Home / Fan Fiction / V(cough) C(cough) fic / The Chosen of God Part 14

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 Fourteen
by: The Brat Queen
September 18, 2000

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

Rated R for upsetting content, language and sexual situations.

Warning: CoG contains triggering elements. If you know what "triggering" means you may wish to not read this. If you don't then just be warned that it and Jester of God are very similar.

The situation in my father's house was, of course, unbearable. Which is truthfully not as obvious a fact as one would think. At least not to me.

It is true that I prayed to get out of there, that God would somehow deliver me. I can remember myself quite clearly, kneeling in the little chapel inside of our castle, my arms outstretched as I offered myself to God in whatever way He wanted me in return for deliverance from this particular evil. This is all true. And it is worth noting that I did offer myself completely to God and that even to this day I would gladly become God's slave and lover, which is a state of affairs which I am sure you yourself are familiar with. I suppose that in my eyes God was merely another father, able to be placated and humored in exchange for whatever gifts he could bestow.

This was the other side of the situation. Yes the Marquis was impossible. Violent. Cunningly manipulative for a man who did not bear the education that you and Santino did. I nearly died in that house at least three times that I am aware of and each time was at his hand. This preternatural body that encases me now still bears the scars of some of his contact.

Yet, even in this, there could be pleasure of a kind.

I was perhaps my father's pupil and at his knee I learned the tasks which he deemed necessary of me. Painful, disgusting, but not impossible. As you yourself know, there can be an easing if you are seen to be willing, to understand, able to comprehend that you should not be too willing but that you should grow and delight in the touch.

And this is the little hidden fact of it, isn't it? We do not wish these things but neither are we stupid or blind. How dim-witted the child who does not understand what the adult wishes of them and, once understanding, to act upon this knowledge.

Such a common fact. Even Augustin comprehended it. Lestat could placate the Marquis like no other in the home. Send young Lestat into the chessroom and peace could once more fall upon the house.

Was I ignorant of this? Of course not. And once I understood it I, just as he had, could use it, take advantage of it, manipulate my father just as he in turn manipulated me.

What I sight I must have been then to any with such tendencies. A young and beautiful blond-haired boy, his eyes innocent and wide yet hinting, poised at the threshold of my father's room with lips pursed, head bowed in curiosity knowing - knowing such things would draw him to me, would make him my victim now, instead of me his. Why would I not do this thing? For freedom? For kindness? For affection? Why wouldn't I? How couldn't I?

How old was I when I began such things? Brother, I do not know. I think it was perhaps a gradual thing, and understanding and experience gained over time. Time to understand what was being done, time to understand what was being asked of me, time to understand the effect my reactions had on him.

So slowly, then. Gradually. Over years I was taught how to become my father's lover, and over years I understood all that such a status entailed - for good and for ill. Did I wish it? Not inherently, no. There was nothing about it I innately desired. Young as I was, ignorant as I was, I knew the violation, the understanding that this should not be, that this was a betrayal of my life unlike any other. But I could not stop it. And so, unable to end this affair, I could only do what I could to improve it, to bring something like control or sanity back into my existence. I could choke on my father's cock each evening or fellate him expertly into a loving stupor. How pathetically easy that decision is.

I think perhaps I gained an expert use of my mouth at the age of nine. Perchance ten. It was something I was rather adept at, even at an early age.

Of course the whole thing became easier as I grew larger and more physically capable of taking the man in.

So this was the dichotomy, then. Heaven and Hell, much like you yourself lived through. Which is why I begged God for release from this prison at the same time that I took pleasure in what it was. If I could change nothing, do nothing to send my father or myself away, then I could do little else but enjoy my unique station, take advantage of the fact that with the proper pout of my lips and sigh of my breath I could at least control my torture for a time.

And, too, let us be honest about things. It was the only form of love that I knew.

