A/N: Just a warning that this is where my story veers into OOC territory.
ACT III
HE SEES
He hears her footsteps, forlorn and uncertain, as she moves down the same hall he had walked through just moments ago. But these are not regular moments—they contain an infinity. They drag and stretch and recoil with a dizzying unnaturalness.
And that is not the same hall that he had walked through, because it is not the same world.
So he remains where he is, bent and twisted over himself, like an ancient tree with roots that have wrapped themselves over and under, sideways and backwards, and over again—their growth so distorted now that they've become disconnected from their source. Like a dead tree, the sticky sap drying and caking where its life was ripped away, that sees it has been cut off from its foundation, but still somehow can't grasp its death.
How do you make your body believe your eyes, your heart listen to your brain?
So, he doesn't move.
Not when he hears the door push open, and not when he feels her moving closer and closer.
But when she calls his name, he can no longer run away.
He raises his head, eyes dead ahead, seeing and unseeing.
"Godric is gone," he chokes in a grief-filled far-away voice that he no longer recognizes.
"I know," she responds, buying time she doesn't have as she searches for words that don't exist.
There is nothing to say …
But she does, anyway. "I'm so sorry."
He hates her and loves her for trying to give him the impossible.
When she reaches for him, cupping his chin, he'll try a brave smile—a thank you for your effort—even as his dull, dead eyes fix on that invisible spot in the distance, just below the horizon.
So she lifts his head, seeking him, pleading to be let in as she teeters above him. Will he push or will he pull?
His eyes meet hers but instantly turn away, unable to stand the burn.
He will pray—and maybe even dare to hope—that she'll understand that it's all he can give.
He feels her warmth get nearer, and shuts his eyes against it, freezing in place so as not to disturb her trajectory.
He waits.
His body hums with the effort—at once longing for the release that she promises and dreading it, as her sweet, intoxicating scent descends into every pore of his body.
You shouldn't have come.
I needed you to come.
When her lips finally touch his skin, his eyes well up. Her kisses burn, but he will take it. They brush ever so softly—barely a whisper—first over one cheek, then the other, before pausing to bless each eyelid, almost releasing the tension and the grief there.
She presses her forehead against his, resting there for one ragged breath. When she straightens, their eyes will meet at last.
And with that final glance she lets go.
But he grabs her hand, entwining their fingers as he crushes them to his heart. Clutching at her neck, he pulls her to him, pressing into her.
She doesn't resist, resting in his grasp, melting into him as she tries to figure out what she can give him. She feels his need, his hunger, and her hand shoots out to reach for him, curling around his neck.
Their mouths seek each other out.
He raises his eyes to hers just before their lips meet, immediately looking away, unsteady and unsure.
Look in my heart.
I know you understand.
She pulls his lips into her mouth, gentle and uncertain, asking for permission, answering his desperate pleas with her own.
He falls apart.
The blood spills, hot and thick, as he clutches at her arms and falls into her. His lips close over hers with savage need as the grief tears through him. He shudders against her, sucking, probing, clinging, taking.
Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.
But the feel of her warm tears, spilling onto his own, is too much. Far too much. He twists their bodies, cradling her head as he lays her down beneath him, their lips never parting.
He finally wrenches himself away. Raising his head, he watches her watching him before baring himself and letting his fangs drop. His eyes pierce into hers as he hovers above her, arousal and pain stiffening his body.
And he waits.
She doesn't blink.
The antelope jumps into the jaws of the lion.
She drinks him in, all of him. After the moment stretches between them—too long yet still not long enough—she reaches a tentative hand to trace his lips. He leans into her touch, savoring her warmth as he invites her in.
Her breath hitches, but she swallows it, and moves her hand to his touch his fangs. He sways as her fingers barely graze the sharp tip-- it's all he can do not to push into her and pierce the skin.
He can't understand why he's not giving into his savage nature. And why he doesn't even care to understand.
Her fingers leave his mouth as quickly and as softly as they came. He traces the curve of her waist, the feel of her warm skin steadying him as he watches her arm fall to her side. Her eyes darken and her lips part just before she turns to bare her neck, offering herself.
His grip tightens as he slides his hand down to rest on her hip and he descends.
Fangs pierce skin. Blood floods tongue. Death makes room for life.
*
The tickle of warm lips grazing against your cheeks, murmuring a silent goodbye, stir you into semi-consciousness.
You listen to the soft steps shuffle away.
You drift in and out, the waves of lust and grief and eternal fatigue batting you around.
Somehow, you manage to wake up just before death claims you for the day. The bed is empty beside you, except for one soft lump. Not big enough or warm enough to weigh down your mattress or lift your heart.
No, barely a shadow.
A bitter smile spreads across your lips when you see what she has left for you: it smells of Godric's beautiful blood. And the sun.
You welcome death, like you have done for a millennium before. But this time, the misery and loneliness of truly understanding – cold and sharp and hard—fills your tomb.
To live, first you must die.
A/N: Yes, I know this one was short. But, it just seemed like it needed to be on its own. The tale is almost complete—just a little bit of an epilogue to follow.
Please review and let me know what you thought :)
A/N: Profuse, enthusiastic, overflowing, exuberant—ah, well, you get the picture—thanks to my amazing super-beta LanYap. Any mistakes remaining are my own.
Disclaimer: I do not claim any rights to the Sookie Stackhouse Series or the HBO series True Blood