Note: Though it is mentioned in the text, just for conformation, the conversations carried out between Godric and Eric in this story are entirely in Old Norse.

I killed them all. Even the ones that yet live and breathe… though their hearts beat, I killed them.

These thoughts, these mental cries of self-damnation, were not added to the relentless diatribe that stalked Godric for the Jungian archetype that he was until his Deputies had gone forth to spread the news of the "welcome-back party" that was to be thrown in a few hours' time, and it was safe to sink into his chair in the "living room," fingers pressed into his eyelids until spots of color disturbed the almost comforting blackness.

Two thousand years, and still neither of our species have evolved. All is murder and blood and pleasure and suffering, just as it all was millennia before. Neither of our species have learned to coexist with the other—oftentimes we barely live in peace amongst ourselves. Despite all the laws set in place, new and old, on paper or unspoken, they have never taken effect, and they never will. There will always be such things as black markets and robberies and lies. We will never be able to truly trust each other, whether of another species or our own. I know all this now. I have seen far too much proof—far more than I can bear. History repeats itself endlessly, and history never changes. Just like us.

Though Godric now sensed a presence beside his chair, he moved not.

Without warning an image faded into clarity behind his eyes, the early-film gray dispersing the black: his bare heel pressing into the soft, yielding earth, while behind it his footsteps were licked and caressed by a humanoid shadow as if to pay tribute to them, as if to glean knowledge from them, as if by a lover…

But then the almost-memory morphed with horrifying speed into his Progeny, lying on the sacrificial altar in the church of the Fellowship of the Sun, his flesh sizzling where it came into contact with the chains of silver that locked him in their deadly embrace, his fangs exposed unwillingly in agony…

I tried to make an example of myself, and I failed.

He had been trying to make an example of himself for nearly two thousand years. The moral quality of the example had changed over the centuries, it was true, but it was an example nonetheless.

And no one is ever going to heed your pitiful pleas, are they?

No.

Then why do you bother communicating with them at all? Why commit yourself to this foul earth? What power is holding you here?

Why commit himself, indeed.

Godric was then aware that his head seemed to be spinning upon his neck, causing the world around him to become unfocused. Is this dizziness?

A peculiar sensation rose to his mind then, one of floating. He was an indescribable, pale shape in the vastness of space. No conscious thought was ever formed, no emotion blossomed. There was no pain, no suffering. No tears of blood.

A blank slate for all eternity.

And all that was required of him was to allow himself the sun's sweet embrace, and he would have the honor of reaching that state of blissful unconsciousness. The ultimate sense of peace.

Fingers stroked his elbow with the light touch of an artist's brush upon the canvas, and a thousand deadly shards of color burst from his unconsciousness, soiling the tranquil whiteness.

(What power holds you here…)

The sigh that Godric allowed to pass through his nasal passages was heavy with emotion, but it also carried an almost physical weight that seemed to constrict the tattoos of bondage that were inked into his skin, constrict them until they cut through his flesh to the bone, rather than relieve him of his burden.

The two thousand-year-old being's neck creaked when he lifted his head.

Eric Northman resided to the right of Godric's chair, on bended knee. His fingers yet hovered beside his Maker's elbow, and worry cried out in every feature of his face.

Godric arranged his visage in what he hoped his Progeny would interpret as a reassuring smile, but he knew by the painful stretching of his lips and cheeks that he must appear a leering rictus. "All is well, my child." He spoke in the Old Tongue.

"Bullshit." Eric's brow was furrowed, his fangs erect, and his exclamation was made no less harsh by the lilting speak of the Early Days. "I saw the way you addressed the humans in that church. You pitied them, even after what they nearly did to you, to me. You showed them mercy when you could have slaughtered them all in the blink of an eye. You even allowed their leader to walk free."

Once again memory swamped Godric, and the many suffering faces in the church blurred together until he saw himself reflected upon their pallid canvases, the multiple replications of his blood-covered maw gaping like that painting—by Munch, was it not? The Scream…

It was a great effort to maintain eye contact with his Progeny, and in the end Godric could not do it. "You would not understand."

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, I 'WOULD NOT UNDERSTAND?' WHAT MORE IS THERE TO UNDERSTAND? AND WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU, ANYWAY? WHERE'S THE 'HUMANS HAVE NO IDENTITY –THEY ARE WORTHLESS TO US BUT FOR THEIR BLOOD,' THE SENSE OF ADVENTURE, THE ADRENALINE OF THE HUNT? I SERIOUSLY DON'T GET YOU—ONE MINUTE YOU'RE ALL RAGING POWER, THE NEXT YOU'RE THIS BLAND PACIFIST. AND WHY DON'T YOU SPEAK OF THE BOND ANYMORE?"