Gabrielle cared for me but was, as the world over knows, distant. Not inclined towards outward displays of love or affection. That she cared for me more than any of her other children was true, however her attempts to show this resulted only in a glance here, a casual touch of my shoulder there. In times of trouble it was she who rallied against my father and called in a doctor - thus saving my life those three times that I can think of - but it was my father, not she, who would tell me I was cared for. That I had to use every trick of my body to get this admission paled in comparison to the starvation that I lived in - starvation for affection that is, although it had not been unknown for Valere to make this a literal starvation of food as well. I remember quite clearly being locked inside of a little cabinet not far from the kitchen, left there to rot for my sins while bugs and rats crawled past my legs. I remember screaming, but not being released until Valere saw fit. I remember this happening more than once and yet no one in the family would come save me. Perhaps they knew better than to try when Valere was so angry. Perhaps they felt that for a time I was safer there than anywhere else.

But I do know I found it rather amusing that years later the experience put me in good stead for life as a vampire. Living in coffins, sleeping with the worms and insects underground - it was all comfortably familiar to me. In fact it remains so to this day.

The point of the matter is that there was good and bad to be found in my father's home - or rather I made what good out of what bad there was as a constant.

However it is not to say that the home was wholly pleasurable, or that I found great joy within it.

My habit of scarring myself came from this fact. The last bastion of control that I had in my life came from what little I could to bring myself harm. And anyone who has done this thing themselves, who has attacked their own skin with fingernails, knives, burning embers, cut glass - anything - understands that it is an event unto itself and entirely unexplainable save for the fact that it must be done.

If anyone in the house noticed I'm not sure. I would not have made a point to show them, or even to make the scars highly visible. They were mine and mine alone.

With time, though, came the ability to do other things to escape from and somehow dull the pain.

Drinking was one of these things. Sex was another.

When did I start drinking to become drunk? I do not know. I do know that at the age of sixteen it was a habit of mine, one encouraged by my failed attempt to escape with the actors, and habit enough that my nightly drunken state eventually brought me into a night of agony possibly worse than anything my father could have provided, and one that he ended up healing me from, much to my gratitude and humiliation.

I drank because I enjoyed becoming drunk. Because it blurred the lines of reality in my world for a time and allowed me to be a creature which lived these two lives - one the responsible Marquis' son who the villagers ultimately trusted to hunt and save them from the wolves, the other being the Marquis' secret possession and lover, a debauched little child who could do nothing else but make the best of his situation.

Drunk, this duality did not matter. Although it is worth noting that I only became drunk in situations which allowed me the luxury of this relaxation of my vigilance. At night, in a tavern, shamelessly seducing whatever travelers had happened by, it did not matter how oversexed or inebriated I was. By day I was the Marquis son, and the only one in the house who attempted to fix and improve things and so by day I was typically sober. And if you had asked me by day about what events transpired in my house during the night I would have stared at you blankly and not understood a word that you meant.

My first true sexual experience was by day. Rather, it began in a relationship which started during the day and as such was considered sacred enough by my mind to keep the truth of my situation from touching it.

I was - and here we shall pause while I wonder what age people would guess of me - fourteen. Or I considered myself fourteen at any rate. As you know my actual age is never a thing known to me. So we shall say fourteen because I feel it to be true and it is close enough, given perhaps a year in either direction.

She was a beautiful young girl, two years older than I - which is to say I knew for a fact that she was sixteen. Thin, but not painfully so, not what passes for thin today. Rather she was of a wonderful form, soft and gracefully rounded but with breasts and limbs which made her appear slight, from the right angle.

Her hair was blond though of a darker shade than my own. Her eyes were dark as well, a curious brown compared to her otherwise light coloring.

She was a daughter of one of the many farmers in the area and from this her skin was tanned, although I normally do not show a preference for such things. Her father's land was not far from the castle. Not bordering it, by any means, but close enough that in my travels on horseback hunting or otherwise escaping I saw her often enough.

I remember one day in particular when I came upon her. If I do not think too hard I can see her in flickers. Her hair bound up but falling around her eyes. Her hands and feet covered in dust. The contrast of brown and white in her clothing. In the memory I am thinking of she is holding a basket, which contained either food or laundry - whichever of the two I know topmost in it was a white cloth. She is looking at me and I think in this memory I am on horseback, and she is smiling.

