September 9, 2004
A pale figure sat with only a flickering candle for company. His head hung limply as though it was a loosely hinged door. His long, slender fingers were curled into a fist and he gripped a rosary, strings of beads wrapped tightly around his wrist. The solitary candle barely illuminated the angles of his whitened Nordic features, and plunged the rest of the room in darkness. Locks of blond shielded his eyes and he kept his face towards the dusty ground.
For hours he remained like this, still as a statue. If one did not know any better, one would have simply assumed he was dead. The breaths he took were barely distinguishable. The only thing that broke such silence was the sounds of steady dripping.
"I thought vampires shrivel at the mere sight of crucifixes."
"Ancient legend that has no basis in fact, my love. Here I thought you read widely."
"Oh don't give me that! You know there's absolute nothing set in stone about your kind. So what about holy water?"
"Nothing gets by you, does it? Well, aside from its irritating quality, it does not harm me. And before you ask, garlic only makes me sneeze."
There was not a single window, and the room was uncomfortably stuffy. Beads of sweat trickled, muscles tightened, but still he made no movement. Not for a few more hours.
So much to remember. So much to forget.
Too much too soon. In a moment, everything changed so drastically. So quickly. That last night they shared. It was hardly enough.
Drip, drip, drip.
"I believe you have a heart, no matter what you say. You care. Stop trying to tell me otherwise."
A plain wooden door was the only connection he had to the outside world, and he liked it. Nothing of the outside world interested him then; he had lost too much to it already. For the first time in a long time, he felt exhausted. It had been too long since he had felt anything like this. Genuine pain. Loss. Despair.
"...you have a heart..."
"Stop," he murmured to himself. "Just stop."
The separation of time and space lingered. No clocks, though. Not in that little sanctuary. It made it seem like time was not moving beyond him. It was therapeutic. Almost.
"Save me. Wherever you are, Eric, I need you."
He had heard her. Felt her in the deepest crevices of his being. Yet, time was there; their worst enemy. The foulest trickster. He cheated them both.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the void, desperate to fill it. "Forgive me. I-"
The door opened abruptly.
"The night won't last forever. Guests have begun to arrive. Get ready."
"Fangtasia can survive one night of my absence. Leave me be."
"Well, I will not! You cannot still be thinking about her. She was human. She made a choice. There was nothing you could have done. You are not accountable. Stop it now. Was she even-"
"I suggest you speak with caution, child. It is not wise to drive me to anger when I mourn."
Mourn. What a thing to say. In addition, admitting to it was surprisingly easy.
"I suppose you're right, but I think I've lost my heart to you."
"Yeah, right. You are too cliché! It's nearly disgusting."
"I have lived far longer than you have, Hermione, remember that. Things that are clichés now weren't so during my youth. Besides, overused or not...I was not lying."
He missed her blithe chatter. The effervescence in her character. Her intelligence. Even something as trivial as the smell of her apple-scented shampoo.
"I have never seen you in this state before and honestly, it is beginning to scare me. Please pull yourself together. You need a... distraction, if you will. At least observe if you do not want to entertain the perverse humans. I say this for your own good, Eric. You need this."
He didn't. He just needed to know she was all right.
"Eric, you know I have to do this. And why. Do us both a favour and stop worrying."
"How can you expect me to when you are about to risk your life? I will be dead before I see that happen."
"Well, then I guess that settles it. Seeing as you are technically dead-"
"Do not twist my words against me. You are no stupid, immature child. I think what you are attempting is irrational. Suicidal. And what is worth, without purpose. You do not have to do this and here you are acting like a martyr. We could always find someone else to take your place."
"You're the one being irrational here. I'm not a child, you are right. I am fully capable of deciding things for myself, and you have no business stopping me. Let me go."
He could not. She left anyway.
And there Pam stood at the doorway, waiting for a response - a grunt, a jerk in his arm, anything.
"Fine. If it will please you, I will go...but not right now. I have to clean up."
It was then that he raised his face and revealed the streams of blood that poured from his tear ducts.
A/N: A little experiment. I have no idea if it will work or not, but here you go.
The timeline isn't screwed up - for any of those who aren't aware that the HP books are set in the 90s.
True Blood belongs to Charlaine Harris. Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling.