Belle Vie

Life's Great Mystery

~ November 1916 ~

~ Rome, Italy ~

My dearest Lestat,

London is so beautiful this time of year. The Swans in Regent's Park truly are a sight to behold. Harrod's have even started their Christmas preparations. I hope to bring you to the city one day, so you can experience the festivities for yourself. Charles has begun casting for this year's play; Much Ado About Nothing. It should come as no surprise to you that the part of Beatrice belongs to me, already. We start rehearsals next month-

Celeste emitted a cough, which was not an uncommon occurance, at present. But the blood that often spilled from her lips fell onto the page. Infuriated that she would have to start again, she tore the page from her pad, screwed it into a ball and tossed it into the river. Her white sleeve swiped at the corners of her mouth, the dark crimson dispersing into the fabric. There was more than she had expected, another common occurance.

It was getting worse...

"Ti dispiace se mi unisco a te?" Celeste followed the source of the questioning, difficult to make out the gentleman's features in the dark night the park had succumbed to. But this was not Regent's Park, as per her letter to her beloved; The Vatican Garden's, to be precise. Following her journey around the world searching for a cure to her illness, Italy was her final destination. Though, she feared, it may already be too late for her. The illness had progressed too quickly, she doubted she had the time to make it to New Orleans. Celeste was certain Lestat would not make it to her in time, meaning the singular outcome of death was the most probable.

"Mi dispiace, non capisco," she grew flustered; having arrived in Rome a mere day prior, she did not know the language. The man appeared amused, his platinum ringlets falling beneath his shoulders; those glistening blues of his eyes illuminated beneath the moonlight. For a moment, she mistook the man for Lestat, his resemblance uncanny to the vampire she had fallen in love with. This stranger was tall, but not nearly as tall as Lestat, and though he spoke with a french accent, it was not as deep and sultry as her beloved, "Might I join you?"

Celeste let out a breath, allowing room on the bench for the man to take a seat, "Oh, of course." Instantly, she found her eyes searching the park for the countless other, unoccupied benches on which this stranger could have seated himself. And she knew she did not have the strength to run very far in her current state. Her hand instinctively grasped her fountain pen tighter, as she glanced at the man's relaxed form; his blue eyes watching her as though waiting for a reaction.

In doing so, however, she glanced towards his hands; his alabastor skin nearly transparent, as she noted the blue veins beneath. And those familiar, glassy fingernails that could slice through stone. In an instant, she realised the warning from Lestat surrounding his kind and their ability to read minds; And the fame that came with Lestat De Lioncourt's name, which her mind had echoed into the words on the page as it presently floated to the bottom of the lilypond.

"Ah, I have not heard that name in a while," the stranger mused. Celeste's eyes stung with fearful tears as she fought to prevent her hands from shaking, "Who are you?"

The immortal appeared to relax into a less-human form; as though breathing and imperfect posture was an effort, on his part. His features became somewhat statuesque; not even the wind appeared to blow through his curls. Was this a facade Lestat also utilised, as to appear less-frightening to her?

A low chuckle emitted from the stranger, "Lestat has shared the gift of immortality for less than two, short centuries, mon cher. I, however, am a child of the Millenia; Marius de Romanus," his pearly whites shone brightly, his stony hand extended to the girl which she found herself powerless to refute; yet the name struck no familiarity to her, as Celeste began to rack her mind for any mention of his name in the five years she had known Lestat.