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The reverend's a motherfucker, Eric thinks, and deserves to have his fucking spinal cord ripped out through his throat. He's tied up tightly at the moment, the hot sting of silver biting through his wrists and neck. His reflexes as a vampire are vastly more advanced than that of a human and he thinks a lot faster, too – but the problem is that his body is literally, physically incapable of lightning-like movements and so he's trapped in an iron cage with a supercomputer for a brain. And it's fucking frustrating.

He looks left and right and sees with his vampire eyes the first rays of dawn breaking through the tall legs of the thick trees of the forest outside the vast church perched on top of a hill in this godforsaken town of Bon Temps. Eric curses under his breath and reminds himself to not go rushing to Bill's aid next time that idiot has a Sookie Stackhouse-related panic attack.

But it's Sookie, he tells himself, so I have to—

But his mind falls quiet as he remembers that Sookie's the reason he's tied up in the middle of the forest with no help in sight and the sun rising more quickly than he's comfortable with. He can't help but not blame her, because it's Sookie, after all: Sookie with the golden blood, Sookie whose blood is forbidden.

But someone else comes to mind immediately and Eric's heart palpitates in resonating sadness. He clenches his teeth and with all of his strength tries to knock the silver aside, but it's cutting through his veins and he can feel the blood pour out of him.

And the sun's still rising.

He's going to die, he knows it, and there's nothing he can do about it. He opens his mouth to scream for someone, for anyone, for someone to… to please come and help me, but that would mean he's able to open his mouth and scream more than a few decibels. As soon as he parts his lips to intake oxygen, his throat closes up and the silver burns like the hot sun on his throat and he can't even manage a weak Bill…

The sun's rays slip through the trees and there's a sudden, great slice of light tearing at his exposed neck. The pain is phenomenal: He feels like he's on fire, covered in gasoline and thrown into a bonfire. The silver on his neck is heating, bites even deeper, and now there's a thick gush of blood running down his throat, and the sun's still rising with nobody in sight.

This is it. One thousand years, and death would come for him in the form of his once-beloved sun. He'd been born in it, hadn't he? It seems complete to go out in the same way, so he doesn't half mind – but that still doesn't mean he wanted to die.

He needs someone. He needs him badly.

When a fat square of light crashes onto his face, his mind goes reeling and instantly he starts screaming out in his thoughts. It isn't something he'd planned to do, but rather an emergency reflex; and to any mind-reader nearby looking in on a vampire's thoughts, it sounds like a blood-curling, soul-destroying scream for help.

But nobody comes, and there Eric lies, shackled up in cheap jewellery with mounds of earth piled up around him teasingly and his skin cracking like the shell on top of a crème brûlée. I'm dead, he thinks, dead because of Steve fucking Newlin and Bill fucking Compton.

Another ray of light cuts through his shoulder like a white-hot knife and he can feel it cutting him in two, he swears. But he knows it's useless now, knows nobody's coming for him, so it's best that he just lie there and let the pain take him. He's done this to other vampires in the past; they only screamed for a little bit, so it mustn't be that bad. He can cope, he thinks, and when he can't cope any longer he'll die.

He starts to lose consciousness and the edges of the world become blurry. His vampire nose can't smell anything past the burning of his flesh, and his eyes have lolled shut; all he can hear are the desperate screams of mercy ricocheting around inside his own head, and any feeling and taste he has left in his body have been overrun by the cruel kiss of the sun which tastes like old, stolen life to him.

Perhaps it's his own. Perhaps the sun has come to kill him in revenge.

But suddenly there's a great weightlessness about him, a soft featherless quality that envelops his body. The sun's still biting at his skin, but the silver falls away from his neck and wrists and leaves only the sensation of being burnt alive, which isn't as bad without the jewellery there to add insult to injury. He still can't smell anything apart from his own sizzling skin, but then there's the passing scent of something old and safe.

What happens after that is a blur, but he remembers the welcoming darkness enveloping him again, even though there's blood pouring from his wrists and neck, and now he's got a bad case of the bleeds. His eyes are wide open but he can't see anything; it's unusual for him, uncomfortable. And he can't smell anything but his own skin and the scent of earth and age. His nose is usually the second best weapon in his arsenal and because it's not working, Eric's uptight.

