyboard's case, hefting it up against his back. "We walk," he says, resettling his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. Louis has left it up to him, after all. "We find a spot for you to cash in. Perhaps a talent scout will be walking the wilderness of Central Park and discover me, and I'll make it big."
"I haven't taken any pictures to cash in," is minor protest.
Louis remains seated, taking only a few moments to collect the packs of film and vanish them into this or that pocket. To consider the camera in its cardboard packaging before forcing himself to pop open the top. Withdraw the absurd item Daniel has selected.
He'd been so—
Hard to remember now, exactly, what he felt for that first camera. Opportunity, maybe. Or just...excitement. Something that felt eager, and young. Louis remembers that sense so clearly. Claudia had laughed. He'd joined her. Laughed at himself. Relieved to have something to laugh about, something easy at last.
(Had it been hope he'd felt? Maybe.)
This is not the same. Reserved. All things dampened by what came before. What came in the hours before he arrived here. In the long years since he last lifted a camera. All his own had remained in Paris, abandoned, but Louis had taken the photos. He'd wanted them. He doesn't know what he'll feel for these, on their glossy white-squared film.
"You eat?" is an off-hand query, as Louis rises at last. Deposits wrapping and packaging all into a trash can before falling in alongside Lestat.
Lestat would like to know more of it. The first camera, the first photograph. The book had included Louis' words on the matter, but he has his own follow ups. But there will be some time for that, and perhaps he's gotten away with enough for one evening. Perhaps, it will come easier once Louis has done the thing one or two times more.
Patient for Louis to rise, pivoting once he is on his feet so they can roam in step.
"I ate," he confirms. "And true. If you wish for my performance tonight, you will have to begin."
But: a swerve, a bump of his shoulder to Louis. "I will content myself with your company otherwise. Gift enough, and so on."
Unreasonable to feel nettled. This is a kind gesture. It would have been kind enough as it stood in the hotel room, all three of them gathered together. It has been made more by Lestat, additions of gleaming wrapping paper and the coaxing promise of a performance.
Mediocre. Adequate. A small office cluttered with the work of superior artists, in which Louis had been instructed upon the clear difference between his work and theirs. We know it when we see it. True now as it had been then.
Louis carries these contemplations alongside the weightier matters he's been turning over in his head. His own inadequacies, as it were.
Still, when they come to a bend in the looping park path, Louis hangs back. Waits for Lestat to turn to him before he lifts the camera and snaps a picture of him.
Daniel hadn't been kidding. The flash is more than excessive. Louis grimaces a little behind the lens as the camera grinds out its first square of film.
"There," he says, tugging the film free. Waving it in the air, moving to fall back in alongside Lestat. "We made a start."
How many frames in Paris developed hoping to see Lestat come into focus? Slapping his own face, hyperventilating, a split second thinking maybe—
But Lestat had never come out in film then. He does now, his image blooming across the photo as it develops. Louis hands it over for inspection, sight unseen.
His picture is taken, and Lestat makes a sound of protest—both for the flash searing his retinas as well as an immediate complaint for the fact he hadn't had a chance to pose, but it wears off quickly, too immediately fond. Too immediately thrilled, also, for being Louis' first subject.
He takes the photograph with eagerness as they walk, bringing it up to look at. The flash in the dim street makes the moment unearthly, all colour leeched from his skin. Over the top of his glasses, his eyes show up nearly ice-white and blue tinged, and his expression in this split second before he flinched is expectant, keyed in on where Louis is, what he is doing, what he is thinking.
A different artefact to the formal portraits they'd taken a century ago, posing with Claudia, the occasional business partner. That had seemed less like an art to Lestat then. He wonders if he would have liked this then, its imperfection and messiness, his imperfection and messiness.
He likes it now. A smile that none should describe as 'dorky' in earshot in case he never does it again, and then veering back into Louis' space as they walk to hold it up for him to see.
"See," he urges. "When I'm famous, you can make a small fortune if you wished." He tips his head in study. "I look like Kurt Cobain." His tone implies that this is a compliment for them both.
There will be poses, Louis is certain. Their however long drive to Vermont. Whatever occupies them there, between one public appearance and the next. Lestat will pose, Daniel will grouse, Louis will run through the film and then—
Then perhaps that is all.
The little camera feels strange in his hands. Flimsy. Far from what he remembers, what he recalls of the cameras he'd used in Paris.
