The Roman Empire, 115 A.D.

A soldier galloped near, his horse breathing heavily from the pace, and I watched from above.

In seconds his mount would pass the trunk of my tree. I leapt, knocking the soldier to the ground with the weight of my body. The fall tore the helmet from his head without my aid; it gave little sound as it rolled a small distance away from us. The animal raced onward as I pressed my knees and hands into the man's stomach and forearms and sank my fangs into his neck.

And drank, and drank, and drank.

The blood I drank was thin and hot, pulsing swiftly upward into my mouth, almost as though it wished for me to consume it. The blood that I drank was earthy and sweet, rich with the hardships and rewards of military service. And the blood that I drank was fresh and wet, and I was free to take it until it was gone completely.

I could imagine nothing more precious.

Whether that precious thing was blood or freedom was, at that moment, difficult to determine.

I also seemed unable to determine my own name. It had been there, for a fraction of a second, whispered across the furthest reach of my thoughts, but the blood I was gulping was so honeyed, so life-giving, so eager for me and I for it—surely there would be time for remembering names later? There always had been before...

But right now, there was only my hunger, and my source of nourishment. It was not sensible for my fellow, four-footed predators that stalked the forest to be concerned with anything else, and so neither should I.

Everything I saw was red. The gurgling man beneath me was red. The dirt in the woods surrounding the gurgling man was red. The insides of my own eyelids were red...

I tore open another vein, shaking away the fixation as I worried the soldier's throat with my teeth, and more blood filled my mouth.

I was so hungry...

The blood was swelling my cheeks nearly to the bulging point now before each swallow.

Perhaps I should slow my pace... try to savor the meal a little...

My stomach gurgled in response. I continued to gulp crimson.

Soon I could feel myself warming. Could feel the human's blood soaring through my veins to nourish and replenish my own blood. Could feel the strength of a properly-fed human body begin to fade.

Could feel the heartbeat of that body: whoosh-thump, whoosh-thump. Infrequently now.

That pulse was my life. Not his. Mine. Everything was either mine or not-mine. This was in the nature of what I was.

And that knowledge of possession brought back another thought belonging to two-legged predators: my name. It returned suddenly, like a gust of wind on an otherwise calm night.

Godric! Godric, Godric, Godric. I longed to whisper it to myself, as I sometimes had in my childhood, following times of stress. (My name, being my sole possession, had long been a small comfort to me.) Stress was now here again, in the form of my receding animal nature that was slowly being replaced—replaced with the knowledge of a life in which almost everything had been taken from me.

I shivered.

Gradually, a knowledge of my surroundings began to grow with the fading of my hunger. My skin prickled in a pleasant sort of way as I fancied I could feel moonlight filtering down through the bare branches of the trees to rest on the back of my tunic, like the motherly hand of a hunter-goddess who was pleased with her worshiper's choice of prey.

But I had long ago lost hope and belief in such a goddess, and in mothers.

The rustle-skitter of a lizard through what were surely last winter's fallen leaves reached my ears; the distant growl of a bear followed it. I paused for breath between one swallow and the next, a human habit I had mostly gotten rid of, and the scent of burning wood swept into my nostrils.

Burning wood...?

I tore myself from the throat of my prey with a choking gasp, eyes darting for the flame, who was both a great friend and a great enemy to me. He was like the sun: both meant either the presence of humans and their living blood, or death, or both.

All I could see were trees: towering trunks and naked limbs stretched for leagues around me, each eerily similar to the next in my panic.

No wonder I had nearly starved to death here.

Finally my eyes were drawn to a yellowish light about the size of a candle flame—which, as far as I could tell, was drawing no nearer towards me.

The tension slumped from me, and only then could I appreciate the sensation of blood dripping down my chin. I licked it, savoring the drops, before returning my attention back to my latest discovery.

My lips parted as I inhaled—an unconscious habit I had developed not long after I was turned, enjoying the sensation of air flowing over my fangs as I did—and sure enough, the smell of smoke came from the direction of the distant glow. It intertwined itself with my fangs: an aroma I could not quite taste. The faint scents of humans and pack animals were present also: the first promising further nourishment to my gnawing insides, the second promising that the first were likely to soon move on.

