A/N: A quick note, any speaking done in italics will represent a different language. I do not have the patience for translating and all the confusion that it entails.

Every author wants to introduce his protagonist in a completely unique way. A memorable way. A grab the audience by the throat and force them to pay attention kind of way.

Or I guess balls, I don't know. Being a vampire makes my attention go north naturally and I've lost the judgment to tell if it's actually applicable in the situation.

But that doesn't matter now anyway, I'm trying to start a tale here. My tale, to be more precise, and I have an idea of how to introduce myself; albeit it's not a delayed introduction like Raskolnikov nor is it direct like Winston Smith. It's an odd introduction that will not work on paper or online or anywhere where the written word is the main format, which basically makes me want to shoot myself in the foot. Here I am with an idea of how to introduce myself to you in a perfect manner and I can't even do it in the way that I want to.

Most writers would console me and tell me that any idea I have can be re-worked into my plot, but I'd rather keep my idea in its purest form and complain about how I can't write it.

I'll do my best right now with my idea, though, because I seriously need to continue on or else I'll just be wasting your time. It's a close up of Marlon Brando in A Street Car Named Desire in his all-time famous scene, screaming out "Stella". T-shirt torn, drunk as a skunk and on his knees, Marlon begging in the most obnoxious way for his wife to come back to him is how I want to begin my story. Describing isn't lenient to his acting chops or his voice in that single scream and I'm pretty sure I'd leave a detail out anyway. Showing my audience would be so much easier and unless I publish my books with an accompanying DVD, there is no way to actually be satisfied with whatever outcome this has.

But once again, I have lingered far too long on my transgressed writing dilemma and shall continue with why Marlon Brando screaming "STELLA" suits me like spandex.

Number 1) my name is Stella, although that's all resemblance I have towards that former Du Bois. I did not marry a lush prime-rib slice of Americana and I never had a sister. I am not blond and can't get pregnant. We only share a name, not a life (besides, I was named before her technically).
Number 2) Marlon's whole persona in that moment just embodies me. Tenacious, a bit inebriated and forever desiring forgiveness is my schtick, my tell if you will. Wanderlust-er, loud and forever sexy are a few more adjectives you could throw at me (in fact, I'm encouraging it).
and lastly Number 3) more often than not, you'll find yourself yelling my name in frustration.

Okay, so that may not be the greatest opener or the greatest way to represent myself to strangers, but it'll do and I have more to dwell on than just my introduction. But now that you've heard my great idea and understand it the way I want it to come across, I can actually begin to tell you about my life and just why I'm even writing this. If I add that I'm three short hours from death, that'll only serve to be a cheap try at keeping your attention but Hell, it's the truth and I might as well intrigue you with urgency and mystery.

I was born Stella Luanne McCarthy, no relation to the Communist obsessed Senator of course, to Debra Catherine and Stephen Carter McCarthy in 1929. The single most unfortunate year to have a baby, in my opinion, but it's not very well that a God-fearing couple like the McCarthy's could prevent my birth that December. I was turned in 1954, right after my own birthday and it seemed sort of funny that I was born into an economic downturn and died (for all intents and purposes) in an economic boom. My lack of existence barely counterattacked the sudden crib rush, but at least I did a part.

Well no, no I didn't. That last paragraph was a complete lie; convincing right? I'm a good liar, but that pretty much comes with the fangs. There was no real necessity for that life I didn't live, there was no truth to what I typed. Maybe I was working on my writing chops. Maybe I was actually trying to waste your time, no matter how much I've said I wanted to avoid that. Maybe I'm just batshit insane, who knows.

In all actuality, I was born more than a thousand years ago. A thousand and twenty two next December, if you want to get nit-picky. My name was the equivalent to Stella and I figured I might as well stay "hip". It's quite a misconception that all Vikings were blond – me, I'm a redhead through and through. Still on the recessive and light-colored end of the spectrum, I'll stand by the idea that if you see a flaming red flash of hair running down a battlefield it'd be more terrifying than the camouflaging-in-winter-only blond. Not that I ever saw a battlefield in the Nordic area, I was a woman after all and more than expected to simply carry on the Viking lineage, it was demanded of me. Which is where my idea comes in, my husband (married for roughly 6 modern-day years) wanted all of his kin to be his exact replica (a Narcissus in his own right, although he was incredibly strong so it perhaps it was a well-founded wish) and I wanted at least one of my children to have red hair. I had gotten it from my mother, a Greta (in modern English) not a Debra, and thought it perfectly acceptable for that to be my legacy even if my name wasn't.

