Chapter Text
Fighting one of the most famous vampire hunters alive was all fun and games until a certain brat decided to ruin the day for everyone.
For the father, who looked at him in wide-eyed shock, his son's name dying in a whisper on his lips, definitely. But even more so for the brat, when his small body slammed into one of the birch trees that lined the road and forced all the air out of his lungs, denying him even the relief that a scream brought.
And maybe, just maybe, even for Askeladd himself, because now the chance of a truce was out of the question.
The kid's father, through and through human, and albeit worried for his son, couldn't be aware of the extent of the injuries, but for someone like him, the sound of cracking bones could not be ignored, it was like a sudden thunder that roared through a silent night. What also didn't escape him was the smell of fresh blood.
Stupid kid, lunging at him with a silver dagger like that.
Why did he think he had the audacity to interfere at all? By the looks on Thors' face, the same thought must've crossed his mind.
“Thorfinn! Don't move!” Thors, his face pale and sweaty now, yelled out to his son, and yet once more did the boy not listen, but every single one of his attempts to get back on his feet ended in failure. Probably made his injury worse in the process, but it didn't seem like the brat cared.
When Askeladd's and Thors' eyes met again, they both knew that this was it. The all-deciding moment. The truth, laid bare before them, the truth that finally dawned upon the vampire hunter. His gaze wandered back to his son, still struggling to reach him, to help him, to make it right. But there was no way to make it right anymore. With all his heart, he knew that only one of them would make out alive.
All he could offer his son now was one final smile, desperate and encouraging and longing for a different outcome that would never be, before he turned back around to face Askeladd.
The offer still stood. Thors knew. He knew and declined anyway without hesitating, without saying a single word, just like the first time Askeladd made his offer.
His silence sealed his fate.
“Will you let him go?” Thors asked, and the resignation in his voice was hard to overhear.
“By the name of my ancestor, I promise,” Askeladd said, feeling equally resigned to this fate that bound him, before he rammed his sword through Thors' heart.
“FATHER!”
Thors' body twitched as the blood cascaded over his lips and onto the floor, staining his clothes in a deep red in the process. His body faltered just at the moment his son finally reached him, who ignored the growing pain and crawled to his father's side. He caught him before he could hit the ground.
“Father! FATHER!” The boy shook Thors, hoping, praying, longing for an answer, but Thors remained still, his eyes staring into nothing.
What a futile endeavour. Really, if Askeladd had still been capable of it, he would've felt pity. But that was a feeling that was burned out of him long ago, so all he did was watch the boy's useless attempts to wake his father, and then the slow realisation that played out on his features as the unmistakable truth dawned on him.
“You... you killed my father.”
The boy's voice reached his ears, sharp like a knife cutting through bone, as he cradled his father's head in his arms.
“I'll kill you.”
Angry hot tears streamed down his face.
“I'LL KILL YOU!!”
In a second he was on his feet. All the pain was forgotten. Blinded by the rage that consumed him, he stormed towards Askeladd, his dagger's blade glinting in his right hand.
A kick that sent him flying was enough to deal with this little nuisance.
A long sigh escaped his lips. He should kill this little pest now. That would be the humane thing to do all things considered, as funny as it sounded. The wound the boy received was lethal, no doubt about that. Either he would bleed to death, if things went well, or the infection would get him. Definitely the nastier, prolonged end. A quick stab to the heart was nothing but mercy for that dying brat.
Askeladd turned on his heels. Nah, this was none of his business. What did the boy matter to him? Let him fend for himself. The outcome would be the same either way.
♛
When his senses finally returned to him, so did the excruciating pain at his side. It was there in an instant, robbing him of any coherent thought. It tore through his flesh and cut through his bones in an agony he had never felt before in his 12 years of life.
Thorfinn coughed and another wave of pain raced through his body, sending him to the edge of unconsciousness. Only with the greatest effort did he manage to guide his right hand to his lower ribcage – despite only touching it lightly, he winced at the pain. When he withdrew it, his fingers were stained with blood.
“Shit... shit!”
Then his view fell on the body of his father.
He couldn't think. He couldn't speak. He gasped, struggling to breathe.
He dragged his own battered body forward, and for all he knew it might've been a million miles he had to cross, a million miles that lay between him and his father. A distance, so impossibly great – could he ever reach him?
All the warmth had left the body, all the blood had run dry. Curled up over his father's corpse, listening for the heartbeat that would never return, resting his head on his father's chest that was forever unmoving, Thorfinn finally gave free rein to his tears.