The roots of my fangs were throbbing. I trembled at the thought of further nourishment after I had starved for so long, at the thought of the blood rising in me until my feeding transformed into a different sort of pleasure, and my hand moved to rest between my thighs...

But giving in to that need would bring back other sources of stress, and not the stress that accompanied the release I sought.

"Godric," I whispered, and the tension that I had not realized remained in my body left me.

Abruptly I remembered the soldier beneath me—and upon looking down at him, felt my stomach drop when I saw that the remainder of his blood had pooled on the earth around us, reddening the dirt further than what I had seen before.

The blood was now no longer fit for my consumption.

Though my belly was not quite full, and though the man beneath me was almost completely unremarkable—of average height for a Roman, with brown hair and eyes (they had been open when his body stilled)—I persisted in examining the soldier whose blood now flowed through my veins.

One feature held my attention in particular: his nose had been broken. Perhaps it had happened when we hit the ground; perhaps it happened when the helmet was removed from his skull. Despite the fact that I had been a creature of the night for over one hundred and forty-two years, and had certainly seen many a broken nose in that time, I could not tear my gaze from the bloody lump that marred the man's face.

I had once been told that I was like a child, either fixating on a single object for hours or dashing from one thing to the next without pause. It had taken a while to realize the truth of this for myself, but soon after I did I learned to recognize what I was doing, and either stopped myself or continued on in my course, depending on what served my purpose at the time.

Now I stopped myself, as I had been stopping myself more and more frequently of late, with the reminder that there was no one with whom I could share my observations, my fascination—

The tiny light, so far away in the corner of my eye, nevertheless shone clearly.

Perhaps I could find the companion I sought within the realm of its glow.

I had been searching for a companion, a child, for only the past few decades. Nearly the beginning score of my life had passed completely under the control of others, but that had soon given way to precious, glorious freedom. This second period of my life had lasted—was still lasting—a long time. And in it, having never been much of a social creature myself, I often observed my prey from the shadows before going in for the kill. I had watched all manner of family and especially military groups: fathers and sons, commanding officers and infantrymen, uncles and nieces, grandmothers and grandsons... I had watched them work, laugh, play, eat, talk, smile, embrace, mate...

Was it not natural that I eventually began to long for someone with whom I could do all these things and more with? Some one to travel with and care for me despite what I had once been—what I sometimes felt I still was—and what I had once done?

Or was I, as my human life had proven time and time again, simply a fool?

Of course I was.

I traveled the ever-expanding Empire, each night thinking, Perhaps I will find a comrade here... or there—Yes, there! Each time, I raced toward the appointed spot on the horizon, my stomach twisting and the blood in my veins pounding, so certain that this time I would find the one man who was destined to walk the world with me—

Only to find that that spot was populated by uncreative, disloyal beings whose fighting skills (always I searched for a soldier!) were worth less than a coin of the lowest value. Their blood was spilled freely in my frustration and disgust.

Yes, every time it's There! I know it! and every time you fail. Perhaps it's better that way. I'd always wanted to keep you for myself—but, you knew that... But, if you insist on continuing this foolish quest of yours, might I suggest you search the sun for a companion next? Then we would always be together, and you would never be alone.

I closed my eyes tightly against he sensation of a terribly cold hand rubbing the back of my neck in a mockery of a soothing caress; a shudder rippled up my spine and air hissed inward from between my teeth at the icy gesture.

No, I would not be influenced by the memory of that awful, ever-sneering voice any longer. I would not allow it to affect me tonight! I would NOT!

The chilly sensation was suddenly gone, as though it had never existed.

The hunch in my shoulders took much longer to ease.

I had to get away from this place.

A last, prompt scan of the uniform worn by my victim revealed a leather scroll pouch tied to the waist: this man had not only been a soldier, but also a messenger. A messenger whose horse, if my previous starvation had not completely befuddled my memory and sense of direction, had been traveling towards the rising moon, and therefore away from the tiny flickering light in the distance that may or may not be accompanied by my longed-for child.

I skimmed the missive I found inside the tube: a brief reassurance to the head of a legion that an unnamed cargo—spoils from any of the numerous wars the Empire was currently engaged in, no doubt—would arrive in the Capital within a few months' time. This was, as far as I knew, an accurate assumption, for this message still had not told me where I was.