"You look good," Louis tells him, something Lestat of course already knows but has always liked to hear. Lets the camera dangle from one hand while he hooks the other into the bend of Lestat's elbow. "Always do."
A small fortune, dismissed.
The first photo taken in almost eighty years, and it's of Lestat. (A photo, at last. After hunting his ghost nightly in Paris.) Louis doesn't intend to part with it.
He does like to hear it. The affirmation is received well and warmly.
The second twists strangely. Not for the words themselves, really, not for the flattering, just the way it reaches back into the past, reaches forwards into the future. If things were different, perhaps Lestat could look forward to an eternity of this—trading flattery, and Louis' arm linking with his, and it could mean everything he wants it to mean.
And so, self-satisfaction twists into yearning, and it catches him sharp and sudden enough that he feels his eyes prickle. Fortunately, he can push his glasses up to sit properly on his nose, and laugh. A closed book. He has never cried for no reason in his life.
"I make an ideal subject, then," he says, reaching to slip the photograph into Louis' coat pocket. "As I said."
Precious, this little square. For all the flaws Louis will certainly find in it upon closer examination, he has already determined that it shall be kept.
He'd had so little of Lestat, all these years. Will likely have little of him in the coming years, once this tour is over. Once Lestat makes good on his resolution to become a rock star, absconds for his tour with Daniel in tow if he can convince him. Once Louis returns to Dubai and perhaps wages his war from atop his tower once more, or chooses a new field of battle until the whole slew of vengeful vampires lose interest in a century or so.
(It will be lonely. Louis has considered this, to some extent.)
"As you said," Louis agrees, easy enough. Saves his nitpicking, his meditations on his own mediocrity. Lets the conversation lapse, moving quietly together for a few moments before Louis says, "Can I ask you something, and you answer me honest?"
Hands free, Lestat can indulge in tucking the other over the bend of Louis' elbow, a cosy tangle. His keyboard balanced at his back from its strap, an easy and meaningless weight. His boot heels pitch him that little bit taller than the shoes he'd worn back when. Little differences, not unpleasant, just
threatened. Ephemeral. He is determined to enjoy his evening.
Then, this. He looks aside at Louis, as if to gauge the purpose of this set up. "Of course," he says. "I will always be honest with you."
Having secured this acquiescence, Louis says nothing immediately. Central Park is vast. They could spend a fair amount of time walking, if that's all they wish. Or Lestat has some trajectory in mind, some place he has discovered, and Louis will accompany him. He hasn't asked after the specifics of how Lestat wishes to spend the evening. Their shared company is enough.
Quiet long enough that Lestat would be forgiven for assuming Louis has thought better of what he was asking, given it up.
But eventually, "Have I burdened you with this? What I started?"
The book. The churn of outrage that followed immediately after, even before Louis made his challenge.
It is no lost on him that Lestat and Armand have both made the same point, the same roundabout observation about the dynamics of the fight as its occurred since Louis arrived in New York.
The pace Lestat has set is a wander, where the ghostly illumination of lamplight hovers amongst dark trees and slowly, the park empties itself of people. If they were in the mood, they could retreat into where the park is densest and darkest. Tonight, Lestat follows the sound of mortals, where they walk the reservoir, and the water is black and the skyline glitters beyond the trees.
It's not far, and he's in no rush. No rush, either, to answer this question. Louis has requested for truth, very specifically, and though Lestat's impulse isn't lying, he would like to make sure he isn't. That if he says everything is fine, it's true.
"What I know is my nights were empty," he says, once this is done. "And now they are full. Is that burden?"
Hardly something Louis can answer. Punts it back to Lestat asking,
"Is it?"
Has Louis been a burden? He must have been, in New Orleans. He may well be now. Failing to protect the ones he loves most, dragging a fight to their door. Hurting Lestat with the book he hasn't read and they haven't talked about.
Armand, twisting the knife. The implication of running to Lestat to make him the guard dog Lestat had accused them of treating him as.
His attention flicks back out to the path before them. "A burden is something you wish to set down. That you carry out of obligation. But if you were to say, Lestat, the puddles on this pavement will get my boots muddy, will you carry me across, I would rush to do it. And you may need to convince me to set you back down."
He is teasing, clearly, light humour in the weight he might lean his weight into him, cast a smile his way. More seriously, "You're no burden to me, Louis. Perhaps we would wish for a pleasant evening every night, uninterrupted, but I would hate to be bored."
