It wasn't until the death of his adopted daughter Claudia, that he felt truly without purpose.
Empty, searching for the remnants of a once dysfunctional life with her and Lestat. No longer did he have a young girl to dote on and adorn with his affections, to find some solace in caring for.
But even then, she was the child who never should have been. Cursed at the wrong time, by a long decision. And he knew her existence was torturous, so he eventually let the memory of her fade as to not cling onto the past.
But the void was still there.
That was until he found you.
Young, yes, but not as young as his dear Claudia. On the cusp of 18 before your tragic immortality, not yet a fully grown woman but surely as deadly as one. Able to take care of yourself, but not in the ways of responsibility.
You were just surviving.
You had a certain striking beauty that rivaled Lestat, though you lacked his bloodlust. In Louis' eyes, you held the same reverence for life as himself - a respectful attribute that Claudia lacked.
At first, he thought you to be a rich young girl. But he soon learned that your lavish clothes and makeup were to hide your youth, stolen from those you had to feed on to survive. A cover of aristocracy, with the underbelly of street rat survival tactics.
He took pity on you. Though, skittish as a feral cat, you kept him at a distance. Scorned by the world and knowing no other of your kind, your trust towards him had to be earned slowly. But he was persistent. With gentle words and ever so often appearances, he gained your companionship. Eventually, you settled in with him and decided to seek out refuge in his gentle disposition.
Truly, all he wanted was to care for you like he had once done with Claudia. Though, as Claudia had once discovered womanly desires within the cage of her child form, Louis knew that you surely had those same thoughts. Towards him, he wasn't sure. You were hard to read, and you never let him read your thoughts or get in your head.
Slowly, you two grew closer. You silently fell in love with his somberness, his gentle voice and sullen features. The way he seemed to be lost in life, with his tethers missing and will for living jaded and hollow. But he enjoyed the times where you would seek him out. The times where you seemed affectionate, taking quiet moments to brush his hair or play piano with him.
It was the precipice of a deep, pooling love that neither of you two seemed to acknowledge; lest he have another holder of his heart become lost in the black.
He had realized that he could only ever be gentle with you, even as you played hot and cold - shutting him out ever so often and then returning with a silent apology.
The night was cold in New Orleans. The birth of a new winter danced in the air, leaving you insistent on staying indoors.
He wasn't expecting you to be awake at this hour, nor was he expecting you to gently nudge his coffin lid open and kneel down beside it, resting your arms on the edges. He awoke as if he had never truly been sleeping, sitting up as his hair fell over his pale face. Deep, peircing eyes watched you gently, as if to ask why. In the recent weeks, you had dragged your coffin beside his, so you two slept in the same room. But never once had you awoken him, or sought him out like this.
"Mon Cheri?" He asked softly, his words barely above a whisper as to not disturb the peacefulness of the night.