He sends out a pulse of thought to the thing that's in this dark place with him, but it takes so much effort he barely scrapes out the first syllable before he falls back down, exhausted. He's empty, he realises, and hungry and he doesn't know if there's anything to eat for miles.

As soon as he thinks about it, there's a sudden warm pressure against his mouth. It's flesh, body temperature to him, which means one thing: It's a vampire. There's a vampire in this dark place and he or she has a wrist to his mouth patiently, nudging gently. Eric hesitates for a long moment, but then a firm, caressing hand hoists up the back of his head gently and the pressure against his mouth increases.

He can smell something in there. Something vital, something which arouses him.

Blood.

His mind sets off on a run and instantly his teeth are crashing through his parted lips and into the warm skin of his rescuer. The blood's warm and delicious, even if its taste is slightly out of place and resembles an alcohol cocktail; Eric keeps sucking, hands grasping a strong arm and pushing the… the wrist closer towards his mouth, sucking from it like it's the blood of Christ himself.

The blood more than replaces his own, but Eric doesn't mind because it's making his body feel fantastic, feel dipped in its usual coldness and not that frightening heat of the sun. It surges through his veins like electricity and alights every fibre of his being into a single point of physical perfection. He's hyper alert now, but that tender hand threaded into his hair, holding him up like a baby goes by unnoticed. He's not sure why, but it feels like second nature.

Then there's a soft prying away of the wrist, and Eric's sharp blue eyes snap open. His pupils dilate and he can feel, smell, sense everything in this tiny little crypt at once and instantly he's up against the far wall, hissing through his fangs at his saviour.

But when Eric sees his face, everything stops and there's a moment where time forgets what it is. He's too perfect for time.

Eric rushes forward instantly, towering over him lovingly, thankfully, almost servant-like in manner, holding his hands in his own and bowing his head to the young boy of fifteen whom's stood with a bloody wrist before him.

"Godric."

Godric's young face breaks out into a loving, thankful smile but his eyes are tired. You'd look at him and not think him a day over fifteen but the reflection in those time-worn eyes tell you a different story all together. But Eric doesn't see that; he only sees the soft fluttering of eyelashes and the drained colour of the youngster's face and instantly his stomach drops.

"You're injured. Take mine—yours." His wounds have completely healed by now and he's feeling much better, much like the Viking he was before this fucking catastrophe. His thoughts, however, are now reeling in a completely different direction: He's not scared for himself anymore but scared for the boy king who looks as pale as a ghost.

Godric shakes his head, clamping his wrist. Eric sees him trying to stem the steady flow because it won't close up. He's low on blood and needs something in his system desperately or he'll starve. Eric urges him again and is surprised—and appalled—that he can bat Godric's barring arm away from his mouth without trouble. His heart sinks and despite his physical superiority he feels utterly weak.

"Godric, please."

"Eric," he rasps sternly through hard, cracked lips. His thick, boyish accent makes him sound like an angry cat. "I do not wish to drink my own blood. I gave it to you to give you life and now I give it to you to keep you by me. My child is my gravest concern, not myself. I will feed tonight and heal."

Eric makes a sound of dejection and drops his arms by his side. He knows very well he could force his wrist on Godric but it isn't something he would do. Instead he eyes him half-hatefully and looks around. The crypt they're in is black as night but his vampire eyes catch onto stray bits of light lighting things up to him and he sees a colony of spider webs draped all over the walls: Tangled inside them are the corpses of flies but spiders are nowhere to be seen.

It isn't the first time he's terrified Mother Nature. Or maybe it's just Godric, the boy that the earth spat back out.

There's a coffin in the middle of the place, which is comfortable in size; the coffin itself is quite large and made of stone and stands about four feet above the ground. The front of it is engraved with old writing, something about a rich somebody or other, but Eric has no time for death tonight. He shoves the lid off with alarming ease and peers inside. There's a skeleton there and a horrible musky smell but he's had worse; he pulls the bones out and throws them in the corner, then cleans the bottom of the pit of some old rags.

