There is an empty ache in his mind. It pulses as he sits, staring off into space. Absently, he wonders if he looks brooding and mysterious, instead of lost, which is how he feels. He has existed for a thousand years alone and apart from humanity, the only company he kept the company that he choose to create. Picking his children over the years, keeping them by his side for decades before they finally leave.
As she has left him. Sookie is gone, and he wonders that he is still here, undead instead of ashes and dust, scattered in some alley. He's sitting in Fangtasia, surrounded by patrons eager to experience the vampire mystique. Eager to be noticed, appreciated, and devoured. He closes his eyes in an unguarded moment, overwhelmed that he is here, and alive.
In that instant, he is in a glade, surrounded by woods. There is water trickling by, icy cold even at the height of summer, chilled by its long journey down the mountains. Sookie is standing in the water, naked, her skin gleaming in the moonlight. Eric wonders why she isn't shivering, why she's so pale. He realizes then: at the last possible moment he turned her. She is alive, and his forever, for as long as they want forever to last. He looks around and recognizes the mountains and the trees; they are in Norway, and everything is just as he left it. He is home, and she is with him.
He fucks her in the cool wet grass, and her cries are loud and desperate. They come together, and they are kissing the entire time; neither of them needs to stop to breathe. She is beautiful and pale, and she shall never see the sun again. No matter; the moon worships her, like some goddess. She is Hnoss, a treasure to be cherished, and Eric shall guard her forever. She shall be his succor when everything changes, as it always does.
"Sir, um, please, could you maybe sign this?"
He opens his eyes, and a pretty young brunette smiles at him coyly. The glade is gone, and he is surrounded by people; the moonlight is replaced by electricity. She is holding out the Fangtasia calendar, opened up to his picture. He keeps his expression blank, reaching out and signing it with the large black marker she offers up in the other hand. He entertains a brief thought of taking her to the back rooms, drinking from her until she comes. But he does not; he knows that he has but to reach out and food would offer itself up, but he is not hungry.
Pam looks over at him from across the room. He has known her for centuries, but he cannot read the expression in her eyes at this moment. Holding eye contact, she walks over. Her hand falls to his shoulder and squeezes, slightly. She bends over and kisses him on the cheek. She walks away just as casually as she came.
Sam calls the club two nights later. Felicia, the latest bartender, hands Eric the phone and pretends not to notice that he has been staring off into space again. Eric wonders, absently, how it was that Felicia, out of all the Fangtasia bartenders, survived Sookie. He shall have to keep her around; he needs minions who know how to endure.
Eric's voice is smooth and collected. "Sam." Eric does not care enough to use any pleasantries. He does not feel pleasant, currently.
"Eric. Hi. I just wanted to let you know, the funeral is exactly a week from now. In honor of the fact that so many of her friends and... associates were vampires, the funeral is being held at dusk. So just show up as soon as you can, and you shouldn't miss much." Sam sounds tired. Of course, Sookie was one of his most reliable waitresses; it will be difficult to replace her, Eric is sure.
"I am not entirely sure I shall attend," Eric said after a moment. "It is a very busy time for me." Eric almost offers up some further reason, further excuse, but stops himself with a will. He has perfectly legitimate reasons not to be there, besides which, he does not need to justify himself to Sam.
"Well." Sam does not sound happy, but it is not Eric's responsibility to make Sam happy. "You know she'd want you to be there." Eric sees no need to respond to that, and the silence stretches. "Fine," Sam continues, "just let anyone you think would be interested know the details. The cemetery by the house. Dusk. Next Sunday."
Eric hangs up, and hesitates a moment before picking up the phone and calling New Orleans.
For a week, he occupies himself with running the territory. He wonders if he's really content with so small a chunk of Louisiana. Why Louisiana at all, actually. One of the northern states might suit his tastes better; longer nights, colder nights. He misses snow. He's never been to Canada, and finds himself filling out paperwork and imagining orange streetlamps illuminating snowy Quebec streets.
Towards the end of every night, Pam comes up to him and kisses him softly on the cheek, a question in her eyes. Each night he smiles, thankful for her presence. Things have always been so good between them; they have a harmonious relationship, and their bodies fit together well. But each night he shakes his head. He wants to bury himself in a body, yes, but he finds that not even Pam can be what he needs.
On Sunday his eyes snap open; he has awakened a little before dark has fully stretched across the sky. Eric sits up quickly, unsure like a rabbit that does not know which way to bolt. He revises that in his mind: he is a wolf on the prowl, uncertain where prey can be found. It sounds better, even if the first image is, he acknowledges, more accurate. Eric does not know what he wants, what he needs.
He longs to simply get up and start walking, heading north until dawn. Away from here. He thinks back to the death of his wife, and wonders if he had felt this way then. He does not know; his memories of her have faded with time, and he cannot even recall if he had loved her, if he had loved his children. He can still remember the rush of battle, the joy of killing.