But still I felt a smile twitching at the corners of my mouth as my gaze returned to the promising glow. Still my stomach was twisting, the blood in my veins was pounding, and the exposure of my fangs to the moonlit air as my smile widened caused them to tingle pleasantly. Soldiers were soldiers: even while not in combat, even while resting and joking with one-another as they discussed how large of a reward their gift of treasure to the city might bring, I could watch them all night.

If the man beneath me had been a foot soldier, I would certainly have stolen his sandals before burying him: the nails in their soles would have provided traction, which even one of my kind could recognize as useful. As it was, this man was obviously a member of the cavalry, with no nails in his shoes lest they harm his horse while he rode, and so I elected to remain barefoot. I kicked dirt and leaves over the body and its helmet, purposefully leaving them partially exposed. Lesser, four-footed beasts who roamed in the dark as I did would locate the body and easily make my hand in its demise unrecognizable.

Then I ran.

Air pressed against my front, impeding my progress only slightly as it swept back along my face and ears and forced the skirt of my tunic back against my thighs, and impeding the rush in my blood that I received from running not at all. I dodged several beech trees, reaching out to caress one smooth trunk with my palm as I passed; the trees' branches were too far overhead to be disturbed by my speed. Though I could not fly, as I had seen one or two ancient others of my kind do, and though I had never been one to boast—for I had never had anything to boast about—I could not help but recognize that I had always been light on my feet, and knew that in these moments of swift feet the finer sounds of my passing would not be detected by human ears. I sped through a flock of sleeping quail and was gone again long before I heard the startled fowl explode from the brush and into flight with a roaring of wings.

And the candle flame grew ever closer—and ever larger, and split into four campfires within a spacious clearing.

One campfire for each tent. One fire for each group of eight or nine men clustered around them in quiet conversation; men who would be sleeping in the tents when the night went on and the watches began.

Gripping the bark with fingers and toes, I quickly climbed a beech tree chosen for its height. I sat on a thick branch, legs dangling to either side of it as I leaned slightly forward, resting my hands loosely on the limb stretching out in front of me. Though my tree was bare of leaves, like the other trees here during this wintry season, in it I was still out of the soldiers' human reaches of sight and hearing. I could safely observe the proceedings in this clearing from here until dawn, if I so desired.

Satisfied with my security, I began to search the men's uniforms for the little details that spoke of rank: vertical stripes on the tunic, metal adornments—

A quiet snorting sound reached my ears, drawing my gaze toward several clusters of horses who had been unsaddled for the night and tied to a series of beech trees stretching to the right of my own. Quickly and silently I counted them. There was one horse for each man in the company—thirty-one now, since the horse belonging to the soldier I had recently killed did not appear to have yet returned. Interspersed among the mounts were several donkeys; the saddlebags they would carry while the squadron was traveling were piled in a nearby heap on the ground. The leather bulged out in strange angles, and the postures of the spear-armed, young male slaves surrounding the pile gave off a single impression: one of tension.

Thirty-two soldiers. Thirty-two horses. I was looking for a decurio, then.

Almost immediately after this confirmation, I found him. He was in the thick of the men surrounding the fire nearest to my tree, lounging on the grass as though he believed the ground to be as comfortable as a dining couch.

In all my years, I had seen many soldiers whom I found handsome—and drained more than a few of these—and as far as the basic shapes comprising his body went this man was no different than the others. Each limb, where his arms left the confines of his tunic, and where his legs left the knee-length trousers most soldiers wore under their tunics to make riding more comfortable, was defined and muscular. His jaw was strong, clean-shaven like the jaws of all male citizens of Rome, and his eyes were a deep blue. They glittered with his smile, and their light made the stars overhead appear bleak.

I tore myself away from them to continue my perusal of the rest of his body, which along with his legs might, on a second glance, make the decurio taller than the average Roman man when he stood—much, much taller. The only other feature immediately suggesting that his family might have originated in a northern part of the Empire was his blond hair, cut short and combed forward in accordance with what was surely the current fashion.

Other than those remarkable features, he appeared to be the perfect model of a born-and-bred Roman citizen.

And of course he chewed the same as other soldiers, tearing off large hunks of bread with his teeth, and his throat bulged and flexed when he swallowed, just as other men's did when they swallowed.

