I’ve been thinking a lot about compassion in Judaism, and being kind. In that light, I would like everyone to know that my current favorite Jewish supernatural headcanon is that, instead of driving vampires away with crosses or stakes through the heart, we say the Mourner’s Kaddish for them. I mean, that’s just so adorable. You see this threatening undead creature, and instead of yelling murder, you feel bad for them, and you mourn for them. Imagine being a vampire at the receiving end of that, having been chased away for years and years and told you’re a monster when you come across someone who sees you and your existence and accepts that you’re in a pretty bad place and offers help in the best way they can. I’m actually tearing up about this a little. If someone adds to this post I’ll love them forever.
It doesn’t work for zombies.
This is one of the hardest things she learns, in the business. Saying the Mourner’s Kaddish will slow a vampire, to stare at you with wide shocked eyes (and once, memorably, to weep blood-tinged tears), unable or unwilling to lift a hand against you. It will calm a dybbuk, enough to make it stop whatever destruction it’s begun, and almost always enough to start a conversation about why it clings so desperately to the world of the living, what it’s left undone, how it can be freed to move on. You have died, the Kaddish says, and we mourn you as we would mourn our own dead, because someone must.
But there is no soul and no mind left in a zombie, no vestige of the self it once was, nothing left for the Kaddish to speak to.
She says it anyway, with every head-shot, with every flung grenade.
Not because she still hopes one might hear her, but because they are dead, and the dead should be mourned.
…this is gorgeous.
Tag Archives: HEADCANON ACCEPTED
Look all I’m saying is, if snapchat existed in the 80’s Daniel would most definitely have ‘not so passive’ aggressively snapped Armand a lot.
but what if he just took Polaroids and left them all over the place for Armand to find when he woke up. YOU CAN WRITE LITTLE NOTES/CAPTIONS ON THE WHITE STRIP ON THE BOTTOM so it definitely happened.
He definitely did that. Someone artsy make them now, I need them in my life
#HEADCANON ACCEPTED
Concept: an immortal who doesn’t shy away from photos or paintings. Draws self portraits on cave walls. Photobombs everything with a pout and a suave pose. Commissions numerous portraits of themself as a literary Romantic before faking their death. Tries to be at least slightly famous every time they have a new identity. Creates a conspiracy blog linking all their past photos together before mysteriously disappearing in mysterious circumstances. Mysteriously. Usually only disappears for 10 to 20 years after “"dying”“ before making another appearance. Everyone else in the immortal community lowkey hates them. “Ah, fuck. You’ll never guess who’s resurfaced again.” “Fucking… Dave?” “Fucking Dave.”
What’s the most frantic you’ve ever felt?
I’ve detailed one moment, when I was mortal, and with Nicolas in the inn. The realization of nothing, of endless darkness with no explanation or answer for suffering… I’ve learned since that these are called ‘panic attacks.’ We didn’t have such words, then.
Another instance was when I was young. I think I might have been eight, maybe ten years old? I was being punished, though I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what I’d done. Most things, especially simple things, were enough reason to punish me, I suppose. I’m sure I wasn’t an easy child, and my father was not an easy man by any stretch of the imagination.
He’d had my brothers lock me in my bedroom. But Charles, in a fit of charming cruelty, locked me not only into my bedroom but also into the wooden trunk at the foot of my bed.
Oh, God, the panic. Have you been locked in a very small space before? And I don’t mean a coffin–a coffin, especially as a vampire, is a different experience. I mean a small, confined space into which you know you are not meant to be placed. I beat at the inside of the trunk for hours, crying and screaming to be released–but it was a castle, n’est-ce pas? Who was going to hear me outside the great stone walls of my room?
Eventually, my nurse came to find me as night fell. It must have been when I did not appear at the table in the great hall with the rest of my family. What had they done when asked where I was, my idiot brothers? She didn’t even have the key, poor woman. From what I came to understand, Gabrielle finally forced its surrender (she has since told me that she slapped him; I find that satisfying) and came to my bedroom herself to free me.
One happy family, non?
i love the idea of lestat being a huge fan of selfie culture and also sending gabrielle awful snapchats all the time with louis unwillingly participating in them
Headcanon: Lestat forces everyone in the coven to make a “special secret handshake” everytime they meet that looks like Will Smith’s handshake in the Fresh Prince of Bail-Air
I was curious recently about whether or not William Shakespeare had a cat. There’s no way to really know because we don’t know all that much about him, but I was sure someone had at least, you know, looked at the odds. And I was not wrong! Apparently Shakespeare mentions cats 44 times in his known works, usually referring to them negatively, at least according to the internet.
