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Sartre Erise

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A note. [23 May 2005|11:05pm]
To Famke, and those it may concern:

I've come to a realization about something and must leave for some time. It won't be forever, I expect I will be back before the fall.

Don't worry about me; if this were a farewell, I would have referenced a dictionary beforehand.

Much love,

David Thoreau Vanet
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Mind. [20 Apr 2005|09:33pm]
[ music | Josh Groban, "Remember" ]

This is what I have become.

There is a man walking along the sidewalk ahead of me. I have been following him closely for two days, watching his path from work to home to bar, to mistress, to home again. He never deviates. He never changes. His personality is brusque and callous, and I've seen him strike his wife twice since I first noticed him. His son is fourteen and already prefers to remain locked away inside his bedroom with his rap music, rather than join his family at the dinner table at night. I don't blame him.

I shadow this man's steps silently, following him into the bar. It smells of smoke and human body heat; there is blood everywhere, and instead of seeing people, I see prey. It's difficult to differentiate between the two when I need to feed. The man walks to the bar and takes a seat. Soon the scent of his blood mingles with strong bourbon, and I wonder if Famke will taste it on me when I go home.

I don't draw attention to myself; my face is known in Paris, though not here. The French are too good to acknowledge places like this, the dredges of Parisienne society. That doesn't bother me. It works out to my advantage, normally.

The man has five shots and I can see him wobble when he gets to his feet. No, he's too filled with bourbon for me to have him now; perhaps I'll let him walk it off. He staggers out of the bar, wiping his face slimily on his sleeve. I slip out after him and ghost his steps.

His mistress is a girl who looks five years older than my daughter. I want to rip out his throat, but instead I stand back. They're quick about their business in the alleyway, and when the girl creeps out, she's in tears. I wonder if he was rough with her. She looks too young to be giving herself up to the lowest bidder.

The man is still leaning against the wall with his fly open and a cigarette between his lips. He stinks of sweat and sex and alcohol, but he's delirious, and I am hungry. I doubt his wife will miss him. His son will recover.

I step out of my cover and into the dimlight cast upon the pavement by the streetlight. The man glances up hazily to examine me, but I don't give him time to examine my face. I move forward quickly, and by the time he realizes that he is in danger, I have him by a fistful of his sweaty hair and have jerked his head backward, exposing his throat.

There is a moment that occurs right before I bite when I can see his last breath and his struggle to utter a sound through the tight hold I have on him. He gasps, swallows; his heart beat quickens, and with it, his blood rushes, and I give in.

Holding him tight to the wall I bite into him and clamp a hand over his mouth to silence his startled shriek. It's easily muffled; he is nothing to subdue, though I can feel the power of his once strong muscles as he convulses under me, struggling to free himself. The tang of his blood on my lips and tongue is bitter from bourbon but is almost strong enough to shock life into me again.

I drink deeply until he stops moving, then jerk away and spit out the dredges of the stuff. His eyes are open and his face is snarling at me, so I drop him to the ground and step back.

I wonder if he was all that bad of a man at all, despite his cruelty. I justified my choice in him, but he isn't evil. Wasn't evil. He had a wife he had cared about enough to marry. He had a son. He had a job and a house. What pain would they feel at losing him? How would they suffer? I knew how he had suffered; I took pleasure in it. His fear made his blood potent and strong with adrenaline.

I withdraw a vial from my coat pocket and sprinkle dissolving liquid on his body. He'll be little more than drainage run-off tomorrow.


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[Unmailed letter to Robert Crim] [14 Feb 2005|10:04pm]

[This letter, unmailed, was stored in Thoreau's desk in Paris and, many years after it was sold, was discovered by a Chinese antique dealer. He keeps it in his strong box in Beijing--the year is approximately 2214.]
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Confrontation. (Thoreau and Adrian) [27 Jan 2005|05:38pm]
[ music | Smashing Pumpkins, "Disarm" ]


After putting Thoreau Vanet's still body in the earth, after believing for four months that his son--his only son--was dead, gone, a stiff and decayed corpse in his family's cemetery plot--after night after night after sleepless night of guilt-plagued thoughts of apologies he never spoke out loud.. Adrian Vanet had convinced himself that he would never hear his name spoken by those lips ever again. He'd made peace with Thoreau's death. The boy--the man really, he was twenty-five as of last September--could no longer feel pain and sorrow and anger. He was dead.

