Silent Night 2/?
TITLE: Silent Night
Author: CatLexi
Fandom: True Blood
Characters: Eric/Godric
Rating: T
Length: ~1168
Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me. All rights belong to Alan Ball and Charlaine Harris respectively.
Desperation caused him to go mad. Desperation allowed Eric to hide himself away in the wreckage of the cottage for the next several days without hardly stirring. It convinced the old vampire that he would never be independent; could not be. That helpless feeling swallowed him whole and trapped him in the belly of dementia. Before he knew it, Eric had let desperation slip easily past his threshold as it came to claim his entire existence.
He struggled against the tangle of fabric that held him to the dirty mattress, throwing it off of him quickly before bolting upright. A quick glance out of the dingy window told Eric that it was well past the middle of the night; he had greatly overslept. At least he had managed to sleep at all. His dreams were plagued by the face he knew the best and feared the most, and yet Eric yearned for its haunting presence. If he could not see Godric in his waking hours, then he would gladly accept the image of the ancient vampire that defined the time he spent sleeping. In Eric’s dreams, Godric did not appear as he had the last time Eric had seen him in person. It was a relief after all, because the Godric Eric had last seen had bore the signs of disappointment and wrath; all directed specifically at Eric. This time, the fault was all Eric’s own. He had disobeyed Godric severely, and despite their unbreakable bond, Eric had begun to believe that he would never be granted Godric’s forgiveness.
Perhaps he did not deserve it. To Eric, Godric was everything he had thus far failed to achieve, and he did not deserve the powerful vampire’s sympathy. Perhaps Godric had come to realize that Eric was not worth the trouble; he never had been.
Rising on weak limbs, Eric crossed over to the impossibly tiny window and swiped at the glass with his sleeve. The frost cleared, and icy blue eyes gazed out at the pure white landscape that surrounded his self-appointed prison. He felt as if he were stranded on an island. From his vantage point, the vampire could barely make out the peak of the village; most if it was shadowed in darkness. The winter seemed to make everything much darker, but Eric preferred cold, snowy weather. It reminded him of the comforts of a home long-lost to history. As the glass began to cloud again, Eric peeled his eyes away from the scene and turned on his heel. He had done more than an impressive job of ruining their temporary home, but before now the mess had not bothered the Viking vampire.
Standing amidst the wreckage with a simple sheet wrapped around his shoulders, Eric surveyed his own damage, cringing slightly at the memory of its creation. Godric would have been furious had he been there to witness Eric’s epic tantrum. Not only had the childe proved himself to be wholly disobedient and disrespectful, but now he had also fell so low as to be labeled petulant.
Leaning down, Eric picked up a shard of wood and examined it. The remnant of a table that once was the setting for many of his and Godric’s long talks. Or rather, Godric correcting Eric as he regaled some ridiculous tale of a past shared experience. While Eric’s memory was frequently faulty with exaggeration and dramatics, Godric had a sharper mind than anyone he had ever known. There was nothing Eric could lie about or even twist slightly without Godric knowing all the better. Sometimes the older vampire would oblige Eric by allowing him to entertain them with a memory that had been completely fabricated. Usually these fables revolved around Godric; something or someone Godric had said, promised, acted on, killed, fucked, wronged...
Remember the time you fell out of the tallest tree and landed on your own two feet, as easily as if you had planned it?
That never happened, Eric
But the time you seduced the King’s bride-to-be. That most certainly happened, I was there.
No, Eric...
At least his maker would offer a small grin as he listened patiently to Eric’s falsehoods. It had become a game they would play; Eric would spin a tale for as long as he could, each one more ridiculous than the last, while Godric would express a range of annoyance to pure humor as he became the subject of these untruthful times in history. Neither man had ever tired of the game, and often times some of their best memories had been punctuated by those that were never reality.
This was Eric’s reality now, and he was destined to carry it out so long as he accepted it. One thing Eric had failed to grasp was fate. Of course, he was a firm believer that his death and his entrance into the vampire world had been his fate all along. The fact that Godric had found him, had chosen him, and had stayed with him all of these centuries had to be fate; there was simply no other explanation. How could Godric turn his back on fate so easily, did he not believe that their destinies had intertwined for a reason?
Eric let the shard of wood slip from his hand and clatter to the ground. Throwing off the sheet, he grabbed his jacket, the one he had stolen from the nobleman in the carriage, and ventured outside. The harsh wind hit him instantly, but Eric was no longer cold. The sick-like chill that had claimed his body for many days had finally left him and had been promptly replaced with determination. Setting off in the direction of town, Eric ran as fast as he could down the snow-laden hill, foregoing any sense of caution.
By the time he had reached the square, much of him was covered in a fine dusting of sparkly white powder. It clung to his dark clothing and eyelashes, hung in his hair and covered his improper shoes. To his left, a door swung open. Eric turned sharply to see the cause of the noise. An older man stepped out of his home, about to head off for work elsewhere in the small town. He noticed the tall Viking as he closed the door slowly behind him. Eric gathered his coat around him, staring at the man through furrowed brows.
“Excuse me,” he spoke up, his voice surprisingly clear after the entire lack of use.
The human raised a brow just enough for Eric to notice, waiting.
“Can you tell me the date?” Eric continued, his expression turning hopeful.
The man’s face spread into a slow grin, “it’s Christmas eve, sir,” he responded happily. The words took their time to sink in before Eric replied with a curt smile and nod of the head. As the man walked off, soon disappearing into the gray haze ahead, Eric contemplated his course of action. He had one chance; if he failed he was sure to lose everything.