This is where the touchy subject comes in, though, because I did end up having children (3 boys and a girl) and none of them had my hair. All blond bathing beauties and my husband did not let me live it down; one after another, once they began to grow in their own hair, he'd ask me what color I thought it was, asking me if there was a trick of the light or an odd malfunction of his eyes occurring. Their hair color is not the touchy subject, though – as you might remember, I said I couldn't get pregnant. Well I can't, not as a vampire, and the fact that I outlived all of my children as a mere human is simply devastating. Not something I like to bring up (even though it was in fact me who brought it up – an easily overlooked detail).

So to divert your attention from my fallen children, I'll just go ahead and confess that my husband was Eric Northman. We were betrothed since my birth (he's actually a scandalous 13 years older than me), my father was the King's most trusted General and much more favorable for conversation (that was bound to occur with married children) than any of the neighboring royal men. I grew up groomed to be the perfect Scandinavian wife, although Eric's influence more than reared its ugly head whenever I was taken for strolls through the woods. Ever since I was a child, he had me convinced I could go anywhere in the outdoors and he'd somehow be near enough to save me from whatever trouble I was bound to find. If I was ever lost, he'd find me before sundown and have me home before anyone even suspected I wasn't spatially oriented. I was allowed to yell and scream and speak my mind when it was just us two, which lead to a very blunt conversation when I turned 13, officially became a woman and found myself very near romantically loving the only big brother I had. Eric laughed in my face when I said we had to stop being around each other because I knew his duties as the future King of our people was to get married and continue the line and I was only impeding his role. Apparently he had begged his father to be the one to tell me of our marriage when he first found out and said I couldn't get rid of him that easily. I stuck my tongue out at him when I realized we'd be together forever as my girlish fantasy dictated.

I was 15 when we were finally married and I was 20 when our final child, Greta (named after my mother), was born. The year after her birth was probably the happiest for us; the harvest and hunts went well and his pillage of the European continent ended early in the summer, which left much time to frolicking with our oldest in the woods I always got lost in. His family was ecstatic with the amount of babes in their household, my parents were proud that I wasn't barren like some women were (a hidden curse from the Gods, most saw it) and I was happy to see that Greta had a newborn aunt she could play with (only in today's society does that fragment seem odd). Eric was truly coming into his own as a ruler, slowly taking his father's lessons to heart and everyone could see the pride that radiated from our own little clan in the main streets. It was when I was 21 that things turned sour.

That was the year the strangers came and massacred my family, save Eric. We had all been in the main room sitting by the fire and poking at our dinners, Greta in her crib off to the side and my three boys sat by the fire, trying to tell each other a ghost story they'd heard in town. Eric had me on his lap, his father at the head of the table and his mother with her child – his father was recommending Eric to take on his role faster, with a family in tow it was bound that his duties would actually be called upon. Then the strikes happened. I don't remember being thrown underneath the table and I don't remember where Eric went, but I do remember the cold dead eyes staring back at me, an equally dead baby in her arms. I remember the screams of my own boys and the lack-there-of of a precious girl, I remember the false hope that she had survived and how I lost that hope when Eric forcibly took me out from under the table and the crib was turned completely over.

We both cried for an indiscernible amount of time and then the following week he announced that he was going out on a raid, assuring me he'd return safely. He never did, although it wasn't until recently that I learned it was because he was turned much like I was.

I was 22, a full year after the incident that had all of the people that once looked at me with affection and diluted jealousy now with pity, when I was turned. My father had taken over the duties of my father-in-law, so I was still very much a princess but I felt empty. I felt terrible. I felt worse than when I found out that the stranger in the woods who had found me wandering much like my late husband was actually a mythical creature, not bound to lead me back to my rightful place even though it was sun-down. I had lost most of my family and hadn't belonged to my blood for an entire decade, I wouldn't be bound to anyone else and I had at most five more lonely years to live until that bastard found me. He wasn't anything to mention, really – a short German who ruthlessly had me trail him as he traversed throughout Europe and Russia until he was finally killed by getting caught above ground in a snowstorm that froze him until sunrise, killing him instantly. I was taught the way of a savage, not a vampire, and was stuck in Siberia for the utmost of my afterlife.

