Chapter 23:
Perfect and Imperfect

x

Scandinavia, 936

He hadn't expected to see her that day, or any day. She was a figment, a fever dream lost to time, saving him with magic told of only in stories and giving him a second chance at life. A part of him wondered if he'd imagined the whole episode–the duel, the stables, the win and the wound–had the scar not knitted itself into a permanent mark beneath his ribs. He felt the rough skin beneath his fingertips, the way it bulged. It felt warmer, somehow, than the rest of his body, like he'd held it closest to the fire and raised its temperature. He forbade his wife to touch it, though she tried during their lovemaking. Even his children, their curious hands always reaching, knew to stay clear of their father's scar.

His youngest son sat on his shoulders, carefree in regards to the world around him, the rabble, the hunger, the battle they were preparing for. Eric tried to remember what it was like being that young, what it felt like, what it tasted like, to have not a single inhibition, to live solely unto himself. He couldn't. For as long as his memory served, he'd strived for something, bore something on his shoulders, provided for someone, fought and won and lost. His life felt endless, yet incredibly short. There was a finality to the day, to the season. To the siege. He knew it would be his last. It was foretold, written deep in his bones, tattooed to his skin just like the scar.

That was why, though he hadn't expected to see her that day, it made more sense than anything in his life thus far. Like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, like the north star above his head guiding him home, of course she would arrive when he needed him most. That was just the nature of things. Of course she would be there to shepherd him, her soft hands caressing his own, leading him to his destiny with a supple, welcome touch. His son squealed on his shoulders, helpless to his anxious age, his desire to run and be free. Eric reached up and grabbed his arms, swinging him down to the muddy ground beneath them. The boy's eyes–the wild blue that mirrored Eric's so precisely–swung wide, looking for trouble. Eric warned him off of it, careful to keep her in his peripheral all the while. She stood still, marking him as he marked her. Waiting for him as he waited for her.

Before he approached her, he dressed himself in confidence like tugging on a pair of worn trousers, shouldering the crown's weight with the carelessness of a God-given right. He was stronger than he was when she'd last seen him, more formidable. They were now his responsibility, these men. Their lives in his hands. Their families, their kin. And her, too. They were all in his charge and for them he would serve the role of leader, of protector, of steward of victory and prosperity. Even if he didn't see that prosperity himself. That was his burden to bear.

The commotion around them dulled to background noise, a quiet hum as he walked to her, stopping, standing so close he could smell her scent: something floral and ancient, foreign, half of this world and half beyond.

"I thought I dreamt of you," he admitted, for he already knew a fundamental truth. She was a part of him and there was nothing he could not say. All was private to her, all was secret between them. "Sookie. I am Eric."

"I know," she replied, a small, incredulous smile on her lips. Of course she knew. How could one not know the being in which they inhabit? It would be as strange as one not recognizing their own skin, their own face in a mirror. "It was no dream."

He wanted to smile, though he knew it to be inappropriate. Of course it was no dream. He had the scar on his chest to show for it.

"You look just the same as I remember. Well, less mud." In truth, she looked glorious, even then but incredibly so now, her skin milky-white, blonde hair luminescent, glinting in the sun. Her cheeks were flushed, alive, her blue eyes staring into his own with an unmatched fervor, with an awareness and an intelligence that he trusted only in his fiercest allies. It made him move closer to her, accompanied by the ache to draw her in, intending for both to meet in the middle.

She laughed then as if he had told a joke. He did not understand it but he didn't mind, as her smile transformed her face into that of a child, lighthearted and carefree.

"You look the same as well. Less blood," she replied. Of course. The last time she saw him he was nearly dead in the stable, the unstoppable wound draining him to his last breath.

"Yes, because of your…" He meant to continue, to reference her power and how she chose to save him, though he stopped in response to the firm shake of her head. There were people all around, many curious glances he had failed to notice. Wholly unlike him, the sheer ignorance of his own surroundings. Even his brothers and cousins were perusing their conversation, surely intending to report to the gossiping crowds afterward. He couldn't be bothered to care. This was the end, after all, and petty matters did not affect one's descent into the world beyond, a world to which the woman before him belonged so obviously, so wholeheartedly, it was a miracle that everyone else could not see it, too.

