EPILOGUE
~1,100 Years Ago, Circa 920 AD
Sogn, Norway
The bonfire crackled as Ragnor placed a fresh new log within the flames. Welcoming the heat, he sat down on the small wooden chair and huddled next to the fire, not daring to take even one furry layer of his clothes off.
The fjords were no place for lone humans to live, and, not for the first time, Ragnor found himself filled with anger. As much as he tried, pride was a hard sin to atone for, and his pride didn’t let him acknowledge the fact that he was a human now, and a human he would stay.
After grabbing the skinned gull he’d managed to hunt in the nearby forest earlier this morning, he impaled it on a thin branch and put it over the fire, then watched as the meat cooked. He then took some of the snow covering the ground, dropped it in the wooden cup he’d found in the little hut he now called home, and placed it over the fire as well. So far, he hadn’t dared to venture too deep into the forest, so he had no idea where he could find a river, or a lake, or any sort of water dispensary. For now he settled for snow.
If his former folk could see him right now ...
Gritting his teeth, he chugged the water in a swift motion before pulling the impaled meat to his mouth and biting it, the act so barbaric, the meat almost stuck in Ragnor’s throat from shame.
Even though he’d eaten the entire bird, he was still hungry. The hunger wouldn’t go away anytime soon, he knew. He was still wounded from his latest brawl with the local jarl—the event that had gotten him banished to these cold, snowy mountains—and without proper meals, he knew he wouldn’t be able to both satisfy his hunger and heal well.
Ragnor knew his anger was a problem—or, rather, had been a problem throughout his entire existence. It’s what led him down the path of humanity and what brought him so many misfortunes, Ragnor didn’t know what he was even living for anymore. He was too volatile to be able to control himself and far too proud to even try.
Using the wooden staff he’d carved for himself the day before, Ragnor rose to his feet and limped to the hut’s entrance door. After pushing it open, he stomped inside and fell on the straw-made mattress, too weak to keep himself seated.
He should rest, he knew, considering his aching bones and still-bleeding wounds.
But his fury did not allow for rest.
Growling, he covered his eyes with his arm and hoped that, at the very least, sleep would come and save him from his useless, meaningless existence.
Unfortunately, sleep didn’t come. But something else did.
A knock on the door made Ragnor jolt, and he sat up too quickly. Grunting in pain, he forced himself out of the bed and limped toward the door, then flung it open. He didn’t know what he should’ve expected, but a balding man with a small figure was not it.
Ragnor blinked and stared at the man who stood at the door wearing casual short clothes that did not go along with the snowy, stormy scenery behind him. Despite his skin seemingly being paper thin, the small man did not appear to feel the cold.
As Ragnor blatantly sized him up, the man gave him a smile. “I’m not your enemy,” he said in Greek rather than Norse. “May I enter?”
He might’ve understood the words, but it had been far too long since he last spoke the language. Thus he said in Latin instead, “And you expect me to trust the word of a stranger?”
The man didn’t budge. All he did was say three words in a language he should not have known, and Ragnor fell back, face tight, and let the man in.
Once inside, the man turned to him and said, “My name is Arphiase. I am an Ekimmu.”
Ragnor knew of the Ekimmu. Ancient texts referred to them as the spirits of the dead who were unable to find peace in the Beyond. They were also said to be incorporeal, and yet Arphiase seemed to be a living, breathing being.
But that was beside the point. “How do you know Volancian?”
Arphiase gave him a smile that sent chills down Ragnor’s spine. “That’s a story for another time,” he said, and from the way the Ekimmu spoke, Ragnor knew he wouldn’t get the answer he was seeking.
So he asked instead, “Then what the hell do you want?”
Arphiase walked toward the small window in the back of the hut and leaned against it, seeming to welcome the chill from the glass. “I have a request from you, Ragnor Meha-Malachi.”
Sitting down on a wooden chair, Ragnor felt his rage igniting. “That’s not my name,” he grated out. “Now tell me, what does a dead spirit want with the likes of me?”
The Ekimmu’s dark eyes gleamed, though Ragnor couldn’t decipher the emotion behind them. “That’s a common misconception,” Arphiase said, and while his smile remained intact, his face seemed taut. “And here I thought you know what I am.”
“I’ve only heard of your kind before,” Ragnor bit out. “Never met one of you.”
“Ah.” Arphiase nodded. “That makes sense now. Then let me tell you this; us Ekimmu are far from ‘dead spirits.’ In fact, any detail you probably know about my kind is false but for one.” As he opened his mouth, Arphiase’s fangs suddenly grew longer and sharper. “We do crave blood.”
