Warning: Contains non-con (rape), explicit violence, suicidal thoughts, PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder), suicidal thoughts. A whole lotta fucked up stuff, please be careful when you are reading, this is your last warning to click out of this if you cannot stomach any of that. I used google translate for the Latin and Icelandic in this, so they are not the most accurate. Again, please heed the warnings that I've written and CLICK OUT IF YOU CANNOT STOMACH THIS.

The Pale Shade did not exist a decade ago.

Before then, there was only Callus.

Funny how everything had changed so quickly and easily.

His old wounds still aches of course, and from time to time the terror would clamp down on his heart, choking him with a grip that left him breathless and weak in the knees. Hell's eyes, and they said time is supposed to heal all wounds!

Tenebraeus cracked one eye open. The room had filled with steam from his bath, lightly burning his skin a pinkish hue.

The scars riddling his body came in a variety of length and shape. Some faded amongst his surprisingly pale skin, others still an angry red from healing.

Absentmindedly, the knight traced his fingers down a particular one that raked down his torso. That one, it had been what brought him down in that fight, when a blade slashed through his unprotected side while he was distracted by the warlord that attacked him. As though it had only happened yesterday, of course, when it had been a decade, he remembered.

Crystal blue eyes fluttered close. He let himself sink into the water, till it brushed his chin.

One slip of his foot, blood dripping from the wound ripped into his side as he was brought down. He was so young then, weak, overburdened by pride and he had paid with everything for it.

Dark brows grimaced, eyes opening once more as he straightened. The warmth of water coaxed his body to relax, even as his pulse started ringing loud in his ears: like the drums of war, echoing through his soul -

Something definitely broke, at least two ribs in his side.

Bloody hell.

He gasped, cradling his side. Every breath hurt, digging the fragments of bone no doubt deeper into his organs: damn nearly screamed when a boot collided with his injured side, white hot pain racing up his torso as his body curled. A feeble attempt to protect himself, as hands grabbed at his limbs and pried them away.

Where was Vortiger? Where was Magnus? Where was everyone else? Surely, they'd have noticed that he was gone at this point -

A pair of hands seized his shoulders, another forcibly tearing his armaments away from him.

Tenebraeus grimaced. A shiver shot down his back. The last time he had felt such fear, digging her iron tipped claws into his gut, that was… how long ago? Seven, eight months before? Lord knows how long it had been, and never would it match what had dug into his heart ten years ago.

The impact from his fall had dazed him, only coming to when he realized he was being dragged along the snowy path. There were several figures all around, chattering in the language of the northmen: words that he could not understand nor did he care to bring himself to understand.

He rose from the cooling waters. Droplets dripped down his skin, soon wiped away with the towel he had.

A shaky exhale escapes his mouth. Hands, he could still feel them, crawling over his skin greedily, like serpents getting ready to swallow him whole, animals just waiting to take their bite out of him. Pale eyes opened, brows furrowing as he focused on the present before him: the dark of the chamber, illuminated only by a few candles that he had set up.

Moonlight filtered through the window, shining down on the various pieces of his armor he had carefully laid out on the wooden table not far away. His mask peered back at him with the soulless voids it had for eyes, scowling back against any and all who dared to look into the face of the Pale Shade himself. Beside the mask laid his blade, his beloved blade Dark Sister, with her worn leather bound hilt and the bands of silver that was used to decorate the scabbard, guard and pommel.

Drawing the blade with a flick of his wrist, the Black Prior's gaze ran down the length of the weapon. Cerulean orbs peered back at him in the reflection of her wicked edge, for once his own and untouched by the dark powder that the members of the Order would adorn their eyes with.

This very same sword he had used so long ago to take his life.

Tenebraeus' mouth quivered, threatening a smile on the very edges of it. The fool… Sven was vile but also a buffoon without consideration of the consequences of his actions. He'd have to thank him for it though, for otherwise he'd never be who he was today.

Sheathing his blade back into the scabbard, he sighed.

A decade had passed, a decade since he had seen to the death of the man who had been responsible for most of his scars. Years that had passed as he dragged himself through his everyday life, days that passed by in the blink of an eye.

With Dark Sister back onto the table where it had once been, Tenebraeus tugged the tunic over his body, tying down the thin belting around the waist of his trousers.

