One hundred and forty years was a long time, even more so when most of them were spent with a companion. But not once did Pam want to leave the side of her maker- her viking vampire god with blonde hair and striking eyes. Despite the events that led to her turning, he didn't ask her to, either.
Pam often debated how long it took to get to know someone or if you could ever really get to know someone. One hundred and forty years on earth and even she had questions that didn't have answers. But Eric was her constant. He was the one stable thing in her existence. Who was she without Eric Northman? Even she didn't know that. She didn't want to know that.
'We traveled the world together. Killing and fucking and laughing.'
She remembered it fondly. From the first night as a newborn when she fed for the first time- "Easy, my child," he'd spoken to her so tenderly and cradled her blonde locks, "you'll kill him"- to the week before when he threatened to kill her. That, not so fondly.
But never did she regret anything in her vampire life, anything with Eric, her maker, her love. She chose to walk the world with him and he, after an internal struggle, chose to walk the world with her.
Lovers, father and child, husband and wife, brother and sister. Family.
She didn't show emotions often. Emotions were weak, emotions were human. She was not human nor was she weak. But still she found the blood tears cascaded freely for her maker and for him only, time and time again. When it seemed like the end, she cried for him. When he seemingly disowned her, she cried for them both. And when she dreamt of their meeting, she cried for their memories.
And now? Now she cried for their ending.
'Pamela, I renounce the ties of our blood and my dominion over you as my progeny. As your maker… I release you.'
If her heart was beating it would have stopped, if her lungs needed oxygen she would have gasped for air, and if she wasn't so damn stubborn, her knees would have buckled. (She thought they did, briefly.)
She fell against her maker and sought comfort in his cold warmth. In his strong frame she felt the stability he had always offered, she felt his hand smooth across the back of her head like that first night when he coaxed her with her first feeding, and she felt the bloodied tears drop onto her shoulder (should the circumstances be different, she would have scolded him for destroying a favourite outfit) like those nights he cried for her when she was being held by the Magister. (He would deny it, but she knew differently.)
'You are my child. As I was the child of Godric's. You were born into greatness.'
One hundred and forty years. Most of those spent with Eric, her maker, her lover, her father, her life. Memories broken with a couple of sentences within a couple of seconds. A cherished lifetime, a bond untied.
One hundred and forty years.
'It can't end this quickly.'