"I stopped the bleeding," she said firmly, acknowledging their connection without alluding to anything further. He took in the seriousness of her expression, understood the importance that he let the line of conversation drop.

"Yes, I told no one," he promised, wanting to assure her of so much. Wanting her to trust him, not just trust his words but his body, his startling affections. He wanted her to trust his heart. He swallowed, fearful of the sudden notion. She blinded him to what should be at the forefront of his mind: the upcoming conquest, the inevitable battles, the lives of his men and their families. He would need her near, but she could not lead him to folly. He would not lose focus. He would not allow it. He would root out his desire at the source.

"We leave when the moon is at its apex," he explained, gesturing with his chin to the gates. "You will come to my quarters beforehand."

Again, she laughed. Again, he did not understand the comedy. He was not to be refused. Perhaps she was uncomfortable going to his quarters? Concerned for who would see and what they would think? But Eric was not foreign to the attention of his mistresses, and those around him knew of his proclivities and did not shame him for them. It was not the Viking way, to ignore pleasure, to postpone it in regards to faith or virtue. Life was meant to be lived.

"You want me to come for you? My wife may show concern," he paused, thinking, trying to deduce her apprehension and quell it. His wife knew of his relations and preferred them to take place in their home, as did he for her relations. Wandering was not ideal, but, for Sookie, he could surely make an exception. "But I will do it," he said firmly, glad to be confident in his allowance. There was no time but the present. "I must have you."

He wanted to reach for her then, watching as her cheeks flushed with passion, her eyes bright and sure. But, in stark contrast, she was already moving away.

"I will see you when the moon reaches its apex," she said, turning on her toe, her hair a wave of blonde in the wind. He watched her depart, a restless anxiety growing within him, a foreign notion to chase and hold and keep. He did not have these troubles with women, did not feel a desire to bend their will to his own, did not see the necessity in it. Surely, he could catch up to her. He could convince her or, if that failed, he could compel her. She was powerful–of the mysterious, ethereal kind–but he was still larger than her, stronger than her.

Yet he stayed frozen, waiting as she dissolved into the crowd. With one last look over her shoulder, she was gone.

He came to a startling conclusion, standing there in the square, the energy around him building to a fever pitch. He came to it so quickly that it unnerved him. He would take what she could offer and nothing more, he would follow her but he would not force her, he would give himself to her fully in exchange for whatever she deemed to give him in return. For her grace, for her presence, for her compassion when it mattered most. He would ask for her closeness and hope that she would provide it, for that was all he could do when the gates of the afterlife opened to him, beckoning him to all that lay beyond them.

Would she be there with the cavalry? Would she stay true to her word? Would he see her in the crowd when the moon reached its apex?

He hoped so, for he knew that as he walked into battle, as he threw himself into the valley of the shadow of death, he needed her near to him.

Louisiana, 2008

Eric prepared for battle. He went through the motions. They were familiar to him, a pattern recognized over years of the same actions, the same rituals. Whether it was a small battle or a full-out war, the experience was much the same. A closing off of the mind, an unlocking of the physical, a readiness that built from his core and extended to his extremities, turning every muscle, every bone, every nerve into a weapon.

With gloved hands, he loaded the silver chains, cuffs, and bullets into a bag. Beside him, Pam and Madeline did the same, their actions choreographed with smooth efficiency, their moves as silent as the air around them. All the while, Eric kept his bond with Sookie active, kept an eye on the phone at his desk. Neither connection was promising. The phone hadn't rung since Eric made his call to Hadley two nights prior, and his already weak bond with Sookie was dissipating rapidly. Too rapidly. He could hardly feel her anymore, like Russell was actively draining Eric from her bloodstream. Eric felt that part of him lessening, dissolving, the sensation he recognized with cruel clarity.

"I can't wait any longer," Eric announced. He was barely holding on to what was left of their connection, two fingers dangling from the cliff's edge.

"Then we will go in with you," Pam replied calmly.

"You will not," Eric snapped into the air between them, long fangs a warning of violence.

"Eric," she said flatly, crossing her arms.

