Alan Ball owns TrueBlood, not me.
Somewhere in a place some would someday call New France, others Canada, others home: 1392
This is not a land for gods. This is a place gods go to die. A being sometimes called Godric, sometimes master, and known as maker only to one, sat alone on a rocky shore. Rain beat against his bare chest, thunder and lightning worked together to try to conquer him. He would outlive the storm, gods always did.
Thor followed us here. The one Godric called child, but most called Eric, pronounced and joined his maker on the shore.
He will not survive here. He came here to die.
All was silent for a long while. The storm continued it's half-hearted battle against the two beings on the shore. Godric was thinking about gods and storms. He thought about the gods creating the storms and how he had outlived so many gods. Who was left to pay homage to Esotr, Aten, Nanni? They died with their worshipers, Godric lived on. None but his child worshiped him, that was enough.
The humans here taste different. The child next to Godric commented.
Godric leaned his head on his sometimes son, sometimes father, sometimes brother's shoulder. They taste free. Godric explained.
I wonder what will become of this land, when the other humans settle here.
Curiosity. The younger being still had it.
They will destroy it. Godric answered.
This will be a good land for us. Do you believe that, master?
Godric rose his head and stroked his child's hair. It will be, son.
I have outlived gods. Godric thought. This is the land where gods go to die.