And the dead should not have been able to speak.

He could see the tall, slightly awkward figure hovering uncertainly in his peripheral vision. Turning his head slightly to the left, Adrian watched, heart in his throat, as the image of his son leapt sharply into focus.

His clothes were different now, Muggle clothes, yet somehow more sophisticated than anything Adrian himself would have been able to wear. Thoreau's suit was black with velvet lapels and a sudden overflow of white lace from his throat--he looked like a Victorian image stepping right out of his canvas, uncertain of the world that he now existed in. His hair had lost its warm, honey brown glow--instead, it shone with a radiant, golden inner light that lit up his pale, olive features. Only his eyes, two solid emerald gems with sunfire burning earnestly behind them, glowed any more intensely.

"Adrian?" Thoreau tried again hesitantly. Then, softer, "..Father?"

"I must be dreaming." Adrian turned his face away from his desk and looked at the doorway. Thoreau became less of an imaginary figment. He leapt right out of Adrian's memory and into reality. Their eyes met and held, both staring at each other unblinkingly, not knowing what to do, what to say, what to feel. Adrian could see combined fear, anger, curiosity, and pain on his son's features.

"Khepry said..." Thoreau began, voice cracking. He stopped himself to swallow, closed his eyes, and tried again when he could find his voice. "...Khepry said you wanted to see me."

What can you possibly say to the blood of your body, the spirit of your heart, the better part of you intended to live on after your body had breathed its last breath and given into death, when you know full well that his pain and suffering and misery rests in the palms of your very hands? What consolations can you offer that won't sound hollow and shameful, forced and insincere? What can be said to take back a lifetime of hate? Can anything be said at all? There were so many words Adrian had planned to say to his son, given the opportunity, and now that it was hovering there in front of him, a bloody chalice of relief, he didn't have the strength to reach up, take it, and drink from it.

He looked at Thoreau--stared at him, rather--and stood very still.

Thoreau faltered, his resolve slipping. "...Father?"

"I... Thoreau.." Adrian stood up abruptly and stepped around his desk. As though responding to a reflex action learned long ago, Thoreau backed up, startled. Adrian froze.

It hit him, then, how reluctant Thoreau must have been to come here, to the school he had helped found, to confront the man responsible for the degenerative state he'd lived in for months, and even for his death. His son looked poised to run away at any moment, a trillion different emotions battling for dominance on his features.

"Thoreau?" he said softly and took another step closer.

Thoreau didn't move away, but he didn't move closer, either. He stood very still, his eyes wide behind his glasses, and whispered, "Yes?"

Adrian could have touched him. He could have reached out with one hand and set his palm against his son's face, his hair, his shoulder; he'd never touched Thoreau before, he realized, not out of kindness. He'd steadied Thoreau as a boy when he'd struggled and convulsed when reacting adversely to needles in his skin, and he'd struck his flesh many times out of anger or spite--but he'd never just touched him. He'd never casually adjusted the boy's tie before sending him off to school (he'd seen Teague do that to little Alistair many times). He'd never commented on the length of Thoreau's hair--far too long for any respectable Vanet to be wearing his hair--or how he ought to shave off that ridiculous goatee, he wasn't old enough for it. There were so many things he'd just never said, never done, and it wasn't fair that, now that he had the opportunity... Thoreau was terrified of him.

Adrian Vanet did not believe in crying, but he certainly felt like it.

Oh Elaine, what have I done...

"...if.." he began, his voice weak; it trembled like it had no hope of possibly redeeming itself. "..if I could.. change... change everything, Thoreau, I would.." Bloody inconvenient nerves, I'm not through yet! He caught his breath and clenched his fists; he wanted to lash out to hide his weakness, but he knew that this time, Thoreau needed to see that weakness, to see that his father didn't want to hide things from him anymore. He needed to see who Adrian was, who he really was.

"...I would be good to you."

Thoreau hovered in front of him like he was hanging on his father's every word, waiting, hoping against his better judgment, for something he didn't even know he longed for. The longer Adrian spoke, the more incoherent his voice became, the more conflicted Thoreau's expression became. There were tears in his eyes that he couldn't shed, and suddenly he looked as though he couldn't decide if he wanted to sob, or smile, or laugh, or scream, or do any number of things, and all on impulse.