"I command it," he said abruptly. He had no time for arguments. He would not send Pam to her death, his only Child, his legacy. It was simply not an option. Pam's mouth gaped open; Madeline glanced between the two warily.

"Eric," Pam said again, her voice now burying a slight waver.

Eric did not answer her. He shrugged the bag of silver over his shoulder, knowing the likelihood of using any of it very low. His greatest weapons were his muscles, his instincts. Anything additional would slow him down, make him clumsy, impede his efforts. Pam and Madeline followed him to the car, a black SUV with specially-designed windows to deter light. It was well past sunset, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Eric threw himself into the driver's seat with little care, glancing at the two vampires in the side mirror. Would it be the last time he saw them? He couldn't be sure. He'd gone to battle before when the odds were stacked against him and he'd come out on top. But he'd also lost. He was not infallible.

He gritted his teeth, throwing the car into drive. He would not say goodbye. He felt a rush of emotion from Pam through their bond and let it overtake him. He held onto the feelings–family, hope, and love–until he was out on the highway. Then, he turned them off, succumbing to the numbing, blank nature of focus, to the singularity of his task ahead. He could not fail. He would not fail. Before him, the road reached toward the horizon, a straight, solid, unending thing. He drove as aggressively as he could, pushing the engine until it groaned. But, still, it felt as though he made no progress. It felt as though he was no closer to his goal. Was no closer to Sookie.

A simulation, trapped on a treadmill, going nowhere fast.

x

Sookie awoke to the sound of pouring rain. Wind rattled the glass, traversing the cavernous house in wails. She shuddered, burrowing deeper into the blankets of the bed. Ever since arriving at Russell's mansion, she'd been indescribably cold, as if not even standing in the heart of the sun would warm her. It would be sunset soon. She anticipated more of the same. A hot meal, served by an obviously-glamoured human, followed by the werewolf stationed outside her door herding her into the study. Whether that study would be empty or occupied depended on the night, but the process was always the same. Small talk followed by the needle, a puncture at the bruised crook of her elbow, the undulating feeling, like being swept up in a tide, as the blood dripped from her arm into the waiting bag below.

She had expected Eric to come for her, thought that he would be right on her heels. But he never appeared. Stubbornly, she made excuses for him in her mind. He must be trapped, he must be waiting for some particular reason. There must be an important fact she did not understand, an explanation as to her sudden abandonment, her kidnapping. Russell did not answer her questions. In fact, beyond the obligatory chatter, he hardly spoke to her at all. The charismatic, triumphant vampire she encountered on that first night outside of her house was slowly chipping away into someone more primal, someone annoyed and frustrated.

There was a knock on the door and Sookie sat up as the maid entered, crossing to the large windows and throwing open the heavy curtains. The night was bleak, thick as porridge, rain falling against the glass in a steady stream, washing the room in warbling moonlight as if they lived underwater. Sookie stood, unsteady on her feet. She was pale, withdrawn. She tried to read the human's mind, but it was futile. She was glamoured into submission, into ignorance, her mind as hazy as the view outside. Sookie resigned herself to the food placed before her: a strategic mix of proteins and carbs. Though it was cooked to perfection, it tasted of ash in her mouth. She took a few bites and set it aside, awaiting the next step in the process.

Instead of the werewolf guard, Russell thundered into the room, his expression murderous. His normally pale skin looked off, flushed, red and scabbed over in patches on both his face and arms. He hissed at her, his robe billowing off his shoulder like a cape.

"What is wrong with your blood?" he raged, slamming the door behind him. The maid scurried backwards, pressing herself against the wall as if that would hide her presence in any way.

"I don't know what you mean," Sookie replied, excruciatingly calm.

That only seemed to anger him more, his hackles rising as if he were a wild animal preparing for a fight. In a way, she supposed, he was. Her hands gripped the silken sheets beneath her, feeling their warmth grow as Russell approached her, a look of death about him. The moment before a kill.

"There," he all-but shrieked, pointing at her hands, now lighter than the bulbs that flickered above them, "You are fairy. So why does it not work?"

"I don't know what you mean," she repeated solemnly, willing her hands to relax.

