Home / Fan Fiction / V(cough) C(cough) fic / The Chosen of God Part 1

DISCLAIMER: The following stories are all non-profit, amateur efforts not intended to infringe on the rights of Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffen, Warner Brothers, Geffen Pictures, Knopf, Randomhouse, the city of New Orleans, the U.S. Constitution, any copyright holders that I might not have thought of or even a certain author who shall remain nameless but who has a set of initials which are, coincidentally enough, just one letter off from spelling "B.S."

Part One
by: The Brat Queen

Winner: Best Lestat '98-'99!

Characters: Lestat, Santino, Armand
Spoilers: Up to TotBT
Description: In response to Jester of God, Lestat tells his life story.

Well, mi fratello, how could I not? You did it all, you put it on every page. Word for word, act for act. How could I not match you? Too cowardly if I hadn't, too greedy. Even for me, fratello, I could not simply sit and take it in silently. So, for what you wrote, I now write the same.

But, too, not just for you and you know this. This is for many. For all who asked. For all who wondered. For all who said time and again they wanted to be told.

Did they really? Do they really? Does anyone want what is on this page?

Of course not. You know that. You knew it about your own pages. You knew it when you wrote to me. You knew that I would understand it.

So for you I write, knowing you shall understand. Knowing you shall meet my eye and know the true words here, the true emotions.

For the others I write the details. They can be happy with that.

Masochistic, this. But arrogant as well. And this, too, you understand.

Chapter one, letter one - this choice was easy. Made for me, in fact. By you, by Louis, by my newfound young friend. For you all, but mostly you and he I write this (and you know which he I speak of, as does the man himself). Chapter one, the answer.

The question?

Lestat, how could you? Lestat, how could you?

Lestat how could you befriend the man that did this to me?

For a moment, let us return to my mortality.

I was a young noble's son, a handsome lad, a rakish figure, and a colossal drunk.

It is amazing how many do not realize this. Moreover how many do not care.

They read of it, of course. It was in all the books. I was mortal, I drank. I did it with Nicki and 200 years later when I was mortal I did it again.

I've remarkably little self-restraint in the matter. Which you know, and for which I am sorry. And no, fratello, rest assured I will write no more on that particular topic here. Perhaps ever.

What I speak of now is, as I say, my mortality. And the part of me which causes such confusion when I avoid all things spiritual, so to speak. Lestat the teetotaler, who would have thought?

Mortal, though, the story is different. Were I to be honest (as I do endeavor to be) I would confess that I do not know when it began. The French do drink as a concept, as you know. But to take the wine and truly make it a part of me? Sixteen years old? Twelve? Eight? I couldn't say.

The moral of the tale, though, is that at the end it was consistent. One of many reasons I could abide the company of my Nicolas, who was just as horrid with it as I, if not moreso. Our relationship was, after all, founded on it, amongst other things.

And, as they say, what you were once you are always. It continues with me to this day, which is why I take no drunks nor abide their company overly well.

But that is - was - my living years. Soon after that I was vampiric and what then?

Well now we come to my time in Italy. And how I met my friend Santino.

Italy. Intoxicating in its own right, if I may indulge myself in the metaphor. My heritage, at least through Gabrielle. I cared for none of that, of course. Avoidance of all things familial was my ideal at the time. The one member of the family I had cared for had by then discovered she had more fun without me than with and I was left, primarily, to my own devices.

What did I write of it? I believe in my little novel I spoke of her and I traveling a bit, and how we met your old coven friends and how, while we had heard of Santino's name being spoken, never met the man himself.

This was, of course, a lie.

Or at least partially so. We certainly did not.

I did.

My introduction to him came while face-down, in the gutter, covered in filth.

I was, again, drunk.

I had discovered this in Italy, you see. And it makes me laugh to think of it now. It is so cosmically simple that I am amused at my country stupidity for not thinking of it.

But, sadly, I did not. It had truly never occurred to me that vampires could become drunk.

After all, why would we want to?

To be a vampire, to drink blood - as the little Baby Jenks has told us, it is the greatest of all possible highs. Sex, drugs, rock and roll and a good vanilla shake in the bargain. The vampiric species, my friend, is truly high on life.

For years it hadn't occurred to me that the old-fashioned methods were still part of the equation.

Thinking on it now I can say with relative assurity that I brought it on myself. After all, my self-control is strong. We only remain as drunk as we wish to be and I hadn't the desire back then. Sheer math alone tells me I must have supped from the occasional drunk or two, but for some reason damped the poison down at once so it did not affect me.