Basically he constantly talked about how terrible cats are, which has led me to conclude that Shakespeare DEFINITELY had a cat, probably like five of them.
I’ve begun a list of headcanons I have held for varyingly amounts of time that relate to my fic and it’s already gotten quite long. Here’s one of my long-held and cherished Louis head canons –
Louis cannot wink. His version is to close both eyes in the slow, satisfied manner of cats. He does not appear to realize that this is not a true wink – it delights Lestat to no end and he has never mentioned to Louis that he cannot, in fact, wink and apparently neither has anyone else.
imagine for a moment Lestat And Friends playing d&d
THIS IS AN AMAZING IDEA and I sat on this in my inbox for a long time because I don’t know that much about D&D and I wish I had more to add to this situation. But like, YEAH like D&D Night at Trinity Gate, third Wednesday every month, sounds perfect. Everyone can come over. I’m more partial to the idea that it’s Armand & Friends and that Lestat comes over and crashes the party and acts like a douche but yeah man I think this DEFINITELY HAPPENS.
@sheysira @justsomespacedust @saintambrose DO YALL HAVE THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS?
#FANFIC REQUEST #FANART REQUEST
Oh man. A small selection because apparently my brain took this and ran with it a bit
“No, Lestat, being a bard does NOT mean you sing all your dialogue”
Daniel as DM because he’s the only one who’s even remotely unbiased
“I am going to smite you SO hard, you won’t even know what smote you. Say bonjour to my TWO-HANDED BROADAXE, you little goblin shit!” *rolls a critical miss*
“Oh, that’s great. Just great. I can’t believe you just said that. We have ONE healer in this party, so do you think just once you could keep your big mouth shut and try NOT to get us all killed?”
“Well maybe if St Francis over here *jabs thumb in Louis’ direction* had picked some USEFUL skills instead of “talking to animals” this wouldn’t have happened”
“Pardon? My charisma stats alone have saved this mission like three times THIS EVENING”
//meanwhile Armand is a min/maxing munchkin who number crunches all his stats and barely misses breaking the game
//Nicolas rolls bard and insists Lestat reroll priest/cleric “if he wants to be so ‘good’”
//totally. Spends points and money with extreme deliberation and keeps absolute track of his gear and any and all bonuses so he never forgets to make use of them at opportune moments
//y e p. Meanwhile Lestat playing chaotic neutral or some shit just so he can fuck with Armand with impunity
//I have no idea how to play D&D but you know I am ALL about COVEN GAME NIGHT!!!!!
Close Quarters
“So what if we had to sleep on lumpy pallets, and the neighbors woke us up with fighting.” -Lestat, The Vampire Lestat
Was it the first night? The second? Third? It had all been a whirlwind to me, the excitement of arriving in Paris, the world suddenly such a different place from where I’d spent the last 21 years. People everywhere, the stench of shit and piss in the streets, the sounds of horses and church bells and music everywhere. How I loved it.
We’d rented a tiny room at the top floor of a building–one bed, two windows, a shelf and a basin in which to wash. Such a small space! Such heaven to me, such cramped and glorious beauty.
The first night we’d made wild, happy love, tumbling into the lumpy, uncomfortable bed twisted and entwined and endlessly delighted in each other. The bells of a church chimed the hour in the distance, the moonlight spilling into the little window and onto the floor of the flat. I remember this image as I drifted off to sleep, a strange thought coming to me that I hoped my mother was okay, that she was becoming well again, perhaps.
It was maybe an hour later that I was roused, abruptly, by shouts. The wall above our head thudded as something hit it–something heavy.
“Nicolas–” I shook him, then, his eyes snapping open.
“What is it? What the hell–?” He sat up, nearly conking heads with me, both of us turned to face the wall behind the headboard.
The screaming continued, followed by the shattering of glass. I know my eyes widened, then–I’d experienced plenty of abuse and yelling in my years, yes, but never had I been privy to the violent fighting of complete strangers, not in such an intimate way. I’d grown up in a damn castle, for God’s sake–the walls were thick and the place devoured sound.
Then Nicolas began to laugh.
I snapped my eyes to his, “How can you laugh? It’s terrible!”
He fell back against the bedclothes, snatching my pillow as he laughed and throwing it at me.
“Welcome to Paris, Lestat.”
I-want-my-IWTV 