Warnings: Angst, slash, bloodplay, violence, torture. If you're mature enough to watch True Blood, I think you'll be fine reading this.

Disclaimer: True Blood belongs to Alan Ball and the SVM books belong to Charlaine Harris. Only the original characters are mine.

Early autumn, 938 AD. Sweden.

Eric had woken up beside many, many, many women - but never a dead boy.

So young, Eric thought as he looked down at him, still partially covered in dirt. Such a waste.

The boy was dark haired with deathly pale skin, though Eric couldn't tell if it was just his natural colour or due to blood loss. The boy was covered with dried blood, particularly his mouth, but he could see no visible wounds. There was nothing overly distinguishing about him, other than the tattoos that covered his collarbone and arms. Eric peered at the runes engraved into his skin, but their meaning was lost on him.

The dead boy isn't the biggest concern at the moment, he reminded himself, looking at the hole he'd just been sharing with the corpse.

Someone had buried him in the ground.

Must have been only a few minutes ago; I didn't suffocate. He looked around, but there was nobody nearby. And unless I was extremely drunk, I don't think I'd let someone bury me under five feet of dirt.

Perhaps he was sobering up. His memory was hazy, like it usually was after a heavy drinking session with friends, and he felt extremely strange.

This isn't ale head though, he puzzled, nor is it like the time I ate those wild mushrooms.

Eric was certain it was night, but the light of the moon had not bleached the world of colour. The moon gods were revealing objects to him that he would normally never be able to see. Yards away, further than he should have been able to see, he could see a berry bush, the berries as bright and rosy as if he were looking at them during the sunniest part of the day.

A breeze rustled the forest around him and the sudden cacophony startled him. It was like the evening wind had summoned every night creature into action. He could hear wings rustling as nocturnal birds swooped out of their resting spots and he could clearly hear little night animals scurrying about.

Even the air smelled different. All type of odours, sweet, musty, damp, filled his nostrils and he struggled to identify them, but there were simply too many to make out.

One scent in particular stood out though. The dried blood on the boy's skin. It made him... thirsty.

Eric stepped away, repulsed by what he felt, but unable to look away from the red-brown mess that spattered the boy. It won't be as good as fresh blood. He grimaced and shook his head to clear the depraved thought from his mind. The more he stared at it, the more he wanted to bend down and lick it off.

Time to leave, he decided, unnerved. Immediately, two problems presented themselves.

Firstly, he wasn't sure where he was.

Secondly, and by far the more troubling of the two, his sword was missing.

He swore loudly, using every curse he knew. His sword was one of his most treasured possessions. Beautifully wrought by his great, great, great grandfather, it had been handed down generation after generation, and many enemies had lost their lives on its blade. The village elders had presented to him the day his people declared him king, his father's sword instead of his crown. Someday he would give it to his eldest son.

Even though the blade had ultimately been unable to save his father, it had brought him luck with every battle. Only last night he'd been fighting...

Wait. Last night? Last night I was fighting for my life. It had been a bloody battle, many of his men had died, but he was certain that his side had been victorious. He'd certainly sent many adversaries to the next world with grim satisfaction.

Perhaps my sword is still on the battlefield. But that didn't sound right.

That just brought him back to his first problem. He didn't know how to get to the battlefield from wherever he was. Not that he was terribly good at using the stars for navigation at the best of times, but that skill was completely beyond him at the moment. The heavens had changed since he'd looked at them last.

Perhaps Loki has been up to mischief. Eric didn't really put much faith in the stories he'd been told as a child, but seeing the sky with too many stars, some incredibly bright, others so faint he could barely make them out, he felt a little inclined to believe in them.

A wolf howled and Eric looked around, searching for the direction the cry had come from. A battlefield would attract scavengers. He loathed and feared wolves, but his warrior's pride demanded the return of his beloved sword.

"Rest well, young man," he said quietly, giving the boy a final glance. Hopefully the spirit of the boy now lived in Helgafjell and didn't wander the realm of Hel.

He began walking in the direction of the howling wolves, his skin crawling. In his mind's eye he could see the wolf he'd killed turning into a man with a strange mark on his neck.

Seventeen years after that night, and he was still no closer to avenging his father. Truthfully, he didn't think it would happen, not now. As king of his people there were too many responsibilities to go hunting the wolf master and his demon dogs. Plus there were his three children to consider; he could not leave them.

