"You have to feed eventually," Eric says indulgently. That whole "be my father and my son and my lover" thing a thousand years ago was not a joke, dude. He keeps code-switching like a bitch and turning into somebody new, and Godric just bends around it. Eric starts getting sad, when Godric won't respond or smile or even look at him, so he goes for it: "Why wouldn't you leave when I first came for you?" Godric shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. "They didn't treat me badly. You'd be shocked at how ordinary most of them are." Eric's incensed, as caught in the rhetoric as they are: "They do nothing but fan the flames of hatred for us!"
Godric is... Unendingly sad: "Let's be honest. We are frightening. After thousands of years, we haven't evolved. We've only grown more brutal, more predatory." Eric actually thinks about that. "I don't see the danger in treating humans as equals. The Fellowship of the Sun arose because we never did so." Eric swallows, asking if that's why he didn't fight. "I could have killed every last one of them within minutes," Godric assures him. "And what would that have proven?"
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.