Because if he were to cut to the heart of it, and beg Louis not to leave, or to send him away, this evening would get less pleasant quickly.
Louis quietly turns these things over in his mind. Weighs them, a counterbalance to Armand's insinuations, the things Lestat said outright.
He'd made his challenge. There had been utility in it, good strategy that Louis knows by heart, still the boy from New Orleans flexing his own strength in the face of a threat. He had known what he was inviting. Welcomed it.
It had been easier in Dubai. Many things had been easier in Dubai.
Quiet for too long, thinking on it, Louis realizes. And it's only part of what he means to ask, part of the corrosive worries circling his head.
Tacks away from them, offering instead, "I scared you, on the rooftop. I'm sorry."
Not that he'd done it, but that Lestat had to feel any of the things Louis had tasted in his blood earlier this evening. Sorry that Lestat had to fear for him, but not to have taken Eimear from the rooftop, drawn her attention away from Lestat and Daniel both.
When the silence persists, Lestat would like to think that Louis is admiring the gloom of the park at this hour. But he isn't. And neither is Lestat, watching instead Louis' face turned forward as they walk. Bracing, a little, for whatever he might say or ask next. For challenge, perhaps. Lestat has expressed unhappiness for all of this before.
It would be fair. What he receives instead is, then, a little disarming, and he veers his focus back forwards. A reminder. He hums out a sound, accepting the apology.
"I would prefer," after a moment, "that you had come to visit for the little things. I would prefer to have emerged and found the world with less challenges in it than there are now. I would prefer less reasons to fear for your life."
A little shrug. "And once, long ago, I had everything I had wanted, and look where that got us, hm?"
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Pleased. Flirtatious. Oblivious, while Louis is playing along.
"What would meet your satisfaction?" Lestat asks, letting the foot on the leg he has over a knee bounce a little. "Two performances."
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His arm lifts, slings back along the bench behind Lestat. An invitation to consider the math. Twelve times the absurd number of packs Daniel has purchased.
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Lestat, a little at a disadvantage. If all was as it was, this is where he might touch Louis, play his fingertips along the edge of his coat, find an excuse to press knee to thigh. But then, he didn't have those tools in his arsenal when they were out in public anyway.
And so—
"Twelve, then," because the number doesn't matter. It won't matter once the first time has occurred.
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Not even in a frame. Louis' photographs in archival boxes, carried out of Paris. Preserved. Moments frozen in time. Claudia, smiling with her fangs out. Her impromptu snaps of Louis across the table in a Parisian cafe. Her at her dressing table, applying her lipstick. Pulling a face at him. Little moments that are so painful to look at, just as the diaries were agony to touch for so long.
But no. Louis pulls himself back.
"Anytime I ask?" he questions. "Twelve performances, whenever I ask you?"
Louis had never had to ask. But they are a long way away from their home, Lestat's well-cherished piano, their well-appointed salon.
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As if this were driving a hard bargain. As if, even with his own tangled reservations towards his return to the piano, it were any kind of burden to create a situation in which Louis is obliged to ask him to perform, and Lestat obliged to do so. As if the idea of Louis asking him for anything, more substantial than his continued existence and proximity, doesn't set off a twee flutter of feeling in his chest.
He is a good enough actor, but not as talented at lying as Claudia had suspected him of being, and the corner of his mouth turns up, unbidden. "Yes," he says. "And I must see the photographs if you were to listen to my performances."
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Louis who has no idea that Daniel has gone ahead and displayed the whole of what he'd scanned of Louis' work for Lestat's perusal.
He looks briefly away. Strange, to be here. He'd dreamed Lestat in the little shared apartment, looking at his photographs. Critiquing. Flipping through a scattered assortment, eyes sharp. There had been a time where Louis had wanted this more than anything. Lestat, indulging him.
He is more aware now than he was then of how little he has to show off, years of honing his critical ability giving him a better understanding of what his work lacks.
Inevitably, his eyes return to Lestat. Fingers drum on the wood of the bench behind Lestat's shoulders as Louis asks, "How many of 'em?"
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In this pause, Lestat considers how he might take it back without it going even more off-kilter—
Rescued, maybe. Self-consciousness reflected back at him, but played off with a little shrug. "I hadn't considered the math," dry. "Any you like. They're for you, not me."
