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.