Note: Continuing from previous post. Btw, this post is purely functioning as a self discovery post and may be dubbed as talking to oneself. But, if interested, please read on.
I'm sure most of you here has heard of Armand. Some of you know that he is a vampire, that even though my lovers change from time to time, my love for him alone remains consistent, some of you watch me write his name on my palm over and over again like a lovesick girl.
Why though? Why has his interminable reign over this ever flighty heart of mine lasted over the years? I have never told anyone the reason. And perhaps I don't know it myself until I've really thought about it. So bear with me, dear friends, as I let the truth be known, not to you but to myself and the phantom of Armand who is forever lingering near my conscious mind.
From the previous post, it is obvious that his life had been a complete wreck. At the estimated age of 9 -11, he was captured by the Turks and forced to work in a Venetian brothel as a sex slave. Then Marius came along and rescued him from the hellhole. But years later, he was separated from Marius and did not see him again until centuries later.
You see, this is how his whole life had been. Whenever he finds happiness or love or a state of peace, something bad comes along the way to destroy it all as if it had only been an illusion and throw him back once more into the cold darkness.
He was often described by others as a pubescent boy, perfect features with a crown of reddish locks, soft brown eyes and the countenance of a Botticelli angel. Even the narcissistic Lestat who believes himself to be the handsomest of them all said, "in a way he made me think of a child doll, with brilliant faintly red-brown glass eyes, a doll that had been found in the attic. I wanted to polish him with kisses, clean him up, make him even more radiant than he already was." And "his face was shining white, and perfect, the countenance of a god it seemed, a cupid out of Caravaggio, seductive yet ethereal, with auburn hair and dark brown eyes."
And it struck me that he was almost the complete opposite of Lestat. (Don't misunderstand me, I love Lestat too.) Lestat, the narcissistic vampire who loves being in the center of the attention, almost always hyped up and exuberant, and forever breaking rules just for the fun of it. Whereas Armand, who always has the aura of sadness around him, is the quiet, mysterious vampire who had such a bitter and heartbreaking past. Armand, who is always seeking new rules to obey: first with Marius as his master, then when he lost him, he joined the Satanic cult and had perfected their ancient rules.
Armand, who could never bear the thought of being alone had said, "We can't stand it, to be alone. We cannot bear it, any more than the monks of old could bear it, men who thought they had renounced all else for Christ's sake, nevertheless came together in congregations to be with one another, even as they enforced upon themselves the harsh rules of single solitary cells and unbroken silence. They couldn't bear to be alone. We are too much men and women; we are yet formed in the image of the Creater, and what can we say of Him with any certainty except that He, whoever He may be--Christ, Yahweh, Allah--He made us, did He not, because even He in His Infinite Perfection could not bear to be alone."
Perhaps I love him because he is too much an innocent child who had suffered the world and yet hid all the cuts and bruises behind a brave face. That behind the near perfect features, the magnificent crown of coppery hair, lurks a battered heart that had been sliced and hacked and had always been dripping with blood. Perhaps I want to hold him in my arms and let the frightened child in him cry his miseries away and kiss away the blood tears across those smooth, white cheeks.
And this is what I love most about him; despite the constant mental and physical torture and the misfortunes that had befallen him over the centuries, he was never overly suicidal. He did immolate himself but it wasn't out of grief. Sure, there were certain times when death seemed the better option, but doesn't that thought occur to us sometimes? And he said something which became one of the favourite quotes of mine, "It's so easy to wish for death when nothing's wrong with you. It's so easy to fall in love with death, and I've been all my life, and seen it's most faithful worshipers crumble in the end, screaming just to live, as if all the dark veils and the lilies and the smell of candles, and grandiose promises of the grave meant nothing. I knew that. But I always wished I was dead. It was a way to go on living."
