I missed this face. @SheriffNorthman
@BiancaNorthman has influenced me in some ways, it seems.
At the base of me, it’d be easiest to say I am a child of Eric Northman. He changed my life; for the better. He gave me the best gift one could ask for; eternity.
To pinpoint exactly who I am, we’d have to look at my past.
I suppose it’d be easiest to start with the night I died.
I was born Annaliese Pfieffer in New York City, roughly 170 years ago. My parents were German immigrants; Mama became pregnant with me about halfway through the journey. I was the second surviving daughter; along the way, my eldest sister, Hannah, died. The life I lived then was unremarkable.
When I was 15, a small group of Germans in the city decided they would like to go west to make a new place for themselves; and my father decided we would go with them. The journey was hard; and along the way, many of us died. I was one of them.
Night on the prairie is a beautiful and dangerous thing.
The crackle of the fire, the creak of the wagons, the soft noises of the animals both domesticated and wild under the immensely dark, star-stewn sky reminds you how alone you really are.
I don’t know what possessed my to move away from the safety of the wagons. Josef was calling, quietly, teasing me, so I did. I knew it was a bad idea, my gut, my very center told me to stop, but I didn’t.
I remember calling softly out for him, afraid of attracting any number of the dangers everyone warned us about. It was slightly ironic that one no one had warned us about, was what killed me.
I plundered along as quietly as I could, hissing under my breath, cursing that boy with every fiber of my being, when the arm slid around my waist. I believe I jumped a mile high; the soft laugh behind me making me angry. Spinning around, I expected to see Josef, my hand raising to deal a smart slap across his cheek for scaring me. Moonlight glinted off golden hair made silver in the moonlight, and I blinked, stepping back, tightening my shawl around my shoulders. I didn’t know this man.
“Excuse me.” I murmured, backing slowly towards the wagons and the fire in the distance. I wasn’t too far away. Quick as a flash, he was behind me again, holding me against his chest, his hand clamping over my mouth before I had a chance to scream. Then the pain.
He was biting me, drinking me down as if I was…food. I couldn’t struggle, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t move. Blind terror coursed through my veins as we slowly sunk to the ground, me getting weaker and weaker by the second.
Those last few heartbeats thundered in my ears as the man knelt behind me, cradling my head in his lap, gently smoothing a strand of hair from my face. Weakly, I commanded my arms to move, to grab his wrist, but nothing happened. “Bitte, bitte…” I begged weakly; my last memory was him bringing his wrist to his mouth, and sweet, thick blood dripping into my mouth before death overtook me.
Three days later, I woke.
I was surrounded by dirt. I screamed, but it was useless; clawing at the white sheet wrapped around me, I ripped it apart, before blindly tearing at the loose dirt above me. Panic, terror, blind anger rolled through my body, and eventually I clawed my way out, dragging myself from the hole. I spun, in circles, wildly, eyes falling on the crude wooden cross capping my grave. “Annaliese Pfieffer” was all it said.
It was like it was day, even though it was night. I could hear everything and nothing, all at once. I could smell the traces of fire, wagon oil, wood, and any manner of scents that were around.
I thought I had gone mad.
I became aware of someone running after me, always a few steps behind. I pushed myself further and faster then I thought possible, and never tired, until I stopped. I was starving.
Then…he was there. The man who killed me. He was beautiful, but I knew that was all a facade. He commanded me to stay, and for some reason, I could not move. Then he explained it all. What he was.
What he made me into.
His name was Eric. Eric Northman. He led me to a house, showing me the solitary old woman there. He whispered that I needed to feed, and I looked at him in revulsion, until he made the first move, dragging the woman out to me. He made a long cut in her arm, and the blood…it smelled divine. I drank. She died.
From then…Eric took me with him. We traveled; around the new United States. To Europe. I took a new name; Anna Phillips. Eventually we settled in New York, and when he grew tired of that…I stayed.
The rest will have to wait for now.