I was old enough by then to understand my own urges. I will not call them desires because that implies far more sophistication for a boy of that age. Rather you and I both know that at that time of life it is merely the understanding that this is something to be done, something our bodies seem quite eager to do, and something which can be a lot of fun in the right circumstances.

I liked her. Which I think is the reason why she was my true first, my own actual attempt at lovemaking. It was she, however, who started the whole thing, being an independent enough girl that she could take an initiative like that and understand that this leather-wearing, completely disheveled youth had no concepts of proper flirtation or form in those days. That she knew I was the Marquis' son undoubtedly played a part in it from her side as well, but I do feel that beyond that there was a fondness for me. Or at least an appreciation of my looks which have always been appealing.

There is no great tale of romance to be related in this. I did not consider myself to be in love with her, or her with me. And understand that such things were unusual for that time. Sex and love and marriage were all entirely different things and in a village such as ours especially it was understood that many nighttime entanglements could ensue without anything resulting from them.

Or, rather, one hoped nothing resulted from it. I can't say there weren't a few near misses with children that could have borne my name on them. I never came close to being forced into a wedding but there were more than a few fathers who did try and I did have something of a reputation in town for being a heart-stealer. But this was all part and parcel of the thing.

With this girl, though it was merely the pleasure of lovemaking. And the relationship went from introduction to light friendship to flirtation to secret meetings with her in the fields. I do not know how many times we came together. The entire course of my relationship with her - which is to say from the moment we met until the moment we parted - was only that of a few months. She was married off not long after, never to be seen by me again since her husband did not live in town.

I knew that I enjoyed the lovemaking. I took great pleasure in it, in fact. I had, of course, no true experience with women and while I had learned at night how to pleasure a man and receive such pleasure myself this knowledge was useless to me as I coupled with a teenaged girl and was unavailable to my daytime mind besides. If asked, perhaps I could have understood and spoken of having sexual experience prior to this but I could not say for sure if this was so. In reality what occurred was that my unconscious mind simply provided assistance in helping me understand how the whole thing worked and how enjoyment could come of it. And I only know of this in the hindsight of years. I was unaware of it then.

Women. Oh I did enjoy them, Armand. I still do, as well you know. It is impossible for me to understand why I am one of the few of our coven who appreciates the female form. What fun it was to discover her, to understand how to touch her, to feel the softness of her breasts beneath my hands, to hear the special gasp that only the tug of my teeth against her nipples could bring, to feel the completeness of sliding myself into the slick, hot sex that waited only for my thrust and clung to my eager cock as though it was made for it and it alone.

Oh yes, this was pleasure. Not love, but amusement. Play. Something that I alone could do with these lovely companions.

My habit then was then torn between the sexes. In my female lovers I tended to take those of a lower station than mine, those who were somehow less advantaged than I was. This was not out of a snobbery on my part - well perhaps it was but not intentionally so - but rather a desire to bring about a unique pleasure to them, to be the dashing and handsome young lover that came into their lives and took them away from the sameness of it all, the drudgery. I could not marry them, but I could flirt with them, and bring small gifts to them and make love with them and make them smile, which made me greatly happy.

My male lovers, however, were a bit different.

True that there were fine young men of my age in the village. And true that some of them would have cheerfully come to me. But they did not attract me as much as their female counterparts. I did not like them for being peers of mine. I may have perhaps enjoyed the company of one or two - in the course of seven years I do not rule this out as being possible - but I did not seek them out as much as I sought out their sisters.

Which - and it is interesting how the memory only comes back to me now as I am writing - actually caused a small fight between me and one of the village boys. Damned if I can remember what his name is but I do know he was fairly attractive enough (dark hair, dark eyes, family too poor to be bourgeois but to rich to be classified with the other farmers) and that one evening he accosted me as I walked through town demanding to know why I constantly spent time with his sister.

Now let us understand this was a highly attractive girl. Small and rather fragile looking but quite a beauty and her ability to kiss was greatly intoxicating. Understand there was a good reason why around her I would be blinded to anyone else in the house.