His father was far away now, in a different place. He would never reach him.
A hastily dug grave, that had to be enough for now. His father deserved a proper burial, but that was all his son could give him. Thorfinn checked the makeshift bandage he had wrapped around his chest, hoping it would not bleed through too quickly. He pulled out his dagger and held it in his hand, letting his thumb run gently over the silver blade. His own reflection staring back at him, he instantly saw that he looked different. Older. Weary. But with a resolve that quickly grew in his heart.
This was not fair. Nothing about the whole situation was fair.
His father didn't deserve this, didn't deserve to rest under the earth in a small pit dug to hold off hungry beasts. He deserved to be alive. And if he hadn't sneaked after his father against his will... no, if that Vampire hadn't been, Thors would be still back home, safe and sound.
He was there somewhere, hiding like a coward in that forest. Just before Thorfinn lost consciousness, before everything around him turned dark, he saw him wander off into the forest without a care in the world. As if his father's death didn't mean a single thing. As if he was just a dispensable insect that had been crushed under that man's heels. Fiery hot anger poured through Thorfinn's heart, burned through his veins. With the smouldering embers of his hatred ignited, even the pain felt faint and distant to him. He stumbled towards the deep dark forest, his dagger clenched in his right hand.
It felt like he walked for hours. Without knowing if he was getting any closer to his goal, without knowing if he even went in the right direction. And with each minute that passed, the shadows of the forest grew into larger shapes, coiled and entwined around him. The darkness encroached on him from every corner, and it brought a feeling that he wasn't alone, that every step he made was watched.
Eyes. Eyes on him. From every angle. Eyes hidden in the darkest corners of the forest, belonging to beasts and who knew what else, watching him, always watching him without pause, eyes -
His wound exploded in pain as a sudden coughing fit seized him. He stumbled and fell to the ground, as the stars danced their chaotic dance before his eyes. A metallic taste filled his mouth and lingered on his tongue, heavy and bitter. Only when the coughing stopped and the pain at his side shrank to a bearable level did Thorfinn dare to open his eyes again. A few drops of blood speckled the earth before him, and when he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, the hem was red.
Did he have the strength to walk on?
He had to. Even when his body was falling apart, he had to. He couldn't allow himself to stop now, not when that monstrosity responsible for his father's death was still out there, lurking, and continued to exist as if he had the right to. As if he didn't deserve a silver blade through his heart.
He would find him, no matter what. And when he did, he would kill him.
♛
Thors had lived up to his name as one of the greatest vampire hunters. Even two days later, Askeladd was still licking his wounds, taking it easy so that his regenerative abilities could do their work. That a mere mortal was capable of that, impressive.
But at the end of the day, Thors was just that - a mortal. And he died like any other mortal when Askeladd's blade pierced his skin and thrust right through his heart.
Askeladd sighed and sunk back into his armchair as he took a sip from the wine glass he held in his hand. Buried deep in thought, he became lost in the sight of the dark red liquid swirling around in his glass.
Could there have been a different way? A different outcome?
But even with the prospect of his death, Thors had rigorously ignored the outstretched hand that offered him another way out. It really was a pity. He chose his own demise over making a deal with a vampire.
There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and it wasn't because of the wine.
The name Thors had called him - Olaf - it filled the pit of his stomach with nothing but disgust.
So that's what he was in the eyes of the world? A mere imitation of his father, a shadow who still haunted the minds and hearts of men?
Even though that very same man was who he wanted dead! The reason why Askeladd offered an alliance!
The urge to throw his wine glass into the fireplace was nearly overwhelming, but it would've been a waste of a perfectly good wine. Instead he half-emptied it in one big gulp.
“Askeladd,” a voice called out to him from the other side of the room.
A voice, guttural and low, that unmistakably belonged to one of the local werebeasts who lived in the forest that surrounded the castle. The one he made a mutual pact with, which went against the common principles of vampire society. Like Askeladd gave a damn about that.
“It's been a while, Bjorn,” Askeladd said and turned around in his chair to look at the new arrival.
Bjorn, tall and imposing but with a gentleness in his eyes that betrayed his wild look, leaned in the door frame with his arms crossed. One look was enough to tell that he had something on his mind.
“Hm? What is it?” Askeladd set down his wine glass and massaged his temples. He wasn't in the mood for more bad news.
“You got a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
Now that piqued his curiosity. It was rare that someone strayed here to his castle, the forest and its beasts usually took care of any visitor who was daring enough to step into it.
