1791 Revisited
What can be said about a night unlike any most people will ever experience in their brief mortal lifetimes? Much of it has already been said before - thirty years ago the tale was told to an ashen haired young reporter who stared wide-eyed as I spoke of things that I had not told another soul in nearly two centuries.
Even now, exactly two hundred and fifteen years later, I cannot adequately explain it. It seems foolish to describe that moment with mere words when it is so much more than that. Only one other knows what truly happened that night. One who understands me well enough to realize why the story I told was somewhat vague - the details left slightly obscure. Lestat could very easily take up his pen and tell the world exactly how it was, yet somehow I am led to believe that he respects the intimacy of that particular night as much as I do and understands why there will always be certain things I simply cannot not tell. Of course, I may very well be wrong.
Whatever the reasons, it is for him that I choose to recount the tale once again - as it really was. Tonight I will not hide behind a boy and his tape recorder. Instead I will tell as much as I wish to share, leaving virtually no stone unturned. If you are content with that which is already known, then skip past my words if you wish. It makes very little difference to me.
It was the evening of March 4th, 1791. The overseer of my plantation was quite dead and I, as fevered and confused as I was following the events of the two nights prior, was guilty of murder. We had dumped his beaten and bloody body in the field, leaving it to appear as if he had been robbed and killed. I could never have admitted it then and I still find it difficult now, but despite the overwhelming sense of regret that plagued me, a part of me had actually taken pleasure in his death. He was my father's man but I had never trusted him myself. I allowed him to keep his position at Pointe du Lac only because he knew our plantations better than I did and because I had always respected my father's decisions. The man was a liar and a thief. I was certain of that. And as I stood in his bedroom at Lestat's side, listening as he drew his last shallow breaths, there was a brief moment when the horror subsided and was replaced by a sense of justice at the knowledge that he would never steal from my family again.
It was only after the deed was done and the overseer's corpse lie rotting in the field that I truly realized the atrocity of my actions. Just as I had been responsible for Paul's death, I had now helped to end another life. When Lestat rushed me back to the plantation that night he had to hold tightly to my arm with one hand while guiding the horses with the other. Had I the strength to loosen his grip, I might have leaped from the carriage and ran blindly into the swamps in a futile attempt to flee from my own conscience. Surely in such a state of distress, I would have fallen into those murky waters and drowned. Yet this was not meant to be. My fate had already been sealed.
When we arrived at Pointe du Lac, he laughed at me as I recoiled, nearly falling out of the carriage in my haste to escape him. Behind the beauty of a Biblical angel lurked the soul of the devil himself. I had seen it with my own eyes and witnessing that side of Lestat had broken the spell.
I did not walk dazedly toward the house that night, willing to accept whatever might come to pass. In fact, I ran. I bolted into the night - fleeing to the only place which had given me comfort. Frantically, I ripped at the wisteria vines which had covered the entrance to the oratory and made my way inside.
The air was thick and damp and the little room was black as pitch aside from a sliver of blue moonlight that served to illuminate my way. In a sudden fit of horror and rage I stepped forward and overturned the abandoned altar. Empty candle holders and neglected statues of the Saints crashed to the ground. I dropped to my knees on the cold flagstones, reaching out in the darkness and running my hands over the broken glass and plaster, searching for the one object I knew must be there. It had not been put into the tomb with Paul. He had it here around his neck the night before he fell. When my fingers finally came upon it, I snatched up the rosary and clutched it to my chest. The tears were stinging my eyes as I fought to hold them back. It was then that a shadow appeared to block the pale moonlight from the narrow doorway and when I turned to face Lestat I knew then that nothing would ever be the same again.
“Come with me,” he said quietly, without a hint of mockery left in his tone. He held out his hand to help me to my feet. Perhaps he did not wish to take me in such a sacred place. I doubt I will ever know his reasons and I do not intend to ask. I slipped the rosary into my jacket pocket and numbly followed, allowing him to lead me in this as he would in everything that followed.
We reached the house and I literally collapsed on the steps where Paul had fallen only weeks before. I was still weak and fevered from Lestat's attack two nights ago and from the intervention of the doctors who had nearly bled me to death. The evenings events had exerted me far beyond physical exhaustion and it had become impossible for me to move any further of my own accord. I rested my head against the bricks. The cool stone helped to soothe the fever that burned throughout my body.
“I want to die. Kill me.” I repeated this last phrase over and over again as if my will alone could force him to do it.
