Work Text:
It was a bitter November night; Odd could hear the howling of the wind through the trees outside. The lamplight flickered on the walls of the room, and he tried to read the shapes they cast for some portent or glean some wisdom as comfort. A bout of violent coughing raised his body up from the bed, his breath causing the flame to jump wildly before subsiding, as did the man. He spat a nasty gob of phlegm into the bowl next to him.
He was dying.
It was not that he minded so much, every Norsemen knew 'twas a hard and dangerous life they lived, and those who served Odin were thankful to ride onto Valhalla when He called them. It was the manner of his demise which soured his mood. The highest honor for a man of his stature was to die a heroic Viking death, preferably in a fierce battle. Not to be drowning in his own sweat and other bodily functions, his strong Viking body reduced to being as weak as a newborn calf as the life force faded away. He searched his mind for some memory of how he might have displeased the Gods -- or even the Christian's Hvitakristr perhaps -- but could find none. It made no sense to be punished this way, and thus tormented him, in the hours that he was conscious.
His mother appeared at his bedside, smiling but her face lined in worry. As he had never taken a wife, she had assumed the task of caring for him when he became ill. Old now, but still beautiful, in fact in his feverish state she was as he remembered her from his childhood. Her flowing red hair glowed like fire in the lamp’s light; it was rivaled only by the fire in her eyes when she was angry about something. His father had fallen in love with her in Waterford and brought her back with him to his land when Odd was just a swaddling.
“Is Óðinn displeased with me because I have not yet carried on my father’s line?” Odd asked as the possibility came to him.
“Ni thuigim,” she replied with a confused frown, bending to soothe his fevered brow with a rag soaked in cool water.
Odd struggled to remember the translation of the Gaelic that she only spoke now when upset about something. She had taught him to be fluent from the time he spoke his first words, but he found his mind to be clouded as if caught by a turbulent storm.
His mother used to call him Loki as a child, whenever he would get into mischief. Maybe this was a trick played upon him by his old companion. His was the soul of an explorer, too busy in his travels and Hel raising to spare thought of settling down properly with wife and children. Many women had graced his bed over the years, but he had allowed none to stay. They would not understand, but he was glad of that now for there would be no one dependent on him to mourn him. If only the Gods would see it that way…
“Lund has come to see you,” she told him. “Will you visit?”
“Send him in,” he agreed.
Lund was a younger man, just in his twenty-fifth year. He had crewed with Odd on a number of longboat journeys and had, for some inexplicable reason, aspired to follow in the elder Viking’s footsteps. That had been several seasons ago, however, and Lund’s attention had wandered of late. He had taken up with new acquaintances from another land and hadn’t been seen in the village in many months.
“Greetings, old friend,” Odd offered when the other man had taken a seat by his bed.
“You are the old one here, old man,” Lund teased, yet the warmth in his eyes was caught by the lamp glow and belied the harsh words.
“Old yea, but thirty-seven winters is too soon to be called to Valhalla if not at an enemy's hands,” he groused. To be sure, with a death such as this, he was not even certain he would be allowed to see Valhalla. “The Gods have turned their backs on me, denying me my dignified death.”
“I came as soon as I heard,” Lund told him, laying a hand on his arm. “I do not wish you to return to Valhalla. You have been a heroic Viking and have always conducted your business with honor; every person who knows of you has held you in great esteem. You are of value.”
“It not be my choice,” he responded.
Lund’s eyes had risen to meet his at that, they spoke of secrets in their shadows. “Would you then welcome an…alternative?” he questioned. “Perhaps you do have a choice.”
“Has the fever taken you?!” Odd queried. “I have fought this battle for many nights, my body fails me and my mind slips away with growing frequency. My strength to fight is nearly spent,” he admitted shamefully.
Lund leaned closer, his voice lowered and his gaze darting around the room anxiously. “What if the einherjar walk among us? These are Odin’s chosen ones, like him they have no need of meat or drink, requiring only the wine of the vein.”
Could he be one of Odin’s chosen ones? “I have not died in battle.”
“If you had died in battle you would be in Valhalla.”
Had Odd not asked for a sign? “It made no sense,” he admitted. “I feel in my bones that it is not yet my time, I have not fulfilled the destiny that was promised me.”
“Your destiny awaits.”
“How do you know of these walking einherjar?”
