Post by Anne Rices Vampire Chronicals on Mar 29, 2005 1:16:39 GMT -5
Was it he, Nicolas de Lenfent, who did not want to face the truth?
What if what they said was what had really happened?
Maybe Lestat had married... maybe he had denounced the Theatre and his past altogether. Maybe these gifts - the seemingly endless supply of money, the ring, the violin - were part of an ongoing apology. Maybe they were a parting gift. Maybe they were sent in spite, to prove a point... it was Lestat that had moved on to a better life, it was Lestat that was flaunting extravagant amounts of money, it was Lestat that still continued to be the talk of the Theatre...
...it was Lestat that Nicolas could not get out of his mind.
Which of course, was the reason why those 'maybe's were nothing but mere spiteful fancies. Poor insubstantial excuses and explanations that failed at soothing his troubled soul. Lestat would never leave them so unexpectedly, without a word of warning (if he would even leave at all, he mused as an afterthought), Lestat would never be ashamed of his alliance to Renaud's House of Thespians... no, he would swear to that alliance with that blazing pride of his.
...but if the theory of eloping was not the case, what was?
===
A question that haunted him, caused him to grieve for days on end...
...an half formed answer that did nothing but feed his anguish everytime he tried to explain.
How could it be a dream? That night -no, he could not say that it was so long ago, because it still burned in his memories- was no dream... he could still feel the warmth beside him, the security that was known as peace of mind, the soft breath dancing across his skin, the gentle heartbeat that resonated with his own... in short, he could still remember what had been the last of his blissful moments.
Had he been asleep?
===
No. He was still being lulled away from his very few worries -from his continuous intangible philosophies- by the serenity emitted from the other. His eyes were closed though, his ears still able to pick up the church bells in the far off distance. But, in his half dazed state, he could have mistaken them for Hell's Bells. Actually, that's what his mind had learnt to associate that sound with now... yes...
...they tolled relentlessly, carefully piercing the silence, heralding the end of his world as he knew it. Dramatic? I think not... not when his world was encased and personified in a blond enigma.
Still, he did not stir. His eyes still closed, feigning sleep, even when he felt Lestat stir and rise, even when he felt the presence of a stranger. Why? Why? Oh how he asked himself over and over again.... he only reacted when he felt Lestat being taken away from him, only rising himself to the pleading cries for help, his name -or, to be accurate, an affectionate version of his name- being called out over and over.
...and only daring to cry out in return when the shattered glass settled onto the floor.
===
Jeannette and Luchina would not believe him however.
Of course not. Whether it was because of a collective fear of the supernatural or a growing disbelief in it all, society would jump at the first available 'plausible' and mundane explanation. No matter how outrageous it was, it would be better than what was a simple, yet supernatural truth. How Nicolas found himself being embittered by that ever obvious fact. Ironic, really, considering that he was an Atheist of sorts.
Brooding. That was all be seemed to do these days.... maybe apart from devoting a small section of his time on his music. Music. Violin... +That+ violin... and once again, the vicious circle restarts itself without his bidding. Theatre. Music. Violin. +That+ violin. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Where did you go, Lestat? Did you leave me? Why did you leave me? Leave the Theatre? Theatre...
===
Ah, so they departed... why did he not notice it? He was a gentleman, was he not? How could he not? What, with all this splendor around him... how could he not? Why did he not escort them to the door? Why did he not at least politely bid them a good night? Was it because he was too busy torturing himself from the inside? Probably.
If so, then why was it that he seemed to freeze? As if he was suspended in one moment of time, totally inanimate? His twisted rosary still rang clear in his mind, although it was muted out, settling down into one a deeper layer of his mind while a new sensation shot through him.
Lestat.
Here.
Now.
===
Insane. Surely he was insane.
The street below, quietly radiating its magic, was being graced by what he perceived as one of the most powerful of magicks - his Lestat. So what if he could not physically see the estranged performer? He could feel the presence, he could feel it washing over him and providing a beautiful moment of happiness, so brief that it was painful. How he longed for more. How he wished to actually +see+ Lestat....
No matter. As long as he could feel the presence... everything would be as close as perfect as life would allow him under these circumstances. His steps light, quick, and purposeful, he picked up the Stradivarius with its elegantly designed bow, and returned to the window, peering out once again with his almost crazed wide brown eyes. Still nothing.
Very well then.
===
Music was the language of the soul, was it not? His head leaning oh so gently against the slowly warming wood, his eyes closed once again, concealed by heavy lashes as he let his own soul communicate. It would need no physical image to drive it on. It was merely encouraged by the feeling -no, the +knowledge+- of the receipient hearing its every unspoken word. Every unspoken word that was whispered and shouted caused his own supple body to move to the desperate tirade of emotions and thoughts, swaying to his music, emphasisng even the most brief and trivial of conscious and subconscious thought.
The melody, it was truly the essence of Nicki's soul... a darkness, a solitude, a chaotic spirit. It cried out for attention, it was craving a response, it wanted something that it did not recognise. And so it flowed, it pulsed, it jumped, it glided... erratic yet so perfectly composed. He +was+ this darkness The darkness that was so perfectly balanced with Lestat's light. The darkness now left alone, praying to see that light once again.
