#demon sl

[veonaa]

[chibi-sapphire]

Inktober day 26 for Hide. Nezuko from Demon Slayer for today’s drawing. She is so cute!

[hennesprins-blog]

It’s only when Eric is certain that Pam will awaken comfortably, tucked beneath the heavy furs and nestled into the soft pillows that surround them that he rises from his place beside her, taking the time to stretch as he stands on his own two feet. After the excitement of their travels for two nights back to back in celebration of the day of her death and the night he made, according to her, the best decision ever made by one man, they had taken to their furs for what Eric is sure has been the better part of two weeks. Though they had been healing, the two nights in a row had taken a slight toll on both of them. And though Diantha had shaken her head in disgust when she awoken by their combined whines the night after, and the next few nights after that, because they simply could not be bothered to get their own dinners. Although, Diantha was also quick to note, their fatigue did not prevent them from taking baths that seemed to take the entire night.

Eric is still chuckling at the memory as he stretches again, pleasantly surprised to find that his wound on his leg has cooled to a dull throb; hardly noticeable after the fire that seemed to consume it in the early days after it was inflicted. And as he glances down at Pam once more before he turns away, he smiles to see her own scratches and scars on her beautiful sleeping face are fading as well; and if one wasn’t looking, they might not ever notice them.

It’s only the fact that Diantha did not answer his gruff orders this evening when he awoke that has brought him out of the furs and to his feet. Even after he had realized the demon child was nowhere in their small cabin, it had not stopped him, hoping that she would hear him even if she was up whatever the fuck she does outside. But now, he at least consents that she cannot hear him as he makes his way toward the front door. He’s not sure what stirs him to do so, only that his entire body seems coiled, eager to move. He opens the door, standing in the dim shaft of moonlight that has appeared just as the sun set behind the horizon. Outdoors it is unnaturally silent, which he assumes is in part to the demon’s wards; wards, he will admit only to himself, are impressively working. He doesn’t even realize how sure he is in their power until the demon herself suddenly appears in his line vision, along with the annoying white beast trotting at her heels, and he isn’t even startled.

“Put on some pants, Northman,” Diantha says in way of greeting when she comes closer, hauling a laundry bag over her shoulder, “There are children around.”

“I see no children,” Eric says dryly, standing back to let her enter before he follows her back inside, the front door slamming shut behind them.

“You always call me a child,” she reminds him, setting down the laundry on the edge of the couch, placing her hand on her hip before she turns to look at him, “Compared to you, at least.”

“Compared to me you are nothing but a bad idea still swimming around in your father’s testicles,” Eric says dryly, pulling open the laundry bag and withdrawing a clean pair of sweatpants.

“You say the sweetest things,” Diantha tells him, already turning on her heel to leave him alone. And while this is usually his dream come true, he calls out to stop her.

“Wait,” he says, pulling his pants over his hips and tying the strings tight, “Where did you go?”

“To do the laundry,” the demon says, before glancing pointedly at the bag.

“Where?” Eric presses her, though he has already guessed.

“Um, at your house?” Diantha says, though her voice lifts at the end, turning it into a question she’s not sure of the answer, “You know, your modern house. The one with the washer and dryer. And central air ---”

“How is it?” Eric asks, speaking above her.

“Good, I left it at like sixty-eight degrees, so it’s comfortable,” Diantha tells him, nodding her head as she agrees with herself.

“Not the fucking thermostat,” Eric says, shaking his head in exasperation, “The fucking house.”

“Oh,” she says, as if she’s surprised he would care about property he owns, “It’s fine. Wards are in place and I haven’t burned it down yet. Even weeded the garden the other day. So you know, you can add that to my tab.”

Eric nods his head, still looking at the demon but not truly seeing her. They had come here for sanctuary, to heal. But even though silver still resides in Eric’s veins, so does his own blood; amplified by rest and copious amounts of fresh blood. He has never been one to settle; and perhaps it is only his own nature that causes him to want to move forward, even if it is a relatively small step. “And the king?” he asks softly, knowing Diantha will understand him without explanation, “No one knows?”

Solemnly, Diantha shakes her head. “He hasn’t come looking for you again, as far as I can tell; I think Pam scared him pretty good. I went to the palace one night, in disguise,” she’s quick to assure him, “Nobody was talking about you. In fact, it’s probably one of the happiest vampire courts I’ve ever seen. Y’all are weird as shit up here, you know that? Bunch of happy little shits.” She shrugs, looking up at him with that same solemn expression, “And no one seems to be looking for me either. Pretty sure everyone just assumes we all drank the Kool-Aid together.”

