January 10, 1779 I hope this letter finds you well. It has been a couple weeks since I have seen you and as I sat here staring out the window at the snow, I found myself thinking back to last spring. Do you remember it? We sat there on that blanket by the stream near the monastery. You sat there eating grapes and drinking wine as I played my violin for you. I know that they were grapes because I remember you playing with each one between your fingers before putting it in your mouth. Our "Golden Moments", yes they were. I recall in this memory we'd both had too much wine and as I played, you found a fascination with watching the movements of my face. I opened my eyes and there you were, less then a meter away aiming a grape for my mouth. I was startled and fell over backwards laughing, you on top of me. Would you laugh at me if I told you I found your lips as fascinating? When spring comes once again, will we have more moments like these? Or are they to be forever buried in the snow? I miss... playing for you. - Nicolas January 12, 1779 My Dearest Nicolas, I thought you would never ask, Nicolas. I was beginning to think I had imagined the whole thing. You have no idea how often my thoughts have drifted…and remained on you. Just the beauty of your voice and the way your thoughts play across your face as you speak. I can remember every word from our last meeting. I have longed to talk with you again – some long evening’s ramble of heart and soul. Just the two of us, solving all the mysteries of the world and looking for answers in the stars. Your mind is a tease to mine, mon ami. I think you enjoy a subtle game of wits…your laugh...I am never sure if it is aimed at me. I love hearing your thoughts and ideas; I love sharing mine with you, even though we are at times at odds with one another. Still it is the fire and passion of the exchange! For yours is the only soul that beats in time with my own. You are the only one who seems to understand and accept what is in my heart. I have missed your music almost as much as your words. I like to delude myself that the notes you coax are meant for me alone, mon ami. Perhaps the next time we meet, you will have something new that you have composed? You need only name the time and place, and I will be there. The weather has been foul of late; I am afraid our late spring and early summer haunts may have to be replaced by something more temperate and mild. There is a new inn located along the main highway with private dining rooms available. And perhaps once we have warmed ourselves by the fire with wine, you will show me why it is you find my lips so fascinating. Yours, -L- January 15, 1779 Given your inebriated nature at the time, some of it probably was imagined. You will have to tell me what it was exactly you remembered of that time, I need a good laugh. I tease you with nothing Lestat, least of all my mind. My thoughts and feelings are always open to you. Would you prefer that I remain silent as I watch you, a slight grin playing upon the corners of my lips? Would this bring you to higher fits of passion as you dance merrily around the room regaling me with your stories? All you need do is whisper it in my ear. My music... yes. It has taken a turn toward being even more somber and dark. I begin to believe that you may be right, that the notes I find the most enjoyable as well, are created just for you. To see each note dance within your eyes as I play for you is an orchestra in and of itself. While I do love the violin, I find myself asking if I would still enjoy it just as much if I never had you to play it for... Temperate and mild? Can anything with you involved ever be called that? You mention the new inn... name when, I will be there. Though something in your words tells me that we will not need the fire from the hearth to warm ourselves. And yes Lestat, I have every intention of showing you everything I find fascinating about you. - Nicolas January 18th, 1779 Dear Nicolas, Shall I be your dark muse then, Nicolas? Somehow I think the roles will be reversed; for in faith, you make me question all I hold sacred and true. In that respect alone, you have already given me a priceless gift. And if my intemperate ravings bring even a hint of a smile to your lips, I am content. Burn my passion out, Nicolas. You have already started down that path. Fill my ears with your music; fill my mouth with your stories and secrets. Last night was only the beginning. I am a novice in this area. The mysteries of women are no secret to me; the mysteries of another man are a world apart. Shall you be my tutor and I your avid pupil in this as in all else? Do you mind terribly that I am a mere novice, an initiate? Or is my very lack of experience itself an aphrodisiac? My eloquence with words as you call it deserted me last evening in favor of other intimacies. Your hands are skilled at playing far more than the violin, Nicolas. And as in everything, you play with consummate skill. Let them take their pleasured fill of me... I have reserved the same room at the same inn for two nights hence. I believe I recall you saying my impulsiveness was part of what fascinated you. Let me show you where that can lead the two of