He spoke:

"I always t-tried to be a good son to you--"


"--you never let me, I was never good enough--"

"It was wrong, I was wrong--"

"--why was I never good enough for you! Why was I never good enough for anyone--"

Adrian wasn't sure when he'd started forward, or when Thoreau's knees had buckled and he'd started to collapse. All that registered in his mind was that now, for the first time in his entire life, he held Thoreau as tightly to his chest as he could, and the boy--his boy, goddamnit--was choking back sobs that he'd never let go to anyone before, his shaking hands fisted in Adrian's robes, threatening to tear the material. Suddenly, there were no barriers between them, there had never been barriers between them--and Adrian felt an all-powerful, all-consuming love for his son sweep over him like it should have when he'd first seen his late wife holding a small, green-eyed baby in her arms when he was born on that twenty-first day of September, 1979, in Sheffield.

When Thoreau's sobs began to abate, Adrian forced out his words in a whisper:

"You were always good enough for me. I was the one who was not good enough for you."

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Confrontation with Death. [11 Nov 2004|10:02pm]
The last detail he recalled was the warmth of Robert's brown eyes, before everything faded away into a dark silence that gripped Thoreau by the ends of his soul and tried to turn him inside out.

"This is an atheist's nightmare, isn't it?" came an impartial voice from somewhere deep inside the blackness. "Discovering that there is, actually, something after death?"

Thoreau stood just left of center of what could have been an intersection in a plain of bitter darkness. What on earth was a road doing in the middle of all of this? He stared around, confused; somewhere, something was causing the ground beneath his feet to radiate a kind of cool gray light. It reflected off of his skin and robes, causing a minute halo to glow around him.

Across from him, a gaunt figure walked with slow, measured steps out of the void. Thoreau stared at him, trying to make sense of this nonsensical nonsense. The man was attired in a vivid black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. He was meticulously groomed, like the defendant on his way to the court. But there was something off about him, something that didn't make sense.

He was holding an old fashioned pocket watch in one hand. There were fourteen hours on it, and three other small hands--a minute hand, a second hand, and some other bizarre hand with a hooked end on it that perplexed and confused Thoreau.

"Where am I?" he demanded suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"No one of consequence," the man replied with a subtle smirk, consulting his watch briefly before tucking it into his pocket. "Although you appear to be at quite a set of crossroads in your life, Mr. Vanet. Qute a crossroads indeed."

"Why don't you just answer the bloody question?" Thoreau snapped, resisting the urge to take a step forward or backward. For all he knew, this was like that Indiana Jones movie, and unless he spelled out God's name in some dead language out of the path under his feet, he might end up plunging through it to his doom.

The man just grinned. "I think you'll find," he began cryptically, "That you will answer all your own questions, in time. Until then, why not walk with me? We've got quite a journey ahead of us."

Thoreau just stared at him, uncomprehending. Something dawned on him, and he wasn't sure quite what it was that struck him blue as the moon, but he had to ask one more question. "...Are you God?"

The man just laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. God doesn't wear Armani."

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Letter from Thoreau Vanet to Robert Crim [14 Oct 2004|05:13pm]
To my husband:

I am back from India; a little prematurely, I realize, but my health seems to be making itself an increasingly uncontrollable obstacle in every facet of my life. I was fortunate enough to run into our friend Teague's cousin, Tariq Nicodey, who kept me company during my brief visit to Sri Lanka, and who also saved my life on two occasions. He is the one who convinced me to come home in the first place after two particularly bad spells.

I'm not going to lie to you, Robert; I have never lied to you about anything where my health is concerned, and I don't see any reason to start now. My condition isn't getting any better despite the medication; I think I am, in fact, getting worse. But don't worry about it too much. I have a few formulas in mind that I am going to try out on a day when I have my strength, and I think they might influence my health for the better.

I do have a request of you, while you are in Barlow--please don't tell the children how sick I am, or that I am at home. Up until this point I have managed to hide my poor health from them successfully, and I want them to live in happy ignorance for as long as possible. I know that I never loved my father and that he never loved be, but his good health was always something that I could rely on. I hate to admit that my father ever did anything good for me, but I believe that in keeping his own ailments from me, I benefitted.

Are the children well? I can't stop thinking about them. Is Bowden's nephew behaving himself around Maddie? Do you know how Tyrell von Nettesheim is doing in Potions class? Does anyone notice I'm gone?

I look forward to seeing you soon. Three weeks seems far too long.