Eric snorts, shaking his head as he glances over at Pam, already knowing she holds the final decision in her small hands. “So it’s safe?” he asks softly, his gaze swinging back to Diantha’s, noting not for the first time that beneath the girl’s wide eyes her skin looks bruised and tired, “You’d say it’s safe to go back?”

Diantha nods her head, and Eric does the same. Wordlessly, he jerks his head toward the kitchen, waiting until she disappears within it, the sounds he hears letting him know she’s preparing dinner for all three of them. Padding across the wood floor, he sinks down onto his knees beside Pam, leaning over her just as her eyes flutter open.

“Good evening, prinsessa,” he murmurs, placing a kiss first to her brow and then to her full lips. They’re both grinning when he pulls away, though Pam’s falters as she studies his expression. She merely arches her brow, and Eric sighs as he realizes he’s been caught out before he even spoke a word. Still, he keeps the smile on his face; though thanks to his own excitement and hope, it’s not hard to do. “How would you like to see the roses, sweetheart?” he murmurs softly, smoothing her hair away from her brow, “How would you like to sleep in our bed this evening?”

[hennesprins-blog]

Eric is more than content to spend the hour or so that he waits for Pam to rise with her wrapped in his arms, not moving from the positions they were in when only the dawn could stop them. Their furs are still bunched up around them, flipped over completely in some spots; the only evidence left behind by the last few nights. As even the shadow of the memory of those nights flickers through Eric’s mind, the growl that always seems to be lurking in his chest builds to a crescendo as he tightens his arms around his still sleeping wife, burying his head in the crook of her shoulder so that he can inhale the clean, sweet, and familiar scent that is simply her.

It’s only the realization that –and he allows himself a burst of smug pride at this thought— she’ll most likely be famished when she awakens that pulls him from his spot behind her. He burrows from the furs, looking like an overgrown cat caught beneath the carpet as he finally manages to roll out the other side. As soon as he’s free, he settles Pam back into a more comfortable position, though he fully intends to be back in his designated spot before she awakens. He presses a soft kiss to her smooth brow before he departs; taking a moment to pull on a pair of sweatpants he finds hanging over one of the chairs. With the slight sounds of scuffling in the kitchen, he wants to take no chances with the demon who recently promised to snap off his most favorite appendage.

A grunt is all Eric and Diantha greet each other with, before going back to their individual tasks within the kitchen. Although, try as he might, Eric cannot entirely block the demon girl from his line of vision. He glances over his shoulder as he pours out a bag of blood into a pink mug, fully expecting the demon child to be leering at him; as has become the norm. Instead, her eyes are on the laptop screen illuminated in front of her, though they themselves seem glossed over as she mechanically brings her spoon to her mouth over and over again, bits of whatever she’s eating falling back into the bowl of milk. He stares openly for a moment as he allows himself the realization that the kitchen hardly smells like a kitchen; or at least what a kitchen has come to smell like since this annoyance came to live with them. There are no scents of cooked meat, nothing burned when one of her concoctions goes wrong. In fact, as Eric turns more completely to stare at her, he realizes he’s never seen her look more uninterested in her food. Although, he can at least deduce, she hardly seems to be wanting. Her pale skin is practically glowing in the dim light of the kitchen, her hair more like a mane of fire even as it’s pulled back into a mess on top of her head. But Eric can also see the deep circles beneath her eyes; eyes that can’t even seem to focus on whatever she’s looking at in front of her.

But as he turns, a question poised on his tongue, something else catches his eye; something else that causes all thoughts of the demon to be wiped clean from his mind. The unassuming calendar that he supposes Diantha pinned to the wall hangs open, turned to what he assumes is the correct month. And there, the small little square with the date printed in the corner. The date that seems to scream at him and console him all at once. The date he can label as life changing.

“Is that accurate?” he asks, pointing toward the calendar, demanding an answer without so many words.

“No,” Diantha mumbles, not even bothering to look at him, “It’s a calendar.” Eric growls, but this only causes the demon to roll her eyes. However, begrudgingly, she nods her head to the affirmative. The ghost of a smile curves her lips as she continues to stare at the computer screen in front of her, “I like to keep track of how many days you owe me for, Northman.”