“Yeah, a boy. I watched him wander through the forest. Seems like he was looking for you.“
Looking for him? Who could-
Ah. Right.
“And you didn't think to stop him?”
“What could a kid possibly do against you?” Bjorn grinned.
Askeladd stood up.
“Well, gotta see this with my own eyes.”
It was the same kid. The same damn kid, barely being able to stand on his two feet, glaring at him from under his blond mop of hair with a contempt he hadn't seen in ages. Eyes like these he didn't forget.
But the boy was in an even worse state than when he had last seen him. His face, red and sweaty, evidence of the fever that had broken out. The barely dried drops of blood on his lips, the dirty and bled-through bandages at his side – he was enveloped in the stench of death. A corpse who didn't know he was one yet, still clinging to life with every fibre of his being.
Ah, so instead of even trying to get to a healer, however futile that would've been, the boy had tracked him. Was it stupidity that drove him forward through the pain, or was he aware he was doomed and used his last bits of strength on this suicide mission?
But even so, even knocking at death's door, he had managed to find his way here.
The boy gasped for air, and yet every intake of breath caused him visible pain. With his silver dagger in his outstretched hand, he wanted to reach Askeladd, but all that happened was that his legs finally gave in and he collapsed to the ground. Askeladd rolled him over with his boot to see if he still breathed. He did. Barely. That small chest rose and fell, even if it was shallow and uneven. And yet the boy was still not willing to give up. He clutched his dagger in his hand and pointed it at him, as the tears ran down his face, as despair overpowered him and whispered into his ear that he failed, that he wouldn't be able to avenge his father, that all he did was in vain. Even in the face of his demise, he was unwilling to relent.
Askeladd decided in an instant.
Without hesitating another second he knocked the dagger from the kid's hand, ignoring the pain the silver caused where it touched his skin, and picked him up in his arms. All under the protests of the brat and Bjorn's perplexed expression, but he paid them no attention.
The boy was strong. Stronger than he had anticipated. And where his father was unable to help him in his endeavour, maybe the son could. He would make sure he would. A tool just had to be forged and handled properly, that was all it took.
“Askeladd, what are you doing?”
A weird feeling tugged at his heartstrings. It so felt ancient and unfamiliar that he had trouble recalling what it was.
He did not answer Bjorn's question and instead gestured for him to follow. The flames in the fireplace still crackled when he made it to the big living room. They dyed the room in a warm, cosy shine.
Well, what would happen here soon was neither warm nor cosy.
After dropping the kid onto one of the couches assembled in front of the fireplace, he strolled over to the biggest cupboard and opened one of the drawers. What greeted him was a finely crafted golden dagger placed on a red cushion. Hesitation stopped his hand from grabbing it. The wild magic the gold was imbued with still pulsed through the dagger with incredible power, and even without touching it, it felt uncomfortably familiar. A kind of familiarity that reminded him of what he had done that day. When he had last seen this dagger, last used this dagger... many human lifetimes separated him from that moment, but it was still not enough to forget. Still not enough to forgive himself.
The sound of a loud and unpleasant choke reached his ears.
“Shit,” he heard Bjorn mutter, followed by something wet and liquid hitting the floor tiles.
“I don't exactly know what you have planned, but if it's about the kid, you should hurry.”
Guess he had no choice, huh?
With the golden dagger in his hand he returned to the couch and instantly found the source of that weird noise – the boy had spat out quite a generous amount of blood all over his floor. Breathing heavily, he eyed Askeladd with utmost suspicion – a suspicion that grew into dread when his view fell on the dagger.
“Bjorn, pin him down! He needs to lie still.”
“You're not going to-?”
Yeah, he was going to.
Long blond strands of hair flashed before his vision. Eyes the colour of his own, wide open in sheer terror, staring up at him as if he was a monster. Her blood on his hands and in his mouth and all over her body. An inhuman shriek that still rang in his ears hundreds of years later and let his blood freeze in his veins. Something unforgivable was done that day.
With the golden dagger he sliced the palm of his left hand open. In an instant drops of blood seeped from the cut, and into the mouth of the boy, whose jaws he had pried open. The little shit even tried to bite him, bold and foolish as he was, but now that he had swallowed the blood he wasn't feeling oh so brave anymore. He was the son of a vampire hunter. No doubt he knew what was coming.
Askeladd's and the boy's eyes met, and for a moment the world was perfectly still. They both wore the same expression, his mother and that boy, the same fear, the same anguish, the same helplessness as a choice was made for them. The same choice - would the result be the same?