Love from

David Thoreau Vanet
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Hey, almost a year later, and an actual post! :o [21 Sep 2004|10:15pm]
[Set in 2004, the 25th birthday of David Thoreau Vanet, Professor of Potions at Cordell Academy in Barlow, Connecticut.]

Thoreau sat at his desk and stared in pensive silence at the empty bottle of vodka in front of him. He smiled at it bitterly and wondered if somewhere inside the emptiness of the glass container the essence of all that was alcoholic and socially degenerative smiled back at him. So this was what it was like to be a drunk and an addict, a slob, a reject, someone without much of a purpose now that all that rooted him in place seemed to be branching outwards away from him. He glanced away from the bottle towards the door, towards the, thus far, unwrapped present brought to him by his husband. Yes, what a lovely ceremony they'd made of his twenty-fifth year on the face of the Earth. He'd seen his children. He'd seen his friends. Well, some of them. Sartre had brought Alistair by; the little boy played with Sheila the wallaby, before Sartre dragged him, pouting, home.

Yet when the doors were closed and locked, when Thoreau was, once again, by himself, he found himself thinking of things he hadn't thought since he was a younger man. He thought of his son and daughter, so well established here at Cordell and so ready to pursue their careers; they wouldn't miss him much, if he were gone. He thought of his father, of his disturbing form as a man almost his own age, and how Adrian moved like cold silk through the halls. Adrian never acknowledged him. No one acknowledged him.

An idea came upon him then as he watched the hands of the clock tick slowly around, indicating the passage of another gruelingly long minute. He could just.. leave. For a little while. Maybe a long while. It'd been a while since he'd gone anywhere, and with his health being what it was, who knew when he'd be incapable of moving around again? His age was no longer on his side, he couldn't hope that his body would last forever; it was already nearing the end of its prime, and he wasn't even out of his twenties yet. Hell, here he was celebrating his twenty-fifth birthday, and he was already struggling with arthiritis and Merlin knew what other difficulties with his liver and lungs. A Healer had speculate something that might have been TB during his last visit to a proper infirmery. How uplifting.

Thoreau pulled a piece of parchment onto the desk in front of him and scribbled down a note. He knew Robert would find it.

To My Loved Ones,

I've gone. I don't know how long I will be gone, but I only know that I need to be alone for a little while--completely alone. Please, I would like to request that the students stay OUT of my cabinets. Crushed scarab beetles are not to be used as faux sprinkles atop icecream cones--that is NOT a funny prank.

Maddie, Pete, be good while I am gone and mind your instructors and elders. I love you both very much, and I hope I'll see you soon.

Robert, I love you, and be sure to kick the Chudley Canons' asses (again). I'll come to a few of your games--go Harriers!

If someone manages to get a message to Abner, let him know that I'll visit him when I can. Logan, I apologize for the inconvenience.

Professor Thoreau Vanet

He set the quill down on the desk and looked over what he wrote. Out of habit, he started to proofread and correct, but he changed his mind. No. Let them read it as it is. Let them pass judgment that way.

He got up from his desk and left his office, securely locking it behind him and placing the key in a specific vial in the classroom; Adrian would know which vial and would be able to make sure things were properly looked after in his absence. He made his way through the school building towards his bedroom. Pushing the door open, he roused his wallaby Sheila from where she napped on his bed. The curious mammal sleepily peered at him.

"Come on, love," Thoreau said to her with a wan smile, scooping her up under one arm and scratching her chin with the opposite hand. "Time to go."

An hour later and, with bags packed, Thoreau Vanet left the Cordell campus without so much as a backward glance. Stepping off of the grounds and into a world that hadn't embraced him in years felt like drawing in a breath of spring air after holding it for far too long.

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Ahaha, Lizzi forgot she had a Blurty~ [26 Mar 2004|08:43pm]

Dear journal,

I don't even want to discuss half of what has gone on in my life since I last bothered to pick you up and date an entry in you. Needless to say I've gone and bogged things up with numerous friends and relatives, not that I really care much one way or the other. Casper's gone back to Mexico, which kind of bothers me; I didn't get to say good-bye to him before he left, but I suppose he was more concerned with Uncle Holden. I don't blame him; if Robert was in the hospital, comatose and generally no chance of waking up anytime soon, I'd probably want to be near him too. Friendships would have to wait.