us. There is a whole world pf unsung music..untasted wine and pleasure for the two of us to discover together. Love, Lestat January 19th, 1779 There is nothing dark about the muse that you instill upon my soul, Lestat. There is too much enjoyment and happiness I obtain from you for that. I could never make you do anything, you are too stubborn for such things. Maybe I just know the right questions to ask at the opportune times? I will have to remember that when I smile and suddenly have your lips pressed against mine, you are now classifying this as "being content". Perhaps for your next aberrant ranting I will actually find myself laughing, I'm interested to see how you categorize your feelings for that. Burn out your passion? Lestat I think no man is capable of that feat and there is no path for me to walk, I follow the sounds of your voice as it calls my name. That night was only the slightest hint of what awaits you in my arms. I want us to learn of our desires together. Simply because I have witnessed things in Paris does not mean I am suddenly the expert, I simply show you what I like. Just the scent of you is my aphrodisiac and it lingers in my mind even now. You claim my hands are so skilled... then maybe it is time we teach you a wind instrument? Those lips of yours brought perfect notes from my mouth and made my body sing. Will you wear the wolf fur coat for me tomorrow night? I want to see for myself the beast you become when you are pinned down. - Nicolas January 22, 1779 My dearest Nicolas, If I were a woman, I would perhaps feel something akin to a blush at those words. Instead, the memory of your hands making their slow exploration of me in inches fills me with a heat of a very different kind. I am afraid I have grown too accustomed to your touch, Nicolas. It has become a craving and I am hard pressed now to pass a night without it. I lie here tonight, alone in a bed that feels too big and too cold. It is a solitary prison I have come to loathe. I long to be flanked at your side, the lean hardness of your chest and thighs pressed against my back, the sheets a warm and tangled mass of spilled dreams and spent passions. I want to taste all of you tonight. I want my hands and mouth to drive you to the same verge you have taken me - and leave you poised on slaking that unmentionable thirst. And then I want us to repeat it all over again until we are giddy and wasted with wine and the exhaustion of our senses. Your words and ideas excite me; your thoughts and philosophies spill a light on a world I only dreamed existed. And yet there is this fear, almost a dread, that it will be snatched from me before I can even realize its full potential and possibility. For as much as you have shown me a world outside what I knew; as much as you have opened an entirely new realm to explore, I am all too painfully aware that I must escape my present circumstances if I am ever to realize any of it. Each day and night spent in this house only presses upon my soul more heavily with the crush of heavy apathy and cruel lack of imagination. I have booked the room for two nights hence. To me it is an eternity. Lestat January 23, 1779 You are no woman, yet you are so much more intoxicating then even the wine we drank. I apologize for having ended your words so abruptly that one time, but I found I could no longer restrain myself. I love hearing you speak those words though it makes me wonder if your fascination is still with me or merely my hands. Either way, both my hands and my body are yours to command. Words Lestat, they're all just words I speak. Don't you ever tire of them? What will you do when that night comes when I cannot think of what next to tell you? There is nothing to fear, I have no intention of leaving your side. We've flirted with the idea of leaving here, can we ever get up the spontaneity to just do it? Or are we too used to what is familiar? Do you feel that same draw upon your very soul when we are together? Forget the future reservations Lestat, the wind outside may be chill but we can keep each other warm in the hay. The old abandoned farm on the outskirts of town, do you remember it? Meet me there tonight. I think I've gone mad. I sit here and I can't stop thinking about you. Your scent is on my clothes even after they've been cleaned. I constantly keep seeing you just out of the corner of my eyes like your image is burned into my retina. I bathe and it's your hands that wash me and release me; I wonder now if I could even get myself to remember that it is my own hands. My entire body aches for you as I sit here writing this, I cannot endure it further, my will and resolve is not as strong as yours... I have to see you. - Nicolas January 31, 1779 My Dearest Nicolas, Your hands are but part of you and it is the whole of your parts that speaks to my soul. No, never think my sole interest in you is just your music, or my attraction is only physical. It is your passion, dark and barbed, that drew me to you. Perhaps it is best expressed through your hands and lips; but it ignites every part of you and tethers me, Nicolas. As to words - I admit an interest and fascination with them that borders on obsession at times. Perhaps it is