"Is this a game to you? Do you intend to poison me? Trick me with a promise of the sun only to have my blood burn after but a taste of its warmth?" He was towering over her now. She could smell him, the acrid scent of death and decay. His coldness radiated outward toward her like tendrils wrapping around her wrists, her ankles.

"How many times do you want me to say it?" she cried, throwing her hands up in defeat. "Just let me go."

Russell laughed then, the abrupt transformation of his mood shocking her, his disbelief blatant.

"Millennia. Millennia is how long it has taken me to capture a fairy and now you would like me to let you go?"

"You are cruel," she snapped, lunging toward him like a leashed dog.

"Am I treating you so poorly here in your lovely bed with your gourmet food and your personal staff? You have no idea how cruel I can be," he threatened. "But we are civilized now, are we not? You can have your cake and I can eat you, too." He smirked at that, his own private joke.

Russell moved from her then, pacing back and forth, a caged beast, his hands locked behind his back. He stalked to the window, gazing out, silhouetted by the pouring rain washing around him, his figure fuming yet weak like a child throwing a futile tantrum. He took several deep breaths then turned to her once more, his face smooth as a still ocean and just as deceptively deep.

"I think my method is the problem. I need more and straight from the source." He nodded, sure of himself. Sookie could only watch as his fangs dropped, as he approached her with a slight cock to his head, one of determination and curiosity. Sookie backed up out of instinct, sliding across the bed and away from him. But it was of no use. At the first sign of resistance, he was upon her, his cold body pressing her into submission, his fangs sinking deep into her neck.

When she came to, she was bleeding and disoriented. She lay on something hard and there was an insistent, repetitive noise. A crashing, a slamming, the repeated artillery fire of bullets. It was as if she landed in the middle of a battlefield, stuck in the crossfire of competing forces, trapped in no man's land without a clear idea how she got there in the first place. She struggled to open her eyes, feeling the wet thickness of blood dripping from her neck, raising her hand to staunch the flow. The liquid seeped through her fingers, open like a tap. There was a gash there, a cut, like the slice of a crude blade, not two puncture wounds of fangs.

That was the last thing she remembered. Russell before her, the greed in his eyes, the unstoppable, untempered want. He hadn't simply bit her. He had ripped her apart. She cracked her eyes open. Russell was there, but so was Eric. They circled each other, two sides of a mirror, a feint for a feint, a lunge for a lunge. Sookie wondered if she was dreaming. They floated before her, their feet ghosting over the ground, movements invisible then still, fangs bared. Russell was saying something but she couldn't make out the words. His face was gleeful. Taunting. Whatever he said infuriated Eric, his fangs so long they extended to his lower lip, the cruel sound of a hissing growl ripping from his chest.

"Eric," she tried to call out, though the sound was no more than a whisper. She realized, then, that she was horizontal. That the world was shifted on its axis, and that Eric's eyes were cast downward to see her. That moment of hesitation, that awareness cost him. Sookie watched as Eric's body went flying, slamming into the window with a reverberating crash. Glass shattered around him as he pushed himself up, his shoulders curled in aggression, fingers splayed, stance wide. Battle stance. Sookie blinked and it was as if a different vampire were standing there, not Eric, but a smaller, lithe form prepared for the best and anticipating the worst. A vampire she dreamed of once, a dead Maker. He had a natural ease, an instinctual effectiveness, a confidence in his own abilities, his muscles and how they would respond. She blinked and it was Eric again, using that same technique, lunging toward Russell with abandon.

Russell had him down in a second, his back on the granite floor, cracks growing in the impervious stone as a direct result of the force. Sookie cringed, collapsing in on herself. Everything began to feel real, too real. Like this was actually happening. Like the rain blowing through the shattered glass window gathered in real puddles, like her blood reaching out to meet the water was real in and of itself. Sookie's hand clamped down on her neck, pressing harder. It hurt but it was necessary. Within her, she felt her own pain followed by the echo of Eric's. Felt her own rage followed by his own. It caused something to build inside her, something impossible to deny and overriding.

There was an exhilarating sound, a tremendous disturbance as another vampire flew through the open window, its body colliding with Russell's. It was two against one, Sookie realized. Russell was at a disadvantage. But Eric was no longer fighting. No, Sookie wanted to shout as Eric bolted to her, crouching before her, his forearm already outstretched, blood dripping from two puncture holes she hadn't even seen him bite. No, never turn your back on the enemy.

