Tag Archives: baby lestat

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takemetocoffin-or-losemeforever: The good side of pronouncing Lestat in the non-Germanic way is that you can make stupid puns with the determiner “les” in French. And that’s priceless.

More seriously, since I saw the movie before reading the books, I pronounce the final “T” of Lestat, while it’s usually not the case in French. So, theoretically, in modern French, the pronunciation would be something like “lesta”. But it sounds kinda silly, and there is an awful lot of exceptions to the “t” rule. Furthermore, “Lestat” hugely looks like the Occitan word “estat”, prononced “S-taT”. And guess where Occitan, an old language still used nowadays, is spoken? In south France, which include Auvergne. So, in a very twisted way, “LestaT” as an old french name is making sense. At least if you accept the idea that “the state” is a decent name for a person.

OuO very informative. 

AR says it was a typo of Lestan, “Le,” French for “The,” + “Stan” for her husband, Stan Rice, and the typo with the “T” stuck. In a way, Uncle Lestan is actually how AR intended his name to be. 

In canon, Lestat explains in Blackwood Farm that his name is just the first letters of his siblings’ names:

“What an unusual name, Lestat,” she returned. “Does it have a meaning?”

“None whatsoever, Madam,” Lestat answered. “If memory serves me right, and it does less and less, the name’s compounded of the first letter of each of my six older brothers’ names, all of whom – the brothers and their names – I grew up to cheerfully and vigorously despise.”

^This could work, but we only know one of his brother’s names, Augustin.

Discussing this with viaticumforthemarquise-archive… maybe Augustin (or one of Lestat’s brothers) told him that just to hurt his feelings, like “YOU ARE SO WORTHLESS THAT AT BIRTH OUR PARENTS COULD ONLY MUSTER THE CREATIVITY TO TAKE A LETTER FROM EACH OF OUR NAMES” *SLAPS*

Lestat: *screaming internally*

They told him this at a young age … and he never questioned it ;A;

I liked this headcanon for Lestat’s naming, by viaticumforthemarquise-archive.

Zzz [♛ a dream about ourself, then! Perhaps a dream from childhood? Maybe a recurring nightmare…]

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devilsfool:

Send me “Zzz” and I’ll write a drabble about a dream my muse has had about yours!

Open doors are frightening, aren’t they? Open doors are equated with permission, often for things we did not want nor desire. 

He always asked that the door be left open. “Why do you close your door against me?” There was no answer—how does one respond to that? 

It would begin with the light caress of fingers, soft and deceptive on the back. Not even under the bedclothes at that point, no, merely something anyone might do to comfort a child. 

When he reached the thighs you knew it was too late. There was no deterring, no turning back. Up comes the nightdress, and the caress, still soft, moves forward to darker territory. 

How often before it became a habit? How often before one could close the eyes and pretend it wasn’t happening?

This is the nightmare, though, isn’t it. Not the moment of culmination, no, not the moment of union or even the little death. The beginning. The deception of soft hands, calming voice, all used to soothe. 

I still have it, some nights. 

Not often, thankfully, but it never really left. 

It starts with an open door. 

Snow: November 7th, 1760

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viaticumforthemarquise:

She’d been looking out the window for hours, book balanced upon her belly, when the first pains came. By now, she knew not to panic, that there would be time before anything of consequence might happen. She did not bother to call the girl to her rooms to help her, but set the book down beside her and placed her hands upon her swollen belly, closing her eyes against the cutting tremors.

It was cold for November, far colder than it should have been. The ice in the bowl in her room had to be broken each morning so she might rinse her face, the frosty water underneath turning her fingertips blue with cold.

The contractions increased faster than she’d been prepared for—this child was a month before its time, eager to arrive in the world, and she knew already that it had little patience. When the midwife found her way into the bedroom (called for by the girl who’d heard her groans), she was already in a deep squat near the fire. The older woman made quick work of her clothing, removing much of it so that she stood before the flames, her swollen breasts resting upon her naked belly, her hands down between her legs and touching the crown of the child’s head.

Her heart pounded as he slid from her body: another boy, another disappointment. But he was so small; that was all she noticed as the girl took him to clean him off, the water now warmed over the fire, his body pink underneath the smears of blood and white.