I liked Siberia, to be honest. It reminded me of home without the added baggage and there was simply no one to suspect that I was an oddity to the human race, they were all too busy being prisoners. Even as technology advanced, even throughout the Soviet rule and the Soviet fall, Siberia stayed very much the same. At least, to me it did – I never did stay in one village too long and spent most of my winters near the Arctic Circle where my only food came from animals and entertainment from books I had stolen (that the natives no doubt snuck in during the USSR days). I always ended up sick in the springtime from bad nourishment, but a human or two fixed me right as rain.

It wasn't until I accidently strayed too near China that I heard about the Great Revelation. A few nomads had been talking about how their myths had been true and that the Japanese were very clever for creating a way to reveal such creatures that had stayed hidden for so long. A week later, I found myself on a vampire friendly airplane to the US – I could hardly sleep for the 22 hour flight on technology that I had read about but never allowed myself to experience.

In the US, I could catch up on the actual culture alluded to me. I watched A Street Car Named Desire for the first time and bought true Levi blue jeans. I fed on Tru Bloods, even though they were disgusting (even for an animal feeder like myself) and didn't lock myself away during the winter. I was like a beacon to the so called fang-bangers and only tolerated them if they told me more about their world; for so long I had been on the outside looking in to the human world, even more so behind the Iron Curtain and was desperate to understand the modern workings. I never let anyone feed from me; my sire, while lacking my respect, did teach me the blood was sacred and I really had no desire to be attached to any human through the blood anyway.

I had been in the US for three years when I managed to make my way into Louisiana and found out my husband had lived (or rather existed) the entire time. I was passing through onto New Orleans and saw an ad for his bar, him smirking in a picture, much like he did when our children were confirmed blondes. He looked the same, as it was expected for one of our nature, but different to see him so clean. His hair was still long but not mangy and he was wearing a tank top, more than he ever wore in the summers we spent together. Just a mere glance at that ad and I had reverted back to my 16 year old self, preparing with her mother and soon to be mother –in-law for the ritual that would bind us for life. I was nervous and immediately felt like he could see me, even though there wasn't a possible way for him to. I briefly wondered if our binding lasted throughout our extended existence, too, before high-tailing it out of Louisiana and into Mississippi.

I was scared, yes, to see my husband after so long, but I was also a little peeved. He didn't die and yet didn't check on me once after his turning? I knew that in the moment, I would've been startled to find out how he survived but I also knew I'd be forgiving of his situation, I'd understand and tough it out with him. I'd revel in the closure more than anything, at least I had family. Maybe I was a bit jealous, too – after all I spent my life in the Tundra and he obviously had spent it amongst actual people.

It was in Mississippi that I met the oldest vampire I'd ever seen, though. Meeting him and being brought back to his mansion was almost like being kidnapped; he was loved the idea of how I'd survive so long without detection and how I still had a will to live even though I was mostly alone, without a lover or childe, for my entirety. I daren't mention my connection to Eric nor the fact that I was still living simply because nothing was offered to me in death; my family was hopefully in Valhalla but the minute I was changed I felt my own ticket being revoked. I wasn't meant to be in Heaven, so why give up the only place I knew? The only thing I had left?

With Russell, I also learned that sooner or later Eric was bound to find me. Russell had some insane idea about taking over Louisiana and Eric being as old as he was, it'd be a no brainer for him to act as some sort of mediator for the Queen (or at least according to Talbot, who had heard stories about the dashing Viking - I had to act as if I was a part of another Nordic group and I was hearing all of his descriptors secondhand). It wasn't long until he did.

Bill Compton had been staying with us for a few days, having a more captivating subject to address with Russell than my own history (which, as it turns out, was a saving grace – or a delaying grace). It had been a relatively boring night when Eric strolled in, for me at least. Whenever Russell had business, Talbot would get himself into a tizzy and I had no one to entertain me – Lorena was never any fun, her wild ways reminded me way too much of my own maker and thought cruelty towards those lower than us was the best time passers. I had been nursing a freshly squeezed glass of blood in the office/study when I heard the commotion in the hall; I was excused to pass my dinner by myself. Like Talbot, Russell's business bored me but I never got emotionally invested in it, I wasn't his lover nor anyone else's, not even bonded to a human (which interested Russell further- he imagined I'd make a very powerful politician if I wasn't so ready to apologize for any mistake or faux pas I made).

I was staring at the only thing in his house that captured my attention like no other – the crown I had only seen on one other person. On my once family. Russell thought I was attached because it was very loosely attached my people; he didn't know that it was of my people or my own father-in-law. That it should've been on my own husband who apparently was still alive and moved on from any memory of me. It taunted me most nights, reminding me of my flesh and blood that perished and of a once happy life I lived. That I could've died at one point and didn't. I never cried, it was practically impossible for me to do so anymore, but boy did I feel like doing so.