His plan proved harder than expected. The wolves had sounded close by, but he'd yet to come across them. His thirst was getting stronger, it was so bad that it was beginning to hurt, but there was no stream nearby, and so he forced himself onwards.

As he walked, he tried to remember what had happened to land him in a hole in the ground.

We found the enemy by night, he remembered slowly, and attacked then because we thought we had the advantage. They were strong fighters, but there were more of us. We were winning.

The more he thought about it, the more he remembered. It was dark, but we could see. I remember throwing a spear at an enemy who was hiding near the trees. He was a long way off, but I still hit him. Pinned him to a tree. He smiled at that memory – he couldn't wait to brag about the excellent shot when he got home.

I saw wolves and thought of Father. Hjalmar was going to be hit from behind, so I lunged forward to strike the man down first. Hjalmar thanked me and we swung our swords again. There was a burning pain in my side. Hjalmar killed a man that had snuck up behind me. Then the pain wasn't so bad. I could still fight.

His hand went to his side again, probing for the wound. It wasn't there. Eric stopped and looked down at his side. His shirt was cleanly sliced through and it was covered in dried blood and dirt, but underneath, there was just smooth skin. No blemish at all. He pulled his shirt up to double check. While looking at the spot where the fatal wound ought to be, Eric saw that even his hands and wrists were healthy looking.

I was in a battle, he thought, fear beginning to rise in him. I should be covered in bruises and scrapes. Everything should hurt. But it doesn't.

Aside from his insistent thirst, he'd never felt better. He let his shirt fall. What has happened?

The wolves howled again and he set off after them, walking faster as his anxiety increased.

Knótr saw the blood first and asked if I was alright. I told him I was fine, it was just a scratch. I didn't think he believed me, but I kept fighting. Then I began to feel weak. He paused, the memory coming back full force. Knótr and Bjarni had to carry me I was so badly wounded. I told them to leave me. And they wouldn't. We knew I was done for so they built me a pyre. I was on it when...

The hairs on the back of his neck pricked.

He continued to walk at the same pace, careful not to show that he was aware of this mystery person shadowing him. If he'd had his sword, he would have spun around fearlessly. As it was, his hand flexed instinctively, holding tight to the missing hilt. He tried listening intently, but all the sounds in the forest were still too distracting. He couldn't hear the wolves anymore, but he could hear the faint trickle of a stream.

He changed course. The thirst was growing unbearable, he actually felt a little weak now. He couldn't pick out the footsteps behind him, if there even had been. Perhaps I imagined it.

The scent of wood smoke hit him and he paused, wondering if he should follow that. The men might be friendly, perhaps even his own men; he'd be right glad to see them now. Or it could be surviving enemies.

He felt the presence behind him again. Eric spun around this time and his mouth dropped open in astonishment.

"You're awake," the dead boy said.

The boy's grey eyes frightened him. They burned with coldness and seemed too old for his youthful face. He tried to think of something intelligent to say, but all he could come up with was:

"Aren't you dead?"

The boy smiled, making him seem young. "I am."

"Yet you're walking and talking," Eric said slowly. Maybe Knótr and Bjarni fed me mushrooms by mistake. "Or am I dreaming?"

"I am walking and talking," the boy confirmed. He began to circle Eric, weaving between the trees, keeping the distance between them. He didn't stop smiling. "And you are not dreaming."

The boy continued to prowl around him and Eric tensed, ready to fight. For some reason, this boy reminded him of the sinister wolf-master. He eyed the boy, wondering if he'd be able to take him down if he attacked. Eric had the size advantage and he was a skilled fighter, but the boy was strongly built as well. There was maybe twenty feet between them, if necessary, Eric figured he could outrun the boy.

"Forgive me, I did not realise you were alive. I wouldn't have left you," he said cautiously, drawing himself to his full height. Being taller than most, his height usually was enough to intimidate potential opponents.

The eerie boy completed his circle. He leaned against a tree and continued studying Eric, his arms folded over his chest. Eric studied the boy right back.

Now fully out of the ground, Eric saw that there was a huge tattoo on the boy's back. There was also a red mark, a brand of some kind. Unsurprisingly, the boy's breeches were filthy – not that his own clothes were much cleaner at the moment – and to his amusement, the boy was wearing a pair of shoes that appeared to be made out of fur. He had a look on his face that Eric found familiar, yet couldn't place.

Eventually he responded.

"Have we not already decided that I'm dead?"

