"Show me how you do that trick," she said. And he did: and all the fear, and pain, and loneliness, drained out of her and into him. Like a possum in a witch's cauldron: strange as angels, dancing in the deepest oceans, twisting in the water. When we talk about the sacrifice, about the deepest magic humans ever know, we're not talking about expelling, banishing, fear, ugliness. That's just a byproduct. What we're talking about is reclamation of what we already have. What we've always had. Your body is your playground and your temple, and it is your home. Just like Heaven.
Bill licks at her blood and buries his fangs deep. "Do it," she said. She wanted him to. She wanted to know that her body was her territory, that she could with it what she wanted. She needed someone to remind her that they never took it from her; that it was hers all along. Her beautiful body, and her beautiful soul: only remember that you are clean, no matter what happens. You are pure, and you deserve happiness. That nobody can take away your body: they can only fool you into thinking that they've won.
The soul is not found within the body. The body rests inside the soul. And no matter what they tell you, no matter how they try to take it from you, mark it, burn it black, turn yourself against yourself, that's one thing we will always know. Somewhere quiet and secret, saying, "You can come home." That there's not a room in your house that remains locked to you; there's not a place in your soul or in your body that doesn't completely belong to you. It is impossible to mark a soul or take it for your own. There is no devil that can do that; no demon that can take possession, that doesn't know the truth and fear always that we'll rout it out.
He looks into her eyes, with his fangs out, and takes her virginity. Finally, finally home. She arches up against it, kissing him hungrily; after a moment they relax into the memory and the knowledge of home. They are strange angels, lit by the fire, redrawing maps and marking out their territory. He is just the guide: he shows her where she could have lived, inside that lovely little house. The infinite landscape between his teeth and her hands, pulling hard at him, pushing him deeper: an expanse of skin, a territory of desire, a country she'd forgotten about. They are lovely in the firelight. I think there are two kinds of people: those that know this story -- knew it the second Sookie tightened her grip on Tara at the funeral -- and the lucky ones that don't. But no matter how weird you find Sookie's behavior in this episode, you should know this: She is unmarked and was never otherwise. The only tragedy is that she never even knew it. This -- the blood, the fucking, all of it -- it's not pollution, it's a reminder of our purity. No ritual is empty. I don't know how else we heal.