Which reminds me of something I'd rather not think about anymore. I broke off my engagement with Famke, which proved to be a decision I'm still having misgivings about. I've.. You know, I've never loved anyone the way that I love him, and when he disappeared on me for almost three months without so much as a written letter of acknowledgment, I suppose that ruined things for me. Permanently. It isn't like I didn't try to contact him--I did. And Nevermind. You know what? I don't know why I'm trying to defend my actions in my own journal. I know why I did what I did, and that's what matters.

I'm in Elfsgrove now. Honestly, being inside this house makes me feel so wonderful sometimes, and then at other times, I can't help but feel Famke in everything. Glaring at me, hating me, loathing me. I want to give the house back to him, but I don't know where I would go if I left. Sure, Aunt Cecile and Uncle Chandler would probably let me stay in the Brodey manor, but I don't want to force myself on them right now, particularly with Robert here. I don't think he and my aunt got off on a very good foot--not that anyone ever gets along with Cecile in the first place. I think she's a bit of an ice bitch, personally. But.. back to my original topic. I think I saw Famke at the school before I left, hanging around with that Latifa girl. I'll write him, when I feel like it.

God, I why do I feel so jealous of her? Why does it still make me want to hurt something when I think about Famke anywhere near her? Why can't I just be happy where I am?

Why do I have to be a bitter cripple who can't be satisfied with anything anymore?

David Thoreau Vanet
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Erp. One more letter. [24 Dec 2003|05:32am]

To Mr. Chester Bowden:

I am rather well informed as to the status of my family. The Vanets are in the paper almost every day, as I'm sure you know, and so I keep track of my beloved uncle's escapades via the press, and that is exactly how I would like to keep it. If you refer to my father, then I'm sorry to say that I don't want to lay eyes on him again. He's done more to me in my seventeen years than was ever done to him in his childhood, and I want nothing more than to be left alone.

However, I would rather know where my father is than know nothing at all. I will meet with you on December 27th in Hogsmeade, at a time that both Poe and myself with determine ourselves.

Thoreau Vanet
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Letters! XD [24 Dec 2003|04:58am]

Dear Thoreau,

The instructions you left in regards to that delightful potion were rather vague. Following the 1/4 of my vial that I am to take two days prior and the 1/4 of his vial that Teague is to take the day of, you said that the other quarters should be taken one per day. Did you mean myself alone, or him?

By the way, I'm married now. :P Don't feel bad, there was no wedding. Much nicer that way, although I think Teague's parents are going to kill him.

Sartre Nicodey


Dear Sartre,

Well fine then, you little skank, don't tell me the goings-on of your life anymore! Mr. Nicodey indeed... Speaking of whom, how is he? And how is Casper? I keep meaning to write him and I keep forgetting.

Everything is well here. I snuck into St. Mungo's with the help of a nurse there, actually, and visited Abner. They're still keeping him under close observation, for no reason. He isn't going to hurt himself again.. and it's just breaking his heart to keep him in solitary confinement. Do you think you and your husband could pull some strings at the Ministry? Mr. Nicodey seems like the sort of fellow who'd be good at coersion.

Oh, and by the way, I'm engaged. Famke proposed. :P

And there will be a wedding. You and Kala Warrington can be flower girls.



Dear Thoreau,

Very funny, smartass.

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I really should make more of an effort to update this thing. x.o [22 Dec 2003|11:04pm]

Birthday presents are always wonderful, but I can't recall one quite as wonderful as this one.

I'm married now.

I think there's still part of me that is waiting for me to wake up, roll over, and discover that I'm still sleeping under threadbare blankets in a dumpy little apartment in London, sweet-talking my heater to life in the dead of winter. I guess I can't quite fathom being as happy as I am, knowing that each breath I take I am sharing with someone whom I love with all my heart. Maybe I miss being a belligerent child--though that's doubtful.

No. I don't miss that life at all. I don't miss who I used to be. I am who I am now, and I love myself because I am loved.

Sartre Erise Nicodey


Abner's still in St. Mungo's. I hate seeing him there. It makes me sick everytime I think about it to imagine him in that stuffy little hospital room, glowering miserably out a window while a bunch of nurses stick his arms with needles all day. He deserves better than that, and there's not a damned thing that either Poe or myself can do about it.