Eric manages to cut off his growl as thoughts seem to bombard him as he strides across the small kitchen. He hasn’t missed it. But he hasn’t bought any gifts. Of course she would expect a gift. He’s gotten her a gift for all the other one hundred and twenty-three days just like it. He hadn’t even realized how the summer was passing, having been more focused on making sure they both survived it. He wrenches the laptop away from Diantha, ignoring her sputtering; though he does glance at her in bewilderment as he realizes she was staring at a blank screen. It comes to life beneath his fingers, and he easily pulls up the internet. The connection is choppy at best, but after only a moment –and more than a few threats to the piece of technology he could not have even dreamed about as a child—the website loads. Triumphant, Eric turns the computer back around, jabbing his finger at the screen. “We’re going there,” he tells Diantha who is finally looking at him, “Tonight.”

Diantha’s eyes flicker to the screen and then back to his again, blinking just once. “You gunna tell me where ‘there’ is, or do I have to pull out my English to Viking Asshole dictionary and translate?” Eric grunts, tapping the mousepad so that the page translates for her feeble mind. Diantha merely glances at the screen before she arches her brow, looking more inconvenienced than anything as she simply asks, “What the fuck for?”

“Because it’s Pam’s Death Day,” he says, reverence coating his every word, “The day she became mine.”

“The day you stalked her, murdered her, dragged her lifeless body back to her home, and then watched her funeral from the woods,” Diantha clarifies dryly, “And you want to celebrate this?” Eric nods his head adamantly, once more jabbing his finger at the illuminated screen. “Fucking weirdos,” Diantha mutters under her breath, her brows knitting together as she seems to have to concentrate on what’s in front of her. “But this,” she says, jerking her head at the screen, “Isn’t in the safe zone I’ve so lovingly erected.”

“I know,” Eric grumbles, his brow furrowed as he takes the seat opposite of hers, his laptop between them. He stares at her for a moment, lowering his voice as if their enemies are listening with their ears to the door. “Has anyone come to the cottage in town?” he asks, waiting until she shakes her head in the negative; knowing that she would be able to deduce if her wards there had been tampered with or challenged. “No one has come to this cabin?” he presses, though she once again shakes her head. He inhales, his jaw clenched as he realizes that this child in front of him is one of his only gateways to the outside world at the moment. “Is there any indication that we’re being watched,” he asks, holding her gaze though it seems to flicker around the room, “Any indication that we’re simply waiting for the next trap to spring?”

“No,” Diantha answers, speaking aloud this time, “No one or thing has come close to this cabin. No one has even tried to pass close to the cottage. I think that demon you met was a lone ranger; probably wasn’t even looking for you. Just happened to find you.” She glances down at the table, her head bowed over her half eaten bowl of cereal. “No one is looking for him, either,” she says softly, her brow furrowing, “No one was waiting for him. They think he simply went rogue. And when you’re dealing with the likes of him, it’s not outside the realm of extreme possibility.”

Eric’s eyes narrow, and he’s on the verge of asking her exactly how she knows all of this information. But when she raises her head, he pushes the instinct away. Of course she would have her own contacts, her own way of dipping into her world. Perhaps that’s the reason she looks so tired, he muses; she must be making road trips into Hell itself. “We’re going,” he confirms, pointing to the screen once more before he rises from the table, the microwave dinging its completion.

“’Kay,” Diantha murmurs, picking up her spoon again, “Van’s in the southern woods.”

Eric grunts as he withdraws Pam’s dinner from the microwave. “Great,” he says, turning on his heel, throwing no more than a glance at Diantha as he passes by her toward the door, “Go get it. You’re coming with us.”

“Eric!” Diantha practically shouts, her voice vibrating through the small cabin enough that it startles Eric, and he turns to face her. Her face is stark white, her lips trembling; though Eric has the oddest sensation as if he can tell she is trying to speak, to tell him something. However, the moment passes, and the demon’s face crumbles into a whine so reminiscent of Pam that Eric wonders if he should keep the two women separated for his own mental health. “Do I hafta?” she finally asks, swallowing thickly.

“Yes,” he snarls, ignoring her once more; unwilling to say the rest out loud. That he needs her to come. Pam needs her to come. They need her. He reenters the living room, only vaguely listening as Diantha seems to stomp outside, slamming the front door behind her for good measure. Left alone, though he knows it will only be for a few minutes at most, Eric sets the mug of blood at the edge of the furs. It’s only just as he’s reclining beside Pam once more, propping himself up on one elbow so that he hovers over her, that her eyes begun to flutter open. The moment they land on his, they both break into matching smiles, as if days have passed instead of mere hours since they last saw each other. Eric chuckles, lowering his lips to hers, murmuring softly before he deepens the kiss hungrily.

