The snow fell in heavy, silent sheets as Gwaine trudged away from the ruins of the monastery. Every step was an insult to his memory. For eons, he had moved like a shadow, weightless and swift. Now, his boots sank into the drifts, and his lungs burned with the icy air. The angel's blood was a cage of light, forcing his ancient spirit to obey the laws of flesh.
He navigated by the stars, heading toward a desolate valley where the earth had swallowed a kingdom long ago. There, beneath a withered oak that shouldn't have been alive, lay a stone slab marked with a name nearly erased by time: GWAINE.
It was his own grave, from the time he had first walked the earth as a man—one hundred years after his ancestor, Cain, had stained the soil with the first murder.
Gwaine gripped the edge of the stone and heaved. His mortal muscles screamed, veins popping in his neck, until the lid ground open. Inside sat a coffin of blackened cedar. He reached in, his fingers brushing against cold iron and weathered leather. He pulled out a heavy broadsword etched with Enochian runes, a pair of silver-trimmed daggers, and a satchel of vials containing concentrated holy water and ancient resins.
As his hand closed around the hilt of his old sword, the world blurred. The smell of snow vanished, replaced by the scent of parched earth and iron-rich blood.
"Keep the line, Gwaine! Don't let them break the center!"
The voice was boisterous, a roar that could shake the leaves from trees. Gwaine turned to see Taulik, his younger brother, laughing even as he parried a spear thrust. They were warriors then—mortal, proud, and fighting for the survival of their small, sun-drenched kingdom.
"They have more coming, Taulik!" Gwaine shouted, pointing toward the ridge.
The enemy kingdom had brought reinforcements—huge, hulking men draped in the skins of beasts. They were winning the day, but the tide was about to turn into a flood of steel. Gwaine felt the thrill of the fight, the simple, honest terror of being a man who could die at any moment. He looked at Taulik, his younger brother, and felt a surge of fierce, mortal love.
"Then we shall give them a story to tell in the afterlife!" Taulik yelled, charging forward.
Gwaine had been a protector then. A hero. He hadn't yet touched the hand of Death. He hadn't yet made the deal that would turn him into the First Abomination.
The memory shattered as Gwaine snapped back to the present. He was no longer a hero; he was a ghost in a dying body. He strapped the relics to his belt and slung the heavy cloak over his shoulders. He was armed, but he was fragile.
Days of travel brought him to the outskirts of a small walled kingdom. Smoke rose into the winter sky, but it wasn't from hearths. It was the smell of burning thatch and raw meat.
From the ridgeline, Gwaine saw them. Werewolves. A pack of twenty or more was tearing through the outer gates of the kingdom. The local guards were brave, but they were using steel against creatures that healed faster than a man could blink. At the center of the slaughter stood the Alpha—a massive, soot-black beast nearly seven feet tall, and eyes that glowed a hateful, bloody red.
Gwaine's lip curled. "Scavengers," he hissed.
He knew he should keep walking. He was weak. But the "alive" feeling—that strange, stinging human empathy—tugged at him. If he saved them, he could demand gold, food, and a horse.
He didn't scream a war cry. He simply ran.
He moved with the grace of a predator, even if his speed was now limited to the swing of a human leg. He reached the first werewolf—a beta distracted by a fallen guard—and swung his broadsword in a shimmering arc. The silver-etched blade bit through the creature's neck, severing the head in a single, clean strike.
The pack stopped. The snarling died down as twenty pairs of yellow eyes fixed on the man in the tattered robe.
The Alpha stepped forward, a low rumble vibrating in its chest. It didn't recognize Gwaine as the First Vampire—he smelled too much of angel blood and sweat—but it sensed a threat. It barked an order. Three betas lunged at once.
Gwaine moved. His mind saw the fight in slow motion—His mind utilized years of combat experience to compensate for his slow mortal limbs. He stepped inside the first werewolf's reach, driving a silver dagger into its throat. He spun, using the momentum to parry a claw from the second, and kicked the third in its shattered knee.
One by one, he dismantled them. He wasn't stronger, but he was smarter. He predicted their lunges before they made them, moving inches out of the way of certain death.
Enraged, the Alpha pushed aside its remaining pack. It launched itself at Gwaine like a black landslide.
Gwaine raised his sword, but the Alpha's strength was monstrous. The impact sent Gwaine flying back into a stone wall. His ribs cracked. The taste of copper filled his mouth. He scrambled to his feet, but he was slow. The Alpha's claws raked across his chest, shredding his robe and skin.
Gwaine gasped, dropping to one knee. He was bleeding—really bleeding. The pain was white-hot and blinding.
Is this how it ends? he thought. Slain by a dog in a gutter?
But Gwaine saw the horizon. A thin ribbon of grey-gold was beginning to bleed into the black sky. The sun.
He forced himself up, using his sword as a crutch. He didn't attack; he baited. He stepped back, parrying just enough to stay alive, drawing the Alpha further into the open courtyard. He took hit after hit—a bite to the shoulder, a claw to the thigh—his vision blurring from blood loss.
The Alpha roared, sensing victory. It reared back for a final, crushing blow.
Then, the first sliver of the sun broke over the walls.
The light hit the Alpha's eyes, blinding it for a crucial second. The pack behind it began to howl in discomfort. They were creatures of the night; the dawn was their poison.
"The sun... rises," Gwaine wheezed, his voice thick with blood.
Seeing the dawn and the undying resolve in the eyes of the man they couldn't kill, the Alpha hesitated. It looked at its dead betas, then at the bleeding warrior. With a final, frustrated snarl, it turned and leapt over the kingdom's walls, the rest of the pack vanishing into the shadows of the forest.
Gwaine's sword clattered to the cobbles. He fell to both knees, his breath coming in shallow, jagged rasps. His chest was a ruin of red, and his vision was tunneling.
"I survived," he whispered, a delirious, bloody smile touching his lips. "Only a man... and I survived."
As the villagers began to peer out from their boarded windows, Gwaine's world went black, and he collapsed into the cold, red snow.