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, 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. He quickly overrode the feeling with something far darker—anticipation. Oh how Alastor had waited for the information on this parchment in his hand! 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 poor Nicholas to deliver such a letter to Asgard, knowing full well that he would be stopping here first.
"Once again you've helped me out my goddess of death." He mused. 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. If only she had been more to him than just a chess piece, he would have been happy.
His attention turned sour as he remembered 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 behind the band tied around his mouth were silenced. His body fell silent on the floor, dirtying his custom carpet with a slowly growing pool of blood.
"Clean that up," he ordered the guard who stood before him, and then he traced a bloodied claw along the envelope, unsealing the contents, his eyes gleaming with malevolent delight. "The time has come," he whispered, his voice like the hiss of a blade being unsheathed. "Their kind will kneel before me. I will strip them of their pride and their loyalty; their pathetic notions of pack and freedom. Their fight to defy me."
The firelight danced in his eyes as he envisioned his plan unfolding. "I will make them mine. Their claws will become fangs, their fur will burn away, and their savage instincts will yield to bloodlust. The werewolves will no longer howl at the moon. They will thirst for blood."
He would turn them all to vampires, and then use them for his will. He didn't need his son.
A low chuckle escaped his throat, rising into a deep, echoing laugh. The shadows of his castle seemed to tremble with his malice. The Vampire King Alastor was ready to unleash a darkness unlike anything the world had ever seen! And then he would become king of the Gods!
He flicked his wrist and flung the bag of ashes into the flames, sending embers flying out onto the carpet, ruining it more. 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.
Then as the bag burned, his son's ashes began to spill out and suddenly the fire turned green.
He stood up.
"No! No! No! It can't be!"
The ashes that were once black had turned golden. His ashes refused to burn, but instead began 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 had become a God.
———————
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 death that knew not his name.
Like a poem, no gravity infiltrated.
No winds stirred, nothing made a sound.
They floated in dreams that never ceased,
In the vast, eternal peace.
Time standing still forever.
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. He had long golden horns on top of his head like a goat.
But this man was also dramatic. A long cape flowed behind him and his body was lean. 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 asked in his mind. And the man answered him back, "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.
—————-
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 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 was talking about, then she looked to her husband for answers.