This is my first True Blood fanfic. I tried to stay as close the the show cannon as possible, but some had to change obviously. Story is written in first person, inspired by the style of the Sookie Stackhouse books. Ellie is an original character, the rest is based off of True Blood Season 2 and Godric's storyline. Hope you enjoy. :)

I don't even know where to begin. I guess, the beginning? That's where life stories usually start. But this isn't so much my life story as, well, an "important part of my life story." Or a "love story." Or a "how I almost died" story.

I'm getting ahead of myself already. My name is Ellie, short for Helen, which I never go by because it sounds like an old woman's name and I'm not an old woman. Yet. It means "light of the sun," which is sadly ironic as I'm sure you'll appreciate later. My bandmates call me Hellie, which they think is funny, because, you know... Hell. Where the vamps are from. Or are going. Or whatever.

I'm 26, which as the cliche goes means "I'm old enough to know better but too young to care." Something like that. I've lived in Dallas all of my unfortunate life. Well, it's not really been that unfortunate, just the living in Dallas part. I pretty much hate it here, but there are a few decent clubs in Deep Ellum for my band to play. The hipsters and frat boys seem to like us enough. Moderately heavy rock band fronted by a short, curvy tattooed chick with Bettie Paige black hair. Dyed of course. The mousy brown crap I was born with went as soon as I was old enough to operate a bottle of hair dye.

Music is the one thing I do love. To put it in more dramatic terms, the only thing I knew how to love before him. I grew up with it in the house and my mom taught me how to sing and play piano at a young age. I was writing songs by the time I was a teenager and had a full fledged band by 20 that has morphed over the last few years as members have come and gone. Drug additions. Creative differences. Typical shit that messes with getting a good record deal.

I think she was always disappointed I didn't use my talent in a more traditional and constructive fashion. Classical piano, lounge singing, anything that would have brought in a more steady paycheck than my current gigs. But that just wasn't where the cards lay for me. As Joan Jett said, "I love rock and roll." In more quiet times though, I do still enjoy writing and playing on the piano.

As I said, downtown Dallas still has a few good places to play and in the last 2 years, since the vamps came "out of the coffin" (I really hate that phrase) it has become much more lively. The scene had been dying for a while until everyone discovered the undead. People wanted to be out at night, curious about our new "friends." Vamp clubs popped up next to typical dive bars and they were packed every night. Dallas quickly became known as one of the most vampire friendly cities in the U.S. Hotel Carmilla is right downtown and is fully equipped to serve our new sunlight allergic citizens. It is swanky as hell and right next to a couple of the clubs we like to play.

And that's where I met him. I'll never forget it. I won't say it was something cheesy like love at first sight. It's just more like, you don't forget the first time you lay eyes on perfection. He stuck in my head from the first time I saw him and just didn't ever leave. I'm not sure if it's a vamp thing or what. Probably not, seeing as how I'd met other vamps and was always less than impressed.

We were done with what was a typical, but good, show. The crowd seemed to dig us and a few people were even singing along. We'd gotten a bit of a following in town lately and it was nice. We did our usual post-show meet, greet, ass kiss then pack up our shit routine. There had been a lot of vamps around that night and I wasn't the only one to notice. Johnny, my drummer, had become quite the little fangbanger lately. He wore the scars on his neck with pride even though I figured they'd end up getting his ass killed at some point. I think he'd even been messing around with V, which was a serious no-no. People had discovered that drinking even a little bit of vamp blood could get you rather fucked up. I told him, and anyone else who ever came near me with the crap to keep it away from me. Despite the stereotypes, not all band hooligans like myself were druggies. I hated the stuff. I don't even drink alcohol any amount to speak of. One of the few ways in which I regard myself as being on the straight and narrow. And no fangbanging for me. I just didn't see the appeal. The couple of loser druggies I'd dated in the past were dangerous enough for me. I didn't need one who also wanted to eat me for dinner.

"Best sex ever," Johnny would insist. No thanks, really. I was never into the BDS&M thing either and I'd heard the undead liked it rough. Getting beaten up is not a turn on. But that night Johnny insisted that I go with him to the Carmilla. Begged actually.

"You'll be my wingman, er wingchick, er whatever," he said. So after we finished packing up, sent the rest of the band on their separate ways for the night, Johnny and I headed to the hotel lounge so he could attempt to pick up a chick. A vamp chick. As much as I didn't want to, I really had nothing better to do and watching Johnny make an ass out of himself wasn't something I'd pass up.

