"Au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot. Prete-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot. Ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai plus de feu. Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de dieu," the vampire prince waltzed into the room, with those words upon his lips, though he refrained from disturbing the slumber of one he loved so dearly. It had been quite some time since the two had last shared an evening together and he had grown tiresome of fleeing the city, as often as he did. It was time for change; something the Cloud Walker had requested of him time and time again— and Lestat had finally given in.
Stepping forward, he gently pulled back the drapes to gaze upon Valdar, his beloved, belonging to no other, whom had waited so patiently for his return. Again, he parted his lips and off of his tongue rolled yet another verse, this time with all intention of rousing the others sleeping form. "Au clair de la lune, pierrot repondit. Je n'ai pas de plume, je suis dans mon lit."