because they had remained locked in me for so long, with no outlet, no expression - no ear to listen, take them in and give them wing. And your thoughts do not always need to find a tongue for me to understand your meaning. I can read what lies behind your eyes and feel them in your touch. I know at times that words can even get in the way. All you need do is press your finger against my lips and your soul can instantly quell what dances on my infernal tongue. It is time to start pushing our late night dreams to fruition. Whatever spark is in me is ignited by you. It withers to dull and hollow ash in this house. I cannot find a common thread with any of them, Nicolas - save Gabrielle. And my time with her, while precious, is limited at best. You and you alone are privy to what really runs under my skin and sings in my blood. we have spoken of Paris. The very word alone is a lodestar to me. If there is any place I can shake off the provincial dust that clings to my boots and live what I have only had a sweet taste of, it is there. But I want to see it...feel it...through your senses. I want to taste the haze of a full moon as it rises over the city; and half mad on wine and lust, at last succumb to sleep in your arms. I will be waiting for you this evening. And perhaps after we have sated what seems to be unshakable desire, we can turn our minds to filling other wants. Lestat March 10, 1780 It has been almost a month since any of us last heard from you Lestat. And call me crazy, but I know you're alive, I can still sense your presence. There are times I know I still hear your voice too, but there's a haunting tone to it that, for the life of me, I never recall hearing before. I don't know how to get this letter to you. Perhaps I will just leave it sitting in the open in a place I know you are apt to visit. If it disappears, I will know you are alive. Why do you hide? I know something happened that night that you went out the window, but a body was never found. Were you horribly disfigured? Do you think that others no longer could stand the sight of you? It doesn't matter to me, I hope you know that? I miss our drunken nights, I miss seeing you perform on stage, I miss... you. Your mother has taken a turn for the worse. She pretends to be strong, but just looking at her, we can all see that she won't last much longer. Lestat, she needs to know that her youngest son is still alive and that he is well. You must visit. Why are you doing this to me Lestat? We promised each other that we would do this together. We would thrive or fail together in Paris. And now, I find myself alone. Everything, you always manage to get everything Lestat. You cannot fail, you will never fail. And yet, here I am... alone and wanting to give up and return home. How dare you do this to me Lestat! How dare you leave me alone to my darkness and emptiness! I need you Lestat, can't you understand that? Let me see you, please. If you want us to be alone, name the place, I will be there! Just please, show me some sign that you are alright. I need your light to keep me from my darkness. - Nicolas April 3, 1780 My Dearest Nicolas, I hardly know where or how to start this; nor can I even begin to offer you an explanation by way of letter. I am not sure I can offer you a plausible or believable one at all. The story is far too complex, the incidents and experiences are far too complicated and serious. I am a changed man in ways far too numerous to expound upon now. Please believe me when I say it was not my deliberate intention to leave you without word, to worry you or to hurt you in any way. I cannot go into details now about what happened Nicolas, so please do not press me for them. Suffice it to say my life has taken a sudden and radical change in ways I could not have expected. But it has placed me in an incredible position, Nicki – one that will help us make those dreams we chased for so long into a reality that will soon be within our grasp. No, I am not horribly disfigured. I was injured and incapacitated fro a period of time. Fortunately, I was ministered to by the good brothers at the monastery outside of Chartres where I remained for several months. My health was precarious and I spent a great deal of that time desperately ill. My identity was completely unknown to my benefactors, Nicki, so contact on my whereabouts and condition was not possible. I regret any distress this has caused to you or anyone, especially my mother. I have sent her a letter as well and am making arrangements for a visit soon. There are a few things I must see to first before I am able to visit either of you. Ah, I have wondrous projects in the works, mon amour – projects that will benefit us both, and my family as well. I am speaking of undreamed of wealth and the ability to both pursue our passions without worrying as how we are to keep body and soul together. I have already had money sent to both you and my mother. Bank accounts have been set up in both your names in Paris and I have ordered my solicitor to contact you both and make arrangements for the money’s disbursement. I just need a little more time to finalize all I have been working on. Please grant me that indulgence, Nicki – I