He must have moved faster than I could see in that instant. Before I could even think to react, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder, pushing me against the stairs and another hand tangled into my hair, pulling my head back as his fangs broke the skin of my throat. Thinking back on the moment now, I believe that he made it deliberately painful. He wanted me to taste death and in that same breath, to fear it. When I realized what was happening, I struggled against him. Both hands gripped the velvet of his coat as I kicked at him in a futile attempt to throw him off. My wish for death was about to be granted and despite my desperate desire for it, I was suddenly fighting for my life.
“I thought you wanted to die, Louis.” He said scornfully, when he finally pulled away. He had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that when faced with certain death, I would choose life, and that was all he needed to know.
I was dizzy and light-headed when he lay down beside me. I had lost more blood in the past two days than even I could realize. He pulled me closer and told me what he meant to do. I don't think I truly understood the instructions I had been given. What human ever could? I was dazzled by his beauty once again and his words were far beyond my fevered comprehension. He pressed me back against the stairs again until I could no longer move. There was no space left between his body and my own. In a flash, one pale hand moved to tear away the fabric that still clung to my neck, exposing my upper chest and the wound on my throat to the cool night air. I parted my lips to speak and was quieted quickly by his mouth against mine. Although I cannot say that the experience was entirely unpleasant, I could taste my own blood on his lips and in that aspect, I felt as if I had been given the kiss of death.
I relaxed for a moment in his arms when he told me to be still and quiet. But as he tilted my head back once again, my entire body tensed - ready to fight him off again if need be. His teeth sank back into my throat, so near to the wound he had made only seconds before that I cried out in a mixture of pain and ecstasy. My body arched against his as I tried in vain to break free. I could almost feel the blood as it was being drawn from my veins. I grew weaker with every passing second and I knew that I was dying. I was slipping away, helpless to prevent it. My life was in his hands.
My eyes fluttered shut and he pulled away again, whispering against my skin that I must keep my eyes open. I moaned softly. I had lost hold of my grip on life and my soul teetered on the line between this world and the next. I thought of Paul but feared that my recent sins would separate me from him even in eternity. Almost violently, Lestat drove his fangs into me again, opening up a fresh wound from which to drain those last few drops. My eyes shot open at this renewed pain but my body was completely incapacitated at that point. It was as if I were hovering above myself, watching the scene play out, but not really a part of it any longer.
This time when he pulled away, he moved back to his knees on the stairs beside me. Then he bared his wrist and gashed open the flesh with his teeth. I could do nothing but watch as the blood dripped down upon me. It splattered in a rush of hot crimson against my chest and my face, burning like liquid fire against my cold skin.
“Louis, drink... hurry,” There was an urgency in his tone and even as his blood spilled over my lips and ran thickly down my throat he continued to remind me to drink. How could I have done anything but that? His blood was sweeter than anything I have ever tasted and with each swallow, I could feel my strength returning, not only renewed but increased. The pounding drum beat of his heart and his was intense and powerful, yet there was more than just that. I have never made mention of the visions I was granted that night.
I cannot say if he allowed me to see these images or if the visions that passed from his thoughts to mine were beyond his control. The experience itself was so overwhelming that making sense of anything I saw or felt at that time was impossible. It would be many years later before I would come to understand the significance of the things I had been shown.
The first image to flicker into my mind was some sort of animal. It's teeth were bared in a vicious snarl. I saw blood on snow and the gleam of sunlight on the sharpened steel blade of a sword. Then there was a wooden room with straw beds. Snow fell against the windows and I could almost hear the bitter howling of the wind outside. I also caught a glimpse of a small, run-down building. The doors had been boarded up. There were faces as well - faces I would later come to recognize as Gabrielle, Marius, Armand and even Nicolas. Somehow, intertwined with all of these images was fire. Sometimes it was nothing more than a dull ember burning slowly in the background as one image faded into the next, and at other times it was a blazing inferno obliterating the visions completely until I could see nothing else, but it was always present.
Before I could see anything more than this, he snatched his arm back and was clutching it to his chest. I reached for him again, grabbing hold of his wrist and locking my mouth to the wound. I think I could have drank every ounce of blood he had to give if he had allowed it, but it was at that moment that I realized that everything had changed. I saw the world through the eyes of a vampire for the very first time.
The rest - as the saying goes - is history. It was the next evening before my body finally stopped tingling and all of the physical facets of being human had died. And it would be another sixty-eight years until the very essence of that same humanity would fade completely.
What I celebrate tonight is not the events that followed my rebirth. They are nothing more than the inevitable consequences of Lestat's choice and mine. That evening was not about the transformation from mortal to immortal, as miraculous as every individual moment was. March 4th, 1791 was about a beginning - the beginning of a bond that has grown stronger with each passing year, even as the world tries to tear it apart. Forever is a word which few but us can ever comprehend.
