Power, and strength, are about not using them. Having them. Stewardship, not ownership. Godric knows that better than any of us; perhaps he's lost sight of the essential truth that we don't judge and we don't shrive, that our worth isn't determined by our worst sin any more than our greatest kindness. He's seen more than most; he's seen more than anybody we know. He's seen two thousand years of vampire culture get scarier and uglier and more selfish; he's seen two thousand years of human culture do the same thing. The parallel is there, but it comes down to this: strength is not about using it. That turns to abuse, to horrors we can't name. It rots.
But then, if you've spent those years feeling powerless, that's not to say there's not a certain delirium in taking the machine out for a ride every now and then. Tara and Eggs sit in the aftermath of their meal, blood everywhere on the table, still laughing. Eggs stands up in the middle of the conversation, feeling strong. He stretches his muscles and Tara purrs appreciatively; he feels so much like a superhero that he tears his shirt in half. "I feel invincible, you know? Like nobody could even hurt me."
Tara smiles. "I hate you." Maryann listens, in the kitchen. "I fucking hate your guts." He nods, feeling it. "You fucking bitch, I fucking hate you too." He picks her up by the throat, shaking her softly, and kisses her mouth. She smiles, and slaps him across the face, while Maryann laughs in the other room, watching. He begs for more; she kicks him in the groin eventually, and he sends her sprawling with a fist. Their eyes go black. He hits her so hard she falls into a chair, and she shoves him down onto the ground finally, growling and horny, and with black eyes they groan and fuck, and Maryann finishes off the wine, grinning affectionately.
Everybody's got a line. This is mine: Bodies are fragile. Yours might have been last week -- hell, it might not be till next week -- but everybody's childhood is a horror story of one kind or another, and Lettie Mae is mine. The apocalypse unfolding is this: you can draw a line from that first neverending dinner at Merlotte's, to the smashcake party, to the yard orgy, to this: one line after the other, getting crossed. First comes the dancing, then comes the fucking, and before you know it you're six degrees from anywhere Kevin Bacon would ever wanna be seen. Then seven, then eight, and on into the dark places. That's where she lives. That's where she's just visiting from.