He had no time to hesitate. Askeladd pulled the kid's collar away, exposing his neck... and sunk his teeth in a second later.
The kid screamed for hours.
Screamed so long that his lungs threatened to burst, and even then he kept screaming. Overwhelmed by the pain, he thrashed around in a slow death's agony, his human body fighting tooth and nail against the foreign virus that wanted to conquer him, wanted to break him, defile him and turn him into something else.
What now flowed through his veins was a curse.
Sometimes Askeladd sat at his side and watched him. And with his own eyes he could see the flame of that life grow dimmer. A once strong flame that burned brightly, reduced to mere embers. Other times he was as far away from him as possible because he couldn't bear the screams any longer. They reminded him too much of her and how she had to go through the exact same process.
It wasn't until nearly 24 hours later that the screams died down all of a sudden, as if his voice was cut short. Askeladd was at the kid's side in a heartbeat, but he almost staggered when an intense scent hit his nose. It was unmistakable. The smell of a person who was close to death. Death had come to claim him. It was hiding in every shadow the fire cast, in every ragged breath the boy exhaled. It loomed in every frail, exhausted, laboured heartbeat, patiently waiting for its moment to strike.
“Did it work?” Bjorn asked from behind him, choosing to keep a healthy distance.
The disturbed look on Bjorn's face when he had bitten the boy had not escaped him. It was fleeting, but enough to tell how he really felt about all this deep down. Yeah, couldn't blame him for that. Not with what he had lived through.
But if it worked, that was a whole other question.
The boy's breathing had grown so faint that it was barely visible to the naked eye. Pearls of sweat ran down his strained face, which was hot under the touch. The fever he contracted from the virus devoured him form the inside out, burned away any fragment of humanity until nothing was left.
The boy opened his eyes, stared up at him -
And that was that moment his heart beat for the final time.
♛
His first heartbeat brought him back from the edge of death.
Like swimming to the surface from the depths of the sea, the darkness around him faded and gave way for the light to reach him. Gone was the perfect silence that enveloped him in its embrace, that cradled him gently as a mother would, that kept him safe somewhere neither here nor there. Muffled voices reached him from far away. Their whispers and murmurs, incomprehensible to him, pushed him forward, pushed him to go on. He did not understand a single word they said, but he wanted to. He had to know.
And with that thought lingering in his heart, Thorfinn finally opened his eyes.
Everything was too bright and too loud and too wrong. The room – what room, where was he? - was spinning before his very eyes, turning foggy only to turn back to normal a second later. He wanted nothing more than to lie down, to stop the whirlwind in his head, but realised he was already lying down on something soft. Then why did the world continue to spin? Why did he feel like he was falling, with nothing to hold onto?
Shutting his eyes didn't save him from the onslaught of senses either. The voices said something and it was like they yelled into his ear, even though he could not make out a single word. And above all a loud, continuous crackling sound that roared in his head and threatened to drown his mind.
And even though the room was so warm and stuffy and filled with a fragrance so disgustingly sweet that he could suffocate, the hairs all over his body stood on end.
He had to leave.
If he stayed here any second longer, he would go insane.
The voices grew louder and more hectic, and out of nowhere two hands grabbed him and held him close. His kicking and yelling resulted in someone fixating his head, and before he could process what was going on, a cold, bitter liquid filled his mouth and ran down his throat.
He swallowed it without thinking, and then he knew no more.
When he woke up the second time that day, his eyesight was a lot clearer. Or maybe the lack of blinding light let him see better, he didn't know. It was only then that he noticed the person sitting across from him in a lavish armchair. He recognised the man in an instant.
"Olaf!" he croaked, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded.
The vampire's left eyelid twitched. Leaning forward, he looked at Thorfinn with an expression of untamed contempt.
“My name is Askeladd,” the vampire said,” Olaf, the man you were looking for, the man your father came to kill – he's not here anymore, I'm afraid.”
He sank back into his chair before he reached for a wine bottle and poured himself a glass.
This was not true. It couldn't be. His father went after the wrong man? But who said the vampire wasn't just lying to his face? And even so, did it truly matter in the end? Vampire was vampire, and the world would be a better place with one less of them in it. But this was not what happened. Olaf or not, this... this monster killed his father. He sat up and ignored his spinning head as best as he could, then reached for his holster to grab his dagger, but found it empty.
“Ah, there's no need for that any longer,” the vampire said in a bored tone,” you can't use it anyway.”
