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OOM - Dallas, Texas
May. 31st, 2014 08:54 pmHe stands there, watching Stan and Isabella bitch about which course of action to take. Watching Sookie and Bill watching them.
Stan wants to burn down the church of The Fellowship of the Sun, Isabella urges caution. Neither says anything the least bit productive and in the end he cannot hold his tongue and snarls at them.
Godric is surrounding himself with clowns. Fools. Idiots.
Why? He could have had anyone. He could have had Eric. He would gladly have come. More than gladly. Why?
"We need a plan." Sookie.
"I have a plan." Stan.
"It's a movie." Isabella.
"It's not a movie. It's a war." Stan.
Again, he snarls at them and stalks away, ignoring the worried look Bill is casting his way.
Eric is angry. Angry that he is being told this is none of his business, that he was only invited as a courtesy. Angry at Godric's lieutenants for being incompetent assholes, too caught up in their own power struggle to be of any use.
Angry at Godric for having chosen so poorly, for having disappeared, for making him feel -
They act like children and he tells them so. The bitch in the white designer skirt and top, the useless clown in his pathetic, overcompensating Stetson. Then Sookie tells them that she will either fall asleep or scream if they keep carrying on, and he feels himself almost smile at the look on their faces as a human tells them off. A sweet, little human in a sundress with daisies in her hair.
Her plan is sound, unlike the nonsense they have been sprouting. She will infiltrate the Fellowship and listen in, to discover if Godric has indeed been captured.
Bill is upset that she is suggesting it - and brushing his worries away. He is angry that Eric is agreeing to it straight away.
Of course, he is agreeing to it. It will lead them to Godric.
Bill asks for a word and they move to the edge of the room, away from the women. His question is simple and late in coming.
Why does the Sheriff of Area Nine matter to Eric?
And Eric remembers, as he draws in breath to speak.
He remembers the wound in his gut, the way his entestines moved slickly and wetly against his fingers, pressed against the ever more gaping lips of the wound. He remembers the stench and the cool air and his men talking next to him as they half-dragged, half-carried him off the battle field. Not leaving him to the wolves. Promising to give him a proper send off. To where there would be beer and gold and food. Will there be women, they asked him. And he managed to say that where he is, there is always women, because that is the answer they expected of him. And they were his men, so he gave them that.
He remembers laying in the wet grass, as they gathered kindling and dragged logs. As they hewed down young trees. Remembers drifting, eyes almost closed, riding a horse of pain. And then being lifted, high, onto a crudely braided stretcher, three or four feet off the ground. Getting him in place while he could still help a little. Bed and funeral pyre, all in one.
He remembers saying that he is not afraid, that he is pissed off. And then there is blood and screams and something kneeling atop of him. A child. Half naked and dripping with blood. With a strangely undulating pattern painted across his clavicles. Or perhaps that is his eyes playing tricks on him in the dark.
He asks if he is Death and when the creature says that he is indeed Death, he says that he cannot be. He is just a boy. But he is not. And he has killed Eric's men and Eric says that he is a swine, but it comes out almost as a whisper for his voice is still on that horse it seems, galloping away. His voice and his breath and the warmth of his skin.
And he wishes he could fight the creature, and he must have said that, for the creature smiles, showing hideous fangs, and says, with a strange little chuckle, that he knows. That he saw Eric on the battlefield. That he had never seen anyone fight the way he did.
That it was beautiful.
And then he becomes eager, asking if Eric wants to be his companion, Death's companion. In the night and the darkness. And Eric can feel the blood seeping between his own fingers, can feel the horse running faster and faster away from him and he asks, once the creature has spoken of being father and brother and son, learning him everything he knows, he asks what he always ask.
"What is in it for me?"
And the creature promises him what he loves the most.
Life.
And he releases a breath and says, "He is my Maker."
And then he looks away, so he need not see the understanding on Bill Compton's face.
Stan wants to burn down the church of The Fellowship of the Sun, Isabella urges caution. Neither says anything the least bit productive and in the end he cannot hold his tongue and snarls at them.
Godric is surrounding himself with clowns. Fools. Idiots.
Why? He could have had anyone. He could have had Eric. He would gladly have come. More than gladly. Why?
"We need a plan." Sookie.
"I have a plan." Stan.
"It's a movie." Isabella.
"It's not a movie. It's a war." Stan.
Again, he snarls at them and stalks away, ignoring the worried look Bill is casting his way.
Eric is angry. Angry that he is being told this is none of his business, that he was only invited as a courtesy. Angry at Godric's lieutenants for being incompetent assholes, too caught up in their own power struggle to be of any use.
Angry at Godric for having chosen so poorly, for having disappeared, for making him feel -
They act like children and he tells them so. The bitch in the white designer skirt and top, the useless clown in his pathetic, overcompensating Stetson. Then Sookie tells them that she will either fall asleep or scream if they keep carrying on, and he feels himself almost smile at the look on their faces as a human tells them off. A sweet, little human in a sundress with daisies in her hair.
Her plan is sound, unlike the nonsense they have been sprouting. She will infiltrate the Fellowship and listen in, to discover if Godric has indeed been captured.
Bill is upset that she is suggesting it - and brushing his worries away. He is angry that Eric is agreeing to it straight away.
Of course, he is agreeing to it. It will lead them to Godric.
Bill asks for a word and they move to the edge of the room, away from the women. His question is simple and late in coming.
Why does the Sheriff of Area Nine matter to Eric?
And Eric remembers, as he draws in breath to speak.
He remembers the wound in his gut, the way his entestines moved slickly and wetly against his fingers, pressed against the ever more gaping lips of the wound. He remembers the stench and the cool air and his men talking next to him as they half-dragged, half-carried him off the battle field. Not leaving him to the wolves. Promising to give him a proper send off. To where there would be beer and gold and food. Will there be women, they asked him. And he managed to say that where he is, there is always women, because that is the answer they expected of him. And they were his men, so he gave them that.
He remembers laying in the wet grass, as they gathered kindling and dragged logs. As they hewed down young trees. Remembers drifting, eyes almost closed, riding a horse of pain. And then being lifted, high, onto a crudely braided stretcher, three or four feet off the ground. Getting him in place while he could still help a little. Bed and funeral pyre, all in one.
He remembers saying that he is not afraid, that he is pissed off. And then there is blood and screams and something kneeling atop of him. A child. Half naked and dripping with blood. With a strangely undulating pattern painted across his clavicles. Or perhaps that is his eyes playing tricks on him in the dark.
He asks if he is Death and when the creature says that he is indeed Death, he says that he cannot be. He is just a boy. But he is not. And he has killed Eric's men and Eric says that he is a swine, but it comes out almost as a whisper for his voice is still on that horse it seems, galloping away. His voice and his breath and the warmth of his skin.
And he wishes he could fight the creature, and he must have said that, for the creature smiles, showing hideous fangs, and says, with a strange little chuckle, that he knows. That he saw Eric on the battlefield. That he had never seen anyone fight the way he did.
That it was beautiful.
And then he becomes eager, asking if Eric wants to be his companion, Death's companion. In the night and the darkness. And Eric can feel the blood seeping between his own fingers, can feel the horse running faster and faster away from him and he asks, once the creature has spoken of being father and brother and son, learning him everything he knows, he asks what he always ask.
"What is in it for me?"
And the creature promises him what he loves the most.
Life.
And he releases a breath and says, "He is my Maker."
And then he looks away, so he need not see the understanding on Bill Compton's face.
