bakerstreet | letters from the heart.

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letters from the heart.

Epistolary

It's all text messages and Facebook entries these days, isn't it? Maybe you're from a time or a world where letters are still being written or maybe you're just saying fuck it to your computer and your phone and to the fast paced contact methods of modern day society. Write a letter to someone you rarely see or can't for whatever reason see right now, because of distance or maybe personal issues that are more easily addressed on paper anyway. Come on, you don't need an excuse, just write that damn letter!

How to play -

1. Top-level with your character. Include prefs and the like, if you wish.
2. Others now leave a comment with a letter their character has written yours.
3. Have your character respond, then go tag around as you wish.
4. Be entertained!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[info! m/f for anything that leans toward romantic but otherwise ota for everything!]

[ info | permissions

belle époque letters are my favourite thing, but i'm willing to au her into whatever historical period fits your character, including modernizing her completely. f/f for shipping, but gen is my jam. ]

My dearest Louis,

It seems, though inadvertently I assure you, our paths have crossed once again. Or at the very least, the run parallel to each other, not so very far apart. I find myself in New Orleans once more. A favourite haunt of mine, as I'm certain you remember. And after asking some very serious questions to the rat population here, I find that you're not too terribly far away. How fortuitous.

I hope that we can see each other soon, and reconcile old differences.

Yours, always,
Lestat de Lioncourt

My oldest friend,

I remember everything, of course.

I wondered when you would find me again. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I wondered when you might finally feel the urge to seek me out. Sometimes I feel as if our paths are not paths at all, but two streams born from the same river, separate now and then but always sharing a current, and forever rushing toward the same vast and unknowable sea.

Shall I set a time and place so that we might reopen old wounds, or is that too formal for your tastes? I suspect you would prefer I imagine your eyes on the back of my neck as I hunt.

I have taken to walking Prytania Street at night. The jasmine is in season, and for better or worse, New Orleans is hardly New Orleans without you.

Eternally yours,
Louis de Pointe du Lac

My sweetest Louis,

So our dance begins again. This game of ours that we play over and over again, as though something might change this time. That is might somehow end differently. And perhaps it will. Hope springs eternal, as they say.

I had noticed the jasmine in bloom. Such a soft but heady sort of scent. I bought a bottle of perfume to spray the inside of my coffin with, to pretend I was sleeping outside underneath the blooms, but it holds no candle to the real thing.

No, I think we should find each other some night, and we'll both pretend it was by accident. One of us will invite the other over to catch up, as they say, and of course the other will accept.

Have I become so predictable in my old age? Perhaps.

Your,
Lestat

My dearest maker,

If you have become predictable — an accusation I would never dare to level at someone as contrary as you — then it is only because you have spent so long haunting my thoughts. Of course my limited imagination has never truly done you justice, but it is a comfort to have someone other than rats and drunken tourists for company. I would hate to lose my conversational edge and leave you wanting for an adversary.

I think we both enjoy this dance too much to ever let it end. Still, perhaps some night the song will change, and we can end the evening in one another's arms, surrounded by jasmine perfume. Is that also what you imagine when you dream of us together? Or do you miss us being at each other's throats?

Foolishly anticipating our inevitable reconciliation,
Louis

My dearest, Louis,

Oh we have been cruel to each other over the years, haven't we? We can hurt each other so well because we know each other so well. The kind of knowing that blurs love and hate into one emotion and leaves us both confused as to our feelings for the other, which seem to change with the wind.

I dream of both. As is part of my contrariness. I chose you for your spirit, and regret not a single time you've thrown me against a wall. Or a tree. I regret none of our arguments, circular as they became over the years. And I regret not a single night spent in your arms, sharing my coffin with you.

I will admit, in my current state of mind I long for the latter, even as I watch you from afar. Will you let me catch you some night, I wonder?

Your most affectionate hunter,
Lestat

My most genteel predator,

You are a poet indeed, my love, but I know you far too well to be moved by a list of things that you do not regret.

