See here now: Texas, the chessboard. Nobody's right, nobody's wrong; everybody's at the behest of forces, pains, desires they don't understand: vengeance, power, primacy. Balanced and equal, armies of light and darkness. And each depends on the other for its survival, and for its destruction, and that is the truth of war. Stay only one thing, and your triumph and your tragedy will be change; you will starve, become a skeleton, have your heart torn out. Become everything at once, and you will be reborn a black-eyed child of the night. In the Harryhausen films, the skeletons are armies, born of violence and a miraculous wine.
Lafayette kneels, sucking hungrily. Eric tells him that's enough, but at first he doesn't mean it. They just enjoy, Lafayette keeps going, until Eric's had his fill and smacks him away, and it drips down his chin as he tumbles. "Don't be greedy." With a flex of his wrist, Eric begins to heal, and answers the phone with his sinister hand. "You were supposed to call me when you arrived."
Bill explains they were ambushed, his well I never alive and well in Dallas: "You know exactly by whom, Eric! The Fellowship of the Sun! Why didn't you tell me they were involved?" Eric explains that he wasn't sure, but now he is. Bill whines. Eric reminds him that he is the Sheriff of Area V, and if he is displeased he can take it up with the Magister or the Queen, which is shorthand for cram it up his rigor-tight white ass, because guess what two people Bill is not even about to fuck with.
Behind Eric, Lafayette capers, dancing dervishes and jumping jacks, speaking to himself in an unending and nonspecifically motivating idiom. "Get that shit! There you go! Get that shit! Fuck it, get it!" Eric turns to watch him, charmed. "I just want to fucking dance!" he shouts, humping another couch, feeling the air of Bon Temps again with his new body. "How nice for you," Eric says, and says he must fly, and then I think literally flies away, with a whooshing sound. Lafayette fucks the floor and there's this sound like whoosh.
Jason hurriedly pulls his shirt together when Sarah enters his beautiful bedroom, unsure who the prey and who the predator is anymore. He thanks her kindly and calls her ma'am like a hundred million times, in her ivory-white and very sexy peignoir and negligee. And out in the wilderness a family of wolves starts tuning up, in three-part harmony. It was at this moment that I realized just how much I love Sarah Newlin, because it's like even the cartoon people are more real than most real people, on this show. I have seen a lot of people like Sarah Newlin, in real life and on TV, but I have never seen this particularly precise, sexy, affable, scary, darling, adorable, vicious, stern, joyful, insane, scathed, unscathed, subservient, nurturing, controlling, Christian sort of Antichrist in my life.
It's like if you take the false binary of Virgin/Whore, and put everybody on it, and then go three-axis to Monster/Not Monster, and put Anne Coulter here and Rachel Maddow here, you would still need to go fucking quantum to place Sarah Newlin on the graph you've devised. Um, for judging women, this graph, so don't do it. But I love her for the purity of her conversion, and her steely insides, and her grief, and her love of the Lord and all the passion and righteousness she's got going on. I never thought they were, but this episode really showed me that this wasn't about right-wing/left-wing red state/blue state blah blah blah. Obama. I'm over it.
Luke and Dirk are vicious and stupid representations of Christianity, and that's fine because it's not TV, it's HBO, and more importantly because Adele, Hoyt and Sookie are stronger versions of a better representation of Christianity. But the Newlins are more than that, and they are the focus. I don't agree with, say, Lettie Mae's version of religion either, but I get it. Frankly, it's Maryann's version of religion I'm having a hard time finding the dark edge to, really. But the Newlins are so easy to love, no matter how wary you have to be, because they are about how Christians are terribly and wonderfully made, just like non-Christians and every other kind of person. Loving Sarah Newlin, or her husband, is like loving Amy Burley, or Miss Jeanette, or Maryann Forrester: absolutely essential if you're ever going to hold the universe in your hand. He's gay, or not, and while hypocrisy goes hand in hand with American Protestantism it also goes hand in hand with American everything else. She's everything good, and everything bad, about what she's about. Like we all are.
Jason, hoping against hope, asks if he's the only one staying there in the house, and he is, so his smile falls, but she explains the perfectly rational explanation that it's only because the terrorist bunker only holds fourteen. He's happy, but also sad about that, so she adds that he is number fifteen because he is So Special And Awesome, so then he's happy: "And you're also the best! I mean, the one that we have the highest hopes for." He says he wants to try as hard as he can, and try not to disappoint them, and she leaves, reminding him that if he needs anything at all, like a creepy culty threesome, their personal Maryann Party is just down the hall, past the big double doors!
Bill and Sookie are making out, because they are very much in love, when Eric knocks at the door and summons Bill to the bar for talking. Alone, Sookie stares around, at a loss, and looks adorably off-camera. "Fudge." Been there, sister.
Downstairs, Eric reframes Bill's panicked call as an "admirable" admission that he can't protect his human. Logic and etiquette not permitting a retort, he changes the subject to how only a monster like Eric can possibly care about nobody but himself. "I care about others," Eric says, in a limpid tone that for him expresses both true hurt and true boredom. "You care about Godric," Bill says, and Eric stares at him because no you didn't. "You have no obligations to Dallas or Texas. This is personal for you. Why?" Please God let Eric give the big gay Pam-annoying speech about Godric's awesomeness one more time.
The waitress drops off a bottle of TruBlood, and Eric changes the subject. "I hope you'll enjoy your blood substitute, which is costing me $45." Bill admits he just wanted to see Eric pay for it, and Eric's like, "Good burn," but just calls Bill "so mature" instead. It's like a revenue stream, but more like being a werewolf. Bill redirects: "Why this allegiance to Godric?"
Oh, Godric, Edward Cullen of my heart, Eric says. When I look up at the sky on a clear, hot night, and see that moon shining down on myself and my undead brethren, my first thought will always be, "Godric, are you looking at that same moon?" And lo, when I smell the first morning's blood it is sour, for it was not kissed from Godric's sweet lips. I abjure the garish sun, not because it would fry my ass, but because it is not as bright as the lights deep in Godric's eyes. And when I sleep, it is Godric's arms that hold me, ever so tightly, as though to say that I am safe and that he will never ever let me go, not ever. He is the man all men should wish to be, and the man all women should wish to have, and also all the men on that one too. Starting with me. I wish I could invent something awesome and name it, like a beverage or a spacecraft, for I would name it a thousand times Godric, Godric, Godric. I would swim through the crests of a thousand garlic seas, would wear a suit of sterling, would lift my face up to the sun if only for a taste of his tender, cinnamon lips. One day he will take me for a ride in his automobile, and we will feel the wind of a thousand wild nights in our hair, and how we will laugh. At what? Nobody knows. Nobody but us. My heart has a name, Bill. Do you know what it is?
Bill's like, "Pssht. He's just a sheriff, dude." But oh no, he is so much more -- it is only that he chooses to be Sheriff. He could be so much more than that, Bill. He could be something vampire children drea