He turns to see Godric peering at him disapprovingly but they both have the bleeds now and need to sleep desperately. Stepping back from the coffin, he waves his hand for Godric to climb inside but his maker hesitates.

"It isn't safe for you outside, Eric. Midday is a few hours away and there could be sun through those old cracks. There is room enough for both of us if only you allow me to rest."

Eric studies the old crumbling stone of the crypt and wagers that he could be right. He puts the lid slab back on half way and then climbs into it. It's nice and cool and very comfortable against his hard skin. Godric clambers in after him, letting Eric reach up and secure the lid tightly. Everything goes black and it's just the comfortable coldness and the feel of Godric nestling chest to chest. He fidgets for a little bit but finds peace and sleep when he hooks his arms around under Eric's back so it's like Eric's being held too. Eric murmurs sleepily against Godric's nose which is pressed against his neck and then he's out like a light too.

-x-

Eric's awake before Godric is and learns that Godric still moves in his sleep because his hand is planted flat on Eric's stomach, his shirt riding up. There's a sentiment of love in that action which fills Eric to the brim with bubbling happiness so when Godric comes around slowly he's grinning lazily.

"Hullo," he says sleepily, "do you know the time?"

Eric peers down at him with something like adoration in his smile but shakes his head. It's after dark but they both know that; but then again the time doesn't really matter because Eric remembers the events of last night and he goes as stiff as rock. Godric croons and puts a dainty hand on his collar, but Eric's face has already set hard in determination. He reaches up and has Godric climb out. When Eric's on his feet he can see by what little light there is that his maker has dark circles under his eyes, more than the usual bruising of a night life.

Eric wonders darkly if this new Godric he's come to see will change his mind. Eric can understand that time changes people, but it's different when it concerns Godric, because Godric isn't just 'people': Godric is the blood in his veins. He wants the same boy who made him immortal all those years ago; but instead he looks into the face of a boy-man and anger bubbles in a dark pit some twenty thousand leagues in his stomach. He curses time for everything it has done to his maker because he doesn't want his father to indulge in newfound morality.

The boy eyes him dangerously. The dark of his irises shines dangerously like the flash of light on the edge of a knife. He can feel the revulsion inside his son and stares him down when he stands over him imposingly, a hand gripped tight around his upper arm.

"You will feed on human blood tonight," says Eric with a growl. "And I will help you heal."

Godric's nostrils flare as he sneers. There's a slice of his old self in this small compact space with Eric, or maybe it's the hunger and the survival instinct kicking in as his blood pumps thinly through his veins. His lip curls as he matches Eric's lion-like glare and soon they're inches away from each other.

"I require very little blood these days, Eric. The blood of animals will sustain me."

There's a rusty snarl as Eric's fangs snap out. Anger scrunches up his face and his tongue lies low on the palette of his mouth as he hisses. It's very obvious that he doesn't like this version of Godric: And Godric himself sees it too, but he won't revert back to his old habits. Instead his features go smooth and he regards Eric calmly.

"As your maker—"

But Eric's hand is over his mouth before he can usher the rest out. His feline strength pushes the weakened Godric back down against the crooked lid of the tomb so he's forced to sit, almost leaning backwards over it to support himself. The burning in his throat isn't just fanned by his hunger and his desire for Godric's survival; it's an amalgamation of keeping him safe and keeping him in his place as the son that he never had.

"You will drink human blood if I have to force it down your neck. You are weak, Godric, and it is regretful but do not give me reason to use the strength that you fed into my mouth to keep you safe. I will hunt you down and burn in the sun before I let you die." Eric is panting when he finishes. The anger that has been raging in his voice tapers off to a choked almost-cry. He closes his eyes as he inhales deeply and the blood that has built up teeters over the edge and trails over his cheeks.

Godric's small hand touches his tenderly. The contact is so soft that it takes Eric by surprise and he casts his eyes down to see him curl his little fingers into Eric's large palm. With a gentle tug he pulls it down and there in a slice of obscured moonlight Godric's lips are curved upwards in his boyish smile that holds more love for Eric than a mother holds for her child. He raises himself but Eric doesn't move backwards so they're an inch apart now, but Godric makes contact by licking with such loving tenderness the blood on Eric's cheeks.