"Drink, Sookie," Eric ordered, a thick gash in his cheek, his hair wild. She felt his other arm beneath her, scooping her into his chest. "Drink, please. Please, please." He was very close to her then, his breath on her ear, a desperation in his voice that made her throat feel thick and full, like a hand was grasping tightly, squeezing. Sookie latched on, all the while listening to the sounds around her, knowing she was amongst it but feeling apart somehow, like watching an old movie with unsynced sound, the orchestra tangible before her but the picture so distant, so untouchable and strange. Her eyelids flickered, the taste of Eric's blood familiar on her tongue.

There was a flash of light, blinding, so bright it made no sense in the darkness of the rainy midnight. Sookie fell back to the ground, Eric's arm ripped from her mouth with surprising force. She felt his blood course through her, she felt it bring an awareness to her senses, as if waking from a deep slumber, thrust back into reality, thrown from the bow of the ship into icy cold water. She flailed, taking in the scene. Eric stood with his back to her, crouched, threatening his opponent. There was Russell, advancing, one arm hanging limp at his side. Madeline, the bartender from Fangtasia, slumped against the far wall, immobile. Hadley, her eyes locked on Sookie, standing behind an elderly man, whose face betrayed a power that was not to be ignored.

The man. He, too, was looking at Sookie with an impenetrable gaze. Though she had never seen him in her life, she had a nagging sense that she knew him and that he was important. She did not have long to dwell on the feeling, as both the man and Russell were advancing on Eric. Slow, deliberate steps of impending doom, murderous and raw.

"Stop!" Sookie cried, though it was futile. She heard, distantly, Hadley mimic her protestation. But they kept advancing, ignorant or uncaring or both. Eric withdrew a step, a small concession, backing up toward Sookie, his gaze cast strategically left and right, his hands flexing at his sides. Instead of dropping further, Sookie watched as Eric's body relaxed. He stood straight, arms limp at his sides. He was giving up. Sookie panicked, launching herself in Eric's direction. Eric turned toward her, a peaceful smile on his face, one palm out. Sookie could not reach it. He was too far. There wasn't enough time.

Both men lunged, but so did Sookie. There was a dam inside her, a wall, a permanent thing built brick by brick, towering so high it enveloped part of who she was. She felt it, she felt herself pressed up against it, felt the vampire blood inside her threatening to tear it down, to burst through and unleash everything behind in a rush, a river of power. She shrieked, feeling the heat boil up, so potent that it would explode out of her in a torrent from every part of her being. Before her, Eric dropped to his knees, the final surrender that she would not allow. His eyes widened. That was the last thing she saw: those two blue eyes, staring at her, surprised yet content, a look of impressed awe on his features. Sookie thrust her palms out, one at each enemy, a white light emanating from them both, the white of deletion, the reflection of all color into emptiness. An unwavering, cruel, killer power.

The dam overflowed and with it came the memories. They played before her eyes, a record skipping then repeating, moments in time without context knitting together into the quilt of her life. She could feel them and all the emotions that came with, the pleasure and the unbearable happiness, the hurt and the torture, the physical and the emotional emptiness. Eric's face over and over again in a thousand different settings, a thousand different times. Godric, his Maker, his cruelty and his kindness. Other vampires through the years, their homes, their travels, their separations and their reunions. All of it swirled in her mind, overlapping, a stream of consciousness in under a second, a lifetime in the blink of an eye. She gasped, taking stock once more in her surroundings.

Eric still kneeled before her, a searching gaze. Beyond him lay two bodies: one vampire and one fairy. Her grandfather. She cried out, pushing herself up on stumbling feet and running toward him, collapsing atop his chest. She felt his heartbeat, the weak pulse from deep within him, the flicker of his eyelids as he hunted for awareness but could not find it.

"Niall," she whispered, holding his limp palm to her cheek. It was already cold, powerless. She had done that. It was her. Sookie wanted to weep, wanted to break apart. But she could not. Eric was by her side, a solid presence, Hadley across from her, the tracks of tears shining on her cheeks. Sookie turned to Eric, seeing him for the first time in so long, the ache of sadness and the ache of happiness at war inside her. How could she feel so wrong and so right simultaneously? It tormented her. "Please," she whispered to Eric.