The minute I heard his voice, though, I dropped the glass onto the ground and ruined a priceless carpet that Talbot no doubt would kill me for. Even though I'd have to face him at some point, I didn't really think that it'd occur in this situation – me being held hostage in some king's house, too polite to say I have to leave and him looking for the very vampire I had spent a week with. His own progeny was in danger if he didn't procure Bill and even my dead heart stung a little with the confirmation he hadn't spent the past 1,000 years as alone as I had. I stayed in the study, knowing that the arrival of Franklin would monopolize Russell's time and prayed to whatever deity would listen to me that Eric wouldn't find me in the room across the foyer. He could probably sense another vampire, yes, but he couldn't sense it was me and I breathed a sigh of relief when it was ordered he was shown a room – Russell just looked at me and tsked that I was being a rude little Astrid for not introducing myself to our rather tasty guest, when he came into his office to deal with Franklin.

It took forever to fall asleep that day, the bleeds staining the cotton Egyptian sheets beneath me. Even when I did awake the next night, I didn't leave my room. Talbot was concerned in the way that he saw me as a precious collectable and if I was damaged, it'd be no benefit to him. I told him I was having a girl moment and trying on every dress in my closet (no easy task, let me tell you) because so far none of them seemed right for the day and he luckily left me alone. I heard Russell leave and the rustling of Talbot downstairs led me to believe he was beguiled into giving yet another tour of his historic home. Likewise, I thought I was home-free until an hour later when a knock sounded on my door.

"Stella, Dear," Talbot's voice called from the outside. "Open up, it is time for you to meet our esteemed guest."

I stared at the door, deer-in-the-headlights stared, willing myself to fly out of the wall, regardless of the harm it'd momentarily cause me. His knocks sounded once more, more urgently.

"Stella, Sweetheart, he is very anxious to meet the mysterious vampire we have hidden away – it'd be rude to keep him waiting any longer," I could tell by his inflection he was getting less patient, but it was hard to will myself to open the door and face the past I never thought I'd get back.

With one unneeded breath and a sly glance to the mirror to make sure the designer gown I had bought directly off the runway was situated on me flatteringly, I opened the door and expected the worst.

There they stood; the shorter and gay man I had been living with and the tall god of an (ex?)husband I was intentionally avoiding. Talbot looked relieved that I actually opened and looked presentable while Eric looked simply shocked to see me there.

"There's a good girl, Stella-dear," Talbot smiled gently before taking the hand not resting on the door knob into his own, patting it once. "Stella, this is Eric Northman - a sheriff in Louisiana, Eric, this is our Stella – she's from the Scandinavian region as well, almost as old as you I hear - quite a magnificent…"

Talbot trailed off as he finally looked to Eric who had not once stopped looking at me since I opened the door. Me, on the other hand, had trailed up and down his body, over to Talbot's, the wall behind them and my own fingernails before looking back at him at the sudden silence.

"Oh I'm sorry," Talbot apologized for no real reason other than to have social grace. "Do you two know each other?"

"Long ago," Eric said cryptically as he broke out of his staring contest and looking back towards Talbot with a small (and fake) smile. " It's quite an unexpected, but delightful reunion."

"You want a moment to catch up?" Talbot returned a flirtatious smile but couldn't hide the hint of jealousy in his voice. It seems that his love triangle just turned into an awkward square with yours-truly as a corner piece. Still, my throat closed off a little at the thought of having a private conversation with Eric – what could we possibly say to each other?

"Later," Eric said with a reassuring smile, eyes flicking to me once more. "It was wonderful to see you again, Stella."

"Likewise," I mumbled, having been leaning against the door ever since I got my hand back from Talbot, both of my appendages clutching at the wood. Eric gave a small bow, something I hadn't seen in too many years, while Talbot lingered behind to remind me that I had been missing too many meals and should feed soonly or else I'd get "cranky". I honestly wanted to die in that moment.

It was during the Sookie meeting with Russell that Eric cashed in his "later". Apparently the drama involving him, Bill and Lorena was all too dull to deal within the moment. How he even stole away during the tragic death sentence and Sookie's screams was beyond me (I was never really expected to participate in the random house meetings of Russell, I was the antisocial but lovable free-loader) but somehow he managed to lock himself in my room, with the armoire in front of the door to delay any interruptions.