"Don't be sad, my child," he murmurs, "I'm not leaving you."

There's a thousand years of love for Eric in those simple words; it's a love so fundamental and simple that they don't need to speak in their old tongues. Godric's thick English conveys the compassionate ease of their affection for him perfectly enough but for Godric himself it's a different story. He doesn't think there's ever been a language which has the emotional and moral capacity to encompass the importance of this one human being to him.

Because that's what Eric is to Godric: He's human because Eric has never been anything that Godric has learned of vampires. Godric, the boy that death didn't want, created a companion to join him in his bloodletting – but in Eric there's a spark, a fire, a soul that carries Godric through the dark. It isn't two thousand years of boyhood that has changed Godric but the life and love of Eric, his son, his friend, his father and his lover.

Even after forty years of separation, the feeling hasn't changed.

Godric sighs contently, savouring the blood on his tongue. Happiness illuminates his face, spreading his features into human laughter. Eric's utterly confused but the sound of Godric's satisfaction brings peace to his heart. He pulls back to look at his father's lovely face and wonders where he's been for all these years. Buried underground in some dark corner of Sweden, probably.

"Are you hungry, Eric?" It's a selfless tone, more like concern. Eric hesitates then nods, figuring that if he's hungry then Godric won't pass up accompanying him, if only with intentions to observe. His hand is taken by Godric and Godric points to the door of the crypt. Eric slips by it with Godric following suit.

The graveyard they step into is something out of a classics book. It's large, dark and filled with chills. The church looms like a large tombstone behind them, throwing tens of graves into shadow, and far out there are lines of gnarled trees. The moon hangs, fat in the sky with clouds drifting over and making ghostly shapes all over the deathbeds. This is a place for the deceased.

There's something slightly freeing about being a vampire in the dead of night, even with all the potential brethren surrounding them. Both of them look up at the moon, soaking in her light like it were the sun and cracking their necks. Eric's much taller than Godric and his shadow eclipses his—

There's a noise somewhere to the right. Both of them twist and peer into the shadows to see the glint of gold among piles of earth. Eric starts forward but Godric holds out an arm and shakes his head with a finger to his lips. He makes a signal for Eric to watch as a man with a cap on begins pulling things out of a freshly-made coffin and sticking them into a rucksack. Eric stills his muscles, raring to go, gritting his teeth at Godric's insistence, but then Godric lets him go.

Eric's tackling the man to the floor before he can draw his next breath. Godric's ancient regal blood is working wonders in his veins because the man, though bulky, has no effect on Eric's lion-esque body as he jabs him in the side with his elbow. He lets out a panicked yell and then he's on the floor with his neck twisted. Eric crouches over him, breathing heavily, and he turns around and Godric sees white hot desire.

Eric shifts to the side as Godric joins him. He's still very lethargic from last night and it seems the prospect of building his strength has given him the incentive Eric intended. The blond watches with glossy eyes as Godric's pearly fangs come down through his gums and press ever so slightly over his lip, and Godric himself notices the fascination of his child. Eric's teeth are still on show, but it seems he's forgotten his own because he holds his hand out curiously like a child does or like an antiques dealer does when touching something of priceless value.

His fingers press lightly against Godric's fangs. To Eric, though his are reminiscent, they're truly curious things. Smaller than his own and much more fitting of his mouth, and nearly always white. The last time Eric touched them was when he woke for the first time to his new life to the sight of Godric smiling down at him lovingly. He didn't fully comprehend it back then but Godric had been touching Eric's teeth as well as if to say, "Look at you, and all the pale world around you." One thousand years later and Eric thinks he gets it, with Godric at least. It isn't the teeth themselves that are important but it's the message they carry.

The teeth are like a crown and Godric, all those hundreds of years ago, found the son he had hoped to have for all his life. Some say it's a pity he only found it when he was dead but Godric doesn't think it's as simple as that. He thinks, not in words, that Eric is the son destined for him. He doesn't believe in God but if fate's a fine thing then he might say that Eric was the human life inside him waiting to die and be reignited with the passion of a sun they'll never see.

Then Godric smiles and plunges his teeth into the dead man's neck.