Gabrielle de Lioncourt
“The well spring of my strength unrestricted
There’s so little I could fail to endure
I could face a tract across the Himalayas
Survive the freezing mist of Scottish MooresMy need to go is hard to fight
I want to gaze upon this world just like the Northern Lights”"Crimson Kiss” lyrics, Lestat the musical
Sometimes, and I truly mean sometimes with every connotation that word can hold, I wish I were more capable of being a physically affectionate creature. Not just because it would please my son immensely—and oh, how it would please him—but because, when I watch others (and I do), it is a mystery that appears…enjoyable.
So many others to whom physical affections comes easily seem so pleased by it. Perhaps my biggest example is Lestat: he is affectionate without stipulation, without condition. He believes in loving openly, and doing so physically (whether or not the objects of his affection appreciate it, as both Louis and I can attest). He believes in embracing, kissing, tackling, cuddling—all those things. Sometimes I find it hard to believe he is mine, though perhaps it is because he grew up in a home with little to no affection that he hungers for it so.
If I could find a way to enjoy such a thing, I would do it.
6: Gentle PeckOn the Path to Sonoma:
He’d been weeping in his sleep—even the deathsleep couldn’t keep him from having nightmares, and she’d realised as soon as she’d awakened that he was struggling against them. The effects of the deathsleep being what they were, there was no way for her to rescue him from them—he would have to ride them out until he awoke.
Twenty or so minutes later, he awoke quite suddenly with his head in her lap. He was still weeping, his face stained with blood tears, but now his eyes bespoke confusion and embarrassment. She did not release him, instead humming softly as she placed one hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently as he closed his eyes and grasped at the fabric of her coatsleeves. She leaned over him, placing an almost invisible kiss upon each eyelid, releasing him gently back to fight his monsters alone.
There were too many stories to count. They all had belonged to my mother or my grandmother, those jewels, and, as Lestat accounted, each one had a story, yes. But they are gone. And their stories with them.
Favourite possessions? This changes from time to time. Currently, I am enjoying the camera that Lestat gave me for Christmas two years ago. I carry very few possessions with me (I carry nothing but one canvas sack as I travel), so they are few. And most of the ones I have come from my son.
I do, however, have a small anklet with a pearl on it. I’ll let you guess who that is a gift from. -small smile- I do not wear it often, as it would get destroyed in most of the places where I travel.
3: Nose KissHe’d fallen asleep while they’d been watching a film—sprawled across the divan, his head in her lap, one leg throw half off the piece of furniture. Like any parent, when he slept she could see the face of babyhood still somewhere in the man he was now, her heart aching just a little as she stroked his hair absently. No, she would never deliver such affection were he awake—it cost her too much to do so—but in the safety of slumber she might treat him as she would have in the smallness of mortal babyhood.
She leaned over his face, gently pressing her lips to the tip of his nose. She loved him—unconditionally, irrevocably—this much would always be true.
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.
Love.
Especially for Lestat. How he must glow to read that.
But, truly, had it not been for his arrival, I could have easily slipped into the monotony and everyday horrors that were life in the Auvergne, dying young and despising everything around me, the world painted grey.
You’ve seen that film, The Wizard of Oz? When Dorothy walks from Kansas into Oz? It’s incredibly trite, but Lestat’s entry into my world was like that walk from the broken, tornado-wracked house onto the golden-paved streets of Oz.
Ah, but he comes by hyperbole honestly, doesn’t he?
It wasn’t that my entire life had been grey up until him—but merely that the greyness cast upon it was so consuming as to kill me sooner rather than later.
If it weren’t for Lestat, I could walk through my immortality without a care, without a thought, without another spoken word to another creature—yet he placed an ember in my heart when I thought it was ice, worked his way in when I wasn’t looking and settled himself there nicely.
Hate me for his upbringing, the times I ignored him, the times I shut my door against him. Hate me for the times I’ve come too late to his pleas for help.
But know that I love him. And he is what breaks me down when I might remain strong.
“Tell us a funny story!”
…
I do not know any funny stories.
Oh. Perhaps this?
Lestat’s first word was “Lolo.” It is baby talk in french, but basically translates to “breast.”
I-want-my-IWTV 