A confession. Confessions are for sins, traditionally.
But not all of them. Confessions of love, of truths. It sounds like all of them, the way the words come out of Louis, stumbles out of him bleeding, and Lestat's hand slides off his shoulder to take his hand. Unmoving from his spot at his feet.
He smiles at him. A watery kind of smile, now, fleeting and disconnected. "So you understand," still strangled in his throat. "How I couldn't let them have you."
He isn't sorry. He might have asked if Louis is, but it seems like an absurdity tantamount to following him along at his brother's funeral march, asking why he hadn't come around in a while. So, he swallows instead. The taste of ash still thick in his lungs, the roof his mouth. The smell of burning flesh, that even the alien presence of gasoline couldn't hide.
"She held her love," instead. "Shielded her as best she could. And in the end, when the fledgling was gone, she looked to me."
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But not all of them. Confessions of love, of truths. It sounds like all of them, the way the words come out of Louis, stumbles out of him bleeding, and Lestat's hand slides off his shoulder to take his hand. Unmoving from his spot at his feet.
He smiles at him. A watery kind of smile, now, fleeting and disconnected. "So you understand," still strangled in his throat. "How I couldn't let them have you."
He isn't sorry. He might have asked if Louis is, but it seems like an absurdity tantamount to following him along at his brother's funeral march, asking why he hadn't come around in a while. So, he swallows instead. The taste of ash still thick in his lungs, the roof his mouth. The smell of burning flesh, that even the alien presence of gasoline couldn't hide.
"She held her love," instead. "Shielded her as best she could. And in the end, when the fledgling was gone, she looked to me."