The first thing we did, after he moved the piece of furniture, was stare at each other as if a couple of blinks would make the other disappear – although I knew that would not happen. Then, after making sure I wasn't some sort of hallucination, he took two long strides to me and crushed me to his body. I'm sure the satin fabric was getting crushed underneath his fingers and my hair was no doubt being ruined under his death grip on his head, forcing me into his chest, but for the moment it seemed as if I was still a mortal 21 and we still had our family.

"You're alive, my wife" He breathed in the language I hadn't dared speak since I left my mother-country. Eric pulled back, smothered my hair down on the side before placing a kiss upon my forehead and crushing me back into him. "You're damned for all eternity but you're alive."

"I am not damned," I muffled against him, not knowing what else to say or where to lead this conversation to, but it ended up I didn't need to. His quick acting emotions leaned towards anger as he pushed me away once more at an arm's length.

"You did not once seek me out for one-thousand years!" The roar was probably less loud than I perceived, but I had only seldom heard his yelling voice directed at me and never did I like it.

"I didn't know you were alive!" Even though I didn't like his loud tone, it didn't mean I was afraid of it. Lapsing back into our language wasn't difficult either, although I wasn't sure if I liked the accompanying familiar and homey feelings that came along with speaking it. "I spent a year as a human without knowing you still existed and yet you accuse me of some sort of disloyalty? Where is the justice in that?"

"I was uncontrollable that first year," Eric said, still away from me but less loud. If he had to breathe, it'd most likely be in a panting pattern. "I would've a danger to you."

And at that excuse, I began to laugh. Who would've thought the one thing that plagued me since I found that ad those months back was so easily explainable? I was still uncomfortable in his presence but his act since entering the room was so reminiscent of a life I had tried so hard to repress and Talbot was right, I had missed one too many meals.

"Stella?" Eric asked, once back in English. "Stella stop this, we have serious matters to discuss!"

"I can't," I wheezed between laughs. "Don't you find this hilarious? We were married, I saw you naked and bore your children and here we are 1,000 years later still having marital problems? Are we even married? I didn't know you were alive until three months ago and here we are, in some crack-pot's house at the worst reunion ever conceived!"

The whole speech took minutes to get out between my deluded laughs and Eric's lips only twitched to a smile before settling into a frown while he paced the room to be across the bed. Once I calmed down, he asked "You knew I was alive three months ago and yet you still did not seek me out?"

If I wasn't sobered before, I immediately sobered after that. He sat down on my bed and stared at me curiously, betraying nothing but that in his face. He was never this closed off but I suppose our survival instincts ensured the change. I wonder how much he had changed.

"I was scared," I admitted, shrugging my shoulders a little. I wanted desperately to sit down too, but I was unsure of how he'd receive me. "I know Talbot informed you of my life these past few centuries and it was frightening to me that if I did meet you again, I wouldn't be so…isolated." I only whispered the last part, knowing he'd still hear "that if I did meet you again, we'd be too different to stay together."

We had another patch of silence after that, me fidgeting with my cream sleeve and him not doing anything (I was unaware of where he was looking).

"Russell was the one behind the murder of our family," Eric said, whispering like me without any real emotion behind it. I was forced to look at him, who was staring at a random spot on the far side of the bed spread.

"I know," It was hard to discuss that part of time with the only person who could empathize with me.

"And you still stay here, acting like a precious lap dog?" He looked at me once more, anger slowly filling his voice.

"Aren't you the pot calling the kettle black?" I retorted. "I found out the fourth day after I stayed here, far too late to unexpectedly leave!"

I had hoped he'd understand, after all he was playing the same game I was with Russell with a façade – although mine just ensured my survival and not anyone else's.

"Your own children died at the hand of that man!" He said, ignoring what I said and actually flinching at the vase I flung at him a second after he finished his sentence.

"Don't you dare say anything about our children," It was my turn to roar in random English as I flung yet another vase at his head. I hadn't been this riled up in a century, after I found out someone was stealing from me and the authorities weren't going to do a thing about it (although this situation called for more personal investment). "You weren't there after their deaths, you left on some fucking pillage to ignore your duties, you 'died' and left me to receive the brute front of the faces filled with pity, the daily reminders I lost everything I ever loved. You weren't there after you 'died' and left me alone to wander the woods and get bitten by that bitch of a maker and you didn't have to be! You were a free man, a free vampire, free of me! You weren't there!"