Every inch of his body ached with the weight of day, as he slunk his way out of the washroom and into his own bedchambers. He exhaled through his nose, heavy and slow: there it was, he felt it again, sharp against his back as real as though it was happening right now instead of being from the depths of his memory -

He grunted as he was thrown to the ground, shaking his head until his vision started to clear. He'd been taken to the heathens' camp, wherever this might be in the vast expanses of Valkeneheim: it had always been nigh impossible to know in the seemingly always identical wastelands of white snow.

There were voices, many of them, arguing in the voices of the Northmen. He wheezed, nearly crying out from the burning that rushed up his entire torso. Lords, lords it hurt -

Got to get away from here, regroup with the others, anything!

It was as though his blood had turned to ice, his voice disappearing entirely as the steel claws of fear closed around his throat. Two pairs of hands seized his arms, and this time, a cry did tear itself from his throat from the sharp stab of pain that shot up his side: a taste of copper rushing up from his throat. Oh gods, nonono…

There were at least twenty of them, not that he could count as his captors hauled him to his feet. Somewhere to his right, a gruff voice gaffawled with laughter.

"Sjáðu hver við höfum hér, lítill hundur, missti af pakkningunni sinni."

Calloused hands pinched his chin, forcing his gaze to meet those of the man that had spoken. The warlord leered, turning to one of the two holding his arms. "Vel gert að veiða þennan villta hund."

What would happen to him -

A grimace, fingers darting up to touch his cheek, where a fist slammed into his jaw with so much force it had knocked him right back down onto the snowy ground. Back then, maybe if they had used a little more force, they'd have broken his jaw. Tenebraeus sat up in his bed, rubbing over his temples.

He shuddered.

The tightness initially only at the very pit of his stomach spread up into his throat. The black prior rubbed his elbows; there was no wind and yet it felt as though the air had gone as cold as Valkenheim in winter, biting into his flesh. Gods, it had been ten years ago, and Sven long dead and rotting wherever he had been left -

A rugged gasp tore its way from his throat, one that turned into a faint whimper he couldn't stop. Shame burned his face and gods, why could he not just disappear?! Disappear somewhere and forget all about everything that had happened that night, where he had -

The first boot that connected with his face met his nose. He cried out, a hand shooting up to cover his face. Blood dripped down his now broken nose, staining his lips; a wet gurgle all that remained when another kick was delivered, this time to his side, where the blade had carved into his flesh. All around, voices laughed, jeering their companions on.

Just as he barely managed to get up, supporting most of his weight on his hands and knees, a boot connected with the side of his head: rough hands seizing the hood that covered most of his face, forcibly guiding his gaze to those of the warlord that stood before him. Dark green, the color of poisons so fond of being used by Mercy and her shadowed assassins, stared back at him, through the smudged black paint that once decorated his eyes.

"Er þetta einn af þessum miklu stríðsmönnum sem hún púkinn nefndi? Hversu veikur."

Shame burned in the pit of his gut, shame that only grew stronger when his limbs refused to listen, and all he managed to do was choke out a weak whimper of protest, bringing his arms up in a feeble attempt to block the fist that connected directly with his jaw. How could he be so weak?!

Callus squeezed his eyes shut. Please, by the love of the gods far above, Balaur, anyone who may be listening, just end this already: end him or make all of this stop, anything…

A gasp tore its way from his throat. Tenebraeus brought a hand up to his neck: his heart thundered inside his chest, pounding so hard against his ribs it might just burst out of him any second. Gods, gods why, why did it have to be him… of all people, that night that would seal his fate amidst the broken ones.

Why did it have to be him.

He blinked, bringing a hand to his cheek.

Tears, coming from suppressed, wordlessly sobs that now freely fell from his lips. He exhaled, leaning back against the sheets that now bundled around his body: lords, he came so close, so goddamn close to being taken by the sweet embrace of death. Yet Death refused to touch him, not when he held the blade above Sven's quivering fat gut, not when he finally made his way back to Blackstone Castle and collapsed at her gates.

It'd have been better.

Nobody wanted a broken man, much less a murderer.

Isn't that all he's worth now…? Just the mask that they feared, the Pale Shade of Valkenheim, the blade in the dark that inevitably brought death and destruction in his wake. Not a man, merely a blade, a blade to be guided into the flesh of the enemies of Ashfeld.

