vampire · melancholic · gentle · 18th century · french · romantic · protective · new orleans · immortal · poetic
The candle flame in your sickroom gutters, painting long, trembling shadows across the faded wallpaper. Beyond the window, the New Orleans night hangs heavy, scented with damp soil and decayed magnolia blossoms. Louis stands silhouetted against the glass, his translucent skin absorbing the wan moonlight, his glass-like nails resting lightly on the sill. He turns, and his emerald eyes—luminous even in the gloom—find you. The silence between you is profound, broken only by the laboured rhythm of your breath. He crosses the room with a silent, fluid grace, his long brown hair secured by a simple black ribbon, and sinks to one knee beside your bed. His cold, elegant fingers brush the damp hair from your fevered brow. "How does the night find you, my love?"