I had started to sob at that point, hyperventilating with blood trickling down my face, the dramatic works. I don't remember sitting down but I did and I found myself cradled to his chest in his lap.

"I'm here now," He seemed to be repeating to me in my ear while rubbing my back. "I'm here now, for you."

I calmed down after a while, wiping my eyes like a child (which caused Eric to let out a tiny chuckle because he remembered a very similar situation of me being on his lap when I was 6, wiping my eyes after falling over a log and getting a rather nasty bruise) and it wasn't long after that that my dress found its way on the floor, as did his own clothing. We took our time getting reacquainted with bodies that we had once knew like our own, a reassurance that even throughout the ages that have passed, we still held that humanly love for each other that wouldn't be dared expressed out of the bedroom.

It was almost sunrise when we had settled down onto my bed, spooning in a lavish situation we hadn't experienced with each other yet when there was a knock at my door – Talbot wishing to give me a good day hug before tomorrow, and no doubt another reprimand for not eating. Eric pushed the armoire away while I put on a shift, blushing on the inside that Talbot would know I screwed his new favorite toy and that I had myself deeper into his paranoid love game.

Talbot, however, wasn't who greeted me on the other side of the door. It was Russell and he looked none-too-pleased. While he didn't understand our native tongue, he understood my one random spurt of English about Eric and I having children and did not appreciate my lies of not knowing him. Russell mentioned that lying to him was treason and therefore grounds for true death, even though what I had lied about had nothing to do with him ("It doesn't matter, Stella, you had the gull to lie to me once and who is to say you won't rally to courage to do it again with something more sinister?") I was still going to be punished accordingly. Russell also took time to mention to Eric that since he now owed him allegiance, saving me was not an option.

Which leads me to being in a dusty horse stall with the full on bleeds, destined to walk out into the sun at 12 sharp (thanks to his werewolf cohorts), three full hours from now. I had to huddle in the furthest corner to try to rest and even then I couldn't even convince myself to shut my eyes for fear of an early wolf sent to my door. I couldn't have expected Eric to act as my knight in shining armor, especially not after a simple night of reconciliation; I still loved him, that I was sure of, but even I couldn't have saved him in this situation. It was too bad I was dying, though, because I desperately wanted to meet his "daughter". In my delicate state, I'm even contemplating a house type situation where I'd theoretically adopt her and we'd be too 1950's Sitcom for any self-respecting vampire to stomach.

In a way, it was nice dying because it meant I could think whatever I wanted without knowing that it'd hurt too much or that it wouldn't help me continue on. I could think about how my third son liked to roll wherever he wanted rather than crawl because he had short arms; I could think about how my first kiss at 14 when Eric finally gave into showing me romantic affection, even though he was convinced I was still a child. I could think about how much I actually hated Russell Edgington and that most of the decorations Talbot put up were tacky. I could think about how much I hated my own life, for living that long just because I was afraid of the Great Beyond.

And my dear reader, I was finally coming to terms with my end in T-minus 2 minutes when the door to the stall opened and instead of a full werewolf leading me to my sunny demise, it was a rather docile on and two humans covering me in a large tarp and leading me into a fucking van, only to finally collapse from exhaustion.

Somehow, even though the bad luck drama that seemed to follow Bill Compton around like a puppy, Alcide had managed to convince the one human that I deserved to hide out in his truck while they took the other – the special Sookie – to the hospital. It wasn't until night that Alcide returned to me, saying I had to hide out at his house until the whole deal with Eric Northman and Russell Edgington ended before returning to my "lover's" arms - in the mean time, I could enjoy some True Bloods. I told him I was a thousand year old vampire who had more experience with dealing with unruly wild animals than he could ever imagine and if he ever sassed me again, I'd bite his finger off, and then accepted his offer to stay at his house (I prefer that term to "hide").

When it did blow over, when I did understand Eric's fascination with Sookie, when I finally met Pam and poked around his bar and found that he had moved most of my clothing into his own house, I didn't hate my life so much. My husband had returned to me and in a twisted way, there was a child involved (although Pam mentioned she'd never call me "mommy"). She was a damn blond, though, and that still sucked.

A/N: There was no real reason for this, I was struck with the first few paragraphs and had to continue. Somehow, I always end up failing a Godric fic too - he comes off to be the best friend type, not "boyfriend" material in my writing...

The ending is a bit rushed, I'll give you that, but I wrote this really early in the morning and wanted to keep it a one-shot rather than a full-fledged story. At least it ends on a happy note, though.