"Eric, please stop shouting—"

"I AM NOT SHOUTING!"

"Eric." Godric felt his voice go dangerously soft, and he hated himself for it. He had thought that choosing not to acknowledge the bond between them, to refuse to reclaim Eric aloud, would somehow make his decision ultimately less painful for his Progeny—but if the pain in his child's voice as he made his final inquiry was any indication, the exact opposite had occurred.

It was an awesome thing, the effect the quiet rebuke had on the ex-berserker: he fell silent, instantly chastised, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Forgive me, Godric. I… I forgot myself."

You had every right to.

Godric placed a hand on Eric's brow, and he felt the skin there smooth instantly upon his touch. "You are forgiven." He removed his hand as quickly as he had placed it there.

The silence between them stretched for an eternity, and in his preoccupation Godric had not earlier taken note of its unfathomable size. More complex than the mind, it reached past the very universe, past the most unimaginable and incredible horizons. It was powerful, and it was dangerous, and it was terrifying.

Apparently Godric was not the only one of the pair who found the silence painful and intimidating, for after an eon Eric's gaze rose once more to his Maker's face, an expression of sudden recall on his visage. "In the basement of that church you told me you require less feeding now, because of your age. But you never denied that you might be hungry."

Godric's stomach suddenly cramped, a growl threatening to claw from its depths as his insides gnawed at and attempted to devour each other, ravenous. He began to feel the effects of nausea, the sensation of breaking out into a sweat immediate upon his skin as dizziness threatened to engulf him again. The veins in his temples throbbed horrendously, and it was so hard to hold his head level…

Starvation. What a foolish way to die. Why prolong the pain when a few brief moments in the sun would suffice?

Because my actions deserve retribution.

Godric watched the emotions in his Progeny's face flicker from curiosity to worry to alarm. Despite his present weakness, the two thousand-year-old being tensed, quivering lips parted slightly, ready to refuse the offer of a human in his preferred flavor of that damnably beautiful, crimson fluid—O-negative, rare and incredibly sweet—but what happened instead was so contrary to this that Godric was entirely unprepared for it.

Eric sank his fangs into his own forearm, opening his own flesh, and then, before the wound could heal, shoved it up against Godric's lips.

The blood ignited a tingling sensation that began at his lips and spread through his entire being. Both were surprisingly pleasant, and so warm…

Have you taken leave of your sanity? I cannot… Oh. Oh yes.

Godric opened his mouth wider, fangs snapping into place, and began to nurse at the contusion as an infant does its mother's breast, his rhythm feverish, desperate with need. He clung to his Progeny's forearm like a man drowning.

All of his regrets, all of the knowledge and emotions with which he was burdened, even the desire to end his own life, had disappeared in an instant, smothered by the primitive impression of the here and now.

Please. Good. Yes.

Apparently he did not have as much control over his instincts as he would like to have thought he did.

Dimly he heard a soft moan from the one from which he drank, and dimly he felt his genitals respond to the sound.

It was not until his hunger had abated that Godric raised his head from Eric's forearm, blood running down his chin in small, almost delicate rivulets. He did not note the wound's healing.

The lust that he felt, hard and erect between his legs, was reflected in the eyes of his child.

Without preamble, Godric took Eric's face in his small, effeminate hands and brought their lips together so hard that he felt their fangs pressing against each other through the skin. His thumbs traced the contours of his Progeny's cheekbones; his fingers caressed the angles of his jaw. Eric embraced him and kneaded his Maker's lower lip gently with his teeth, producing a soft sound from his dwarfed partner. The ancient one felt his child ease their mouths open and tenderly, almost craftily, insert his tongue. Godric accepted it as his veins sang with joy.

Alive. Wet. Warm. More. Yes.

Godric felt himself being lifted, and then came an odd sense of pressure upon his back and sides, as if he were traveling in reverse at an impossible speed. The feeling abruptly ceased, and he heard the soft thud-and-click of a door being eased shut. When the kiss was at last broken, he discovered that he had been brought to his private sleeping quarters within the nest—one of the few rooms in the building containing an honest-to-goodness bed, instead of the usual coffin.

