[ Lestat doesnā€™t seem particularly phased by Kavehā€™s eagerness to explore the embroidery at his instruction, running those warm mortal fingers over the expanse of the thin fabric over Lestatā€™s chest and stomach. He wondered if heā€™d blush, and is strangely delighted to find that he doesnā€™t, but still watches him closely as if trying to read his mind through expression alone.
Heā€™s quite right about the blood, though there is a lot that can be said about what his companion vampires do versus what they wish they could do. After all, were this their home world there might have been quite a good few many more deaths than there have been thus far. But something about pointing out that the death drink is the most satisfying doesnā€™t sound like it will sit too well in mortal conversation, so Lestat refrains.
When he straightens, Lestat takes the opportunity to lean nearby, casual in conversation despite the clear attentiveness of his expression. No-one has ever asked him this with such interest before, and with each tumbling question his eagerness to reply only seems to grow. ]
Exactly. I couldnā€™t read or write a word. I was born noble, but we were poor and there was little reason for me learn what with being the youngest; I would never have any power or anything to sign. It was the way of the world at that time. Once I became a vampire, I picked it up as if through instinct. The blood I fed on, perhaps, taught me the way. I saw words and understood them, I picked up a pen and formed the words in my head into words on paper. I wrote my name. I could read my lines in my scripts, and read my motherā€™s letters, ciphered in Italian, for the first time without having a translator read them for me. I wrote my own reply for the first time, too.
[ He considers the latter question, whether his brain is more capable of retaining knowledge now, or if heā€™s been gifted some new memory. ]
I think, with my enhanced instincts, I merely picked up the art quicker. When I was alive, there was little need to read, as I mentioned. There was always something else I should have been doing, something else I wanted, something getting in the way. As a vampire, there was nothing to stop me, and now I barely remember a time when I couldnā€™t read, though I know there was one. Human memories fade so fast, while immortal ones remain as though carved into stone. Iā€™ve already forgotten the faces and names of my brothers, Iā€™m sure one day Iā€™ll forget that life entirely.
no subject
Heā€™s quite right about the blood, though there is a lot that can be said about what his companion vampires do versus what they wish they could do. After all, were this their home world there might have been quite a good few many more deaths than there have been thus far. But something about pointing out that the death drink is the most satisfying doesnā€™t sound like it will sit too well in mortal conversation, so Lestat refrains.
When he straightens, Lestat takes the opportunity to lean nearby, casual in conversation despite the clear attentiveness of his expression. No-one has ever asked him this with such interest before, and with each tumbling question his eagerness to reply only seems to grow. ]
Exactly. I couldnā€™t read or write a word. I was born noble, but we were poor and there was little reason for me learn what with being the youngest; I would never have any power or anything to sign. It was the way of the world at that time. Once I became a vampire, I picked it up as if through instinct. The blood I fed on, perhaps, taught me the way. I saw words and understood them, I picked up a pen and formed the words in my head into words on paper. I wrote my name. I could read my lines in my scripts, and read my motherā€™s letters, ciphered in Italian, for the first time without having a translator read them for me. I wrote my own reply for the first time, too.
[ He considers the latter question, whether his brain is more capable of retaining knowledge now, or if heā€™s been gifted some new memory. ]
I think, with my enhanced instincts, I merely picked up the art quicker. When I was alive, there was little need to read, as I mentioned. There was always something else I should have been doing, something else I wanted, something getting in the way. As a vampire, there was nothing to stop me, and now I barely remember a time when I couldnā€™t read, though I know there was one. Human memories fade so fast, while immortal ones remain as though carved into stone. Iā€™ve already forgotten the faces and names of my brothers, Iā€™m sure one day Iā€™ll forget that life entirely.