It was only then, after the placenta had also exited her, that she noticed once more the chill in the air, the gooseflesh upon her skin. The old woman wrapped her in a dressing gown after gently wiping off her thighs, her purple and bruised flesh, leading her to bed and pulling blankets and furs up around her.

“Wait.”

One word she uttered as the girl started to take the infant out of the room, his mouth wide with cries. The girl muttered something about the wet nurse, but she shook her head, her arms stretching out for him.

As that wide mouth latched upon her nipple, she sighed. He was different in her arms than the others had been. And, though he was tiny and wrinkled as any other newborn, she knew with one look that he would favour her—unlike so many of the others.

Her eyes wandered to the window, her fingers trembling as she held him.

It had begun to snow. 

Is it true that Lestat is actually the child of your lover?

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viaticumforthemarquise:

No, this is a rumour, one that even I have perpetuated from time to time. 

I wish he was. I wish he did not have the blood of my husband running through his veins. 

But he does. And this is evident when he falls prey to his passions, his rages, his uncontrollable temper. All of the horrors my son is capable of come almost completely from the cruelties he learned and inherited at the feet of his father. 

This is not to say that I myself am not capable of great cruelty, merely that my cruelties do not live in the spotlight of Lestat’s memory in quite the same way that his father’s do. 

☆ – happy headcanon

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viaticumforthemarquise:

Lestat came earlier than he should have, born in November, a full month and a half before he’d come to term. Her body, exhausted after so many fully realised and failed births, simply could not carry him any longer. 

Convinced that the babe would not survive, like so many others, the Marquis left the castle on what he loosely termed ‘business,’ leaving her alone with the priest, the midwife, and the pain. 

He was born at night. Tiny, wailing, the priest advised they baptize him immediately, in case he did not make it until morning. 

For the first time, she found herself in a unique position: this child would be named by her, claimed by her, perfectly clean of her husband’s touch or thought. 

She named him Lestat. It seemed to suit him—his birth had been urgent, and so then might his name. 

Later, the Marquis, furious that the child, both male and living, had not been named by him, went to the village priest and had the names “Christophe” and “Marie” added to the birth record. 

But it didn’t matter. Lestat she had named him, and Lestat he remained. Hers. 

And that had never changed. 

Gallery

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gorgeous-fiend: #//ALWAYS REBLOG #//BECAUSE BABY!LESTAT

Source: dasyridley

What is your favourite childhood memory?

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gorgeous-fiend-blog:

It took a lot of cajoling, but once I persuaded Augustin to sneak out with me in the night to steal leftover cakes from the bakery in the village. We were fairly successful. I say that because while we were able to stuff our pockets full of sweets, we did not anticipate the pair of territorial  rottweilers who sneaked up on us.

God, the destruction we wrought to escape with our heads still attached. Bags of flour spilling everywhere, day-old pastries strewn across the floor, broken glass wear, pans used as shields. We managed to give the dogs the slip and we raced home before anyone could find us. It’s a good thing too. Could you imagine? The baker rushes to see his kitchen in shambles and finds not street urchins, but two little lords stealing from his cabinets.

I laughed the entire way home. Even Augustin, who at once looked at me like I was crazy and was  to blame for all of it, couldn’t hide his amusement.  It was a rare bonding time for us.

In Blackwood Farm, Lestat says his name is “compounded of the first letter of each of my six older brothers’ names.” Is that true? Whose brilliant idea was that? Were you that disinterested in choosing an actual name for him?

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viaticumforthemarquise:

-sighs-

This is a falsehood. 

When he was very young, his brothers (not known for their kindness), told him this story. They made it quite clear to him that his parents, having no love left for him after six children, took the laziest route possible in naming him. 

This is, of course, an utter lie. I’ve already told the story here of Lestat’s naming—and I’ve also explained this to him many times (he tends to accept this story as a part of his own mythology, unfortunately). 

He does, from time to time, need reminding that his name, just like my love for him, was not accidental in nature. He is, and ever will be, my Lestat. Thus I named him, and thus I keep him. 

And his brothers are dead. So there’s that. 

(he tends to accept this story as a part of his own mythology, unfortunately).He picks and chooses his own mythology, for SURE.