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Lestat doesn't push him. It is enough space for Louis to continue on, to tell him, "Not sure they're for me anymore. But I'll come up with some, for you."
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Maybe. "It's a deal, then?"
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So it's settled. Louis aware that he's gotten away with something, whatever Lestat has to say about fifty years without playing. Louis remembers exactly how talented Lestat is. A singular musician. And Louis—
Adequate.
He sets the camera down on his thigh. The mess of film remains where it settled in his lap.
Asks, "What now, Lestat?"
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So. Lestat unfolds his legs and gets to his feet in one smooth motion, snagging up the strap attached to the keyboard's case, hefting it up against his back. "We walk," he says, resettling his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. Louis has left it up to him, after all. "We find a spot for you to cash in. Perhaps a talent scout will be walking the wilderness of Central Park and discover me, and I'll make it big."
City of dreams, and all that. So he's heard.
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Louis remains seated, taking only a few moments to collect the packs of film and vanish them into this or that pocket. To consider the camera in its cardboard packaging before forcing himself to pop open the top. Withdraw the absurd item Daniel has selected.
He'd been so—
Hard to remember now, exactly, what he felt for that first camera. Opportunity, maybe. Or just...excitement. Something that felt eager, and young. Louis remembers that sense so clearly. Claudia had laughed. He'd joined her. Laughed at himself. Relieved to have something to laugh about, something easy at last.
(Had it been hope he'd felt? Maybe.)
This is not the same. Reserved. All things dampened by what came before. What came in the hours before he arrived here. In the long years since he last lifted a camera. All his own had remained in Paris, abandoned, but Louis had taken the photos. He'd wanted them. He doesn't know what he'll feel for these, on their glossy white-squared film.
"You eat?" is an off-hand query, as Louis rises at last. Deposits wrapping and packaging all into a trash can before falling in alongside Lestat.
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Patient for Louis to rise, pivoting once he is on his feet so they can roam in step.
"I ate," he confirms. "And true. If you wish for my performance tonight, you will have to begin."
But: a swerve, a bump of his shoulder to Louis. "I will content myself with your company otherwise. Gift enough, and so on."
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Mediocre. Adequate. A small office cluttered with the work of superior artists, in which Louis had been instructed upon the clear difference between his work and theirs. We know it when we see it. True now as it had been then.
Louis carries these contemplations alongside the weightier matters he's been turning over in his head. His own inadequacies, as it were.
Still, when they come to a bend in the looping park path, Louis hangs back. Waits for Lestat to turn to him before he lifts the camera and snaps a picture of him.
Daniel hadn't been kidding. The flash is more than excessive. Louis grimaces a little behind the lens as the camera grinds out its first square of film.
"There," he says, tugging the film free. Waving it in the air, moving to fall back in alongside Lestat. "We made a start."
How many frames in Paris developed hoping to see Lestat come into focus? Slapping his own face, hyperventilating, a split second thinking maybe—
But Lestat had never come out in film then. He does now, his image blooming across the photo as it develops. Louis hands it over for inspection, sight unseen.
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He takes the photograph with eagerness as they walk, bringing it up to look at. The flash in the dim street makes the moment unearthly, all colour leeched from his skin. Over the top of his glasses, his eyes show up nearly ice-white and blue tinged, and his expression in this split second before he flinched is expectant, keyed in on where Louis is, what he is doing, what he is thinking.
A different artefact to the formal portraits they'd taken a century ago, posing with Claudia, the occasional business partner. That had seemed less like an art to Lestat then. He wonders if he would have liked this then, its imperfection and messiness, his imperfection and messiness.
He likes it now. A smile that none should describe as 'dorky' in earshot in case he never does it again, and then veering back into Louis' space as they walk to hold it up for him to see.
"See," he urges. "When I'm famous, you can make a small fortune if you wished." He tips his head in study. "I look like Kurt Cobain." His tone implies that this is a compliment for them both.
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Then perhaps that is all.
The little camera feels strange in his hands. Flimsy. Far from what he remembers, what he recalls of the cameras he'd used in Paris.
"You look good," Louis tells him, something Lestat of course already knows but has always liked to hear. Lets the camera dangle from one hand while he hooks the other into the bend of Lestat's elbow. "Always do."
A small fortune, dismissed.
The first photo taken in almost eighty years, and it's of Lestat. (A photo, at last. After hunting his ghost nightly in Paris.) Louis doesn't intend to part with it.