Can't use it anyway? What kind of bullshit was that supposed to mean?
“You won't say that when I slit your throat with it!” Thorfinn spat out, but the vampire remained entirely unimpressed.
“No kid, you don't understand. I meant exactly what I said. You can't use it any longer.”
At first he only felt the urge to slap that smug grin from the vampire's face, but then his words slowly sank in. There was something important he couldn't remember, something hidden in the depths of his heart that had not revealed itself yet.
It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, and most of all he himself. An uncomfortable sense of foreboding crawled up his spine and poisoned his mind like a spider poisoned its victims, ensnared him in a net of denial and resentment.
His hand inevitably reached for his teeth. They were sharp where they should not be. Just like... just like -
“What did you do?”
Rolling up his sleeve, he touched his skin that was unnaturally white, so disgustingly, sickeningly pale that the urge to vomit nearly overwhelmed him. His fingers, twisted into grotesque claws, his ears pointy, his eyes that could see just fine even though he couldn't find a source of light in this room.
Corrupted and remade by their blood, stripped of everything that made him human.
“Why did you do this to me!?”
He went for the attack. It didn't matter that he was unarmed, he would tear that man apart with his bare hands if he had to. The vampire dared to sit there in his chair, too comfortable with himself, without giving the slightest damn that he had taken everything from Thorfinn. First his father, now his humanity.
And just as he was ready to strike, yearning for his fist to wipe that all-too-calm expression from the vampire's face, his body stopped dead in its tracks. As if a foreign will was forced upon him, he couldn't move, no matter how much he wanted to. It came from deep within him, like an instinct he didn't know he possessed until this very moment, an instinct he couldn't disobey.
He looked at the vampire, who returned his gaze with indifference. That vampire, Askeladd, was this his doing? Some kind of sorcery to keep him in check?
“I turned you into what you are now, boy. No matter how much you wish for it, you can't hurt me. You're bound by my blood. So I advise you to stop wasting your time with this... nonsense,” the vampire said as if reading his mind, and a shiver went down Thorfinn's spine. Was not even his own mind safe, or was the vampire just trying to rile him up, to break his spirit?
“We'll see about that when I finally kill you,” Thorfinn said with as much spite as he could muster up.
“Oh, how scary,” a grin spread over the vampire's face, exposing his long fangs. He wasn't the least bit impressed by the threat.
He stood up and stretched his arms and shoulders, then walked past Thorfinn without a care in the world.
What an idiot, exposing his back like this, was all Thorfinn thought before tried to attack him. And yet once again did his body not move, to his own growing frustration.
Askeladd turned around and rolled his eyes, before he poked his side with a finger. He might as well have stabbed him, for Thorfinn yelped and jumped back in surprise.
“Perhaps some gratitude is at least in order? After all, if it weren't for me, you'd be worm food by now.”
The wound.
How could he have forgotten all about the wound? When he received the injury during the fight, he was so sure it would prove to be fatal, and yet he hadn't even spared t a thought until now. He lifted his shirt to examine it – and found the spot empty. The flesh had healed over so well that not even the faintest of scars remained.
He wanted to say something – though he was not sure what exactly – but the vampire was already gone.
Thorfinn stormed after him. When he barged the door open, he was greeted by a light so bright that it burned in his eyes, a sensation that prickled on every patch of bare skin it touched. He stumbled and knocked a vase to the ground with him.
“Oh come on, get up. This is pathetic.”
Two neatly polished shoes entered his view. The vampire stood in the gleaming sunlight without even batting an eyelid, let alone turning to dust.
He had read about this before, in old books telling stories about vampires and their kin, how the child of a vampire and a human was resistant to sunlight. A daywalker, that's what people called them. Someone stuck between the worlds of both vampire and human.
Thorfinn scrambled to his feet and ran. He ran, ran, ran, trying to find a way out of this castle, trying to reach his dagger. If this was true, then maybe his human side was still strong enough in him. Maybe there was still some hope left.
The dagger was still where he dropped it. Reflecting the twilight sun on its blade, he moved to grab it – and suddenly paused.
He searched for his own reflection in the silver, his own face staring back at him, desperate and weary, but still himself - but all it showed was the sky above. A jolt of pain raced through his hand when he touched the silver. He didn't even realise when he had dropped to his knees, but he stayed there, motionless, and all he could hear was his heart pounding in his ears.
There it was. The final proof. The proof that he could no longer deny reality.
He was one of them.