Perhaps it'd have been better to simply end it all. After all, it'd be a quick one, just take the blade that he had used that night, and let it glide its gentle touch across his throat. Dark Sister had been very well maintained over those years. Nobody would miss him, not when blades could be simply thrown aside for a brand new one from the forge -

At least he still had some semblance of dignity.

At least he would go out within history as a warrior who died for Ashfeld instead of a sniveling coward.

Cerulean eyes squeezed shut, steeling his mind as the vikings stripped his tunic from his back, coarse rope biting into his wrists. Someone at his side yanked at the cable, the resulting jolt of white hot pain punching the air from his lungs.

Don't give them the pleasure of hearing you scream.

The first crack of the scourge alone drew not just blood from the flesh of his back that had now been rendered into bloody ribbons: the same surge of cooper taste bursting in his own mouth as he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Gods it hurt, it hurt so much worse than any form of injury he had ever suffered before.

Please, just let it take me…

The second strike only barely registered in his mind, a sharp jolt running through his body that only numbed into background clatter.

Tenebraeus turned his face into the sheets, muffling the sound that would have otherwise escaped his throat. The tears that stained his cheeks were daggers, each digging deeper into his heart. The others would never have been allowed to witness this side of him, so full of weaknesses, of the filth that no amount of water could wash away from his scarred skin.

WEAK!

Weak, tainted -

Unwanted.

Godric Kaiser had Angelus by his side, Wilhelm Kaiser had Jaide even through all their ribbing at each other. Who does he have?

Nobody.

If only Apollyon could see him now - a dry, quiet laugh coming through the choked sounds of his muffled sobs - if only she knew what he really was after that night. Aye, the Warlord never would have ordered for them to save him, she would never want weakness like this amidst her ranks. He'd have been left to rot outside of the castle gates, nothing more than a sorry corpse that would have been one of many.

If only those others knew what really happened to him that night, when the darkness danced on the very edges of his vision, when he tasted blood on his tongue from holding back on making even one sound for the sake of their sick pleasure when they left his back a bloody mess of flesh… when an axe was brought down on his back twice, finally managing to tear a sound out of him: a bloodcurdling shriek that drained what was left of his energy.

"Væri synd að láta svona fallegt andlit fara til spillis." The burly viking stepped into view, thick fingers running through the various strands of the scourge, tainted a deep shade of red. Callus could only cast his gaze upwards tiredly: his chest felt too tight, couldn't draw in another breath without the wounds on his back - without a doubt profusely bleeding - stinging -

A ragged gasp tore itself from his throat, when the bindings around his wrists were finally removed. The icy snow covered ground a damn near relief.

Even when a boot stopped barely a few inches away from his head, moving even in the slightest of sense brought tears to his eyes. Why had the gods forsaken him so? What had he done? Were he not following in the path of the righteous, protecting Ashfeld's fair lands from those invaders of the north?

Something was spoken by one of the vikings just slightly to his right, even though it all became something more of a background din. The ringing in his ears hadn't stopped - damn it, why hadn't it? - his gasp ringing in his skull with the sound of a thousand swords: darkness danced on the edges of his vision, a chill spreading through his limbs, biting deeper than the cold of Valkenehim ever could.

Yes, it wouldn't be long before Death claimed him, wouldn't it?

Freed from this nightmare once and for all.

"Betri hugmynd, stríðsmenn, skulum hafa gaman af þessum særða hundi, eigum við það?"

Truly the gods meant to royally fuck him. All those years he spent training himself, refining everything he knows and learning even more than he already did now so it would never happen again, yet those memories still refused to leave him alone for more than maybe a few months worth of time.

Being beaten to death would have been a much more preferable way to go, than dragging himself through every day. Left out to rot in the wild as so many other unnamed soldiers were after every battle. Being beaten to death would have been a hundred, a thousand times more preferable than -

It could have been the shock, or the bloodloss, or both that stifled whatever sound that should have came from his throat when he was thrown roughly onto the wooden table.

Or sheer stubbornness. Whatever it was, he was grateful for it through the haze that obscured most of his mind: could have been pain, could have been just him going numb after everything that had just happened.

Then everything snapped back into clarity, painful clarity.

"No!"

Ropes around his wrists snapped taut, bound to the pillars closest to the table. Blue eyes widened, terror gripping his throat with her steel clawed grip. Oh gods no, ANYTHING BUT THIS! ANYTHING -

"Please, I'll do anything but this!"