“Good evening, min söta lilla döda flickan.”

[hennesprins-blog]

Eric's eyes fly open just in time to catch a glimpse of the candy colored clouds that hang on the horizon before Diantha slams the front door shut on her way out for -- what he hopes is the entire-- evening. A sense of calm washes over him as he realizes he has awakened at what has become his normal time in over the past centuries or so; and the calm only seems to intensify as his eyes land on the still sleeping face of Pam. He smiles to himself as he finds her wrapped as much around him as he was around her, as if either of them are capable of moving away in their rest. He eases his bad leg into a more comfortable position as he turns onto his side, the better to face her.  His fingers trace the shape of her cheeks, no longer as hollow as they were directly after the first attack; and they have filled back out already after the second attack by a demon. Even the scratches that one littered her face are hardly visible, and the scent of blood no longer clouds the air as thickly as it once did. There is no doubt in Eric's mind that, even though she was not wounded as badly the second time, her body has been quicker to heal; quicker than he expected. Though he believes there is some credit to the quite rigorous round of relaxing that she has instilled for herself. Eric presses a kiss to her brow before he hauls himself to his feet, limping only slightly as he makes his way into the bathroom that the demon has managed to keep in one piece. He grimaces as he steps through the bedroom, pulling a face at the mess Diantha has left behind. Though he does note, with some satisfaction, that there is no food left in the room, nor clothes that border on ruined rather than simply worn. It takes him only slightly longer than usual to shower and wash his short hair; this time remembering to use the shampoo and not Pam's precious bubble bath. By the time he returns to Pam's side, her eyes are already fluttering open, and she inhales deeply as he sets down the two mugs of warm blood on the floor beside them. He waits, patiently, for about five minutes before he grows bored and stretches out beside her once again. But this seems to have been her plan as Eric catches her trying to hide a smile as she rolls toward him with a feigned moan of pain. Eric rolls his eyes, though it does nothing to stop him as he drops a kiss to the top of her head. “Time to wake up, prinsessa,” he whispers, chuckling as she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Five more minutes,” she whines, snuggling against him despite the pressure it must put on some of the deeper wounds she still wears.

“Absolutely not,” Eric responds, lowering his head as she purses her lips for a kiss that he gladly gives her, “No child of mine is going to be lazy…for over a week.”

Pam’s eyes open as she smiles brilliantly at this reminder, looking all the more smug as she settles back in the soft pillows to peer up at him. Even though there had thankfully been no more tantrums or tears, Eric had indulged her every whim for the past several days. Baths became a constant, at least for her; and hours upon hours were spent every night with Eric happily bathing her as she soaked in the hot water. He had washed, and re-washed, and conditioned, and deep conditioned her hair as she had ordered. He had even, with a surprisingly steady hand, painted her finger and toenails a pale pink when she had decreed she needed a manicure. But as he hands her a mug of blood, making no move to feed her himself, she seems to realize something is different tonight.

They both finish their blood in record time, and Eric takes Pam’s away, setting it on the floor once more. He turns to her with a raised brow, anticipating her next words; the same words she has spoken after she has fed for the past few days now, “Bath time.”

“Nope,” Eric answers, causing her pout to deepen as her eyes immediately narrow. She goes so far as to lift her arms, willing him to pick her up; but Eric only shakes his head. “It’s not bath time, Pamela,” he tells her, his best ‘dad voice’ in use.

“I can’t have a bath tonight?” Pam whines, making her lower lip tremble as she wills her eyes to glisten with unshed tears.

“I didn’t say that,” Eric assures her, a crooked grin on his face. He can see it in the steady way she holds her arms out, and the way her pale skin is no longer translucent that she is feeling better; even if she is unwilling to admit it. “You can have your bath,” he tells her, rising to his feet as she blinks up at him, “But you will have to earn it.”

“What?” Pam says dryly, as if Eric is speaking a different language entirely.

He offers her his large hand, waiting until she places her small, delicate one in his palm. “You can have your bath, prinsessa,” he repeats again, dropping what he knows she will see as a bomb with a smile on his lips, “When you walk to it.”

[hennesprins-blog]

Though the fire in the hearth crackles behind him, giving the entire room a warm glow, Eric’s lips are turned down into a resolute frown. It is not born of anger or dismay, but rather utter concentration as he continues to wipe away the tendrils of blood that have dared to mar Pam’s beautiful face as she slept. His lips curl up almost imperceptibly as he realizes, wiping away the blood, that those same scratches now have pearly pink edges; healing, however slowly.

