A/N: This was the first story posted on FanFictiondotnet set post-rooftop, and at the time I did not frequent any other FF forums, so my concept of what happened was only inspired by my brain, TB and SVM. This story was written and posted the same week the episode aired, before that Sunday when 02x10 aired. I actually created a FanFictiondotnet account because I was desperate to imagine what happened right after True Blood episode 2x09, "I Will Rise Up" but nothing was posted yet. I took it as a challenge and crafted what I hoped would come next while I waited for the next new episode.

I stand here, the full power of the sun warming my tanned skin, and I feel anything but warm. I squeeze myself a little more tightly as I continue to gaze at the spot on the roof that had once been occupied by Godric.

He is gone.

The blue flares had enveloped his body and all that is left as witness is me and his discarded shirt. I slowly walk towards that piece of cloth, willing my legs every inch because they don't want to move-they want to crumble. Hours later, it seems, the linen shirt is finally in my hands and I find myself bawling into it-standing in the very same sunlight that Godric had vanished into. I've seen a fair amount of death since Bill Compton walked into Merlotte's, but this was different.

Oh, and Eric. As much as I don't want to feel it, my heart breaks even more as I remember his pleas as he begged Godric not to do it. My dream from last night flashes into my mind before I can stop it and I realize that it really is true, he is a big faker. Suddenly my heart begins to race and I know that I have to go to him. It's not smart, and it may not be right, but I've just got to.

I rush across the roof and down the stairs and just find an empty hallway. He must be in his room, it is daylight already, but will he still be awake? I take the elevator and stride to the door of his room, but as I raise my fist to knock, my breath catches in my throat. I hesitate.

For a moment, with my fist just a half inch from the door to Eric's room I find my mind zooming through all the consequences of my actions, but after all that thinking, I still knock. Instantly, as though he knew I was on the other side of the door and he'd just been waiting for me to choose to knock, the door opens and I find myself in front of a 6'5 Viking who looks anything but in command and intimidating.

Tears are pouring down his face unrelentingly (a word from my "Word of the Day" calendar) and he doesn't even attempt to hide his anguish from me. His shoulders are slumped over and he barely glances at me before turning his eyes back to the carpet and meekly walking to the couch in his room. He falls onto the chair like dead weight and I don't know how much of his weariness is from the daytime and how much of it is from grief.

I slowly take a step into his room, and then another-I'm not sure what I should do. And then his head turns up from staring at the clasped hands that are perched on his knees, and his eyes catch mine. There is no smirk, no façade of detachment, he is a thousand years old, and his eyes look even older. I rush over to him and can't help myself-I sit next to him on the couch and throw my arms around him, shaking as tears pour down my own face.

He buries his head in the bare crook of my neck, and for a split second I remember that he is a vampire and I would be completely helpless should he decide to bite me right now. He seems to smell my fear because he lifts his mouth to my ear and attempts to sound like his usual self, "Not until you ask me to, and believe me, you will." But his whisper is more longing than cocky and I hold him even tighter. His face goes back down to my shoulder and I feel his tears stream down my back.

I'm sobbing out loud now, and our grief seems to be feeding one another's. I'm not crying only for Godric now, but for Gran, for my mom and dad, for all the senseless death that seems to fill the world. Why does it have to be this way? How could Godric bear to live for two millennia? There's so much loss, so much pain, so much suffering. It hits me that Eric has lived for at least half as long and the gravity of that seems more relevant than ever: Godric was probably the only constant in Eric's entire undead life. And now he is gone.

I gasp for air and an even louder sob comes out of me; Eric pulls me into him, his chin now on my back, our chests crushed together. I cling to him, my nails digging in as I desperately try to ground myself. I am still here. I am still alive. Jason is still alive. I think back on all the people in Bon Temps: Arlene and Sam, Terry and Andy, even Mrs. Fortenberry, all those people I know who are still alive. I'm not alone, I'm not alone. I'm not alone.

Eric seems to feel the depth of my distress-of course he would, stupid, manipulative a-hole-and he pulls away from me and holds my hands. He peers deeply into my eyes, his face smeared red with his own blood, and he asks, his voice halting and tentative, "Will… Will you… stay with me until I can finally rest?" I can barely believe my eyes and ears. Is this the same Eric, sheriff of Area 5, master of a vast empire of businesses?

My thoughts make me pause before I form an answer, and my face must show my utter shock because I see his eyes glaze over and he drops my hands and stands up. "You should go back to Bill. I'm sorry about your dress. I will pay for the dry-cleaning or buy you a new one." His voice is hard and distant, he turns his face from me and wipes it clean with a handkerchief that seems to appear from nowhere.

He strides to the door and begins to turn the handle and my eyes widen at what I'm losing, I cry out, "Wait!" He turns to face me, his eyes suspicious, his body tense. I take a deep breath. All I'm doing is staying with a friend who is in incredible grief-Bill will just have to understand that. I mean, it's not like we're going to be necking or anything. I slowly take a step towards his bed. The next one is faster and I hold out my hand to him, "Are you coming, or what?"

His shield comes down again, and I mentally sigh a breath of relief. For a moment it seems like he might make some wise-ass crack about getting me into bed, but his lips shut again and he looks at the carpet nodding twice and joining me in walking towards his bed. He gingerly (another "Word of the Day") sits on the bed and swings his feet up-shoes and all, and he looks at me distrustfully-as if he's afraid that I'm going to suddenly start laughing at him. I have no intention of doing that. I walk over to the other side of the bed and I follow his lead, lying on my side so that I'm facing him. He seems to relax just a little bit and he awkwardly opens his palm for me to hold it. I clasp hands with him, gently, and I see his eyes finally close. His body slackens and is limp in just a few seconds.

I'm falling asleep while holding hands with a vampire.