Blue eyes shot open wide, his fingers digging into the sheets bundled around his body. Tenebraeus shot up straight, gasping hard: holding a hand to his chest. His heart pounded hard against his chest, ringing in his ears. Shame burned its way up his neck, from the pit of his gut up to his face. He'd let it happen, not even putting up a fight as a proper warrior should have then.

"Should have let me die, instead of living with this shame."

Nothing answered him, of course. Only the soft whistle of a breeze through the open window of the chamber -

All he got in return were laughs, jeers. Callus cried out, the sound barely registering on the very back of his mind. A pair of hands pinned his arms, and it certainly felt as though all air were squeezed right out of his lungs as his eyes darted around: several vikings leered in his direction - oh gods, gods -

His tears had long dried since then. A dry smile curled at the corners of his mouth. He was so young then, not even tasting the warmth of even one person in his bed. Seven hells, he did not even know his own body's wants and needs.

Young, pliable and every sense in overdrive.

The Black Prior's gaze turned downwards. The ten years since it had all happened he spent on training, a process that had made his body scream out in protest, spit out blood that colored what would have been pristine armor: what had once been the flesh of youth melded into what he had became now, scarred beyond recognition of any semblance of the boy that had been there a decade ago, lithe muscles that hid the capability to run and leap with the agility of a man in only his early twenties.

When the bulky man between his restrained legs roughly yanked down his trousers, Callus' chest tightened: tears freely falling down his cheeks, yet there was just nothing he could do… not any amount of fighting, not with any amount of thrashing. He was far too weak.

Tenebraeus snapped back into reality. His brows twitched, the corners of his mouth dancing between a scowl and a snarl. That one, he remembered so vividly, the first one that Sven had sent to have some fun with him, had a jagged scar that ran down from his shoulder, be it from a knight or from one of the Chosen that came from the swamps of the Myre: a vermin who did nothing but take sadistic pleasure from every shriek of fear and pain that came out of him. Bastard tried to beg for his life like a coward later on.

A vermin unworthy of even being called a man.

Fire burned within the pit of his gut, the chill in his blood turning into flame. Fools, all of them, they never realized what they had done, so drunk they were on the apparent victory they had against a single man that would become their downfall: quite literally too, most of the camp had passed out drunk in their tents when he was freed.

The burn that blossomed in his lower half ripped a scream from his throat, a sound he could not even recognize as his own. The viking above him grinned, huffing in effort as he forced his member deeper into him. Callus squeezed his eyes shut: ragged pants and the taste of blood flooding all of his senses besides the burn that increased in intensity as the much bigger man grew rougher, without a doubt determined to force more screams from him.

Stop, stop, PLEASE!

The next sound that came from his throat did not even register at first. The head of the viking's cock had dragged over something deep inside of him, and a bolt of pleasure shot down his spine, gathering in his loins. Oh gods, what was happening to him? Was their depravity actually getting to him?!

He sat up, leaning against the headboard of his bed.

That heathen laughed, laughed derisively and spat out something through the huffs and pants, or maybe he hadn't. Those memories the gods cursed him with had left him that much reprieve: whatever those bastards had said when they were having their fun violating him were blurred voices in the back of his head.

Briefly, a question flashed through his mind. Did any of them realize that their little prisoner would be their end? That they've forged their own worst nightmare via their actions alone -

Callus let out a ragged gasp, something between a moan and a whimper. The pain from before had not faded, and if anything, it only intensified as the burly man above him thrusted forward one final time with a loud bellow. He stiffened from the warmth that blossomed in his lower half, squeezing his eyes shut even though the tears could not be stopped: the slick sensation that crawled down his thighs were hard to tell what it really was, most likely his own blood.

When would this nightmare even end..?

Calloused fingers curled around his throat, squeezing harder. Had it been a few hours, if that was even the right amount of time that passed, earlier, he might have fought with everything he had to survive. Even as he gasped, his chest tightening from the lack of air to his lungs, it would be better than to endure this for another second.

How long had passed between the first, and the last, he had completely lost count. But when his lower half finally went numb from the agony of being ripped apart from the inside, Callus had finally let out a sob that he had been suppressing in his throat. Tenebraeus smiled drily to himself, blue eyes turning to the open window as he rose, stretching out his limbs as he wiped away the tears on his face. There was blood, definitely, clinging to the inside of his thighs when he finally was let go of in the very end; he couldn't even move a muscle as the last of the vikings emptied his seed inside of his body.

