#i saw 'radiant lestat' and thought it'd be fitting for his birthday

[thelioncourts]

honoring my horrible and beautiful husband, ldl, on his birthday...

(and to offset the insane negatively being perpetuated) here's a snippet of doxology, my soon-to-be submission for @iwtvfanevents day 3: confession/penance prompt.

St. Augustine had seen Louis de Pointe du Lac for all he was.

It had been witness to his christening at only three months old, his parents choosing to ring in the New Year with a midnight ceremony for their firstborn, tears in their eyes as Father Dumaine had taken their baby in his arms and blessed him, welcomed him into St. Augustine’s safety.

It had been witness to Grace and Paul’s christenings as well, surrounding young Louis as he watched on with a curious gaze, had listened with his heart at the words Father Dumaine spoke, their impact seeping through his skin just like the warmth of his father’s hand on his shoulder.

It had been witness to his growing up, had been large and imposing as he hid behind his mother’s leg, had been familiar and sure as he had aged into the ‘big kids’ section of the CCD, had been proud and strong as he became an altar boy, had been silent and uncertain as he’d made eye contact with Jonah Macon and heat had pooled in his stomach, had been a source of anxiety and despair as Louis had come to realize he wasn’t how he was supposed to be.

His father’s funeral had been in St. Augustine, that cold body carted over after the wake. St. Augustine had watched on as Louis became a man, Louis’ momma cupping his cheek and telling him how much they needed him now.

Paul’s funeral had been in St. Augustine too. St. Augustine had watched as Louis had been hollowed out, left a husk of himself as his little brother’s body had been brought into its walls, a mockery of what would happen only hours later when he’d be entombed in the Pointe du Lac mausoleum; it had watched as his momma sent her disdain at him with her eyes, had spewed her venomous words with coldness that left him desperate to crawl into the casket alongside Paul.

And then --

And then Louis had died too, the scene of his murder St. Augustine's own pulpit, the likeness of Christ staring down as Louis’ blood was drained from his mortal body.

Then, like a miracle, St. Augustine had witnessed Louis being reborn, that hollowed-out husk filled and held by Lestat de Lioncourt, the man who had come into Louis’ life and turned it into something Louis couldn’t comprehend, had revitalized within him the very sin that had turned St. Augustine into a place of uncertainty in his youth.

They had desecrated St. Augustine’s nave that rainy night.

When Louis thought back on the blur that was 1911, May stood out as the most vivid month.

Grace’s wedding, Paul’s death and subsequent funeral, and --

If he thought about it hard enough, Louis could still smell the rain of that particular night, could feel its cold in his bones. The memory of the way his clothes clung to his skin, the way they had dried in the humidity of St. Augustine’s confessional booth, had become damp again with his sweat as he’d spoken in the walls of his childhood home-away-from-home about his immense failures, of his wish to die, all came to him in fitful dreams some mornings.

Louis could remember the way St. Augustine had looked with his new vampire eyes.

It had been as if he was seeing the church for the first time.

The marble pillars, the newly shined pews, the fading paint on the walls had all begun to live, the pulse of being thrumming around and behind them all, giving them a life that hadn’t existed before the end of Louis’ own.

The Christ figure’s eyes had seemed to follow him everywhere.

The barbaric destruction, the blood stains on the floor, the lifeless bodies of the priests Louis had known for most of his life, had held St. Augustine in an eerie silence, one that had only been faint for Louis as the drumming had been pounding away in his ears still.

And yet none of that -- nothing of St. Augustine, nothing of Christ himself -- had held such a hold over Louis’ memory a year later as the view of Lestat.

Radiant Lestat.

Lestat had taken all of Louis’ attention away from the church, from all the feelings the church and its history brought out of Louis, and had morphed and shaped the life Louis had lived within the walls into that singular moment.

St. Augustine had witnessed as Louis, then and there, chose the feelings of Lestat’s lips on his, the pleasure-pain of his teeth on Louis’ neck, over everything else.

For the remainder of 1911, Louis had fumbled his way through fledgling vampirism, had lived out a summer, fall, and winter in Lestat’s arms.

He had been too busy to think of St. Augustine, too busy to think of anything that wasn’t Lestat.

But as 1911 turned into 1912 and Grace rang the Rue Royale early spring with a tear-thick voice, telling Louis that she and Levi were going away for their anniversary -- they weren’t sure where yet -- because Grace couldn’t bear to stay in New Orleans and pretend to celebrate when Paul --

Paul had been dead a year.

So Louis had seen Grace and Levi the evening before they left, had kissed Grace’s cheek, and assured her that Paul would want her to celebrate her first anniversary. Then he had visited the Pointe du Lac mausoleum, telling Lestat not to wait up, that he’d be home later.

On the actual year anniversary, Louis de Pointe du Lac dreamed of the final sunrise he had ever seen, and in the dream, the pink and orange sky turned a garish, bloodish red and the sphere of the sun became Paul’s cracked skull and Louis had been filled with such a need to be closer to Paul that he had been almost dizzy with it, neglectful of all things as he attempted to figure out just what to do.

Just as it had been when he was younger, Louis had found that the answer he was seeking was somewhere in St. Augustine.

It had to be.

la fin (for now)