I gave him my soul that night and it has been his every night thereafter.
Even now, exactly two hundred and fifteen years later, I cannot adequately explain it. It seems foolish to describe that moment with mere words when it is so much more than that. Only one other knows what truly happened that night. One who understands me well enough to realize why the story I told was somewhat vague - the details left slightly obscure. Lestat could very easily take up his pen and tell the world exactly how it was, yet somehow I am led to believe that he respects the intimacy of that particular night as much as I do and understands why there will always be certain things I simply cannot not tell. Of course, I may very well be wrong.
Whatever the reasons, it is for him that I choose to recount the tale once again - as it really was. Tonight I will not hide behind a boy and his tape recorder. Instead I will tell as much as I wish to share, leaving virtually no stone unturned. If you are content with that which is already known, then skip past my words if you wish. It makes very little difference to me.
It was the evening of March 4th, 1791. The overseer of my plantation was quite dead and I, as fevered and confused as I was following the events of the two nights prior, was guilty of murder. We had dumped his beaten and bloody body in the field, leaving it to appear as if he had been robbed and killed. I could never have admitted it then and I still find it difficult now, but despite the overwhelming sense of regret that plagued me, a part of me had actually taken pleasure in his death. He was my father's man but I had never trusted him myself. I allowed him to keep his position at Pointe du Lac only because he knew our plantations better than I did and because I had always respected my father's decisions. The man was a liar and a thief. I was certain of that. And as I stood in his bedroom at Lestat's side, listening as he drew his last shallow breaths, there was a brief moment when the horror subsided and was replaced by a sense of justice at the knowledge that he would never steal from my family again.
It was only after the deed was done and the overseer's corpse lie rotting in the field that I truly realized the atrocity of my actions. Just as I had been responsible for Paul's death, I had now helped to end another life. When Lestat rushed me back to the plantation that night he had to hold tightly to my arm with one hand while guiding the horses with the other. Had I the strength to loosen his grip, I might have leaped from the carriage and ran blindly into the swamps in a futile attempt to flee from my own conscience. Surely in such a state of distress, I would have fallen into those murky waters and drowned. Yet this was not meant to be. My fate had already been sealed.
When we arrived at Pointe du Lac, he laughed at me as I recoiled, nearly falling out of the carriage in my haste to escape him. Behind the beauty of a Biblical angel lurked the soul of the devil himself. I had seen it with my own eyes and witnessing that side of Lestat had broken the spell.
I did not walk dazedly toward the house that night, willing to accept whatever might come to pass. In fact, I ran. I bolted into the night - fleeing to the only place which had given me comfort. Frantically, I ripped at the wisteria vines which had covered the entrance to the oratory and made my way inside.
The air was thick and damp and the little room was black as pitch aside from a sliver of blue moonlight that served to illuminate my way. In a sudden fit of horror and rage I stepped forward and overturned the abandoned altar. Empty candle holders and neglected statues of the Saints crashed to the ground. I dropped to my knees on the cold flagstones, reaching out in the darkness and running my hands over the broken glass and plaster, searching for the one object I knew must be there. It had not been put into the tomb with Paul. He had it here around his neck the night before he fell. When my fingers finally came upon it, I snatched up the rosary and clutched it to my chest. The tears were stinging my eyes as I fought to hold them back. It was then that a shadow appeared to block the pale moonlight from the narrow doorway and when I turned to face Lestat I knew then that nothing would ever be the same again.
“Come with me,” he said quietly, without a hint of mockery left in his tone. He held out his hand to help me to my feet. Perhaps he did not wish to take me in such a sacred place. I doubt I will ever know his reasons and I do not intend to ask. I slipped the rosary into my jacket pocket and numbly followed, allowing him to lead me in this as he would in everything that followed.
We reached the house and I literally collapsed on the steps where Paul had fallen only weeks before. I was still weak and fevered from Lestat's attack two nights ago and from the intervention of the doctors who had nearly bled me to death. The evenings events had exerted me far beyond physical exhaustion and it had become impossible for me to move any further of my own accord. I rested my head against the bricks. The cool stone helped to soothe the fever that burned throughout my body.
“I want to die. Kill me.” I repeated this last phrase over and over again as if my will alone could force him to do it.
He must have moved faster than I could see in that instant. Before I could even think to react, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder, pushing me against the stairs and another hand tangled into my hair, pulling my head back as his fangs broke the skin of my throat. Thinking back on the moment now, I believe that he made it deliberately painful. He wanted me to taste death and in that same breath, to fear it. When I realized what was happening, I struggled against him. Both hands gripped the velvet of his coat as I kicked at him in a futile attempt to throw him off. My wish for death was about to be granted and despite my desperate desire for it, I was suddenly fighting for my life.