Author: CatLexi
Fandom: True Blood
Characters: Eric/Godric
Rating: T
Length: ~1168
Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me. All rights belong to Alan Ball and Charlaine Harris respectively.
Desperation caused him to go mad. Desperation allowed Eric to hide himself away in the wreckage of the cottage for the next several days without hardly stirring. It convinced the old vampire that he would never be independent; could not be. That helpless feeling swallowed him whole and trapped him in the belly of dementia. Before he knew it, Eric had let desperation slip easily past his threshold as it came to claim his entire existence.
He struggled against the tangle of fabric that held him to the dirty mattress, throwing it off of him quickly before bolting upright. A quick glance out of the dingy window told Eric that it was well past the middle of the night; he had greatly overslept. At least he had managed to sleep at all. His dreams were plagued by the face he knew the best and feared the most, and yet Eric yearned for its haunting presence. If he could not see Godric in his waking hours, then he would gladly accept the image of the ancient vampire that defined the time he spent sleeping. In Eric’s dreams, Godric did not appear as he had the last time Eric had seen him in person. It was a relief after all, because the Godric Eric had last seen had bore the signs of disappointment and wrath; all directed specifically at Eric. This time, the fault was all Eric’s own. He had disobeyed Godric severely, and despite their unbreakable bond, Eric had begun to believe that he would never be granted Godric’s forgiveness.
Perhaps he did not deserve it. To Eric, Godric was everything he had thus far failed to achieve, and he did not deserve the powerful vampire’s sympathy. Perhaps Godric had come to realize that Eric was not worth the trouble; he never had been.
Rising on weak limbs, Eric crossed over to the impossibly tiny window and swiped at the glass with his sleeve. The frost cleared, and icy blue eyes gazed out at the pure white landscape that surrounded his self-appointed prison. He felt as if he were stranded on an island. From his vantage point, the vampire could barely make out the peak of the village; most if it was shadowed in darkness. The winter seemed to make everything much darker, but Eric preferred cold, snowy weather. It reminded him of the comforts of a home long-lost to history. As the glass began to cloud again, Eric peeled his eyes away from the scene and turned on his heel. He had done more than an impressive job of ruining their temporary home, but before now the mess had not bothered the Viking vampire.
Standing amidst the wreckage with a simple sheet wrapped around his shoulders, Eric surveyed his own damage, cringing slightly at the memory of its creation. Godric would have been furious had he been there to witness Eric’s epic tantrum. Not only had the childe proved himself to be wholly disobedient and disrespectful, but now he had also fell so low as to be labeled petulant.
Leaning down, Eric picked up a shard of wood and examined it. The remnant of a table that once was the setting for many of his and Godric’s long talks. Or rather, Godric correcting Eric as he regaled some ridiculous tale of a past shared experience. While Eric’s memory was frequently faulty with exaggeration and dramatics, Godric had a sharper mind than anyone he had ever known. There was nothing Eric could lie about or even twist slightly without Godric knowing all the better. Sometimes the older vampire would oblige Eric by allowing him to entertain them with a memory that had been completely fabricated. Usually these fables revolved around Godric; something or someone Godric had said, promised, acted on, killed, fucked, wronged...
Remember the time you fell out of the tallest tree and landed on your own two feet, as easily as if you had planned it?
That never happened, Eric
But the time you seduced the King’s bride-to-be. That most certainly happened, I was there.
No, Eric...
At least his maker would offer a small grin as he listened patiently to Eric’s falsehoods. It had become a game they would play; Eric would spin a tale for as long as he could, each one more ridiculous than the last, while Godric would express a range of annoyance to pure humor as he became the subject of these untruthful times in history. Neither man had ever tired of the game, and often times some of their best memories had been punctuated by those that were never reality.
This was Eric’s reality now, and he was destined to carry it out so long as he accepted it. One thing Eric had failed to grasp was fate. Of course, he was a firm believer that his death and his entrance into the vampire world had been his fate all along. The fact that Godric had found him, had chosen him, and had stayed with him all of these centuries had to be fate; there was simply no other explanation. How could Godric turn his back on fate so easily, did he not believe that their destinies had intertwined for a reason?
Eric let the shard of wood slip from his hand and clatter to the ground. Throwing off the sheet, he grabbed his jacket, the one he had stolen from the nobleman in the carriage, and ventured outside. The harsh wind hit him instantly, but Eric was no longer cold. The sick-like chill that had claimed his body for many days had finally left him and had been promptly replaced with determination. Setting off in the direction of town, Eric ran as fast as he could down the snow-laden hill, foregoing any sense of caution.
By the time he had reached the square, much of him was covered in a fine dusting of sparkly white powder. It clung to his dark clothing and eyelashes, hung in his hair and covered his improper shoes. To his left, a door swung open. Eric turned sharply to see the cause of the noise. An older man stepped out of his home, about to head off for work elsewhere in the small town. He noticed the tall Viking as he closed the door slowly behind him. Eric gathered his coat around him, staring at the man through furrowed brows.
“Excuse me,” he spoke up, his voice surprisingly clear after the entire lack of use.
The human raised a brow just enough for Eric to notice, waiting.
“Can you tell me the date?” Eric continued, his expression turning hopeful.
The man’s face spread into a slow grin, “it’s Christmas eve, sir,” he responded happily. The words took their time to sink in before Eric replied with a curt smile and nod of the head. As the man walked off, soon disappearing into the gray haze ahead, Eric contemplated his course of action. He had one chance; if he failed he was sure to lose everything.