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rebnesspandorasblog and I were being all geeky and analysing IWTV a bit too far. Occitan/Langue d'Oc/Auvergnat was much more commonly spoken in the Auvergne in the 1700s than it is now. It is spoken with a very distinctive accent and it's fair to assume a character such as Lestat would speak that language with, say, his shouty father, or at least retain the distinctive pronunciation of words similar to French. Why did superdetective!Louis not pick up on it, huh? That silly drunken Creole! Wouldn't it be good for a spec? Well, probably. But hey, my writing skillz are wanting northern kitchen-sink drama lately and I couldn't work up to a proper fic about it. Here are some drabbles, though. They're light and a bit *meh*, but at least I've written something other than a shopping list for once.
Also, whilst I do so love being pretentious, I've provided translations of Occitan words used below, though the meanings don't add all that much to the drabbles, save the last one.
The old man was particularly loud in his complaints tonight. Louis listened from the parlour as he raved beseechingly at his son. ‘
Lestat, gruff as ever, spoke tersely. ‘Me fotes, papa! Bona neuch!’
Louis sighed. Guttural French, too thick and unintelligble for him to catch. Common farm boy, speaking like that to his father. Who was he, to withhold everything? Why was Louis in thrall to such an unknowable monster?
Lestat entered the room, sitting down to play with his cards. 'What is it?' he snapped crossly, catching Louis' eye.
'Nothing,' said Louis, 'absolutely nothing.'
***
Puzzle
They were in
‘What is it?’ Armand was at his side, concerned.
‘They were speaking… did you catch the dialect?’
‘Langue d’Oc,’ said Armand. He paused. ‘Lestat spoke a form of it sometimes. Auvergnat. It’s a language, not a dialect.’
‘He was from the
‘Yes, but so what?’
‘I just wonder… why was I…? The pieces of the puzzle were there all along.’
‘He’s gone,’ said Armand quietly. ‘There’s no need for puzzles, now.’
‘Yes’
‘You have me.’
‘Yes.’
***
Understanding
Louis nuzzled against Lestat, settling his head into the crook of his maker’s neck. ‘Meu estela’, he murmured.
‘Don’t you speak that dirty language to me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why should you? Are you winding me up?’
‘It’s your language.’ He looked up, ‘aren’t you glad I’m interested in it, farm boy?’
Lestat snorted. ‘We were fine feudal lords, who ate with our hands while your lot were prancing about in powdered wigs.’
‘How dreadfully rude. What’s wrong with a fork?’
‘Bourgeois pig.’
He kissed Lestat. ‘T’aimi.’
Lestat caressed him absentmindedly. He was glad that Louis could not see his smile.
******
Cal que vos diga - I must tell you
Me fotes - You're getting on my nerves
Bona nuèch - Good night
Meu estela - my star (I know, I know, but it was hard to find good terms to use.)
T'aimi - I love you