His eyes move down to where he has left her midsection bare, allowing the wounds there to breathe. They, too, share the pink sheen of healing flesh; though these are much deeper. As if he has any right to claim some sort of pride over the healing that her body is capable of, Eric smiles triumphantly, lowering his head to press a soft kiss against a patch of skin that holds no scratches or wounds. Gently, he wraps them once more in the thick, soft bandages; noting with some pleasure that they do not become soaked with her blood the moment they touch her skin. Nodding approvingly, he slowly lowers her clean nightgown back over her torso, pulling the thick blankets back over her to trap in as much warmth as he can.

It seems he finishes his task not a moment too soon as Pam’s brow furrows, her eyes squeezing shut as Eric can simply watch her battle her way to consciousness. It takes several minutes until her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, before they crack open; but the smile on her face is genuine as she sees him looming over her, a smile on his own fac.

“Good evening, prinsessa,” he murmurs as he bows his head, brushing his lips against hers. They are still cool to the touch, thanks to the fever that seems to be slow in receding; but her lips are soft, and he is loath to pull away. But when he does so, settling on his elbow so that his body is turned toward her, he arches a brow, causing her smile to falter ever so slightly. “Or,” he muses quietly, holding her gaze, “Should I call you min lilla lögnare?”

“I didn’t lie,” Pam’s first words of the evening are rough, ragged as they are drawn from her parched throat. Without a word, Eric reaches behind them, procuring one of the mugs he had brought from the kitchen just a few minutes before. He holds it up to her mouth, grinning as she eagerly swallows down the contents without bothering to raise her hands to help. He only pulls it away when she drains it, handing her the second mug. This one she wraps her own fingers around, tentatively taking a sip before settling it in her lap, licking the few drops that cling to her lips. Strengthened by the blood, she manages to arch her brow, looking almost haughty as she asks, as if this is a usual question, “What did I lie about?”

“This time?” Eric asks conversationally, grinning as he catches her biting back her own smile, rolling her eyes before she simply nods her head. Arching his brow, Eric reaches up, tracing the tip of his finger over her lips before he catches her chin, his thumb pulling down on her lower lip so that when he speaks, it moves like a ventriloquists’ dummy, and he pitches his voice a few decibels higher. “I feel fine, Eric. I’m not too tired to go down to the river at all. I only just survived a second demon attack and don’t need to rest. I’m completely fine. Want to watch me turn a cartwheel?”

“I don’t remember saying any of that,” Pam says as she wrenches her chin away, though she still keeps it raised as if she dares him to argue. Eric remains silent, merely arching his brow as they have an entire argument without a word. Pam sighs after several minutes, staring down into her mug as she can’t quite meet his eyes. “You looked so excited to go outside, min prins,” she mumbles her eyes darting up to meet his, “I know you don’t like being cooped up…and I wanted to see you happy.”

Love swells through Eric with such intensity that he swears his chest may explode. He catches Pam’s chin again, but this time he leans forward so that his lips can brush against hers. “En sådan söt, dum liten flicka,” he says fondly, drawing a smile from her before he settles back on his side.

“I’m not sorry about last night, Eric,” she murmurs softly, holding his gaze as his lips turn down into a frown, “I’m not sorry I saw you smile on the bank of the river. You were happy.” Her smile slowly begins to fade as she realizes he is not sharing in her happiness at the moment. Her brow furrows, and she shakes her head in confusion, leveling him with a glare as she asks simply, “What?”

Eric swallows, smiling sadly as his hand cradles her cheek, knowing that it is up to him to deliver the blow he knows may crush her for the moment. “We didn’t go to the river last night, prinsessa,” he murmurs, lowering his head so that their foreheads touch, “We went the night before.”

Pam seems to wilt against him, shaking her head from side to side. “No,” she whispers, as if her own denial will change the facts that have already happened, “No!” Eric tries to soothe her, but she wrenches out of his grasp with more strength that she’s shown in days, nearly tipping over her mug of blood in the process. “Eric, I—“

“—Needed your rest,” Eric finishes smoothly, unable to stop the smile that is slowly spreading over his face at her absolute unwillingness to accept the truth.

“But I—“ she splutters, a tear cascading down her cheek.