~You are the Light to my Darkness... as I am the Darkness to your Light...~
Nicolas de Lenfent only played for himself.
...and one other.
What if what they said was what had really happened?
Maybe Lestat had married... maybe he had denounced the Theatre and his past altogether. Maybe these gifts - the seemingly endless supply of money, the ring, the violin - were part of an ongoing apology. Maybe they were a parting gift. Maybe they were sent in spite, to prove a point... it was Lestat that had moved on to a better life, it was Lestat that was flaunting extravagant amounts of money, it was Lestat that still continued to be the talk of the Theatre...
...it was Lestat that Nicolas could not get out of his mind.
Which of course, was the reason why those 'maybe's were nothing but mere spiteful fancies. Poor insubstantial excuses and explanations that failed at soothing his troubled soul. Lestat would never leave them so unexpectedly, without a word of warning (if he would even leave at all, he mused as an afterthought), Lestat would never be ashamed of his alliance to Renaud's House of Thespians... no, he would swear to that alliance with that blazing pride of his.
...but if the theory of eloping was not the case, what was?
===
A question that haunted him, caused him to grieve for days on end...
...an half formed answer that did nothing but feed his anguish everytime he tried to explain.
How could it be a dream? That night -no, he could not say that it was so long ago, because it still burned in his memories- was no dream... he could still feel the warmth beside him, the security that was known as peace of mind, the soft breath dancing across his skin, the gentle heartbeat that resonated with his own... in short, he could still remember what had been the last of his blissful moments.
Had he been asleep?
===
No. He was still being lulled away from his very few worries -from his continuous intangible philosophies- by the serenity emitted from the other. His eyes were closed though, his ears still able to pick up the church bells in the far off distance. But, in his half dazed state, he could have mistaken them for Hell's Bells. Actually, that's what his mind had learnt to associate that sound with now... yes...
...they tolled relentlessly, carefully piercing the silence, heralding the end of his world as he knew it. Dramatic? I think not... not when his world was encased and personified in a blond enigma.
Still, he did not stir. His eyes still closed, feigning sleep, even when he felt Lestat stir and rise, even when he felt the presence of a stranger. Why? Why? Oh how he asked himself over and over again.... he only reacted when he felt Lestat being taken away from him, only rising himself to the pleading cries for help, his name -or, to be accurate, an affectionate version of his name- being called out over and over.
...and only daring to cry out in return when the shattered glass settled onto the floor.
===
Jeannette and Luchina would not believe him however.
Of course not. Whether it was because of a collective fear of the supernatural or a growing disbelief in it all, society would jump at the first available 'plausible' and mundane explanation. No matter how outrageous it was, it would be better than what was a simple, yet supernatural truth. How Nicolas found himself being embittered by that ever obvious fact. Ironic, really, considering that he was an Atheist of sorts.
Brooding. That was all be seemed to do these days.... maybe apart from devoting a small section of his time on his music. Music. Violin... +That+ violin... and once again, the vicious circle restarts itself without his bidding. Theatre. Music. Violin. +That+ violin. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Where did you go, Lestat? Did you leave me? Why did you leave me? Leave the Theatre? Theatre...
===
Ah, so they departed... why did he not notice it? He was a gentleman, was he not? How could he not? What, with all this splendor around him... how could he not? Why did he not escort them to the door? Why did he not at least politely bid them a good night? Was it because he was too busy torturing himself from the inside? Probably.
If so, then why was it that he seemed to freeze? As if he was suspended in one moment of time, totally inanimate? His twisted rosary still rang clear in his mind, although it was muted out, settling down into one a deeper layer of his mind while a new sensation shot through him.
Lestat.
Here.
Now.
===
Insane. Surely he was insane.
The street below, quietly radiating its magic, was being graced by what he perceived as one of the most powerful of magicks - his Lestat. So what if he could not physically see the estranged performer? He could feel the presence, he could feel it washing over him and providing a beautiful moment of happiness, so brief that it was painful. How he longed for more. How he wished to actually +see+ Lestat....
No matter. As long as he could feel the presence... everything would be as close as perfect as life would allow him under these circumstances. His steps light, quick, and purposeful, he picked up the Stradivarius with its elegantly designed bow, and returned to the window, peering out once again with his almost crazed wide brown eyes. Still nothing.
Very well then.
===
Music was the language of the soul, was it not? His head leaning oh so gently against the slowly warming wood, his eyes closed once again, concealed by heavy lashes as he let his own soul communicate. It would need no physical image to drive it on. It was merely encouraged by the feeling -no, the +knowledge+- of the receipient hearing its every unspoken word. Every unspoken word that was whispered and shouted caused his own supple body to move to the desperate tirade of emotions and thoughts, swaying to his music, emphasisng even the most brief and trivial of conscious and subconscious thought.
The melody, it was truly the essence of Nicki's soul... a darkness, a solitude, a chaotic spirit. It cried out for attention, it was craving a response, it wanted something that it did not recognise. And so it flowed, it pulsed, it jumped, it glided... erratic yet so perfectly composed. He +was+ this darkness The darkness that was so perfectly balanced with Lestat's light. The darkness now left alone, praying to see that light once again.
~You are the Light to my Darkness... as I am the Darkness to your Light...~
Nicolas de Lenfent only played for himself.
...and one other.