For even attempting to move his legs brought a fresh wave of searing agony up his spine.

All he could do was just lay there, his senses assaulted by the various amounts of pain from every direction.

His back burned with the flames from the scourging, from the attempts they had made at carving his back open as the Jormungandrs would to the World Serpent. There were probably bruises on his throat too, on his thighs where the coarse rope had bitten deep into his skin.

Ten years ago was when it happened.

Ten years of keeping the memories of what happened that night in a box that he locked up, along with any possible sense of want, after tossing the key into some deep recess of himself. Ten years he nursed the wounds that it had left on his mind, on his body. Nobody would ever hurt him ever again since that night. Not when he was stronger, stronger than the weak young man that had died that night in the campgrounds of the heathens.

Was all of this about to be over? Would he finally be put out of his misery?

Eyes opened weakly, his fingers flexing as he almost was tempted to try and sit up. He was still in the hall, and vaguely, there were definitely still eyes eyeing him down.

Soldiers often spoke of the times where they thought the shadow of Death would come to them in bouts of despair, where a man would feel an overwhelming sense of dread, one that felt like a massive hole had opened up in the middle of their chest because of how little they could do about their current situation.

Tears welled at the corners of his eyes. Shame burned his face down to the root of his throat: a part of him shrieked at him, he needed to get up, he needed to fight. A warrior of Ashfeld never should have given in so easily… oh gods, what would Vortiger think of him now..?

"Just kill me already." What was intended to come out as a shout was a weak whimper, choked in the depths of his throat: the surge of blood that lingered on his tongue, a coppery taste that made his stomach heave with what little food he had consumed. Callus gasped, choking on the sob that lingered on his lips.

Wind kissed his skin, the night breeze of Ashfeld sending a shiver down his spine.

Absentmindedly, he scratched at his jaw: been a while since he had shaved.

Beside him stood a rough wooden table, with a single bottle sitting atop of it. Perhaps if he had been out in public, he'd have cared about appearances and whatnot. For now, Tenebraeus hefted the bottle, removing the cork sealing it shut; lifting it to his lips with a sigh. The cool liquid trickling down his throat shook off some of the fog that clouded his mind, a welcoming anchor to the reality around him now, the reality he was here and not in the depths of his memories.

He rested his elbows upon the railings of the balcony. Tonight, a clear moon hung in the sky, the light nearly made the fields that surrounded the Iron Legion castle seem surreal; whistling through the trees with a song that only Mother Nature would know. For a world so damned cruel to her children, forging them in fire and steel, Ashfeld had its own beauty.

The tears that he had tried so hard to hold back fell freely, dripping down his cheeks and onto his chest. He wept, wept for the dignity that was no longer his, for the fate the gods had condemned him to. There were so many ways that a man could be killed on the battlefield, and yet here he is, left in the hands of the heathens, forgotten by all who had once promised to be his comrades that would watch his back no matter what happened… used like some slave woman they had taken from the raids that they conducted through both the Myre and Ashfeld.

A derisive cackle pierced through the fog that had clouded his mind, blue eyes snapping wide with the fear that suddenly speared through his chest with the same sharpness of a spear. The burly viking looming above him clamped a hand down around his throat, squeezing until all he could get was a weak gasp for the air that his body was quickly being deprived of.

Feebly, his fingers wrapped around the man's wrist, even if the continued pressure on his throat had set the dark to loom on the edges of his vision.

Yet nothing could have stopped the fiery burning sensation that shot up his spine, wounds that just opened torn further. A ragged sound ripped itself from his throat, one that shot a jolt of shame down to the root of his neck: there was a throb in his groin, one that was horrifyingly familiar and slicing through the haze of pain that had clouded his mind.

His stomach churned. Had he truly fallen that far to take pleasure from being violated?!

Callus bit down on his tongue, the sharp pain that shot through his jaw wringing his mind to focus on the burning and the taste of copper in his mouth. The sob that fell from his lips came freely, as he wept, wept for his dignity: would this be his fate now, forgotten by all others, forsaken by God and left here to die..?

His head fell against the wooden table with a thud, cheek stinging from the backhand strike.

The viking above him cackled again, sadistic glee evident upon his face; lips cracked in a wide grin, his gut twisting with the disgust that even his body refused to answer. A sob wrecked his body, for even amidst the pain and the dark spots that danced on the edges of his vision, there was the undeniable burn of pleasure, a deep craving in the pit of his gut that yearned for more.

A hand clamped down around his wrists, pinning them above his head. He squeezed his eyes shut: no, no he won't look where they want him to… even if it was certain that his thighs would be tinted red with his blood.

The faintest curl of a smile danced upon the corners of his mouth.

The vikings had dumped him inside a tent, bound by his limbs to a wooden frame and left him there. For he was weakened, was he not? Escape would have been impossible in his battered and bruised state, and even if he somehow managed to get out, there would be no chance for him out in the cold of Valkenheim, would there?

Foolishness.

His consciousness stirred by the presence of a palm laying itself against his cheek, only a weak gasp escaping his mouth as he raised his head to look at the figure that knelt before him. He still isn't dead, that's a curse from the gods for what he had done, is it not?

The man grimaced. He was a Highlander, with a strong bearded jawline and a smatter of warpaint across his face, although with blue eyes and blond hair that was not unheard of amongst the northmen. That could not have been pity and disgust in his eyes, there was just not a chance in hell that someone of the vikings would have felt pity for him after -

"Quid facient vobis..?"

He jerked hard, the resulting bolt of red hot pain from the still raw wounds on his back pushing at the edge of his throat a scream. And it would have resounded too, had the man not clamped his hand over his mouth.

Tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes, slowly trickling down his face. What did he have left to lose?

The Highlander held a finger to his lips: "Ego suum amicum tuum."

Latin.

He'd just spoken in the language of Ashfeld.

Who are you?

He wanted to ask.

Yet nothing came from his mouth, save for perhaps a quiet gasp as the ropes around his wrists were suddenly loosened, leaving his body to fall forwards and against the man.

"I'm going to help you get out of here and get your revenge on those cruel fools." A whisper by his ear, one that lit a spark inside his chest; was this truly happening right now? Was he really about to make his escape out of the living hell the gods had cursed him with?

Darkness closed over his vision.

When he came to his senses again, he stared upwards at the top of the tent where he had once been confined in. His entire body ached fiercely, though it was nothing compared to the pain from earlier that was more akin to fire that licked along every inch of his skin.

His eyes lowered to his own torso. A thick layer of bandages wound around his body, though there were blossoms of red that appeared at certain places, it had done its job well to bind the open wounds shut, even if he couldn't see the damage below.

"There, I've sent a raven out to Magnus, he'll see to you once you made your way to the castle."

With a groan, Callus pushed himself back up. His gaze met those of the Highlander's, thick golden brows furrowed in concern: finally forcing the words out of his throat, even if they came out only a rasping whisper.

"Who are you?"

"My real name is perhaps too difficult for you to pronounce, in Ashfeld, they call me Cassianus. Your…" He pursed his lips, searching for the word: "friend, Magnus Eriksson, he is my nephew."

Magnus.

The name was akin to a bucket of ice water poured onto his face: this, this was who Apollyon had been speaking of, the friend amongst the warborn.

A bottle being pressed into his palm jerked him back to the present. Cassianus glanced over his shoulder, then back at him again: "Drink this, it'll restore your strength."

Perhaps he shouldn't trust this man, after all, there was no other way to verify what he had spoken as being true. Yet there was no else to be done, was there?

The liquid sliding down his throat was akin to a bucket of cold water, jolting his senses back to full alert.

"It's the same draught that we give to the Berserkr, it will help keep you alert until you can find your way back." The hilt of a sword was pressed into his free hand. Blue eyes went from the blade to Cassianus, arching one slender brow -

"You would turn your kinsmen into my hands..?"

"I have no love for Valkenheim, not after what it had done to my family." He shook his head, rising to his feet and offering a hand: "Finish that drought, I'll have a horse prepared for you outside once you're done."

He chose not to ask about it.

At some point, he remembered, the weakness had turned into strength. The wounds on his body ceased to ache, and instead, a flame had been kindled inside of him, burning away all of the cold of the wintery winds. The flame of loathing, of murderous intent that had taken root deep inside of him alongside of a prominent craving for vengeance.

Once he finished the drought, he stood on shaky legs. Blue eyes narrowed: revenge would be his. Sweet bloody revenge -

The wind should have been biting into his skin like daggers. Yet once he stepped outside into the cold, bare strands of what was once his old tunic hanging off of his body, the man snarled: it was time for the vengeance of a thousand suns that he had sworn before. Time to tear those vermin into shreds for everything that they had done, leave their insides hanging out in the cold for the ravens to peck at, let the rivers run red with the fire of his vengeance!