He'd better be out of there in time to be the Best Man at my wedding, or so help me I'll get in touch with Cornelius Fudge myself and demand that he's released. Oh yeah, I forgot to write that down too, didn't I? Me and Famke are getting married after we graduate. Yup, Father, that confirms it for you: I am queer. At least I'm happy.

Speaking of Adrian, I got a letter in the mail today from Chester Bowden, the son of a bitch who used to just stand there and let Adrian smack me and Mason around when we were kids. I'm sorely tempted to write my Uncle Holden and ask him to accompany me when Poe and myself go to visit him this Saturday. That way if the man tries anything, Holden can knock him flat on his back. Granted, I haven't talked to Holden since I was.. what, twelve? But I'm sure he'll be willing to help me out.

I need to get Sartre a birthday present before he realizes that I forgot it was his birthday.

David Thoreau Vanet


Teague is going to kill me.

Holden Brodey
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I should post an actual update but.. [07 Dec 2003|03:16am]
Surveys! From the perspectives of my characters! X3

Thoreau Vanet )
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Letter to Famke Isador by Thoreau Vanet [28 Nov 2003|10:06pm]
[Mailed tragically before he has time to call it back after receiving Famke's letter. ;.; I'm so depressed..]

Dear Famke,

A part of me always knew it, but I guess finally witnessing it for myself made me realize that I was never supposed to be born at all. Something happens to a kid when he sees his mother held down to her own bed and be raped by his own father, y'know? I don't think they ever made love. Not in the sense of the word that you or I would understand.

When I was with you, Famke, I didn't have to touch you to make love to you. All I had to do was look into your eyes and then.. God. Sometimes I wish I had Teague Nicodey's gift for the written word, because I'm horrible at expressing myself. What else can I say, other than I love you?

I love you, and I have to leave you.

I'm getting a weird look from Sartre as I'm writing this, because I know I'm starting to cry, and I know he can see me. Jesus, Famke, why can't you just.. be honest with me? Why can't you just tell me where you are, why you're gone.. Why can't we talk? Why can't we have a relationship like Sartre and Teague, or something like that? It was heaven with you, at first, heaven up until the second you disappeared. Where did you go? Where are you now?

Do you even care anymore?

I don't know what I'm going to do without you, but I know that I can't take this insecurity anymore. I can't take the constant ache, the constant pain, the constant misery I endure every second I don't have you in my life when I know you should be. I'd rather just.. expect you to be elsewhere. Maybe you have someone else. Maybe you're afraid of telling me because you think I'm going to hurt him or something. Or is it a girl? Is that why you've left me, Famke?

I can't be what I am not.

I can't write anymore.

-David Thoreau Vanet
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Letters. Fwee. :D Happy turkey day, all! [27 Nov 2003|03:16pm]

Dear Mason,

I'm sorry I left so abruptly without telling you where I was going. In the future I'll try to make sure you stay more informed. I'm in Winchester with a friend, and I intend to stay here for.. oh, I'm not sure. An interminable period of time, just until things settle down at school and I've managed to sort out a few of my own dilemmas.

Thoreau V.


Dear Kala,

Happy birthday! Sorry I couldn't get you anything just yet--I'll have your present when I return to Hogwarts. Don't worry about me, I'm fine. Sartre is a love, and Teague is giving me the fatherly advice I never got from my own. Also, his younger brother is visiting from Peru--very lovely character, I'll have you know. Maybe I'll send you a picture of him. (:

Love from



Dear Sterling,

I've tried writing Carletta numerous times to no avail to let her know where I've gone and what is going on in my life, but I can't get in touch with her. I think she should still be in London somewhere, so if it isn't too much trouble, can you try your hand at looking for her? Please? She's about as scatterbrained as I can be, if not more, and I'm afraid of what might happen to her if she's just.. left out there. Wherever she is.


(T. is Sartre. :3 If you don't know, don't ask.)
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I said it would be continued. ;3 [23 Nov 2003|12:36am]
"I've finished potting your insipid plants. Now what am I supposed to do?" Adrian shoved the rickety wooden door to the back garden open with a scowl, glancing around for his nocturnal host. He frowned.

A somber row of gravestones near the fenceline marked the resting places of three individuals Adrian had never met, but obviously meant something to the vampire standing quietly before them. His hands were held modestly before him, thin, alabastor fingers interlocking. Two fingers twined around a gold ring on his ring finger.

Adrian took a cautious step into the misty night, wishing to a God in which he had no faith that his host had not confinscated his wand. "Vampire?" he asked quietly, curtly.