I was on my funeral pyre. I woke up in a grave. I have strange new senses. Eric trembled, shaking his head. Dirt fell out of his hair onto his cheek.

"You're obviously not," he said nervously, trying to wipe it off.

"But I am."

Suddenly, the boy was mere inches away, holding Eric's hand. Eric went to jerk away – the boy's hand was cold as ice – but despite the delicate grip, he couldn't pull away. Much to his confusion, the boy pressed Eric's hand against his cold chest, just below the strange tattoo that covered his collarbone.

It took a few seconds before Eric realised the boy had no heartbeat. Eric looked from his hand to the boy's face in horrified shock. The boy wasn't smiling now, in fact, he looked very serious.

"You recognised me last night when I came to you," he said, his cold, dark eyes boring into Eric's frightened blue ones.

"What are you?" Eric tried to draw away again, but the boy held him tight. He threw all his weight into pulling away, but their size difference meant nothing. The boy smiled again as he struggled, but Eric couldn't even drag him an inch. He might as well have tried moving a mountain a little more to the left with his bare hands.

The smell of the blood on the boy's skin was driving Eric wild with want and he went still, staring at the boy's blood covered chin.

"What are you?" he whispered again.

The boy turned Eric's hand around, holding Eric's hand in place over his heart.

It wasn't beating.

"I am the same as you," the boy said simply, removing his hand. "And now, you are the same as me."

Then Eric remembered.

Are you death?

I am.

You're just a little boy.

I'm not.

My men...

Dead.

You swine.

I watched you in the battle field last night. I never saw anyone fight like you.

I would fight you now if I could.

I know. It's beautiful.

What are you waiting for? Kill me.

Could you be a companion of death? Could you walk with me through the world...Through dark? I'll teach you all I know. I'll be your father, your brother, your child.

What's in it for me?

What you love most: Life.

Life.

Eric felt for his pulse, desperate to feel that tiny throb in his wrist, but there was nothing there. He tried his neck, but there was just stillness there too.

"What have you done to me?" Eric slumped to the ground and the boy knelt down in front of him, a stone pendant around his neck swinging slowly back and forth. Up close, Eric could see that the boy's hair was so filthy with dirt and blood that it matted into stringy clumps. That look that Eric couldn't figure out was back on his face.

"I have given you a life beneath the moon and stars," the boy said, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind Eric's ear. Please with the effect, he did it to the other side as well and leaned back to admire his efforts.

"What does that mean?"

Eric heard a faint snicking noise and gasped. The boy had fangs.

He heard another snicking noise again, louder this time, and suddenly realised that there was something sharp pressing into his lower lip, threatening to break the skin. The boy saw.

His soft fingertips trailed first over Eric's top lip, then caressed his lower lip. A thumb ran down the length of Eric's teeth, now long and sharp like his.

"You are thirsty." The boy's grey eyes practically glowed with excitement.

With those three words, Eric understood. He didn't want to, but he did. He covered his mouth, horrified, and in his clumsy horror, the fangs cut into his palm. He looked down and gaped as the small cuts healed over before his eyes.

A draug, that's what he was. A ghost that killed men. Draugar had dark powers and lived in tombs during the day and tormented people at night. They were known to be fiercely protective of their graves, he recalled. Did Knótr and Bjarni build my pyre too close to this creature's tomb and anger him?

He looked at the boy, willing him to vanish and for all of this to be some terrible dream. The boy – no, the demon - didn't move. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, and he felt himself swaying a little. A small, strong hand steadied him.

"You must drink," the boy said. Eric forced himself to open his eyes and focused on the boy's young face.

"There's a stream nearby," Eric said shakily.

The boy laughed. He easily pulled Eric to his feet, shaking his head in amusement.

"Come with me," he said, still chuckling, tugging on his hand.

Eric was startled by such a human sound, he'd expected some unearthly shrieking instead of laughter. He was terrified, of the boy and himself, but if the boy could act and sound like a human, then perhaps he could as well. With any luck, all was not lost.

Eric allowed himself to be led along, not knowing what else to do. The boy moved nimbly through the forest, not making a sound, and Eric felt like an oaf as his own feet seemed to break every twig on the ground. This didn't seem to trouble the boy, he was still smiling.

He paid little attention to their direction, but when the scent of smoke filled his nostrils again, closer this time, he stopped.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

His head snapped up, looking around. The noise was faint, but he was certain he knew what it was. Heartbeats. He could only pray he was wrong. "What is that?"

