( Briefly, Louis tenses again, because he knows all too well what that feels like — or at least, what it felt like for him. The loss of Claudia had left him devastated and dead to the world for most of a century, and that long emptiness had only begun to heal when he'd heard the first whispers of Lestat's name in the dark, secret corners of the world. And he hadn't truly been living when he'd finally made it to Paris, had he? Not the way he's living now, and not the way Armand has come to life in his time with this modern fledgling.

He doesn't say it, because he knows that Lestat has lost just as much to Armand — no, much more than Louis has. Lestat is more compassionate than Louis can truly fathom. Had Lestat always been this way, or had he changed, too...? He had forgiven Louis, after all, and in some ways Louis had hurt Lestat far more than Armand ever could. )

I hope you'll understand why I am slow to trust the way I did. I once believed I understood his motives and intentions, but I was hopelessly naive. I saw what I wished to see. And then afterward, I told myself that there had never been anything there in the first place. Every wrong, every evil sprang from my foolishness... my insistence that I was in love with the person I believed him to be.

( He takes a breath, willing himself to relax again, tucking his head against Lestat's shoulder. )

Even with all the years he and I spent together, you've always known him better. I trust your judgment of him more than I trust my own.

( Even if he doesn't necessarily trust Armand not to push Lestat off a building again. It's complicated. )