“I thought you wanted to die, Louis.” He said scornfully, when he finally pulled away. He had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that when faced with certain death, I would choose life, and that was all he needed to know.
I was dizzy and light-headed when he lay down beside me. I had lost more blood in the past two days than even I could realize. He pulled me closer and told me what he meant to do. I don't think I truly understood the instructions I had been given. What human ever could? I was dazzled by his beauty once again and his words were far beyond my fevered comprehension. He pressed me back against the stairs again until I could no longer move. There was no space left between his body and my own. In a flash, one pale hand moved to tear away the fabric that still clung to my neck, exposing my upper chest and the wound on my throat to the cool night air. I parted my lips to speak and was quieted quickly by his mouth against mine. Although I cannot say that the experience was entirely unpleasant, I could taste my own blood on his lips and in that aspect, I felt as if I had been given the kiss of death.
I relaxed for a moment in his arms when he told me to be still and quiet. But as he tilted my head back once again, my entire body tensed - ready to fight him off again if need be. His teeth sank back into my throat, so near to the wound he had made only seconds before that I cried out in a mixture of pain and ecstasy. My body arched against his as I tried in vain to break free. I could almost feel the blood as it was being drawn from my veins. I grew weaker with every passing second and I knew that I was dying. I was slipping away, helpless to prevent it. My life was in his hands.
My eyes fluttered shut and he pulled away again, whispering against my skin that I must keep my eyes open. I moaned softly. I had lost hold of my grip on life and my soul teetered on the line between this world and the next. I thought of Paul but feared that my recent sins would separate me from him even in eternity. Almost violently, Lestat drove his fangs into me again, opening up a fresh wound from which to drain those last few drops. My eyes shot open at this renewed pain but my body was completely incapacitated at that point. It was as if I were hovering above myself, watching the scene play out, but not really a part of it any longer.
This time when he pulled away, he moved back to his knees on the stairs beside me. Then he bared his wrist and gashed open the flesh with his teeth. I could do nothing but watch as the blood dripped down upon me. It splattered in a rush of hot crimson against my chest and my face, burning like liquid fire against my cold skin.
“Louis, drink... hurry,” There was an urgency in his tone and even as his blood spilled over my lips and ran thickly down my throat he continued to remind me to drink. How could I have done anything but that? His blood was sweeter than anything I have ever tasted and with each swallow, I could feel my strength returning, not only renewed but increased. The pounding drum beat of his heart and his was intense and powerful, yet there was more than just that. I have never made mention of the visions I was granted that night.
I cannot say if he allowed me to see these images or if the visions that passed from his thoughts to mine were beyond his control. The experience itself was so overwhelming that making sense of anything I saw or felt at that time was impossible. It would be many years later before I would come to understand the significance of the things I had been shown.
The first image to flicker into my mind was some sort of animal. It's teeth were bared in a vicious snarl. I saw blood on snow and the gleam of sunlight on the sharpened steel blade of a sword. Then there was a wooden room with straw beds. Snow fell against the windows and I could almost hear the bitter howling of the wind outside. I also caught a glimpse of a small, run-down building. The doors had been boarded up. There were faces as well - faces I would later come to recognize as Gabrielle, Marius, Armand and even Nicolas. Somehow, intertwined with all of these images was fire. Sometimes it was nothing more than a dull ember burning slowly in the background as one image faded into the next, and at other times it was a blazing inferno obliterating the visions completely until I could see nothing else, but it was always present.
Before I could see anything more than this, he snatched his arm back and was clutching it to his chest. I reached for him again, grabbing hold of his wrist and locking my mouth to the wound. I think I could have drank every ounce of blood he had to give if he had allowed it, but it was at that moment that I realized that everything had changed. I saw the world through the eyes of a vampire for the very first time.
The rest - as the saying goes - is history. It was the next evening before my body finally stopped tingling and all of the physical facets of being human had died. And it would be another sixty-eight years until the very essence of that same humanity would fade completely.
What I celebrate tonight is not the events that followed my rebirth. They are nothing more than the inevitable consequences of Lestat's choice and mine. That evening was not about the transformation from mortal to immortal, as miraculous as every individual moment was. March 4th, 1791 was about a beginning - the beginning of a bond that has grown stronger with each passing year, even as the world tries to tear it apart. Forever is a word which few but us can ever comprehend.
I gave him my soul that night and it has been his every night thereafter.