[Claudia most certainly will never meet this counterpart of hers. Still, she had hoped that there was some way, some twist in fate, that would spare this her-that-wasn't-her. To allow one of them, at least, survive Paris and maybe even find peace within herself.
This message confirms that there was no such happiness for Claudia in any iteration of herself. She's quiet for a long moment, too, unsure of what to say. It wasn't as if she could apologize.]
You couldn't stop it, then.
[Still...she was sorry. Past all of the anger she had felt for so long, with the different forms of Lestat she had met, she knew despite it all that he was mourning for her.]
[He doesn't answer right away, a wrench of guilt striking through him (banishment banishment BANISHMENT) as he remembers what little he could do and what little he tried and Louis being dragged off while Claudia remained.
When he does speak, his voice is shaky, though full of intent.]
I know -- I know that I am a creature of ill temper, of grudges, of pettiness, I know I am.
But I didn't -- I would not have ever asked for this, never, I never would have wanted this for her. For either of you.
[Lestat tries not to wonder if his Claudia knew that, if she had any idea. Louis didn't. Still doesn't.]
[In a sense, she knew that there was remorse there--learned it from a version of Lestat that was far more in the future than either of them. But...this was different. Even though it wasn't her Lestat, he was a Lestat that she remembered. He had all the faults that he described, and that made his words mean more.
And she doesn't know what to say, still. Does she thank him? Does she apologize?]
I wish...
[She wishes for a lot of things. Impossible things.]
...that we had had a chance. It seems as if Duplicity is our only means of escaping our fate.
[If it was even an escape at all. And she can't even say if, as she was back home, she could have ever grown to forgive him for making her what she was. It was all so complicated.]
[And isn't it all the ironic, then, that even here, in this place that would be their only escape, that they aren't even quite the right versions of themselves? He can show his remorse to a Claudia that he did not raise, and she can hear the words from one who did not make her. Even this odd reprieve is a faulty one.
Still. Some version of her lives. It doesn't erase the rest, or ease the remorse that clutches him every time he remembers seeing her burn, but it is something still.]
Still.
I am sorry that this is the only place where such escape exists.
[He's sorry for more than that. He knows his own deeds, his own faults, his own actions in this, and perhaps if he were less cowardly he would say so then.
A beat, and then he asks:]
Your Louis. The one who was here, once. Did he ever say what happened after the theater burned?
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This message confirms that there was no such happiness for Claudia in any iteration of herself. She's quiet for a long moment, too, unsure of what to say. It wasn't as if she could apologize.]
You couldn't stop it, then.
[Still...she was sorry. Past all of the anger she had felt for so long, with the different forms of Lestat she had met, she knew despite it all that he was mourning for her.]
no subject
When he does speak, his voice is shaky, though full of intent.]
I know -- I know that I am a creature of ill temper, of grudges, of pettiness, I know I am.
But I didn't -- I would not have ever asked for this, never, I never would have wanted this for her. For either of you.
[Lestat tries not to wonder if his Claudia knew that, if she had any idea. Louis didn't. Still doesn't.]
no subject
And she doesn't know what to say, still. Does she thank him? Does she apologize?]
I wish...
[She wishes for a lot of things. Impossible things.]
...that we had had a chance. It seems as if Duplicity is our only means of escaping our fate.
[If it was even an escape at all. And she can't even say if, as she was back home, she could have ever grown to forgive him for making her what she was. It was all so complicated.]
no subject
[And isn't it all the ironic, then, that even here, in this place that would be their only escape, that they aren't even quite the right versions of themselves? He can show his remorse to a Claudia that he did not raise, and she can hear the words from one who did not make her. Even this odd reprieve is a faulty one.
Still. Some version of her lives. It doesn't erase the rest, or ease the remorse that clutches him every time he remembers seeing her burn, but it is something still.]
Still.
I am sorry that this is the only place where such escape exists.
[He's sorry for more than that. He knows his own deeds, his own faults, his own actions in this, and perhaps if he were less cowardly he would say so then.
A beat, and then he asks:]
Your Louis. The one who was here, once. Did he ever say what happened after the theater burned?