"Hush." The boy raised a finger to his lips and then pointed. "You can never be seen by them."

Not entirely sure he understood that last part, Eric obediently fell silent and saw three men huddled around a small fire just ahead. He was glad he didn't recognise them. He knew their fate.

Worse, he already knew the part he would play in it.

"Watch me," the boy commanded and Eric was struck by soft his voice was. He sounded young, but at the same time, there was a seniority in his voice. Eric recognised that tone, it was that of a wise leader. Stern, yet gentle.

Then there was nothing gentle.

Eric hadn't even realised the boy had moved until he heard the sound of bones cracking as the boy broke the first man's neck. The second was knocked out cold. The third man was frowning in confusion, hadn't even seen the snarling fangs yet, and the boy lunged, tackling him to the ground. Eric flinched as he heard skin rip as the boy savagely bit into the doomed man's throat.

Over the boy's shoulder, wide, terrified eyes seemed to look straight at Eric. The man was able to let out a weak gasp before he passed out.

Eric stood there, stupefied as he listened to the boy greedily drinking the man's blood, loud gulps that rang in his ears. He could still hear the man's heart beating, but then it got slowly weaker.

Then it stopped.

The boy arched backwards, drawing his fangs out of the man's neck and let go, blood dribbling down his face and chest. Eric winced as the body thudded to the ground, disturbed by the indifference after the sudden violence. The boy pushed himself up onto all fours slowly, his eyes partly closed as he savoured the taste. Eric expected the boy's chest to be heaving in exhilaration, but he was deathly still.

"Come here."

Reluctantly moving closer, Eric looked down at the unconscious man. He could have been any one of his own comrades; big and burly with hands calloused from working in the fields or from wielding a sword. Perhaps he was teaching his son how to use a sword, just like I was before I left, Eric thought bitterly. What was the foolish bastard doing out in the middle of the forest, anyway?

"Do you understand what you must do?"

Eric nodded mutely, still staring. Suddenly on his feet, the boy reverently rang his fingertips over Eric's fangs. Steady grey met frightened blue again.

"There is only survival or death, my Child. Last night you chose survival." His hand fell away, leaving a single drop of blood on Eric's lower lip. "Which do you choose tonight?"

For some inane reason, Eric remembered the first time he'd gone into battle. He'd been thirteen and scared out of his wits. A huge bear of a man had charged at him, his sword raised high to deliver a killing blow, and he'd realised that if he didn't kill this man first, he would die. His sword moved upwards and then the man was lifeless at his feet.

Tentatively, he touched his fangs, and then slowly bent down beside the unconscious man. The neck seemed too intimate, so he cautiously picked up a wrist. The man's heartbeat seemed impossibly loud to his sensitive ears.

Eric sensed the boy smiling behind him and then the order he'd been dreading came.

"Drink."

It was like liquid fire, a warm, pulsing river, and it was the most amazing thing he had ever tasted. All else vanished, the forest, the fire, even the strange boy. The hot blood throbbed through him, down this mouth, his throat and he could feel the heat fill his chest, his arms, moving lower and lower, filling him completely. He could feel his skin tingling with energy. It was strength, power – life- and he could not get enough of it.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him away. Silence.

"You did well," the boy whispered into his ear. "How do you feel?"

"I feel...strong," Eric said slowly. The dizziness was gone. He could feel the strength stolen from this man's blood coursing through him. "I feel alive."

"Yes. Even in death, you are alive."

Eric looked at him and suddenly recognised the look on the boy's pale face. He'd seen it in the faces of many men and he knew that he'd had the same expression on his face before. It was the awed wonder on the face of a new parent as they gazed at their newborn child.

As if realising that Eric had recognised something within him, the boy averted his eyes. "You have many other powers besides strength, my Child."

The thirst abated and Eric felt his fangs retract. He ran his tongue over his now normal teeth, marvelling at the strange magic.

"We need to bury the bodies," he said, standing up to survey the mess. He felt a little more like himself again, and he automatically took charge of the situation. If these men had friends close by, they would discover them soon and go hunting for their murderers. He kicked dirt over the fire to put it out. No sense in having such an obvious beacon.

The boy glanced around at the three dead men and Eric saw the scorn in the ancient grey eyes. The boy waved dismissively. "The wolves will be happy to take them."

