Late 14th Century: The One Hundred Year War

The smoke and dust had barely settled, as human's frantic screams, permeated just as intense in his ears, as the taste of blood was filling his mouth. Church clergymen coughed, the ones that had survived so far, trying to usher their injured followers through the wreckage and remains of what was a safe place no more; people flocking to the house of God in sanctuary from the battle being waged outside, to some, in their own backyards.

A gaping hole in the ceiling, its gold trimmed and beauteous depiction of a painted heaven now marred forever, the human fantasy being destroyed by a cannonball, blackness of night, hell on earth. A devil's feast more like; Godric grinned, laying waste to the corpse he'd just drained, while seeking out his next victim.

"May Jesus have mercy on us all…" (Que Jésus aie pitié de nous tous ...) An old priest cried out in wistful horror, being the last to exit. His echoing plea bouncing around throughout the emptiness before quietness once again reclaimed its throne.

Godric snorted, still hidden in the shadows, never understanding the fascination and worship of a man that always failed to answer when called upon. At least the pagans sought comfort and understanding by means of the physical elements. The universe and nature, forces to be reckoned with and harnessed. Their energies knowing not evil or good. Like him- a wild thing.

He connected to his bond with his progeny, feeling intense joy and arousal. Eric nearby amidst the chaos- preferring the sociability of crowds. It would seem their choice had been a wise one.

His migration to northern France had been in the following of the English battalion, under the monarchy of Edward III; the war proving lucrative in his pursuit of carnage- both him and his child feasting in gluttonous rapture without unwanted attention focused too much on their natures.

This was also a way for Eric to partake in the glory of combat, his child often bored and fickle with stationary living. He wanted to pillage. Feel the arch of a blade as it struck down an enemy. Not caring, be it English or French. Just reveling in the use of his skills that had been of little use since his change. And because Godric never wanted to fail him in providing entertainment, he indulged him frequently, needing to keep his Viking warrior sated, as the child's appetite was fierce- fighting, women, adventure, and feeding. Being his maker was proving gratifying in so many ways.

Godric, hunched over on all fours like a dog, scenting the air in reptilian like movements. The fine woven blue silk tunic and brown britches he wore, denoting a higher station, soot covered and torn in places, showing in peek-a-boo fashion his tribal tattooed origins; him forever a childlike savage, being a former slave of Gaul, and now a relic- an immortal supernatural deity.

There was a heartbeat he detected, growing faint, but still strenuous none the less, and Godric decided to amuse himself by finding its owner, not caring for the clotting of porridge stale blood; his hunger, his need, still egging him on. It was a dance after all, wanton and lustful- like a whore mating with death, all for the promise of eternity.

He doubted he would ever tire of its appeal.

A high support beam caved in and crashed by the dais, the ornate cross and statue of the Madonna impacted. Godric sprung back, a low growl emitting from his throat. The space had been vacated from all the living, only bodies, their various severed parts, and destroyed construction remained. Except for…ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk…he was determined.

"I know you are here," (Je sais que vous êtes ici, ) he spoke out in high pitched calling, hoping to convey a sense of hope, just so he could more so relish the person's fear later on when he pounced, "I wish to rescue you." (Je tiens à vous sauver.)

Godric heard a shift in the pews, like someone was trying to push through the weight of broken plaster. There were a few hacks followed by a slew of soft curses. He smiled in delight, his gum line still swollen, but the urge to unsheathe his fangs swiftly suppressed (for now).

It was a woman, and his beast couldn't be happier in the knowledge, purring a siren's song, as nothing brought him more satisfaction than that of a feminine outcry for mercy. That excited him to no end and made his loins stir; the boy in him always courting a grown man's craving for dominating the weaker sex.

He crawled and stalked over towards his prey with acute animalistic precision, deciding, if time allowed, to play with her for a bit. As Eric wasn't by far, the only creative one with romantic brutality. His mentor and master had set the bar quite high. In fact, as it was, his child still lacked a certain finesse in the arena of proper seduction, relying too heavily on his fair looks and large physique, not understanding the joys of a suitable mind fuck yet. A point to focus on in his tutelage at a later date, Godric thought fleetingly.

"Help me please…I am stuck."(Aidez-moi s'il vous plaît ... Je suis coincé.)

Oh, he would help her alright. Help her to be free from the bondage of her mortal coil.

Godric jack-knifed his feet, twisting his torso as he leaped into the air, somersaulting on a bench- tearing away the encumbering debris- revealing to him his conquest. The sight of which made him pause.

The small girl, waif really, was in a semi laying position, half on her side, propped up slightly on an elbow, shielding part of her face with her other arm. Her hair was dark, with bits of rubble and dirt making it dull, and if he was not mistaken- she wore the black generic frock of a serving wench or maid. The crest of her sponsoring family being sewn into the upper right corner of her plain linen chemise- maroon and silver stitching.

So, this would make her a servant- noble property- little more than a slave.

He frowned. This shouldn't change anything. And yet, the excitement in him was rapidly dwindling; replaced with an emotion Godric barely recognized anymore…pity.