He knew what she was asking without her having to say it. He always knew. Eric nodded, dropping his fangs with a click. They pierced through the flesh of his palm easily, his nose wrinkling in response. The blood flowed. And though Eric had already given so much of himself, he gave more to the one man who wanted to kill him most of all.

He gave his blood to Niall.

Eric grunted as Niall drank, bracing himself against the stone floor, his clothing ripped and torn, his focus overriding any other emotion. Sookie tugged at their bond, a weak thing flickering inside her, only a shadow of the power it once had. Eric turned to her in response, his mouth parting slightly. He felt it, too. Niall began to wake, slowly, tremulously. Eric removed his hand, locked it against his chest to the root of their bond, its impervious source. Sookie placed her hand atop his own, communicating with her eyes what could not yet communicate with her words. That she knew him. That she remembered everyone and everything. All of it. With but a flicker of Eric's eyelashes, Sookie knew he understood.

"Sookie?" Niall's voice was gruff, searching.

"I'm here," she whispered, clutching her grandfather's limp body to her.

"How?" he asked, self-aware as always, knowing himself to be on death's door.

"Eric saved you," she explained. "He gave you his blood."

Sookie watched as Niall turned his face toward Eric, tilted it slightly in question and in gratitude.

"A life for a life," Eric said solemnly, standing and walking away from them.

Sookie pulled her cousin and her grandfather into a tight hug. They had come for her, they had tried to save her, and, because of their strength, she was able to save herself. Hadley sniffed, mumbling useless apologies into Sookie's ear. Forgiveness was no longer necessary. They had to move forward, into a perfectly imperfect future of coexistence, of family, and of love.

There was a sinking sound as Eric plunged the stake into Russell's heart. A void coalescing unto itself, the liquid heat of death. Hadley left their embrace, approaching Madeline as she lay propped up against the wall, hovering in and out of consciousness. With a shard of glass, she drew blood on her forearm, raising it to Madeline's mouth. Sookie watched, amazed, as Hadley thanked her, as Madeline grew strong once more with the fairy blood, her eyes alive and wanting. Sookie smiled, amazed at the people she cared for. Their courage and their temerity.

"Where is Pam?" Sookie asked suddenly, the room absent one important vampire.

"Eric commanded her to stay away," Madeline said, rolling her eyes. "But don't worry, she's right outside."

"Madeline," Eric snapped, dropping the stake with a clatter.

"What?" she winked coyly. "You commanded her not to come in and she didn't come in, did she? Plus, we had to help the fairies get here somehow. For supernatural beings, it sucks you guys can just, like, get shot with a gun."

Niall's laugh pierced the silence. Sookie looked at him, perplexed.

"What? She's right, isn't she?" he admitted, already stronger, pushing himself to his feet.

"Perhaps we are weak," Sookie said. "I know I am. Russell himself realized it, which is why he tried to kill me. My half-fae blood couldn't keep him in the sun for the full day."

"You are not weak. You are as powerful as a pureblood if not more," Niall replied. "We have all seen that today."

"I'm sorry," she said softly. She had unleashed her weapon, however unknowingly, upon her kin. She had nearly killed her grandfather by her own hand.

"Don't be," Niall said seriously and with great purpose. "You were protecting someone you love. I understand what it means to go to great lengths for such a thing." Niall nodded at both Sookie and Eric then, an acknowledgement paired with an agreement, a debt absconded. Mistakes borne from the best intentions are perhaps the most potent, the most dire of all. There was no one in that room foreign to the notion.

Sookie hugged her grandfather and her cousin one more time, knowing they intended to leave. And they hugged her back, knowing she intended to stay. Niall kissed the top of her head, a stranger to connection turned warm, his love and apology pouring outward in physical touch. They parted with small smiles of thanks and understanding, leaving her in the mansion that nearly killed her but ended up saving her instead.

She turned then, thankful for the trials that lead to great happiness, and returned to Eric's waiting embrace.

x

one more chapter. love u guys