The wolves? Eric was filled with disgust at the thought of these men suffering such disrespect. The way they had died had been violent enough and to have the wretched creatures consume them seemed unnecessarily harsh. The disdain in the boy's voice made him wary and so he moved on to a safer topic.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The boy blinked. "I do not have one."

"Nonsense. Everyone has a name."

The boy said nothing. He just stood there, scratching at a patch of dirt that covered one of his arm tattoos.

"Well, I have to call you something." Eric looked at him expectantly. But the boy just looked back at him blankly, as if not understanding what Eric meant.

"Am I expected to call you Master then?"

"Never call me Master," the boy said and the vehemence in his voice caught Eric by surprise. He looked at the boy in confusion. Perhaps offering his own name would prod the boy into revealing his name.

"I'm Eric." He held out his hand in greeting, but the boy stepped away from him, eyeing his proffered hand suspiciously. Eric wondered if he'd upset the strange boy somehow by asking his name, it might explain this sudden change in his demeanour. As the silence stretched between them, Eric lowered his hand, exasperated. He was in no mood for childish games.

"You have to have a name."

The boy frowned, his eyes darkening. He clearly did not like being spoken to so sharply. "A name is just a word," he snapped back. "It means nothing more than the sound of the wind."

"Suit yourself." Eric turned around, looking for useful landmarks. This little camp was by a rough path. He spotted a felled tree and smiled in delight. This was the path that Knótr and Bjarni had carried him down.

If he followed it, he would find his sword. "Well, whoever you are, you're welcome to come with me."

"Where are you going?" The boy sounded genuinely stunned.

Eric glanced over his shoulder. "To find my sword."

"Why?" Now he sounded mystified.

Eric sighed impatiently. "Because I want it back," he said. "And if it's been stolen, the fool who took it will sorely regret it."

He'd already had his father's crown stolen from him and he had no intention of losing the only other family heirloom he had.

"You do not need it." A soft sighing noise and the boy was beside him, looking up at him curiously.

"I can fight well with my hands," Eric smiled wryly down at him, "but a sword tends to make things easier."

"You use a spear well enough," the boy said softly, turning his eyes forward.

Well, he did say that he'd been watching me fight, he must have saw me throwing the spear. He smiled, still proud of that perfectly aimed shot.

"It belongs to my family," he explained as he made his way down the pathway. "Seeing as you were spying on me, you must have seen how many men died by it. Most men take their sword with them to the afterlife, but my family has always passed this sword down. It brings luck to each generation."

Talking while travelling always made time pass by faster. And if he was carelessly talking, then he wouldn't have to think on how he'd just callously killed a man with his teeth and drank his blood.

Yet the boy said nothing in return, and began lagging a few steps behind.

"How long did you spend watching me last night?" he asked curiously, glancing over his shoulder. The boy just shrugged and didn't say anything. He didn't really seem to be listening at all.

Eric tried to engage him a few more times, and then gave up. He tried to shrug the silence off, though he was a little disappointed that Death – I'll have to think of a name for him - had nothing to say for himself. Some companion.

The wolves howled again and Eric tensed at the noise. Another howl, much closer now, and he stopped. He could smell blood and decay. Just ahead of them, he could see the pyre that he had been meant to die upon. The boy stopped as well, following his gaze.

Knótr and Bjarni's bodies lay on the ground. He went past the corpses, trying not to see their slashed throats as he searched for his sword. He failed, and bent down to shut Bjarni's eyes. These bodies he would put on the pyre meant for him.

The sword had fallen to the base of the pyre, forgotten or ignored, when the boy had taken him away. He smiled in relief, picking it up. Having it back in his hand was comforting. It was where it belonged.

Eric looked over at the boy. He was running his tongue over his fangs, bored. Holding out the sword, Eric waited for the boy to admire it. Instead, he glanced at Eric's face and heaved his shoulders. He made the effort of glancing at it for all of two seconds.

Offended by the lack of interest, Eric returned the sword to its rightful place at his hip.

"I swore to my father that I would avenge him and I intend to do just that." He could hear wolves again. "With my sword," he added pointedly. With these new powers, whatever they were, he could hunt down the wolf-master!

"Your father does not matter," the boy said calmly. "Not anymore."

"The fate of my family might not matter to you, but it matters to me," he said, trying to make himself sound stern. His elation was becoming expectant dread. "I have to return to my village. My children are waiting for me."

"You will not see them again." The boy looked at him with cold, dark eyes, then stepped away, his face falling into the shadows.

"What do you mean, I won't see them again?"