It was not until Italy, until Gabrielle's abandonment - which is not a blame against her, merely a description of my lack of company at the time - until winter and realization of my weakness, my emptiness, my stupidity caught up to me that one little bit slipped through.

I do not think I sought it out. I don't remember intending to, although God knows there is plenty I don't remember intending but did anyway. But I do not believe that I tried to find it that first night. I think, rather, that instead I hunted as normal and in the end the alcohol found me.

As you know, fratello, it takes so little drink for me to loose myself entirely.

Do I even know how much time passed? Of course not. I was, one night, simply in the gutter.

Which is where Santino found me.

I think that it was morning - and do you know in all this time I've never even thought to ask him? I think that the sun was near-rising and he took me inside. I do not say "took it upon himself to save me" for that is not a true retelling of events. Not his way to do quite such a thing. Instead I believe the sun was almost there, I was not near shelter and, knowing what the consequence of this would be, he took me inside. Back to his place, as the saying goes.

I met him properly the next night.

I awoke, eyes bleary, body aching - all self-inflicted of course. I wanted to ache, I wanted to hurt.

(All of which are details for another day. I will get to them, I promise you. The hurting, the wanting and - and here I know the world waits with baited breath - the reason why. Yes I will write it all. Including the nightmares I had while lying in that gutter, but all this comes in time. I have resolved to focus on one thing at a time. This time it is Santino. The rest will come.)

My point is that I woke slowly, foolishly, and found him sitting by my bedside.

Do I need to describe him? Surely this mental image must be known. Black on black on black. Like a priest. Like the priest he is - was - ever shall be.

And the thing about him was calm. He sat, calm.

"Hello, Lestat," he said, inclining his head at me just a little, never being one for overt facial expressions when he can help it. He spoke, for what it is worth, in Italian. And he had laid himself bare to me for as much as I wanted. Even as young and stupid as I was I knew enough to scan him and try to understand. So know, now, that I was rapidly awake and knew at once that this was Santino and no other.

You had told me all about him, of course.

And this was in his mind too. Almost placed specially at the forefront of his mind to make sure I would find it, much as one would put out the family photos for guests to see. The fact of his existence was nothing in dispute. "Yes, I am Santino. Yes, the creator of the Coven. Yes, the man who attacked Marius. Yes."

Still, he sat.

If I had wanted to I could have probed further. I didn't, but I know that I could have.

I sat up. Though cleaner than the night before I was still mostly disheveled and nothing respectable to see.

Writing of it now what I am struck about myself most is my lack of surprise. Which is, perhaps, something you had prepared me for. Legendary in your own right, fratello, why would I not meet this other? After all, I was then actively seeking Marius. For Santino to appear was nothing to be astonished about. And, true to my form, I wasn't.

"You are still in Italy," was the next thing he said, for in my stumbling probe of him I had projected that particular worry and confusion. "I am no Magnus."

Translated - I know your fear, Lestat. I know the last time this happened to you. I know the last time you were drunk and woke in a strange bed. I know this, and promise you that you are not in such danger again.

Translated - I also know.

It is so crude to write of it all this way. I am writing out a puzzle, much as you did, but, if I may flatter myself, moreso.

To tell it all chronologically would be a waste of time. You know the events of my life - who does not know the events of my life? The chronology is not in dispute.

What is - what I am writing - are the small pieces I left out.

So then, again, I will apologize for the missing details just now. I will apologize for not immediately dipping into flashback to explain it all at once. I apologize, and ask for trust.

Trust me.

Trust that I will fill it all in. Trust that this puzzle will be completed. Trust that it can be done only one piece at a time. That the painting can be done only one color at once.

Trust that I know the best way to tell the tale.

Right now I begin with the broad strokes. The mild story, to prepare for the rest. The details that will begin the proper framework. I give shape, now, to the questions that will - that must - be answered next. As a famous book once showed, you cannot appreciate the answer until you know the question.

So, then, right now I help to form the questions.

Santino knew.

Knew what?

Knew my fear.

Knew I was afraid.

Afraid - of what? Why? Who? How would he know?

These are all the questions, now, that I am helping to breathe life into. Focus the mind on those and the rest of my tale and the rest of these chapters will fall easily into place.

For now the questions will just sit there. They must ferment a bit, or else the rest will not make sense. I have written so much in my other books that no one would - no one has - ever thought to ask these questions.

So, slowly, deliberately, I undo my own handiwork. I pull the curtain aside to show the smoke and the mirrors. Here, and here, and here - did you never wonder why your author danced away from this subject? Or that one? Or why that one comment was left unsaid?

This is what I do now.