He retracted the fangs, and his face turned serious. “I don’t know you, Ragnor,” he said, “but I do know of you. I heard the stories. I followed the whispers. And from all the information I collected, I know one thing for sure.” He paused, then said, almost pityingly, “Living as a mere mortal is a waste of your abilities.”
Ragnor felt his blood boil. His quick-to-ignite anger was close to getting the better of him. “If you really know of me, then you must know I no longer have any of those abilities,” he snapped, voice full of fury that was mostly directed at himself.
Because it was his own fault that this was his reality now. His, and no one else’s.
“You’re wrong,” Arphiase said, shaking his head as he started walking toward Ragnor. “You lost your access to those abilities when you became a mere human. But you can regain them—if you listen to my request.”
In spite of himself, Ragnor’s interest piqued. He wasn’t proud enough to turn away such an opportunity, even if he wasn’t sure whether this man before him was friend or foe. “I’m listening.”
And so Arphiase talked.
First, he told Ragnor of the true nature of the Ekimmu. He told him that the Ekimmu were a human subrace borne of a form of energy called Lifeblood. He told him the Ekimmu, while infertile, could change humans into Ekimmu, increasing their ranks, by giving them what the Ekimmu referred to as the Imprint—a certain essence only Ekimmu of great power could secrete from their inflated Lifeblood levels.
“I want you, Ragnor, to become an Ekimmu.”
Ragnor stared at the man unblinkingly. “Why?”
Arphiase grimaced. “There are not many of us who are left around,” he said quietly. “There have been certain ... incidents that caused our ranks to dwindle throughout the ages. We have only a few dozen of us left in the entire world, and of them, only four, including me, are powerful enough to give the Imprint.”
He was curious about those “incidents,” but Ragnor didn’t push. Instead, he said, “I’m not a normal human, though. How do you know if this Imprint would affect me?”
“There’s only one way for us to know for sure,” Arphiase replied, eyes locking with Ragnor’s in an unshakable hold. “You see, in very rare cases, the Imprint can fail—and the human who was given the Imprint and didn’t manage to adjust to the Imprint dies in those cases.”
Ragnor tensed. “So you’re saying that I can die.”
“It’s extremely rare, but yes, it’s a possibility,” he said matter-of-factly. “Especially as you said so yourself—you’re not a normal human. I’ve never tried giving the Imprint to someone like you before, and I don’t know of such cases in the past. This will be a first. An experiment, if you will.”
“And what makes you think I would agree?” Ragnor asked, gritting his teeth and clenching his hands into fists. The Ekimmu was asking him to risk his life. Sure, his life wasn’t much, but still ...
As though he’d read his thoughts, Arphiase smiled, and that cunning gleam returned to his eyes. “If the Imprinting succeeds, I can guarantee you’ll be able to access your abilities again in a few years. You will also become immortal, able to live until the end of time,” he said quietly. “The alternative would be that you’ll die as a mere human in this hut in the depths of some faraway fjord. And with how frequently you get yourself into brawls, you’ll eventually die earlier than old age. So yes, you might risk death by being given the Imprint, but you also have a chance of a new life.”
He paused, giving Ragnor a far-too-knowing look. “You might even be able to get back at those who wronged you. Those who took everything away from you.”
Ragnor couldn’t refute that even if he wanted to—and he didn’t. Arphiase’s request was more than tempting. It was as though everything Ragnor had dreamed of was being offered to him on a silver platter.
He could say no and remain in his current state.
Or he could say yes and risk dying a little earlier, but he would get a chance at the revenge he dreamed of.
The pros outweighed the cons. It was a once-in-a-lifetime offer. The most golden of opportunities.
Saying no wasn’t even an option.
“I’ll do it,” he said resolutely.
Arphiase grinned. “I knew you’d come around,” he said, satisfied. “Now, the second part of my request is this: if all goes according to plan and you are given the Imprint and rise anew as an Ekimmu, then I only wish for one thing in return.”
In the many years to come, Ragnor would forget about this wish. He would roam the world as a Leagueless Ekimmu—or, using the modern term, vampire —and participate in both atrocities and good deeds, forgetting about the vampire Lord who’d given him this second chance at truly living.
Until Arphiase visited him one day, three hundred years later, and asked for his wish to come true.
So Ragnor used his immense power and magic to carve out Arphiase’s heart and watch as his own Lord, his savior, finally found peace after thousands of years of misery.
And not for the first time, Ragnor wondered whether he would’ve been happy to end his own life as well. Whether he could really go on living without his Alara Morreh, the one who was always meant to be his, by his side.
That question had always remained in the back of his mind—until Ragnor pressed his lips against a woman hiding behind trash cans and, against his better judgment, gave her the Imprint.
A woman he now claimed as his.
His Alara Morreh.