“—Should be grateful it was only the one night,” Eric speaks over her, loud enough that she quiets down to stare at him. He’s sure she must be wondering how this news isn’t devastating him as well. And with a smile, he explains softly, “You’re healing, Pamela. Your body knew what it needed, and it took it. You’re not bleeding…as heavily. And you woke up enough to take some blood last night. This isn’t a setback,” he murmurs, noting even now how the color is minutely better in her face, “It is a step forward.”

He watches, waiting as Pam seems to take a mental stock of herself. She must find some truth in his words as she sniffs, her glare a bit less harsh as she asks, “What did you do all by yourself?”

“I wasn’t by myself,” Eric says, a sarcastic tone creeping into his words, “I had your two pets to keep me company.”

“Where are they now?” Pam asks, trying and failing to hide her smile.

As if on cue, there is a loud boom from somewhere outside, close to the cabin. Pam jolts, but Eric, who has grown used to the sound through the hours he’s been awake, merely blinks. “She is celebrating America’s independence,” he says dryly, just as another boom echoes and they can both hear the demon whooping along with an outraged meow.

“Does she realize she’s in Sweden?” Pam asks with a giggle, the multicolored lights that flare up outside the window painting the cabin in blue for a few seconds.

“I figured anything that keeps her out of doors and away from me was good enough,” Eric tells her, rolling his eyes as Pam giggles again.

“What did you do last night?” Pam asks after a few moments, a slight tightness to her smile as she tries to reorient herself with the night she lost.

“I was forced to watch The Lord of the Rings on my laptop that the demon has now claimed as her own,” Eric tells her, his pout becoming more pronounced as describes his torture.

Pam’s smile is genuine once more as she asks simply, “Which one?”

“All three,” Eric growls, lowering his head to capture her lips with his own. But just as he does so, it seems Diantha has run out of fireworks for the moment, and they both hear her stomp into the cabin. She makes some sort of happy shout when she finds Pam awake, though both vampires ignore her for the moment. Not allowing that to stop her, she all but crawls across the furs on all four, taking a seat on the other side of Pam, waiting patiently for them to either finish or begin. Eric keeps his eyes on Pam, making sure she can see the absolute pain in his eyes at all he has had to endure without her as he whispers, “Du befinner dig i så mycket problem, liten bråks.”

[hennesprins-blog]

The magic that usually weaves its way through Eric's veins, animating him as soon as night falls is slow to unravel tonight. He simmers on the edge of consciousness as his body wakes from its rest infuriatingly slow. But as it does, he becomes aware of his surroundings; though even this does nothing to alleviate his confusion. He had not expected to ever experience consciousness again; had thought to be past his pain by now. Selfishness, ever now, consumes him, as he realizes that to be past his own pain would be the culmination of Pam’s.

There is still an unnatural heat that simmers within him, but it is no longer the raging inferno he thought he would succumb to. Coolness surrounds him, chilling his naked body as it seems to recline on marble. There is the scent of fresh blood in the air, along with something he can only describe as spiced. He can feel his own blood, smell it tinged with silver, as it leaks out of his many wounds. Even his leg, the very one he could not feel the last time his eyes were opened, pulses with pain, a triumphant reminder that it is still there.

Eric groans the instant his throat and voice are released from slumber, keeping his eyes screwed shut. His hand moves, almost of its own accord, searching for Pam's. But all he's met with is slick tiles on either side of him; an icy cocoon. He groans again, his throat constricted with thirst as he tries to speak, using most of his strength to slam against that which holds him; his only thought that Pam is not beside him, and he must get to her before it's too late. Pam. Is she still in pain? Pam. He has to get to her.

"Anytime you want to open your eyes and tell me how fucking awesome I am," a soft voice calls to him, sounding hoarse with fatigue, "Feel free, Northman."

Slowly, but with considerably less effort than it has taken him the past several nights, Eric opens his eyes to the world. He's met by the sight of Diantha, sitting cross-legged on the sink, staring down at him with a look of absolute triumph despite her pale face and sweat-matted hair. She sighs in relief as his eyes narrow, wordlessly asking her thousands of questions at once; starting with why isn't he dead? 