So, for now, suffice it to say Santino knew. Santino knew, to put it quickly, the answers to all of these questions. And, to put it simply, the reason why he could know it was because I had allowed myself to become drunk.

And here, although not fully, is a first mystery solved. I do not allow myself to become drunk because when I do I lose control over my ability to hide these answers, to make sure that others do not ask the questions. I loose control over my very, true self.

I had become drunk. I had lost this control. Santino witnessed all of it.

And he has not spoken one single word about it to this very day.

We spent time together, of course. With company I sobered up. Not only to make myself presentable but to regain my control.

And with Santino I did learn things. From observation - not his active teaching (which he did none of) - I learned more about mind manipulation, about how to skirt others away from my thoughts and to make myself more stealthy.

I imagine it was much as you learned the same things.

We spent time together, and I came to like his company.

Through conversation I found out he had watched me, somewhat like you had, and pulled me from the gutter because he had felt me worthwhile.

He was not the man from your visions or your memory.

Oh he was once. That, as I have said, was made clear from the start. But he was not that man now.

We talked. I learned about his past. It was information that he volunteered, not that I probed for. He also spoke of his present, how he spent his days now traveling the earth and observing all around him.

He was not insane.

I learned he had left the Coven because it no longer practiced ideals he could believe in. He had believed in them once, he no longer did now. And, once he stopped, he left. What more could he do?

In our conversations I also learned his opinion of Gabrielle, and of my other family relations. Which, though disapproving as you might imagine, were never given in such a way as to draw my own disapproval or make me turn away from him.

All of which shall get filled in more as these chapters go on.

By spending time with him I also found something of a rapport with him. An ease of speaking. Due, no doubt, in part to the fact that I truly had no secrets from him. But also due to the way he reacted to having this knowledge.

There are many who know only a few glimpses of my secrets who I have turned my back on utterly. Santino would have deserved no less a fate, if not worse.

But I did not. Because he took those into himself and locked them away. And he would not, will not, has not ever given them away.

They are not his to give.

I did not ask this of him. I have never asked it of him. He did it from the start and never stopped. Even with my permission I do not think he would ever speak of it. That is just his way.

This was the first time in my life I had ever been protected by something. Someone. Not even Nicki had done such a kindness by me. God knows not Gabrielle.

And yes, in typical fashion, I tried to repay the kindness with my body.

Not unlike my actions 200 years later with David (ah, let's not speak of those) I tried to seduce him.

And let's be honest here, there was chemistry.

It wouldn't be too hard for us to take each other. It wouldn't have been too hard back then. There was, as I said, that rapport. And for all his stoic nature, Santino does have a colorful soul. He is given to bursts of humor, smiles and even sensuality if the mood, company and setting strikes him.

Back then he was more stoic than now but even so I could see it and did participate in it.

But, much though it might disappoint some to hear of it, he and I never shared even a single kiss.

And this, too, was his decision.

It was not a rejection, as David was. It was a comfort. One evening he simply sat down and spoke to me about it.

"Lestat, you should have one life where that will never be a question. One time when you do not have to wonder. Between you and I it shall never be a factor."

Translation - for once in your life, Lestat, you can relax.

Surely you can understand that, mi fratello. I would imagine you of all people could. To know that for all your immortality, for all eternity there is one person with whom it is not an issue. Never. Ever.

God, even now I cannot believe the sensation it causes within me to think of it.

Are there doubts now? Do you wonder anymore? Have my words somehow explained it?

What happened to he and I then? We traveled apart, as you know. For me you can go back to my books and know the outline of it. Gabrielle rejoined me, she and I made our way to Egypt. The story is known.

I just lied when I wrote it later.

Why lie about that, when I gave away so much else?

Many reasons. Not the least of which is the unflattering light in which the initial evening in question paints me. But, moreover, I did not want to give that night away. Somehow it was my way of honoring his silence. Not that he would have cared had I made his presence in Italy at that time known but it meant something to me to keep quiet and I think that he understands.

I tell it now because of your truthfulness. And the rumors that my ears have heard. I would rather the truth than the dishonesty of imagination.

I can lay it bare now. I can do it for you because you shall understand. You'll honor it, even if others do not.

To complete this particular tale I shall say he and I did not communicate again until years later. I arose and my little secret did get out. He survived Akasha after all. And we all know how she picked the final few of us to survive. Those who met in the compound were either too old to touch or -

Well I wrote it in my book, didn't I? The hint was there, for those who wanted to see.

Our communication has continued since then, in its own fashion. We meet when we meet, talk when we talk. Rare are the times when such things are planned, although they have happened once or twice.

And even still he keeps my honor.

Were I to choose a friend, I could do worse.

L.

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