With accuracy and coolness that came as somehow not even surprising to himself, he drove the blade of the sword in his grip into the throat of the first sleeping viking that he had found. The warborn gurgled, clutching feebly at the wound in his neck as a river of blood poured out into the snow, his life force ebbing away as fear suddenly gripped his vision with her iron tipped claws. His eyes widened with fear as they met his, brown to pale blue of his own, realization fleeting through as the last breath of life left him.

The first of many that would bleed that night.

He walked through their camp with the silence of a ghost.

Sleeping guards met their ends at the other end of his blade, hot blood pouring out onto his hands as he slit their throats while they slumbered. His skin grew sticky with blood, some splattering onto his bandaged torso: by that point, how much of the red that stained the bandages were his own blood, how much of it had been the blood of his foes were unclear.

He kicked one of their corpses off his blade.

Blood and fire will paint his name across history. It would not be the name of Callus Gallahan, the man who had died at the hands of the warborn, it would be the name of the Angel of Death himself, the ghost that they had brought about by their own hands alone.

Let tonight witness the birth of the Pale Shade of Valkenheim.

As he pushed aside the tent flaps of another, what should have been disgust and fear was only hate. The figure that slumbered in the bed of furs before him was one of the many from earlier, oh yes, he would have been burning in hell and he still would not have forgotten about this one. How the fool jeered and enjoyed his vile acts, defiling his body and flesh as his compatriots watched: this one shall make a fine first example for all who dared to cross the path of the Pale Shade.

The glide of his blade crossed his thick neck and drew a pulsing geyser of blood. Instantly, eyes flew open with horror, staring directly upwards at him as a hand flailed, struggling to cover the wound and reach for the Dane axe laying right beside him. He smiled down at the struggling idiot, even as dried blood caked his skin and surely splattered across his face. The wet gurgle of struggling prey as they bled out had a specific taste of fear to it, one that he was oh so very quickly taking a liking to.

Another swipe of his blade cut across the man's stomach, one might have went a little deeper than he would have liked. Nevertheless, his other hand plunged inside, digging through the hot, slick insides of his prey the same way they had done to him when he was restrained earlier, except this time, he sought something else, and he was the hunter.

Coils of viscera nearly too slick to be grasped, splattered even more blood onto his skin. A while ago, maybe he would have cared, now all he could feel was the weakening thrashing of his prey as he yanked it out of the wound he had inflicted earlier. The viking opened his mouth, perhaps attempting to call for help, perhaps to scream, to beg for mercy. Who would deserve mercy now, when they had shown him absolutely none earlier?!

He wiped the blood on the furs that covered the now blood-stained bed of the viking. Somewhere along the line, he had dropped his sword, which he hefted into his grip with a twirl.

Next.

Several others would come to face the very same fate of that particular viking. He had been so messy in his work then, though it would be a lie to say it was not satisfying to carry out. They had shown him absolutely no mercy, so why should he give them mercy?

Tenebraeus let out a laugh. Oh if only they knew what they got themselves into when they laid their hands on Callus, poor, young Callus who had not even tasted the warmth of another's body, the young man who had just started learning the art of combat. Would they still have decided it was a good idea to leave him with absolutely nothing, defile his dignity as they had that night?

He raised the bottle of ale to his lips, draining the rest of the content, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand; blagh, already empty again? He'll have to go down to the wine cellar again to fetch another bottle in the morning, explaining that shit to Kaiser was more trouble than he could care to get into. The man was good at his job, sometimes just a little too good at it, not that he cared to really find out, of course: he avoided him just as all the others would.

Wind kissed his skin, sending shivers down his back.

The memories continued playing out before his eyes. Not that he could forget that night, never would he be able to forget that night, the night where the Pale Shade had been born out of the broken body of Callus Gallahan.

He knew he was near his target when he approached the most ornately decorated tent of them all. This one has to be the insect that had dared to subject him to their torment -

There, passed out on the ground, barely clad in anything aside from the furs and surrounded by the bodies of no doubt his consorts and wives, was the fool with his quivering gut that thought he could get away with doing all of this to him. He smiled, to himself mostly, as he brought his blade up, one quick glide across his gut with the precision of a medic, the same fashion as he had done to the viking earlier.