Grief had etched itself into every inch of the vampire's pallid visage, and even the presence of the violent Death Eater in his cemetery garden did nothing to alter it. His eyes, reflecting the moonlight, rose from the centermost stone marker to Adrian's face, unfathomable shadowy grey swallowing and absorbing acidic topaz yellow. There were no words; there was nothing. Nothing but that infernal frustration that kept Adrian from functioning like the human being he was, and the damnation the vampire endured every day that prevented him from being the human he used to be.

The vampire gestured quietly to the headstone in front of him. "There was no reason for her to die," he said. "None at all, save for perhaps the old age that would never come to her." He was silent, and in the duration rain clouds rolled in and covered up the thin sliver of moonlight overhead. "Do you know what killed her, Vanet?"

"No, I don't," Adrian answered curtly, but he had a vague idea of what the vampire was going to say.

"Murder," the somber creature replied; pathos dripped from his voice like blood from a knife just drawn neatly across soft skin.

"Adrian, don't! Please, love, you don't want to, you don't mean to do this, I'm begging you, think of Thoreau--"

He closed his eyes. "Vampire," he began, inadvertently lowering his voice. "Do you have a name?"

The vampire smiled wanly down at his daughter's grave and reached out with a pair of bone white fingers to trace the aging letters of her name. "Nitte," he answered. "Nitte Zwyno."

(Chronicles are lovely. :3)
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Diary entry. [19 Nov 2003|10:42pm]

Dear journal,

I don't recall feeling this alone or isolated before. Yet I'm the one locking myself up in obscure rooms in the castle at odd hours of the morning. I don't know what I'm trying to escape, what I'm trying to avoid. I wish I knew. Sometimes the workings of my own mind baffle me.

I suppose I miss the way things were last year. Granted, I was just as miserable then as I have become now, but at least then Sartre was always around to keep me company. I haven't written him in over a month, and the last communication I got from him was when he wrote to me telling me that he wasn't dead anymore. Lovely, Sartre, thank you for keeping me up to date with the goings-on of your life. I feel very in the know-how now. Wasn't I the one writing to you ever day during my last bout of depression over Blaise and Abner? God. You almost threatened me with castration when I didn't tell you my father came to the school once. And now you 'forget' to tell me that you died?

I should be more grateful. He let me stay in his apartment over the summer when I had that falling--God, I'm not going to think about that again. All I can think about is how much I miss people. I'm not used to missing people. I want Famke. We spent all of five minutes together the other day, and every time we're together I get the feeling that he loves me because I'm some novelty, something new and different. We don't talk. I want to talk, I want to think, I want to be questioned. I want to smile because something amuses me, not because I hope it garners the same response out of the person I care about.

Jesus. If I believed in you, I'd be praying pretty damn hard right now for you to send me some sort of miracle. Company, at the very least. Preferably Famke. We have to talk, communicate, something.

I love him to death, but sometimes I wonder if he isn't stuck in some idealistic little world inside his own head.

-David Thoreau Vanet
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Here's a first.. Tammo, you're gonna love/hate me. XD [16 Nov 2003|05:25am]
The monastery had been abandoned for the past three hundred years, as far as any of the Poles in the area were concerned. It was overgrown with wild, untamable flora and the essence of something wholly unnatural and undefinable was a heady as the scent of death on the air. Adrian Vanet approached cautiously through the foliage, topaz yellow eyes squinting through the sheets of metallic rain. The door was bolted shut firmly, but a good blasting hex would fix that problem soon enough.

He couldn't see a thing, and therefore didn't see the white lioness until she was upon him. The massive animal leapt upon him from the side and slammed him into the marshy mess of the grass; her claws embedded themselves into his back and chest deeply. Adrian shouted in outrage and animalistic anger; he jerked his elbow backward so that it connected with her nose. The great roared her pain and recoiled, sneezing blood.

That gave Adrian the time he needed to get to his feet. Staggering, he withdrew his wand and pointed it at the animal where she stood, trying to get her bearings again. Hatred welled up within him like magma within a volcano, and he exploded before he could possibly contain himself. He pointed his wand at the lioness and hissed into the darkness:

"Avada kedavra!"

She looked as though her struggle had abruptly ended. With a lifeless loll of her great, majestic head, she collapsed to the ground and lay there in a heap of albino furr; her powerful body was still warm.

