Not that Lestat would ever describe Louis in this way, but plenty of others would have. No longer, of course, a strange angel of a man in his own corner of this ruined planet, but lifetimes ago. The thought is fleeting.
But something else, less intrusive than his voice spooling alien words through Daryl's mind—or, well, that's subjective, but nonetheless, something that is more feeling than thought. Daryl will become aware of it like an invisible string between them, a temporary sense of connection that is formed, on some other plane of existence, between a common feeling. Like the lowest string on a guitar, gently thrummed, allowed its reverberating.
Empathy. Loss. Not just loss, but a specific kind. A similar texture.
The song is ending. And I, and I, and I, spooling out into vocalisation that feels too intimate, always, purred through the speakers, and then the finishing tinkle of piano in its minor key. The round of applause sparkles through the chamber, and Lestat's mood wrenches from his performance to toss a pleased smile about the place.
That one, a clearer instruction, and Daryl's eyes will land on where a woman is stepping into the club, looking a little out of place herself. Ordinary clothes, hair braided tight, but has clearly been here before when she picks her way to the bar, keeping to the fringes. She has a boat.
Piano, again, this time no song, encouraging the beginnings of some conversation to reenter the atmosphere. Lestat maintains his preferred mood, dark and romantic, eyes now closing, as if this is for himself.
no subject
Not that Lestat would ever describe Louis in this way, but plenty of others would have. No longer, of course, a strange angel of a man in his own corner of this ruined planet, but lifetimes ago. The thought is fleeting.
But something else, less intrusive than his voice spooling alien words through Daryl's mind—or, well, that's subjective, but nonetheless, something that is more feeling than thought. Daryl will become aware of it like an invisible string between them, a temporary sense of connection that is formed, on some other plane of existence, between a common feeling. Like the lowest string on a guitar, gently thrummed, allowed its reverberating.
Empathy. Loss. Not just loss, but a specific kind. A similar texture.
The song is ending. And I, and I, and I, spooling out into vocalisation that feels too intimate, always, purred through the speakers, and then the finishing tinkle of piano in its minor key. The round of applause sparkles through the chamber, and Lestat's mood wrenches from his performance to toss a pleased smile about the place.
That one, a clearer instruction, and Daryl's eyes will land on where a woman is stepping into the club, looking a little out of place herself. Ordinary clothes, hair braided tight, but has clearly been here before when she picks her way to the bar, keeping to the fringes. She has a boat.
Piano, again, this time no song, encouraging the beginnings of some conversation to reenter the atmosphere. Lestat maintains his preferred mood, dark and romantic, eyes now closing, as if this is for himself.