When the decurio swallowed for a third time, I felt the tip of my tongue slowly cross my lower lip. My still-exposed fangs were once-again throbbing. Gradually I became aware that I was breathing with human regularity, and instinctively I suppressed a gasp when I leaned forward to get a better look at him and felt just how tender the place the branch pressed against had become.

But this man was no different than any other soldier I had previously encountered. There was nothing uniquely intriguing about him. That damnable branch was probably right to keep me in my current position.

Still, I had no words to describe how it would feel simply to stand close to the man... to breathe in his scent... to kiss the veins in his neck—and be kissed in return...

But I had felt this way about many Roman soldiers. It was a natural reaction, purely physical, the admiration of a little boy morphed into the desires of a permanently adolescent creature whose very survival depended on a complex system of lusts.

"She said she thinks she still has about four months more to go, though the letter is dated to a few months past, so she may have given birth by now. One thing she definitely knows is that this one kicks harder than I did."

The breath froze in my throat. I had spoken Latin myself and heard it in conversation throughout the Empire nearly all of my life, and yet its cadences had never sounded so beautiful as when they came from the mouth of the decurio, in answer to a question I had missed. There was the slightest hint of an accent interspersed among the syllables—from a region of the Empire close to Germania, perhaps?—but this imperfection only made his voice more... appealing.

A dark-haired man sitting to the right of the leader of the cavalry regiment laughed. "Is that shame I hear in your voice, because you have been beaten by one so much younger than you?"

A pair of pale brows lifted. "Shame? I've never heard the word. What does it mean?"

The entire group around the fire laughed. I felt a smile again tug at the corners of my mouth despite myself.

Every man in the group was leaning slightly towards their commanding officer, as though not simply in order to hear him better, but also as though they were gravitated towards his presence. I wished I could be nearer to him myself, if the position would not have possibly jeopardized my advantage over them all. To be a part of the group around that fire, to belong with and be one of those soldiers, was a childhood dream long-since murdered. To sit or lie close to him would be enough.

"So what does she think the baby's sex will be, boy or girl?" This from a fair-haired soldier on the decurio's left.

"She thinks it's a girl, because of all the kicking." More laughter. "Father's hoping for another boy, of course, but he'll love anything associated with Mother." The decurio was quiet for a moment. "I think I'd like a girl. You can only look after a boy for so long before he grows up and becomes a copy of his father. You can watch over a woman forever." He lifted a drinking horn that was passed to him to his mouth.

"Can you watch over a slave boy forever? You seemed pretty keen on pursuing such a course yesterday." The dark-haired man again.

"Absolutely." The decurio grinned over the rim of the cup—the look on his face caused something deep inside me to grow warm—before taking another sip and leaning over a close companion to pass the horn on to someone else. "But I did not fulfill my pursuit, because I am an honorable man, much to my regret. But as soon as I'm on leave..." A pale brow twitched, prompting several snickers.

A nickering sound carried from the group of horses to my ears. I looked to them and saw that their heads were raised, their ears flicking back and forth as they began to shift in place; I followed their gazes back into the darker recesses of the woods.

A group comprised of perhaps three dozen men approached through the forest. They were clearly civilians: no soldier would allow his tunic to remain so filthy, and their efforts to hide behind the trees as they advanced were pathetically ineffective. Nevertheless, the sickles they carried—were the men farmers, perhaps?—were very sharp.

A grin stretched my lips as I returned my attention to the now-alert soldiers: there would be my favorite sort of entertainment, and perhaps a second meal for me to consume, before the night was over.

The decurio rose slowly to his feet, and said quietly, "First formation." His sea-borne eyes never left the advancing enemy as his men came to stand behind and beside him. When he and his comrades unsheathed their swords, the metal rang in my ears like the song of a siren, calling me to my death on the sharp sea-rocks of battle.

This melody of warfare was one to which I was not wholly immune. I fell prey to it every time I watched soldiers engage in combat. But every time I did, I did not act on it: the only soldiers I joined in battle were the ones fighting for one last breath, just before I took it from them.

The decurio was nearly smiling now as he appeared to take note of the civilians' disorganized approach—the first of whom were beginning to emerge into the clearing—as I had. "If you thought to rob us, I'd be glad to deliver the pieces you wished to give to your wives personally."