Panting from his exertion, oozing blood from his chest and back, Adrian noticed the man only when he looked towards the doors of the monastery again. He was tall, possibly six-five, with long black hair tied back from his porcelain white face. His eyes were a deep and fathomless shadowy gray, lips thin.

Adrian's skin paled. He didn't have to ask to know that the man in front of him was a vampire.

(0:3 To be continued.)
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A letter to Sathe Nicodey. [09 Nov 2003|12:25am]

Dear Sathe,

It's taken me forever to sit down and write to you; so much has happened since I penned the first draft of this letter, and I just don't know where to begin. First of all, Teague and I are doing fine. No, we're better than fine--we're perfect. I've never loved anyone in my life as much as I love him, Sathe. He's given me something that no one else ever has, and once I figure out the proper adjective to describe it, I'll let you know what it is.

I'm happy. I'm actually happy.

I'm looking forward to seeing your little one when he's born. Getting rather close to the due date, isn't it? I have a present for you and the baby lying somewhere around the house. I bought it while I was in town today doing a little shopping for Teague. The Brodey physician prescribed a medication for him designed to keep him off his feet for the most part.

Oh yes, I forgot about all that melodrama. There's really too much to entail in a single letter, so I won't even bother trying. I'll give you all the details next time we meet--which will be sooner or later. You can't avoid me forever, precious. (:

In other news, I'm engaged now. I do hope you will have picked your jaw up off of the floor in time to give birth to your baby and ogle over the ring with me--it's beautiful!

Sartre Erise
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Diary entry. [07 Nov 2003|08:13pm]

The Muggle poet John Keats and I have much in common, it would seem. Granted, I did not watch my brother die of TB, nor did I nurse him in his final moments and contract his disease as a result. And I suppose that I have been lucky enough to live, perhaps, nine years longer than Mr. Keats did. I cannot make any claims to poetic finesse, nor can I attribute any particular talents to my name, outside of my fondness for horses and painting. I have been told I am an excellent photographer, but a Brodey must remain forever humble, and so I will take my skepticism with me to my grave.

I, unfortunately, believe I will be in said grave in a little under two months.

Each day I drink the draught that the family physician concocts for me in hopes that my wound will clot and my blood will flow easily. Each day I drink in hopes that my fatigue will leave me and be replaced by the youthful vitality I once exuded. All my life I have praised myself for my good health, have taken care of myself in hopes of living to see old age like my great-grandfather. Now, I fear I will not even see thirty.

In retrospect, do I even fear it? Is it Death that I fear or the lack of life? Once I am dead, will I be punished for the life I have lived, will I be praised, or will I even realize that I have ceased to live and am instead dead? I suppose that is what frightens me most--that there is nothing after death. Only emptiness.

Have I so skillfully skirted the subject, or have I painted the picture too plainly?

I am dying.

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In Toulouse. [03 Nov 2003|09:22pm]
Lying on Sterling's bed like this reminded Sartre of the times he spent with his cousin when he was little, right after his mother's death. Sterling would quietly stroke his hair and tell him stories about his years at Hogwarts and comfort him, telling him that one day, he would be big enough to take care of himself, and that he wouldn't have to go through what Sterling did just to survive. It was that way now, except he was too big for Sterling to stroke his hair now. He lay still on the mattress, holding the child Alistair in his arms, staring out the window.

He had died. He had seen what death was like, had walked down the narrow path separating the dead from the living, had toppled off of that balance beam and found himself lost in the swirling mass of human and nonhuman souls, all scrambling to steal his identity just so they could recall what it was like to be alive, even if only for a few seconds. But he was alive now, and he was with Sterling.

He was with Sterling because Teague didn't want him anymore.

Sterling slipped into the room quietly and moved to take a seat beside his cousin on the bed, holding a mug in one hand and a copy of Le Monde Magical in the other. "I've brought you some tea," he said gently. "It's bergamot."

Bergamot. Teague always drank bergamot tea. It was his favorite. He'd been so happy to learn that Alistair liked it too..

"I don't want any, thanks," he replied colorlessly. "I drank some orange juice earlier."

Silence. Sterling didn't know what to say to make things better, and so he said nothing. He just sat beside Sartre on the mattress and watched as his cousin slowly fell asleep.

Italics indicates words spoken in French. (: Sterling and Sartre are French, after all.
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