Lestat
Lestat – my maker, my dearest friend.
We watch and we are always here. That was the turn of phrase that we, in the Talamasca, used to describe our dealings with the supernatural.
Never to reach out, never to touch. Never to treasure, never to adore. Never to open up my heart to the lure of his charm, or the beauty of his tragedy.
It could not be done. I could not deliver. It is my love for him that is always here, nestled in the now shattered miscellany of heart and soul, as instinctive to me as my waking to the sunset, and my slumber at dawn.
Lestat made me what I am, later recounting the events that surrounded that night. He recounted them faithfully.
Do I feel guilt or regret?
I am asked that so often. But the truth of the matter is that the doors to guilt and regret are closed to me now. There is grief. That is all.
I fought him then, that night, the night that I was turned after so many years of vehement denial. I fought what was happening to me, even though in so many ways I was resolved as he was. It was of such monumental importance to me that I fight him. And in doing so, I suppose I somehow justified myself in feeling this grief.
He gave me what I could not bring myself to ask for. A new life, in return for an old and weary one.
And so, all questions of moral fortitude and cardinal sin must be directed to him. He will deal with them with a far greater proficiency than I could ever hope to employ. And when he has done so, he will look at me with his loving eyes and mischievous allure, and know that I feel no bitterness in my heart.
Yes, on the question of how my immortality came to be, we co-operated admirably, even if the unspoken pact was unconsciously settled upon.
However, Lestat’s appetite for eternal companionship is often greater than his capacity to stomach it. We do not share our lives in any real sense as I write this. But my door is always open to him, and it is my sincerest hope that the future will bring him to me.
And he knows it well.
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