Diantha's large green eyes slowly rise, and Eric follows her gaze. Roped over the shower rails are countless bags of blood; most of them empty. Some of them have long pipes, twisting around each other, though all of them end in the needles that have been plunged into his skin. "You wouldn't wake up long enough to drink," she tells him quietly, "And after a while, you were barely even bleeding. So I...figured a more direct route might be best." Her eyes fall back to his, a strange smile on her lips. "I pumped it into you," she explains, feigning squeezing the bags with her hands, "Over and over and over until it ran red." She sighs, and Eric can see how pronounced the bags under her large eyes have become. "Probably the equivalent of twenty humans drained dry," she tells him, impressed by her own calculations, "The silver is still there, I can smell it. But it's not mixing with demon blood...for the most part." At Eric's silence, she merely points down to where his leg is still covered by the ice. "It's still...infected I guess is the right word. But nowhere near as bad as before," she says proudly, her chin rising as she smirks down at him, "Congratulations, Northman; you cheated death. Again.” The demon leans back on her hands, her eyes narrowing playfully as she breathes, just loud enough for him to hear, “And-you-still-haven't-said-thank-you."

Eric snorts, managing to lift himself to sit upright in the ice bath; a feat that would have been impossible a mere night ago. "Pam?" he asks, his head swiveling toward the bathroom door which is propped open, "Pam."

"She slept through the night, just like you," Diantha assures him, "She's still bleeding, but she wasn't in as much danger of bleeding out like you were. I got her to drink a little last night, but she wasn't really awake for it. She'll have to drink tonight. Speaking of which..." Diantha leaps down from the counter, plucking a heavy bag of blood from the cooler that is open. She rips into the plastic with her teeth before offering it to him. Eagerly, Eric raises his head, swallowing down the cold blood as if it is the best thing he's ever tasted; and in that moment, it is. Diantha makes him drink two more bags, waiting several minutes until she allows him to hoist himself up and out of the ice.

Eric’s body shakes with the effort, but with Diantha’s help, he’s able to step out of the bath of ice and blood, his bare feet firmly planted on the tiled floor that is slick with the melted ice as she removes the needle from his thigh. Diantha towels him off at records speed, smiling up at him as more and more of his usual pale skin is freed from dried blood. Gently, he slowly places more and more of his weight on his injured leg until it becomes too much, and he hisses out in pain. But it’s a good deal more weight than he was able to place on it when he was first injured; and though the wound seems to flare in protest, he finds he is able to walk with Diantha’s help.

“I still don’t know if it will heal completely,” the demon tells him bluntly, hefting his arm over her shoulder so that he can lean on her, somehow knowing he would never do it himself, “But it’s better than the peg-leg pirate life you were in for the other night.”

Eric grunts in response, any argument dying on his lips as he finally sees Pam after what Diantha has told him has been a full night. She sleeps on her back, her hands folded delicately over her heavily bandaged abdomen. She wears a clean nightgown, another one of her crimson silk ones, with crisp white sheets pulled up to her waist. Her hair, recently brushed no doubt by Diantha, cascades over her shoulders. Even with the scratches and cuts on her face, her beauty takes his unneeded breath away. He’s suddenly lurching forward, desperate to reach her, all but dragging Diantha in his wake as he limps along.

Perhaps because of this, Diantha deposits him none too gently on the mattress, leaning over to help him slide his leg beneath the sheets. His fingers cannot seem to touch enough of Pam, and he lets them linger on her flesh; flesh that doesn’t seem as icy cold as it once did against his fevered skin. Cheated and won. Again. Diantha’s words come back to him, well aware that he was perhaps not meant to have this moment, that he truly did feel death before the demon wrenched him back into the land of the living. Instinctively, he knows that if it wasn’t for her, he would not be granted this gift. Another night. Another night together. And though Pam still sleeps though his skewed internal clock tells him it is late, blood does not pour out of her, she does not so resemble a corpse as she once did. Cheated. And won. Again.

Wordlessly, Eric turns his head toward Diantha, who is standing silently by the foot of their mattress. He can feel his tears as they rim his eyes, and watches as the demon’s eyes widen as she notices them. It is not in his nature to thank others, besides the woman who lies beside him. But he can feel it in his very being; he was saved. Still feverish from the silver, his leg still aching; but those he can both overcome. He can only stare at her silently; her words as she saved him the previous night ringing in his ears. You know  what I am. He tries to open his mouth to speak, but the weight of those words does not settle well in his mind; too lofty to be thought of now. Did you ever doubt me?

Diantha takes pity on him, shaking her head with a smile. “You’re welcome, Northman,” she says softly, her sincerity resonating in her whisper. She turns on her heel, as if she has nothing better to do after saving an ancient vampire from certain death than to make his bratty progeny her dinner.