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The second twists strangely. Not for the words themselves, really, not for the flattering, just the way it reaches back into the past, reaches forwards into the future. If things were different, perhaps Lestat could look forward to an eternity of this—trading flattery, and Louis' arm linking with his, and it could mean everything he wants it to mean.
And so, self-satisfaction twists into yearning, and it catches him sharp and sudden enough that he feels his eyes prickle. Fortunately, he can push his glasses up to sit properly on his nose, and laugh. A closed book. He has never cried for no reason in his life.
"I make an ideal subject, then," he says, reaching to slip the photograph into Louis' coat pocket. "As I said."
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He'd had so little of Lestat, all these years. Will likely have little of him in the coming years, once this tour is over. Once Lestat makes good on his resolution to become a rock star, absconds for his tour with Daniel in tow if he can convince him. Once Louis returns to Dubai and perhaps wages his war from atop his tower once more, or chooses a new field of battle until the whole slew of vengeful vampires lose interest in a century or so.
(It will be lonely. Louis has considered this, to some extent.)
"As you said," Louis agrees, easy enough. Saves his nitpicking, his meditations on his own mediocrity. Lets the conversation lapse, moving quietly together for a few moments before Louis says, "Can I ask you something, and you answer me honest?"
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threatened. Ephemeral. He is determined to enjoy his evening.
Then, this. He looks aside at Louis, as if to gauge the purpose of this set up. "Of course," he says. "I will always be honest with you."
I mean, he tries, and that's what matters.
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Quiet long enough that Lestat would be forgiven for assuming Louis has thought better of what he was asking, given it up.
But eventually, "Have I burdened you with this? What I started?"
The book. The churn of outrage that followed immediately after, even before Louis made his challenge.
It is no lost on him that Lestat and Armand have both made the same point, the same roundabout observation about the dynamics of the fight as its occurred since Louis arrived in New York.
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It's not far, and he's in no rush. No rush, either, to answer this question. Louis has requested for truth, very specifically, and though Lestat's impulse isn't lying, he would like to make sure he isn't. That if he says everything is fine, it's true.
"What I know is my nights were empty," he says, once this is done. "And now they are full. Is that burden?"
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"Is it?"
Has Louis been a burden? He must have been, in New Orleans. He may well be now. Failing to protect the ones he loves most, dragging a fight to their door. Hurting Lestat with the book he hasn't read and they haven't talked about.
Armand, twisting the knife. The implication of running to Lestat to make him the guard dog Lestat had accused them of treating him as.
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His attention flicks back out to the path before them. "A burden is something you wish to set down. That you carry out of obligation. But if you were to say, Lestat, the puddles on this pavement will get my boots muddy, will you carry me across, I would rush to do it. And you may need to convince me to set you back down."
He is teasing, clearly, light humour in the weight he might lean his weight into him, cast a smile his way. More seriously, "You're no burden to me, Louis. Perhaps we would wish for a pleasant evening every night, uninterrupted, but I would hate to be bored."
Because if he were to cut to the heart of it, and beg Louis not to leave, or to send him away, this evening would get less pleasant quickly.
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Louis quietly turns these things over in his mind. Weighs them, a counterbalance to Armand's insinuations, the things Lestat said outright.
He'd made his challenge. There had been utility in it, good strategy that Louis knows by heart, still the boy from New Orleans flexing his own strength in the face of a threat. He had known what he was inviting. Welcomed it.
It had been easier in Dubai. Many things had been easier in Dubai.
Quiet for too long, thinking on it, Louis realizes. And it's only part of what he means to ask, part of the corrosive worries circling his head.
Tacks away from them, offering instead, "I scared you, on the rooftop. I'm sorry."
Not that he'd done it, but that Lestat had to feel any of the things Louis had tasted in his blood earlier this evening. Sorry that Lestat had to fear for him, but not to have taken Eimear from the rooftop, drawn her attention away from Lestat and Daniel both.
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It would be fair. What he receives instead is, then, a little disarming, and he veers his focus back forwards. A reminder. He hums out a sound, accepting the apology.
"I would prefer," after a moment, "that you had come to visit for the little things. I would prefer to have emerged and found the world with less challenges in it than there are now. I would prefer less reasons to fear for your life."
A little shrug. "And once, long ago, I had everything I had wanted, and look where that got us, hm?"
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lil bow