[ has his long life been full to the brim with the freedom to choose? has his strength and speed been any benefit to him other than a vessel for his anger? a vessel for his grief?
but, ah. yes. he's speaking to lucifer, burned in fire and brimstone and cast off. he'd seen it briefly in the chaos of the man's mind - had known the moment he saw him who he was, and yet louis still sat down at his table. still played cards as though neither of them could see what the other was going to do. the text hits him like a freight truck, like the crack of cobbles he met on the great fall in new orleans. the fall that shattered him apart in more ways than one. ]
I couldn't go back to a mortal life. Not after this. Not after everything I've done. But I can't erase the mortal conscience. I can't erase my love for humanity, for the life I could have had, for everything I wanted. It might be easier if I could. I prayed about it for weeks, months, years after I was turned. No answer.
[ a long pause, then: ]
How do you manage it? The loneliness. The grief. Everything that's made me what I am these hundred and some odd years. The dark thing that waits with all of it. I can't breathe with it sitting in my chest. Can't think. The sun doesn't burn here, and when I sit out under the warmth of it I can close my eyes and be someone else. Feel real again.
no subject
but, ah. yes. he's speaking to lucifer, burned in fire and brimstone and cast off. he'd seen it briefly in the chaos of the man's mind - had known the moment he saw him who he was, and yet louis still sat down at his table. still played cards as though neither of them could see what the other was going to do. the text hits him like a freight truck, like the crack of cobbles he met on the great fall in new orleans. the fall that shattered him apart in more ways than one. ]
I couldn't go back to a mortal life. Not after this. Not after everything I've done. But I can't erase the mortal conscience. I can't erase my love for humanity, for the life I could have had, for everything I wanted. It might be easier if I could. I prayed about it for weeks, months, years after I was turned. No answer.
[ a long pause, then: ]
How do you manage it? The loneliness. The grief. Everything that's made me what I am these hundred and some odd years. The dark thing that waits with all of it.
I can't breathe with it sitting in my chest. Can't think.
The sun doesn't burn here, and when I sit out under the warmth of it I can close my eyes and be someone else. Feel real again.