Eric only nods his head, already forgetting her as she disappears into the kitchen. He shifts himself onto his side, his wounds only slightly bleeding as he does so. He rests his head on his bent elbow as he gently moves Pam’s head with two fingers beneath her chin, so that he will see her eyes as soon as they open. As it turns out, he doesn’t have to wait long. Mere moments pass before her eyelids flutter; and he realizes belatedly that he cannot feel her as he once did in his blood thanks to Diantha’s makeshift transfusion. But when she awakens, he realizes that isn’t important now. They’re both alive. Together. She blinks, her eyes widening almost comically as her brain must sluggishly realize what she is seeing. Eric himself hardly finds it to be possible, but it doesn’t stop him from leaning closer, his hair flopping over his brow, brushing his lips against hers as he murmurs, his words no longer slurred or broken, but filled with a disbelieving laughter, “Good evening, sweetheart.”

[hennesprins-blog]

Knives, sharp and silver-tipped, are digging into every square inch of Eric’s veins. But instead of blood, only flames seem to pour out of the wounds that run black and deep. There is a mangled cry that resonates in the air; one that he does not recognize as his own. All around him, he can feel the blackness, threatening to suffocate him. It’s time. It’s the end. This is what it feels like to meet death after a thousand years.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Northman,” he hears the hissed command, from somewhere far above him. He reaches for the sound, the only one he recognizes, the only thing he understands. But even this voice is strangled, on the cusp of tears and hoarse, “Don’t you dare fucking die on me, Eric.”

He wants to tell her, to scream at her that he has no choice. But as he tries to open his mouth, he realizes he does not feel the soft mattress beneath him, does not feel Pam’s fingers around his own. Dragged. He’s being dragged; and none too gently. “Pam,” he gasps out, his hands searching for her though he knows she’s not close, “I need…I wanted…Pam…”

“I know,” he hears Diantha grunt, straining under some weight, “If it…if it happens, it will be beside her, Eric; I promise. But not yet.”

Eric does not bother to stop the tears that flow down his cheeks, though the darkness soon swallows him entirely again. He comes to as cool marble hits his back, and he can hear Diantha’s breath as she tries to catch it. She seems to move quickly around him, but at the same time, everything seems slowed down. All at once, he’s cool; cooler than he’s been in the past few days. He can hear the clinking of ice as it settles around him; in the bathtub, his mind sluggishly tells him. He’s covered in it, and the demon only seems to be adding more. As ice is placed on his fevered brow, a chuckle only ends in a burst of blood in his mouth; the demon hates ice.

“Stay with me, Eric,” he hears her whisper, almost as if to herself. He wants to nod, to at least thank her for making his passing easier; at least he won’t feel the flames that lick at him from within his veins. But all he can do is barely hold onto consciousness.

A pained hiss reaches his ears, and it takes him a moment to realize it was a sound he made. But he cannot help it as over and over again, it feels like thick needles are being plunged into his arms, his chest, even his leg. The scent of blood saturates the air; but it’s fresh, and clean. Nothing like the blackness that poisons him.

In the next instant, he’s sure that ice water has been injected directly into his veins. The fire is flushed out, if only momentarily. But it’s enough for him to open his eyes, meeting Diantha’s wide frightened ones. He’s not sure if it’s only a manifestation of his fever addled brain, but thick ropes of blood seem to hang from the shower rod above their heads, as Diantha once again cuts open his wounds, working clinically.

“Just crazy enough to work, right?” Diantha asks, though Eric isn’t what she’s talking about. His eyes seem to roll into the back of his skull, and all he can concentrate on is the fire that seems to be slowly receding within him. “I watched a lot of Grey’s Anatomy…” he hears her say, before his senses seem to tune her out, relishing in whatever relief she is providing.

He’s not sure if minutes, hours, or even days have passed when he hears her again, her fingers on his chin. Fingers, he vaguely realizes, that feel slightly warm against his skin. “Drink,” she orders, pouring more cool blood down his throat. He gulps it down greedily, the slight aftertaste of plastic lingering on his tongue. Ice clinks as she shifts him further down in the tub, covering him with the cool blanket.

“Y’all need to stop making suicide pacts without consulting me,” she whispers, and for the first time in days, she sounds more like herself, no matter how tired her words sound, “You guys forgot who you have on your side.”

“And who’s that?” Eric hears himself ask, letting the darkness reach up to take him down again, though this time it is a cool embrace instead of a hellish descent.

Diantha’s triumphant laughter is the last thing he hears before he gives in, and he unsure if her words should strike fear or relief into his heart. “You know what I am, Northman. Did you ever doubt me?”

:::Fade to black:::