can assure you it will all be worth it. I have even found us a new abode, a vast improvement over the current flat. It will not be long until you are decked out in all new clothing with money in your pocket and a bounty of food on the table. Please look upon my new, improved fortune as a gift to us both and let it be the light that keeps you afloat, away from the darkness. I have not forsaken you, Nicolas, far from it. A little more time alone is all I need before you will find me once again plaguing you with my endless questions, not to mention my tireless physical attentions. With my love, -L- April 8, 1780 A changed man?!? Oh yes, Lestat, you go off on your wondrous adventures and don't bother to come back or even mention that you are alright until AFTER I've poured my heart out telling you that I was worried about you? And of course you can't go into details, "spare Nicolas the fun parts", is that how your mind thinks? No of course your not disfigured Lestat. Beauty like yours doesn't get disfigured, it is the blackness that ebbs and flows within me that disfigures. You stay with Monks who know writing and still cannot be bothered to drop any message to any of us? Could you not speak? Do we matter so little to you Lestat? It's futile to argue with you Lestat, I'm quite aware of that and I sit here sighing at the words I have already written but I don't have the strength to begin this correspondence again. You make no sense Lestat, wealth can't keep a body and soul together. Things like friendship and family do. What is this about bank accounts? You fall from the window to your near death and you come out with wealth? I think that fall rattled your brain. You give me no choice but to indulge you, Lestat. You speak of things like a madman, what else am I to do? Walk away from all of this? Walk away from you? I cannot do that and you know it all too well, you manipulate me Lestat. I think you might be too late to keep me from the darkness. But the promise of your touch, of your body against mine with your attentive ways... I would give you anything and I damn you for it Lestat. - Nicolas June 24, 1780 Nicolas - I am in receipt of your last three letters and damnably close to consigning the whole blasted lot to the flames. Each one fairly spits vitriol and venom - words of anger and condemnation, anger and spite. Not to mention your endless barrage of relentless questions and mindless accusations. Half the time you make no sense at all - it is nothing but mindless ramblings. You sound as if you have your head deep inside a wine barrel, Nicolas..you are almost incoherent at times. Who the hell are you to even ask anything of me, much less make demands on me? Have I not provided amply for you? I have put a decent roof over your head and pulled your wretched ass from the gutter. I have put food in your belly, wine on your table, clothes on your back. Not to mention the violins, the sheet music, the books and countless other items. What am I to do, Nicolas? Drop all my affairs and come dance attendance upon you? This is no longer our first few months in Paris, mon amour, when I relied upon you so heavily for guidance. You say I owe you an explanation as to what happened. Why? I owe you nothing of a kind beyond what I have told you already. Do not press me for details, Nicolas. I was ill to the point of death and have no clear memories. Why will that not suffice for you? For God's sake, leave me in peace on this. As to all the other details, I will be there next month and will fill you in as I see fit. My arrangements are made as to transportation and lodging while I am there. It will be a very short visit as I have business dealings I must tend to. -L- July 30, 1780 Oh can it Lestat. You care nothing about what I write in these letters, you do not listen to my words anyway. Why will you not just tell me what happened? I already know your words are lies, why not just give up the truth and be done with it? Why must you insist on living this lie? You shower me with money, but it's not what I want. Not from you! Of course I'm damn drunk most of the time, it's the only consolation I have as of late. Do you know what I do each night? Do you know that I sit there in the sill upon the window with a bottle of wine in one hand, a violin in the other and stare out of the window, hoping that one time I should see you walking down the gravel road? I must be insane to think that you would ever care enough about anyone other then yourself to come and comfort me. I should prefer to be in the gutter with you then be here in this palace without you. Why can there never be some happy medium? Yes! Yes drop your affairs, be with me Lestat. Why can it not all be as it once was? I don't ask that you rely upon me for anything, I just miss you. I hear voices outside my windows at night. Voices that tell me that I am in league with a devil. A demon who walks among men. How is it I know they speak of you Lestat? Do you know where these voices come from? Are they the reason you stay away? You said you would be here this month. There is only one day left and still I have not heard from you. Another lie Monsieur? Or did you come and go and not wish to see me? - Nicolas