Dear Readers,
I return with yet another short. Yes, I have long since been bit by the "TrueBlood Bug." I enjoy the books, too, BTW. Eric is my favorite, and Alexander Sarsgard (excuse my misspelling) is the perfect man. Seriously. And he has the best body line I have ever seen. He is the only man who should just walk around naked. The End.
I do apologize ahead of time for another long absence. I have much to catch up with school, a lot of work, and I go in for a spinal epidural in two weeks, so I'm spread a little thin. Not to worry, I'll try to keep things going.
Anyways, this was inspired by the episode "I Will Rise Up." That beautiful and graceful scene with Eric and Sookie in her dream. I thought it was just... well, it made me realize was a beautiful, truly and completely, man he is. :D I hope you enjoy my tale of Eric's first fledgling.
Your Obediant Servant,
~O.G.
He loved her most in the beautiful, yet brief, five years before their deal came to a close. He loved her best the night it finally did.
That late afternoon, before the sun dipped silently below the horizon and he woke to spend his last evening with her, he dreamt the endless black that crowds the minds of all the undead. In that blackness, he shortly recalled the fateful night in which their deal was struck: the night they met. He couldn't remember quite every detail—not in this state of mind—like the where or how. Right now, all he knew was she was fascinated by his physical ability and will to live forever, and he was infatuated with her fragility and short years. After a little while, she begged for his dark gift, but he steadfastly refused. Their deal was this: if in five years of being with him she still wanted it, she could have it.
So tonight, he pulled himself from the earth, made his way to the quaint cabin they kept and washed the dirt from his hair and body, all before she woke.
It would be his fingertips skimming a feather-light path along her exposed neck that roused her from her own slumber. She rolled lazily to face him, her green eyes alarmingly bright as they flickered open. Her pink lips curved upward in a soft smile of greeting. A piece of her stark black hair fell across her face when she reached up to take his large hand in hers beneath the pillow.
"Tonight—" she whispered almost sadly.
"I know," he sighed, their clasped hands now grazing across his lips.
Silence.
He brushed her hair back over her shoulder, fanning it out on the pillow behind her. He left a kiss on her shoulder as he laid back, his fingers lingering where his mouth had been. As he fluttered his hand across her skin—over her shoulder, down her arm, up the deep crest of her hip—she ran her fingers through his hair. It had the texture of downy feathers.
She loved the dimensions his hair held with the white, yellow and ash colors blending perfectly. The contrast of his clear blue eyes as he tracked the path of his fingers. The feel of his immortally callused and muscled touch. The potential of his strength in the way he stroked her skin.
His hand stopped its journey at her waist, extending his reach to encircle her, rolling her body underneath him. Her palms were flat against the smooth expanse of his chest. They slid up to grip his neck gently as their bodies settled against one another. A perfect fit as her knees bent and their pale forms came together.
He bent his head, placing chase kisses along her chest and collarbone. Her back began to bow as he rocked gently against her. As the last dance they shared, he wanted this one to last forever. One hand moved down to hold her hips while the other supported his weight above her. His lips ghosted to the pulse in her smooth neck.
Her breath floated over his ear in hot bursts, keeping him attuned to her body's building energy. He couldn't do it. He didn't want to loose her now. Her fingernails began to dig their way beneath his flesh and her legs clenched him tightly.
Not yet.
He could taste her pulse and its wild beat. Red, hot life was singing to him just beneath his lips.
Not yet.
He opened his mouth to lay an open kiss on her soft flesh. No. This would not be his last taste of her warm skin.
Almost.
He swallowed her ever-deepening gasps. Cherished them as the precious gifts they were. His kiss was searing and passionate. Deft and unforgettable. It would be the kiss she would use as the basis for comparison. And none would meet it. He looked into her electric eyes once more and found the answer to his silent query. An answer that wracked him with grief.
The warmth of his blood tears graced those pale, Nordic cheeks and it was over.
Now.
Piercing the tenderest of throats, he worried her vein between his teeth as he drank. Crimson poured in waves into his waiting mouth. Reaching her climax made the whole act seemingly effortless.
Her body clenching around his in the throes of sexual desire and death both shattered any control he thought he had. He drank as she held him tightly. He drank as the natural endorphins began to wear off and screams—wordless, low-pitched screams—spilled from those beautiful lips. With those screams, his tears flowed harder, soon mingling with the blood leaking down his chin. Her blood.
Eventually, he felt her body go limp. He pulled from her once flawless neck to cradle her dying form in his strong arms. Her eyes were fluttering rapidly. Her skin bleached from a pale peach of the living to the sallow gray of the dead. He was running out of time.
Not yet.
Blood soaked the bed sheets where their bodies had lain.
Almost.
Her heartbeat slowed. One… two… three… four…
Now.
He bit his wrist, flexing his hand, creating a steady flow to drip through her slack mouth. Please… Please.
Not yet.
Almost.
Now.
Breath returned to her in ragged lungfuls. His blood burned down her throat as it coursed through her body. Changing it. Reshaping her into something different. Killing her.
He cried silently as he let her go. After a moment, he felt the mattress shift. Slowly she crawled to the corner in which he now hid. She was weak, but alive. She forced him to look at her new form.
The sick pallor he had just seen had melted into the silvery complexion he knew himself to have. He watched as she came even closer to wipe the thick tears from his face.
"Thank you," she breathed against his mouth, so close.
It was the barest of touches, her lips to his. Moreover, it held an eternity of tenderness and apology. It was her final touch. A touch that would never fade, not for four hundred years.
And here she stood. In his club. In his town. Burning a new hole in his heart.
Not yet.
Almost.
Now.