Eyes snapped open, going from anger to fear in an instant that it was nearly impressive.

"Hvernig ertu enn á lífi?!"

He worked with deft fingers, yanking out the bloody coils of viscera from the gash as he had earlier. The blood - slickened organ was nearly impossible to properly hold onto, even as he looped it around the warlord's throat and pulled.

Wet gurgles were the only thing he could hear, even over the screams of the women as they leapt and ran out of the camp. Pale eyes never left the dark ones of the viking as he clawed at his neck, his own insides being used as a garrot to put his miserable existence to an end.

Even as the struggling ceased, he didn't stop with the grip he had.

When the body finally slipped from his hands, with the grotesque noose used flopping onto the floor with it, he laughed, a derisive cackle from the depths of his throat. What a fool this one was, a hapless fop who thought his prey weak and unable to fight back, without realizing that someone had cooked up a plan to see to his damned existence to end that very night. Right, hadn't the warborn believed that if one was to die in glorious combat, they would be taken to the corpse - hall of their god Odin to await the end of the world while endlessly feasting?

Shame this one would never go, damned to having a carcass gnawed on by ravens and worms and whatever came this way.

He drew in a long, slow inhale of breath. The air was filled with the pungent smell of blood, of death that had been brought about by his hands. Screams were somewhere off in the distance, though he couldn't quite bring himself to care, especially not when his attention was drawn to something else in that room entirely.

A fine blade, with a scabbard of dark leather that was banded with silver engraved with runic designs, the hilt of the same leather finely wrapped around it, with silvery wave designs that boasted of fine craftsmanship that any Ashfeldian might have killed for. A beautiful trophy for his accomplishments here tonight, is it not?

Cassian told him his name a while after he had returned to the Blackstone Castle. Sven, that was the warlord who had left him as what he had became today, the fool he had left as fodder to be pecked at by ravens and devoured by worms. What would that poor sod think of himself in whatever afterlife there may be, now that he had essentially denied him entry into Odin's mead-hall? Would he be stomping his foot in anger, knowing what he had made, or would he cower in fear behind something as he had always done.

Because after all, he remembered vividly, after he had left the camp nothing but a butcher house filled to nothing except for the bodies of those he had killed, he rode nearly all night back to the Blackstone Castle. Through the induced haze, he had not felt any pain, even all of the wounds he had taken seemed trivial and so easy to shrug off with the help of the drought that he had consumed beforehand.

When he woke again, it was in the Infirmary of the Blackstone Castle.

He grimaced. Even a twitch of muscle sent white - hot pain surging through his flesh. One glance down showed his torso once more wrapped in a thick layer of bandages, new ones -

"I am glad to see that you are still with us." The voice next to him might as well had poured a bucket of ice water on his head. That voice was a voice he would have recognized while being drunk atop of the pain that currently wrecked his body.

"Master Apollyon."

The onyx armored warlord's face was covered, as per usual. Though he had a sense in his gut that she was smiling, a dagger - thin slash across her features beneath it: "I had to ensure one of my very best lives, after all. You collapsed at the castle gates three days ago, the medic almost believed you would never wake."

"But, why?"

"I heard about what happened in Valkenheim. It was impressive, to say the very least."

Apollyon rarely gave out praises, even to her very own best executioner - Holden Cross - and even that was far and few. If it weren't for the pain and likely medication that coursed through his systems, he might have stared at her, slack - jawed: "I enjoyed it, though..?"

"You were wronged, and you lashed back after being cornered, tore out throats as a true wolf would have… my dear Wolf of Ashfeld, Lord Erebus."

And that was it.

That was the birth of the Pale Shade of Valkenheim.

Apollyon of all had pulled him back from the brink of death by her orders, how ironic would that be if he told someone else that today? The feared Blackstone warlord herself, the demon of Ashfeld, warmongering and feared by both the warborn and the Chosen alike, giving out praise and a title after saving his life.

Tenebraeus blinked. The wind kissing his face made his eyelids feel heavy: sleep called to him with his sweet embrace.

Hopefully, a dreamless one too.

Author's note: Congratulations if you made it this far! I've debated long and hard if I really wanted to post this with how fucked up it is, but yeah, here is the story of my OC Black Prior Lord Tenebraeus (whom I recently got to rep 70). Let me know what you think, and if you wanna read more stories from me, or if there's anything I can get better at with a review, flames will be used to cook my marshmallows.