Alastor, king of the vampires stood before the roaring fire, his crimson cloak and armor catching the light of the flickering flames. In his hand, he held the ashes of his son, the last remnants of a lineage he once hoped would carry out his plans.
A frown deepened on his face. His son—a weakling, a fool—had defied him in every way. He had dared to turn his back on his birthright, running off with that werewolf wife of his, dying with her.
Alastor's grip tightened on the bag of ashes in his hand, a bag that had taken eighteen years to come into his possession. Eighteen years his son had been dead and no one had told him.
"And now," he murmured to the flames, his voice low and venomous, "I finally know that he's nothing more than dust. Fitting."
Disappointment churned in his chest, but he didn't want to know where it came from. Part of him was angry that the mother of his son had kept this knowledge from him until now. He almost felt betrayed.
He quickly overrode the feeling with something more comfortable —dark anticipation. Plans for what he could do with the information on the parchment in his hand churned in his mind. He turned his hand over, revealing the front of the stolen letter, the wax seal still unbroken was marked with the familiar crest of Helheim.
"How silly Hel had been to send such a letter to Asgard, knowing full well that the messenger would be stopping here first." He mused as he opened it and began reading.
"Oh you've helped me once again my goddess of death." He mused as he kissed the letter in his hand. In his mind he remembered the feel of Hel in his arms. If only she hadn't discovered who he was, he would have held onto her forever. Used her to fulfill all of his darkest plans. But she had only been a chess piece to him in the end. Without his true love Amali, he would never be happy.
He had long understood that if happiness was not for him, then power was. Still without his son's death, he still had hope of resurrecting her.
"Damned boy." He cursed, "And now I will never have Amali back, so the werewolves all get to die instead. Just like they did before. This will be twice that I kill then because of him and his wretched wife!"
"Hehehe. Who am I kidding, I'll be glad to kill them!"
"Mmmm mmmm mmmua!!!" The sudden sounds of struggling on the floor reminded him of the messenger who still knelt before him— Or rather lay bound and gagged at his feet.
With a slash of his claws, the boy's muffled cries were silenced. His body fell with a thud on the floor, dirtying his custom carpet with a slowly growing pool of blood.
"Clean that up," he ordered the guard who stood beside him.
"Yes Master Alastor." He said hastily and rolled up the rug around the body, then he rushed out of the room to dispose of it.
Minutes later, a new rug was placed in the spot where the old one had been.
A low chuckle escaped his throat, rising into a deep, echoing laugh. The shadows of his castle seemed to tremble with his malice. Alastor was ready to unleash death unlike anything the world had ever seen! And then he would overthrow even Odin and become the king of the Gods!
To hell with the prophecy that he needed a dragon beast to help him do it. He would do it even without his dead son.
He flicked his wrist and flung the bag of ashes into the flames, sending embers flying out onto the carpet, ruining it as well. The embers hissed and crackled as they consumed it. The roaring inferno climbed higher with excitement. The Vampire king sat down,
He was going to watch it burn.
As the bag burned, his son's ashes began to spill out, suddenly causing him to jump to his feet in astonishment.
The fire turned green and the ashes turned golden and refused to burn.
"No! No! No! It can't be!"
The ashes increased in heat so much that he had to back away! The bricks underneath the fire began melting, seeping through the floor. Disappearing from the fireplace like a phoenix commencing rebirth.
"How could it be?!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "No!!!!!"
He tried to scoop up the ashes from the fire with a dust pan. Embers jumping out at him in protest, burning his hands, but he couldn't pause. He had to stop the process he had accidentally activated— but the ashes melted through the metal and melted through the floor, like golden magma, there was no stopping them now.
Sirius was rising again and this time he would be immortal.
———————
In a dark, silent, breathless space below, as the embers above burned, particles of light that lazily filtered in and out of view began to shimmer.
Particles of a soul that had no hope of rebirth, twirling in an endless flight of cosmic stillness, began to shine.
Amongst the millions of other particles of the deceased, Loki finally found them.
A long lost life, with no heartbeat.
The victim of the second death of the soul— who should have faded away with time, in this place that stood outside of time itself.
In this void, no gravity infiltrated.
No winds stirred, nothing made a sound.
The particles floated in dreams that never ceased in the vast, eternal peace.
Time stands still forever here—
Until now.
Out of the darkness a voice coaxed them to come unto him.
He gently guided them through the darkness and took ahold of them.
He blew life into them.
"Sirius now is not the time for sleeping."
And just like that, the dream world had ended.
The man formed the particles together and gave them the shape of a boy.
He hugged the boy tightly and eventually the boy hugged him back.
Though he was groggy and didn't know who he was, he opened his eyes and looked up at the man. The man had black hair and calm eyes. His smile was gentle. The man emanated with power, mystery, and craftiness.
Sirius didn't know what to think of him, but he had an aura that he could be trusted.
"Who are you?" He wondered in his mind, unsure if he could remember language. The man answered him back out loud and somehow he understood it, "I am Loki."
Sirius looked at the man and recognized his name slightly. "I think I have been looking for you." He answered.
Loki smiled, "Come with me, it is time I take you to your wife.
—————-
Days later, the Bifröst opened and a skinny white haired man stumbled into the room, interrupting the meal being had between Odin and his wife.
The man's face was pale and streaked with tears. He had experienced a hasty recovery, It was obvious he had been killed and reborn before he came here.
He collapsed onto one knee, his voice trembling as he spoke.
"The letter meant for you… he has it. The vampire king knows where the werewolves are."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them like a stormcloud.
"Good old saint Nicholas, it's been a long time." Odin frowned, setting down his drinking horn, a bit of mead splashed onto the wooden table of Valhalla.
His wife set down her tea cup, unsure of what the second eldest son of Hel, Sirius' brother was talking about, then she looked to her husband for answers.