At this, one of the foremost men rushed at the decurio, teeth gritted and arm raised, sickle gleaming in the moonlight—

And the cavalry's leader sliced the man's hand off at the wrist before switching angles and running his sword through the farmer's throat and out the back of his neck. The civilian stared, eyes bulging, wet choking sounds struggling to flee his open mouth before the decurio removed his bronze blade. Blood spurted as the body crumpled to the ground, and an ache formed in me as the smell of it filled my nostrils.

The decurio wiped the blade clean on the dead man's sleeve, and as he did so I distinctly heard him mutter, "Not one of my better insults."

Everything thereafter that I observed from my perch was seen through a haze of red.

The remaining farmhands rushed forward with a cry at the death of their comrade, and the silent soldiers met their wild hacking with firm sword-strokes and a solid stance.

This contrast was why I had always longed to fight for the Empire's military. Every man was always in control of himself: even though they fought for their country and for their lives, their patriotism and their emotions were always kept in check. Each soldier was entirely responsible for his own actions. The only reason that any one man told them what to do was to help them remain among the living. The only reason for punishment was if they disobeyed—not because they were simply in the same vicinity as the one giving orders. They stood by one-another—

And their decurio stood with them, his cloak—which would have been the color of blood even had I been seeing clearly—whipping about his knees as he turned with his blade to decapitate a farmer on his left. Several horses half-reared against their bonds as they struggled to get away from a body that had fallen nearby; their whinnying cries were like human screams. Braying donkeys began to kick out at the horses and each other in their panic. The slaves who had been guarding the saddlebags rushed to obey the decurio's order—"Get the animals out of here!"—as he sliced through the knees of his next opponent.

I had never seen anything like him.

He fought for his survival and for that of his men... and yet, even at this distance, there was something in his eyes that penetrated deep into my core.

The willingness to die with honor grappling with a great, almost selfish desire to live.

Very few humans ever wished for death when I came to them. Many a soldier had fought me to his last breath for his life even though I knew from my unseen observations that they had been taught that to meet one's end in battle was a respectable death.

But none of them had fought like this decurio against these untrained men. None of them had possessed his willpower. None of them had possessed the way he wielded his sword with an efficiency that could nearly be called graceful. None of them had possessed his fearlessness, counterbalanced with caution.

A contradiction waged war within him, just as my childish body did with my grown mind.

I decided then that I would do everything in my power to make this soldier my child.

Metal rang as the decurio's sword slipped off the curve of a sickle. He kicked his enemy in the shin and buried his blade through the man's shoulder to his chest as the farmer dropped to his knees.

Yes! I praised him silently, wishing he could somehow hear the encouragement locked inside my mind. That's it. Don't let anyone stop you.

Don't stop. Keep going. Don't stop.

Dimly I felt my thighs spread slightly on my branch as my lips drew back in a snarl of approval. I was very warm... My eyelids fluttered closed as I inhaled deeply, the scent of sweat adding to the blood, and I wondered which salty scent belonged to the decurio... My eyes opened again just in time to observe the man in question stabbing an enemy straight through the heart. In the back of my mind, I became aware that I was panting slightly—whether from a sympathetic exertion that filled me as I watched the battle or from pure sensual ecstasy, I could not say.

This, too, was in the nature of what I was.

"Eric! Behind you!"

I watched the decurio respond to the name by flipping his blade around in his hands and thrusting it backward into the chest of the man who had been about to stab him in the back. I did not care who had alerted the decurio to this new danger, because the name of the soldier whom I wanted for my own was Eric.

Eric.

Eric...

Much later, following the battle, I buried myself deep into the ground for the day and reflected on my decision to become a Maker. Was I truly capable of raising a child the way I wished to raise him...?

My dreams, when the sun rose and I slept, were in turn filled with the first time I had met the man who had made me his own.

And those were not happy dreams.

Author's Note: Because Godric, according to Pam's commentaries on the Blu-ray version of the second season of True Blood, did actually live out his human life in ancient Rome, his past is the only one that I will be writing just as if I were embellishing it to go within the show canon. The pasts of all other True Blood characters mentioned in this story and what they do with their lives will be adjusted to fit this era while hopefully remaining true to their personalities.