In a thousand years, perhaps none of this shall matter. Eric is surprised to find that he is not comforted by this thought. He does not want to forget.
He dresses with care and deliberation, a formal suit in all black; he looks in the mirror, and knows he looks good. Handsome. Eric meets his own eyes in the silvered glass, and notes that nothing looks different. He is the same as he ever was.
Nothing has changed, he acknowledges. He moves across the darkened land, the sun invisible below the horizon, dying light streaking across the sky.
When he arrives at the graveyard, he spots the ceremony easily. This is a small town with a long history, gravestones stretching across acres, but the Stackhouses' have a centrally placed plot and it is easy to spot. They have been here a long time, and many of their bodies have been buried under the moist swampy earth. He makes his way over to a surprisingly large crowd; despite her reputation as a town oddity, Sookie had lived there her whole life, and everyone in town not involved with the Fellowship of the Sun had attended, despite the odd time. In addition, Eric observed, the entire Shreveport were pack was there. Cataliades and Diantha are standing off to one side, and Eric nods to them briefly.
Eric notices, with a clench to his jaw, that Bill is already there. He looks like shit. Bill is standing close to the coffin, as though he has a right to be there. Eric fights the urge to muscle his way through the surrounding crowd listening to the service. He has every right to be there, though, every right to be close, so he steps forward. People melt back as he advances, so he looks cool and collected instead of aggressive. Or desperate. Or bereft.
The priest drones on through the service as Eric stands there. Pam has appeared at his side as if by magic, and Eric is startled to realize that he has not been paying attention. He has let his guard down here, lost in thought. Or rather, lost in an absence of thought. He has been staring at her coffin, thinking of nothing. Eric closes his eyes and for a moment he sees her, pale in the moonlight, fangs dripping blood.
Then the priest is gone, the crowd has dispersed, and only those closest to her are left by the grave. Tomorrow dirt will be piled over the coffin, and she will vanish forever. Bill is standing there, looking at him, a bitter twist to his mouth. Their eyes meet, and Bill finds him lacking, Eric is sure. Bill says, "She died too quickly for me to get there. Otherwise, I'm not sure I could have stopped myself. You though, you could have done it at any instant. You had certainly forced enough of your blood on her to accomplish the change with only a thought."
Eric looks at him. Bill should seem pitiful in this moment, but he is, as ever, solid and strong. Eric does not know how Bill can love, and still be so easy to respect. "You know as well as I she would never have-"
"I know! Of course I know. But I..." Bill cuts off there, and Eric knows there are some things that cannot be said between rivals. Bill looks at the gravestone and shuts his eyes for an instant. He then nods goodbye to everyone gathered, and vanishes into the night. Eric suspects he has gone to her house, and will spend the rest of the night and the next day there, moping. Eric knows what he was going to say though, before Bill cut himself off, because it is the same thing that is in his heart. She would never have consented to the change. But.
He leaves the graveyard, walking as a human would, leaving everything behind. When he closes his eyes, he sees again the glade. Her legs are blue in the water, feet delicate against the stones of the creek bed. A cold wind is blowing and her hair whips in the wind, her body silhouetted against the night. Stars glitter where her skin touches sky.
When she reaches out her hand, Eric takes it eagerly, pressing it to his face, kissing the palm. She pulls him to her, and they stand in the water together, feet and calves washed by the mountain snowmelt. His skin is cold, but he is being immolated from the inside. He buries his face in her wind-tangled hair and his heart is burning, the back of his throat aches, and he wonders if he is dying. Everything is on fire, and when he opens his eyes he wishes he had just kept them shut. Red tears cover her shoulder, are seeping down over her body, marking wounds out on the surface of her flesh. She is bleeding, and he can hear her heart beat.
She puts her fingers under his chin and tilts his face up. Her eyes are wide and smiling, and she leans in and whispers, "Thank you." He wants to beg and plead and sob. To beat her and to fuck her and to make love to her until they both disintegrate into dust. He wants to tell her of the dark and bitter places in him. But the moon has already sunk below the horizon, and the sun is rising in the east.
They turn as one to look into the dawn. Blood from her wounds is spilling down her body into the mountain water, which carries it away, to a place he cannot find. The sun rises. Eric opens his eyes, and finds himself in Louisiana again, on the road that leads to her home from town. It is the same road, he realizes, that she found him on when he had been cursed, not even knowing his own name.
The forest is suddenly illuminated as a car approaches. He stares, caught in the headlights like a wild animal. It drives by without stopping. He stands for a moment. He closes his eyes, but he is still in Louisiana, and Sookie is still dead. He starts walking again; there are empty places where she used to be. Surrounded by black forest that brackets the road, he can see in his mind's eye a pyre, burning, a being of sun and moonlight lifting, racing up into the sky.