Still, if you chose me for my spirit, then I chose you because you bring it out in me. There are a hundred other reasons, of course — you have no need for me to tell you what a charming devil you are — but those reasons can all be sharpened down to that one fine and deadly point: you remind me what it is to feel.

I thought I could hear your heartbeat last night, but it must have been an echo of my own.

I'm not too proud to say I've missed you terribly.

Come home to me,
Louis

Dearest heart,

I do hope Os Alta in winter is to your liking, and that the servants in the Grand Palace are keeping your quarters as warm as your affections. My tour of the Second Army's regiments leave for Kribirsk tomorrow. The Squallers expect it to snow, but I've given instructions that it should be directed to Os Alta instead, as I know how much you enjoy the sight of snow on the courtyards, covering the streets, smothering the queen's gardens.

Until we meet again,

My sweet, my love, my golden, glowing light,

I have been duly informed that Os Alta is the grandest point upon any map. Its magnificence goes unchallenged, I am assured, and I ought to be flattered to be so kindly kept in such grandiloquence. I assure them in turn that it is my dear husband's own generosity that allows me to languish here among such beauty. The Dream City, it seems to be fondly known, and I hope you fall asleep each night knowing that I am living my most resplendent dream. Only your swift return could threaten to sweeten my days beyond measure.

The snow has a lovely sort of glitter to it, so long as I am separated from it by a window, but to know the queen's flowers are perishing a slow, frosty death is what holds me so beguiled by these storms you send me, my lord.

I shall pray most ardently that no horrific misfortune befalls you, and if the gods are kind, they will not keep us apart much longer. They alone know the depth of my unwavering affection for you, and I will go positively mad if I cannot have your face in my hands again, your radiant light illuminating my days.

Do not keep me waiting,

Edited (... absolutely needed to point out that this is 100% facetious lmfao in case you thought i'd lost my mind) 2021-06-06 23:33 (UTC)

[ letters during wartime y/y?? c': ]

[ She starts writing him even before he's properly deployed overseas, when he's still at Basic, still stateside even though he's no longer always at her side. As much as she wants to bemoan the fact that he's gone, the unfairness of it all, she does try to keep things light and entertaining, regaling him with all the neighborhood gossip and any of the silly little dreams that pop into her head when she lets herself have a moment where she isn't viciously focused on what's immediately in front of her so her worries don't spiral out of control.

Over the long months, the gossip starts to take up less and less of the letters, crowded out with other things, day dreams and little cartoons squeezed in between lines of her spidery script. Hopefully he doesn't think she's being foolish or boring. She doesn't want to burden him with the truth of the matter, though, that she misses him and she's afraid for him and she's not sure how she'll make enough money to keep herself well in his absence. ]Bucky,

That orange tom that lives behind our building got Mrs McGillicuddy's cat in a bit of hot water since you were away; she's finally had her kittens and Mrs McG is just about livid about it. I think she's ready to go poison him for besmirching Patches like it's not her fault she let her damn cat escape outside for a rendez-vouz with a handsome fella. I think I might try and catch him and keep him in our apartment where he'll be safe, but I'm not sure he'll let me. The kittens are darn cute, though. I might see if your Ma will let me give one to Becca for Christmas. I don't have much else to give.

Do you remember that record Jerry loaned you last year? You played it every second of the day you were home, it just about drove me bonkers. I swear I can still hear it sometimes when I'm not paying attention, like the Victrola wound itself just to annoy me. When you get back we'll go see Miss Holiday in person. Maybe she'll have a new record we can get our hands on so "Body and Soul" will stop getting stuck in my ear.

When you get a chance, write to your ma already. She asks me regularly if I've heard from you, like she's worried you'll forget about her now that you're a big-shot Sergeant who can't come round for Sunday night roasts any more.

Take care of yourself.

Yours,
SGR