We got to the hotel and Johnny sauntered up to the bar like he belonged there. He ordered us some drinks while I found a quiet table off to the side. The place was beautiful and I'd been there a few times before. Modern furniture. Everything in black, red and white. A great mix of high class and very, very low class. Across the way some vamp was feeding on a human chick. Typical tarted up blonde thing in a skimpy dress and heels. I began to wonder if I was even dressed right to be there. I was in my typical "show" attire. A white tank top, jeans and black converse. Hair down but a bit of a mess and makeup mostly sweated off. Singing, well mostly screaming, for an hour on a stage with a bunch of lights can get hot and wear you out. There's no point in trying to look all fancy. I'd rather be comfortable.

"I don't want to look like we're on a date or somethin'," Johnny said, returning to the table with our drinks.

"Then go on, go scope out a chick. I'll be here when you get shot down." I laughed at him. I'm not sure he understood the role of a wingman...wingchick. He went off to go chat up some blonde at the bar who was holding a bottle of True Blood and left me at my table, alone with my drink. I sat there for a while, just watching people go by, checking out the vamps and the desperate little fangbangers. I'm not sure I'd thought it out too clearly because being left alone for long just wasn't something that was gonna happen to a human chick in a place like this.

It wasn't very long before I was being hit on. By a vamp, no less. He was tall, dark hair and eyes, scruffy face, total slick "rhinestone cowboy" type, hat and all, with a deep southern drawl. Despite growing up in Texas, I always take pride in the fact that my accent is not that pronounced.

"Hey there little lady," he said, looking me up and down as he helped himself to a seat. "You look familiar, where do I know you from?"

"I have no idea," I replied, rolling my eyes.

"I know... I know... You're in that band. You played at the Green Room next door tonight. I saw you there. What brings you over to the Carmilla tonight?" he said with a sleazy grin.

"I'm here with a friend." I tried not to make too much eye contact. I wasn't into this dude and I didn't want him using that creepy vamp mindfuck shit I'd heard about to change my mind about it.

"Well you sing awful nice, despite that music not being to my normal liking. It sounds so angry. What are you so angry about little girl?"

He was picking up my disdain and antagonizing me about it, I could tell. You'd think beings as powerful as vampires wouldn't need to be bullies. And you'd be wrong.

"Being hit on by undead shit kickers."

Oh shit. My mouth. It had a habit of getting me in trouble. Often. You'd think I'd know better than to talk shit to someone that could literally break me in two in a second. And you'd be wrong.

He was standing over me, fangs bared, right in my face before I even knew it. Fuck. The tough girl act was out the window and I was scared out of my mind.

"Stan!" I'd heard a voice call out from behind him though I couldn't see who it was. "I think she'd like to be left alone."

The voice was cold, calm and obviously carried some weight, seeing as how the cowboy, Stan as I now knew, backed off immediately. He was pissed but he withdrew his fangs and walked away, staring holes through me as he went.

"Yes, sheriff," he said.

Then I got a sight of him. The voice, a weird accent I couldn't place. My valiant defender, as it were. If I believed in angels, I might say they sang. Or something equally as majestic.

To say he was different is an understatement. From all I'd seen, Dallas vamps were leather-bound cheeseballs or hopped up undead cowboys. But he was neither of those things. He was short, not too much taller than me, with short brown hair, big grey eyes, pouty lips and was beautiful. Fucking gorgeous. His clothes were plain. Light brown, cotton or linen stuff. Soft and definitely not cheesy black leather. A strange black tattoo peeked out from his shirt collar that I immediately noticed. I always noticed people with ink, seeing as how I have a near full sleeve and upper back piece myself.

"Thanks," I choked out sheepishly as soon as I found my voice again.

He stared at me intensely, making me uncomfortable in my own skin. I might as well have been sitting there naked or something. After a moment he broke his gaze and began to turn and walk away. I didn't want him to leave.

"Sheriff? What does that mean? Is that your name?" I asked stupidly.

He turned back to look at me with the faintest of smile. I amused him. This was good.

"It means nothing."

"Then what is your name?"

"Godric," he answered. He spoke slowly, cold and flat. Carefully considering even the easiest of answers.

"Well, then thank you Godric."