"I can't leave the past behind."
The words did not hurt him as much as he’d thought they would.
Moryo had always known it to be true, he discovered now, the realization in him like the dawning sun that Lestat could never see again without dying the true death. Lestat was human, despite it all, in a way which Moryo had never been. The vampire had not been meant for immortality, had not been designed for it as the elves had been.
Lestat, his ange du sang, was still so mortal in what remained of his soul.
Memory was the great gift of the Eldar, it was said. Memory perfect and unchanging. Moryo could look within himself and see as if they stood before him the faces of those whom once he’d loved, the faces of those whom once he’d killed. They were always part of him, in memory at least fixed and pinned — but if he had not left them behind, if he had not stopped grasping after them at every turn, he would have faded long since into naught but a shadow of regret.
Lestat, his diable du neige, still grasped, greedy as a child in his way, and insatiable.
Oh, he too was possessive in his way, was the elf, was jealous of what he held as his. He was arrogant, and isolate, but he was very old. He had stood untouched among the fields as humans sprang up and were mowed under again, and he had watched them come and go. Who could find oneself attached to a particular blade of grass in all the fields of green and gold?
Yet somehow Lestat had grinned at him, that cheeky grin framed so prettily by his golden curls; and had torn open a bleeding vein.
"You go to your Louis if you must," he purred now in response, sprawling out the wider on the chaise. He knew what Lestat likely expected, the scene, the recriminations, the sheer violence of their love. But the Brat Prince would be cheated of his drama this time. "And when he throws you over yet again, as he always does… I will still be here waiting to sing the sun to you."