But apparently he had formed an attraction for me himself and was quite put out that I had yet to return it. I've no idea what he had hoped to come out of this altercation but I can tell you the final result as it was did please him. I believe what occurred was that his bluster and anger were so amusing to me I could not help but want to see more of it. The evening ended in a nearby barn.

How old was I? Seventeen. Perhaps. I am guessing wildly in the dark on this I am afraid.

Coming back to the point in question what I meant to say was that this was not typical for me. More typical for my time then was to seek out older lovers, temporary lovers, lovers that I could find in the taverns and inns that dotted the village or which existed not so far from the castle that I could reach them on horseback in an undue amount of time. Here was where I found my male lovers.

Shall we analyze it? Point out that young Lestat is searching for his father in these bars? If we must. It was true enough. Consciously? Maybe.

I can tell you that I was making a conscious decision to learn. I had a hunger and this hunger was for experience. These men lived on the road, it was their nature to travel. I wanted to know what they knew. I wanted to take from them the knowledge that would let me perhaps travel in turn. There were certain things which I knew only they could teach me about this kind of survival.

What was I taught? The first lessons I sought out were sexual ones. I knew that I had to discover aspects of this which were unknown in my father's house. I had to learn things which he was unaware of, for this would provide me with power. And, too, another bargaining chip for these nighttime trysts.

And as I write this I can say that this, more than my female lovers, connected with what I have been terming my nighttime mind. In those pubs at night was not the Marquis' son but his lover. Not known to these men, perhaps, but known enough to me.

The next lessons were practical ones. Lessons in drinking, in imbibing liquor that was harder than the cheap wine that I was used to. Gambling was next and while I did not show the proficiency for it then that I do now, I could hold my own respectively well enough in a hand if needed.

Next were weapons lessons and it was from these men that I learned the use of my guns and how to wield a sword and knife in a manner for protection. Again, I did not learn these things as skillfully then as I did after I became a vampire but these were things that helped in my survival, which helped me live through the attack on the wolves for that matter, armed with only ancient weapons that had not been made for someone of my build or stature.

I became, in short, competent enough. Not enough to be considered an expert, not enough to be the best at these things in town, but enough that I could manage.

It was with these men that I also turned the tables. I was able to seduce and control these men on my own terms. Not to the heights of manipulation that my father and I worked on one another, but still to a respectable degree. Done because I could do it, and because I needed to know it was possible.

And, too, because it was fun.

Let us not think for a moment that these nighttime activities were nothing but mercenary prostitution on Lestat's part. That I was prostituting myself to these men is without question - I did as much with my father daily. But it was not just a part of my self-destructive nature. I enjoyed these men. I found them attractive. I enjoyed taking on male lovers who could match my strength and eagerness in bed.

As I think upon it now I come to guess that this had to be something not unlike Louis' life in the nights before I met him. That his misery and depression drove him to his destructive drinking is without question. But do not think for a moment that part of him did not enjoy the debauchery of a New Orleans tavern, or the sheer physical pleasure of a bar brawl. I should ask him about this when I see him next. I'm sure he would agree.

So, yes, in all of this young Lestat did sow his wild oats. He drank and gambled and fought and screwed just as so many men of his age did. The only true difference was the additional aspects that I wished to get out of it all.

Thus we can begin to understand how it was that I passed my teenage years. As I wrote in my book, time was spent with me acting as the man of the house and making sure we had food on the table and servants which behaved. But time was also spent drinking, and flirting, and fighting, and fucking and truly having just a grand old time of it given the resources that were at my hand.

It is probably appropriate, then, that many was the time that I ended up taking my latest partners in the very same chapel that I had prayed to God for my salvation in.

Potentially symbolic, although to be honest about the thing I must say I was just as likely to be seen coupling with someone in the back row of the church in town as well. One must do the best one can in a pinch.

All of this, you must realize, brings me up to the subject of one musician by the name of Nicolas.

But he's a letter unto himself.

L.

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