“I serve them,” Lund stated proudly. “I would be honored to serve you, as well.”
Something about that bothered him, but it could just be that the idea of being a servant, even to the einherjar, was displeasure to a man of his nature. Serve the Gods? Yes. That was an honor.
“How do you choose?” Lund pressed.
“I choose to live.”
“Maximilian is my einherjar,” Lund explained. “Send your mother away. He will come to you before the dawn. If he sees the sign of the chosen upon you, you will be initiated.”
“I will await Odin’s decision.”
Lund rose, clasping Odd’s hand in his. “I will see you again soon then, old friend.”
XXX
Silent as death and dark as the night, he slipped into the dwelling unnoticed. Around him in the village, the innocent slept unaware of the threat so close to them. They were safe, this night, as he had other business to attend to.
The lamp had long since gone out, but his eyes saw clearly in the figure on the bed. The dying man had slipped into a fitful unconsciousness, sweat dampening his skin as the infection ravaged his body. Still, a vibrant body, a fine specimen of Viking manhood. His long blond hair fanned out around a face that spoke of not only his Norse blood but a hint of Irish perhaps. His body held the visitor’s attention for a long moment. He’d kicked his coverings off in his fever, and his lean form was naked to appreciative eyes. Fully a man, muscles that spoke of a life spent in a man’s pursuits. He could definitely understand why Lund had sung this man’s praises so. He was going to enjoy having this one as a companion. If he fought it – that would just make the surrender all the sweeter.
He sat down beside the Viking, a hand reaching out to caress the damp skin of his chest. The hand drifted lower, lazily. Strikingly blue eyes opened to regard him in confusion.
He smiled wickedly. “Odin sent me.” Then he struck.
XXX
One moment Odd was caught in feverish dreams of warriors feasting in Valhalla, the next he was awake and looking upon an unfamiliar face looming over him. He barely had time to remember Lund’s visit when his head was pulled back and he felt a stabbing pain in his neck. Yet even as he cried out, a warmth spread through him that was unlike the heat of the fever. This was like liquid fire in his veins, spreading through his body. In his weakened state the euphoria didn’t last long however, darkness soon hovered at the edges of his vision as his body’s life force faded fast. His last thought as a mortal was that perhaps he should have asked exactly how the einherjar initiate the chosen.
And then, life returned. It sang through Odd's body as he became hyper-aware; vital, vibrant, strength of a kind he'd never felt coursing through him. Liquid ambrosia slid down his throat; only partially satisfying a growing hunger in his gut that he instinctively knew would not be slaked by meat or bread.
Odd opened his eyes to regard his maker, not knowing that they now glowed pale and inhuman. The vampire gently pulled his arm away from his fledgling's mouth, chuckling at the snarl of protest.
“Come,” the stranger beckoned, reaching out for the former Viking’s hand. “We must hunt before the dawn.”
“Hunt?” he asked, slipping out of the bed, willing to do anything this man told him if it would ease the pain growing within him, the desire that demanded satisfaction above all else.
“It will be glorious.”
XXX
Soon enough, Odd would learn the truth about Maximilian Alexi. That he was not an emissary of Valhalla but one of Hel, having lured Lund to him with the enticing opportunity to serve the God’s elite on Earth. The elder vampire indulged himself in anyone that struck his fancy, his keen mind knowing exactly how to ensnare them into his web. Lies spilled from his gilded tongue like sugar, attracting the vulnerable, the gullible.
His newest vampire was neither. A practical man though, Odd knew that the Gods were also. Odin’s ways were often mysterious. He walked the land disguised as others and appeared in many forms. When He called a Viking to Him, that did not necessarily mean the road there was going to be an easy one. On the contrary, it was usually bloody and violent and painful. You fought the good battle, and when you were victorious you earned your reward. He would fight this enemy, and in the end, prevail.
Only time would tell what his reward would be.
XXX
Max was a depraved, raving lunatic. He went and got himself a Viking, and he thought he was going to make him into one of his “boy toys.” Man, that was his first mistake. It ain’t happening.
Yeah, Lund was what we know nowadays as a freshie. Nearly four centuries later Max had his eye on yet another young man. He told me over ‘breakfast’ one morning, “I think we need another Lund, don’t you?” I was pretty fed up with it at that point, so I suggested he just turn the boy instead. So he tried.
The rest is, as they say, history.
The end
1/4/09