Eric set his Maker on his feet and slowly unfastened Godric's woven shirt. Beginning at the ancient one's hips, he sensually ran his hands up the elder's sides, lingering over the accordion folding of his ribs while moving his thumbs in small circles upon the stiffened nipples. Godric, his eyes never leaving his child's, held his arms out and slightly behind him, and with a flick of his wrists Eric sent his Maker's shirt fluttering to the floor. Godric shuddered at the feeling of the soft fabric slipping away from his skin. He had never been more aware of how skeletal he had allowed himself to become than at this moment, how the lean muscle upon which he had prided himself centuries ago had atrophied, consumed by bone. But this was quickly forgotten as he bared Eric's torso to the air in turn and draped his arms about the taller man's neck (a feat achieved only after kicking off his sandals and standing upon his Progeny's bare feet—Eric had apparently rid himself of his shoes and socks somewhere between the "living room" and the bedroom).

Godric allowed his child to kiss him again, feeling as he did so Eric's selectively nimble fingers sending his trousers and undergarments slithering down to his ankles. He was unable to suppress a second shudder as he moaned against his Progeny's lips, stepping out of the final binding cloth.

Eric broke the kiss in order to remove the remainder of his own clothing, and then began to back Godric toward the bed, his eyes filled with hunger as he ran his tongue sensually over his fangs.

Godric's stomach lurched. He had never been driven into the proverbial corner before, even literally: it was he who always controlled the situation, he who forced others into tight spots—though only if necessary—so that they would do as he wished. In all his years of vampiric life, the tables had never been turned on him like this. Never.

After what seemed like an eternity, the backs of Godric's thighs hit the mattress; he lay back on the bed as his Progeny knelt over him. Eric cupped his Maker's buttocks in his hands and squeezed gently, another soft cry breathing from between Godric's trembling lips as he did so. The elder watched through his eyelashes as his child kissed his way along the front of the ebony collar which circled the area just below his neck; the weight of this symbol upon him seemed to lesson slightly with the gentle touch of his Progeny's lips.

Abruptly the dimness of the room infiltrated the sightlessness of Godric's desire to mate, and with it returned the damnable clarity of thought and comprehension that all those of higher thinking possess.

A voice whispered from within the shadows of his mind: You forget your promise to yourself, to the gods.

Eric began to kiss Godric's lips again as the ancient one responded: I have not forgotten. I attempted again and again, with all my being, the task asked of me, and each time I have failed. Allow me to say goodbye, and I shall return to the Holy Place with the rising of the sun, so that the Judgment may be passed upon my soul.

Blessed silence followed. The Maker allowed his Progeny to turn his belly to the mattress as he positioned himself behind him, fingers caressing the smaller pelvis in front of him.

They had coupled occasionally in the Early Days, in times when Godric was yet content to obtain whatever he desired through his authority as he pleased. But it had never been as good as this.

The ancient one gasped sharply as his child entered him; after not having experienced sexual pleasure for centuries, the feeling of his muscles adjusting to the intrusion was unfamiliar at best and slightly unpleasant at worst. But then Eric moved inside him, a gentle precursor of the thrusts to come, and feelings of pleasure flowed through his genitals.

"Again," he murmured, allowing his eyes to close, blocking out all but the sensations of the moment.

It is strange to think that our lips never met until this occasion, this final goodbye…

After a while, Eric began to move faster, reaching around to grasp his Maker, stroking in time with his thrusts.

It was a wonder, the speed and surety of his Progeny's transition from reluctance to one almost overeager, but it was nevertheless quite pleasant.

But Godric would never forgive himself if he remained earth-bound simply for this gratification of need.

Orgasm was reached with the speed that only sadistic Time and the supernatural can achieve, and Godric's climactic cry was almost one of despair.

The Maker and his Progeny lay side-by-side in their recovery, the tips of their noses nearly touching, their gazes locked.

And, strangely, in this moment of post-intimacy, Godric's mind was almost, almost, at peace.

(Real) Author's Note: Compos mentis is a Latin phrase meaning "of sound mind." Make of that what you will. Ever since Eric's referral to Godric as Death, I have been fascinated by the symbolism of Godric, and whether Eric had unknowingly referred to Godric's literal self, something that I may explore further at a later date. But for now, I'd been reading way too many depressing stories on this site lately, and so I strove to write one that ended semi-happily while still remaining hopefully in-character (because we all know what's going to happen to Godric in the end anyways). Thoughtful critiques are appreciated, and if anything in the story is unclear to you, don't hesitate to ask me.

As always, thanks again to the wonderful irrevocably-twisted for introducing me to this pairing and for igniting my interest in the True Blood program as a whole. You re-awakened in me the desire and inspiration to write, and for that I am truly grateful.