His beast tasted disappointment and was not happy with him. Godric sighed, "Are you hurt badly little one?" (Êtes-vous blessé gravement un peu?)

She slowly let her arm drop, blinking her hazel brown eyes up at him in wonder, "An angel…" (Un ange ...) her gasp was immediately followed by a station of the cross, forehead, sternum, shoulders, "Am I dead?" (Suis-je mort?)

"No- you live still- and I am not of the celestial realm, so be at ease- let me take you from this place and see you home." (Personne ne vous vivez encore, et je ne suis pas du royaume céleste, alors soyez à l'aise, laissez-moi vous de cet endroit et que vous voyez la maison.)

The girl vehemently shook her head back and forth, her lips pursed together in distaste. Godric realized she might not want to be brought back to her servitude; perhaps abuse took place there, as was common. But still…he had no use for her. Maybe he should just leave well enough alone. After all, she was not his problem to solve. He stood up with a shrug, preparing to leave. Spare her. However unsettling it was to him.

"Stop- please," (Arrêtez-s'il vous plaît,) she yelled, her hand outstretched, "do not leave me." (ne me quitte pas.)

He crouched back down, his movement too fast for her to register, making the young girl startle. Godric baring his teeth, his incisors catching the moonlight from the open hole in the church's roof, suddenly making her notice the gore around his mouth and on his person, and how pale white his skin was. What she had at first mistook for the unblemished marble of the good Lord's messenger- was in fact death personified. "You want me- you want this?" (Vous voulez que je-vous cela?)

She swallowed hard, obviously effected, shrinking back slightly, but then stopping herself; a resolve akin to bravery flashing across her features- her petite jaw set. "I do believe I asked you not to go. How does that equal to an invitation of anything other than not being here alone?" (Je crois que je vous ai demandé de ne pas y aller. Comment est-ce que l'égalité à l'invitation d'un autre que de ne pas être seul ici quelque chose?) The girl squared her shoulders, grimacing as she sat up fully, asking in curiosity rather than fear, "What are you sir…a demon?" (Qui êtes-vous monsieur ... un démon?)

Godric laughed, impressed with the girl despite himself, "What is your name little one?" (Quel est ton nom petit?)

She smiled back at him, nodding her head once politely, "Eleanora…"

Present Day: Stackhouse Property- 3 days later

Dreams rarely came to him anymore. As old as he was, and as useless as he found images of the past to be, his death sleep usually brought only the blissful void of nothingness. But, he figured, the weight of heavy dirt over him and all around was the most likely culprit- him not going to ground, in the literal sense, for quite some time.

Maybe that's what had sparked his nostalgia. Or, perhaps, he just simply missed his Nora- her being the last child he'd made up until now. And it had been weeks since he last saw her.

Either way, Godric knew the magic of the earth had worked; Sookie stirred in his arms and was starting to panic- the permanent bond forged. He immediately shot them up through the loose soil, breaking the surface with her, as some would fancy a synchronized swimmer would. Knowing her mental state would be fragile, and the thirst unlike anything she'd ever experienced. So, it was pertinent he make this transition smooth.

The moonlight softened some of the sharpness of her features, a gentle innocence relayed, in this chance wanton moment of vulnerability- that otherwise, the woman he loved would have fought to hide from him in pride. Godric felt honored the gift, even if it was without her sole permission. Sookie being unguarded and tender, perhaps for the last time, as all too soon the new and improved (by some accounts), dark and most certainly primal, Miss Stackhouse would awaken fully; casting off, as some would an old coat, her severed humanity. Forever...

Such dramatic and fanciful thoughts he internally mused, "It is done," Godric finally said, nuzzling her neck softly, "you are born to me…you are one with me…you are eternally mine now Sookie."

She blinked lazily, her long lashes a flutter against her perfectly high cheek bones, her blue eyes electrically charged with a new light, as her smile slowly found its way to gradually expose, if not in a calculating fashion, her newly acquired sharp pearly accessories. A low hum resonated coyly from her vocal chords in shy seduction.

"Mmm…yes," she sighed, all previous anxiety forgotten, "and you are mine now too."

Godric chuckled, her possessive tone pleasing his ego.

He placed delicate kisses to her forehead, swirling the tip of his tongue in small circles down her temple, along her jawline, before stopping to suckle one of her sensitive earlobes; nipping at it playfully while murmuring, "The world is ours …"

Sookie moaned slightly, him moving lower with his mouth, her obviously struggling to articulate something, and getting mildly frustrated- as evident by her wrinkled brow; his ministrations distracting to say the least. Godric granted her respite, lifting his head, their faces mere inches apart, "Tell me my sweet, what is on your mind?"

Her face instantly morphed, once again in control and passionate, as she trailed one finger across the bow of his lips, "The whole wide world…?" Sookie purred.

"Yes love, anything and everything, I vow to you, is yours."

She giggled and arched an eyebrow, her mouth settling upon a smirk- a spirited challenge now cast in her expression, much to his growing delight.

Sookie pretended to pout, immediately making him hard, and his pride swell at how perfectly matched they essentially were. He caught her finger with his mouth.

"…then prove it…"