I/IV

Blood and Bones

Rembrandt/ 1593610

What is a monster?

For centuries beasts that lingered in human nightmares were spoken of in hushed tones.  Men huddled around campfires told tales of monsters in the form of man who could rip the throats out of men with hideous fangs and spit them to the ground with no more than an afterthought.  The sanguine fluid of a still beating heart had did all it could to keep the poor bastard alive but had failed.  The pool of life giving fluid drained in gushes and rivers from the mangled corpse of what once was a man.  Blood was what fed these creatures.  The insatiable thirst for human blood placed in these monsters cursed them with eternal life and eternal damnation.  The names were spoken in circles of humans seeking a way to defend against ultimate evil.    Finn, Elijah, Rebekah, Kol and  Niklaus….   They were all cursed.  They were all to be feared.  The one feared the most was Niklaus.

The story was that this family of vampires were the first of the Undead to spread this curse throughout the world itself.  They were the Original Family.  It was by them the world would know true evil.  The spread of the curse of the Undead was traced back to one of these vampires.   All bloodlines tied back to them.  No one was more feared than Niklaus, the middle son.  Niklaus was something the world would not know for another one thousand years.   He was the first Hybrid.   Conceived of an illicit affair of a werewolf Alpha and the Original Witch, Niklaus was untamed evil at its best.  He was the one most feared and with good reason.

1216 Ireland

The howling rain erupted from the clouds as if the gods themselves were ready to wash away the planet once again.   A weary traveler drenched to the bone barely managed to make it through the driving wind.  Desperate fingers wrapped around the door to the tavern pulling it open with all the strength he could muster.  With the rush of the wind behind him, he staggered inside the pub.   It was dimly lit with a few candles that were in a few spots here and there.   The tavern itself had a grand total of six males inside scattered in various corners of the room.  The newest arrival lowered the dark hood he wore.   A bright golden cross could be seen around his neck with a heavy chain.  “Whisky.  And leave the bottle.” The man told the tavern keeper with a tired edge to his voice.   

The tavern keeper did as instructed and left the bottle for the man blown in by the storm.   The man dropped two gold pieces to the counter in payment for the liquid.   “Its not fit outside for man nor beast!” He declared taking the bottle raising it to his lips. The tavern keeper pocketed the gold taking notice that these were not typical gold pieces.   He pulled them back out to look at them.  “Aye.  Have ya not seen gold before lad?”

“I have.” The tavern keeper replied.   “You’re a walkin' dead man ya are.” The tavern keeper stared as though the man was a ghost. The man that just staggered into the tavern in the middle of this terrible storm was a vampire hunter sent by the Christian Church in the heart of the land most inhabited by those of the old ways.   Celtic gods were still worshipped by a few holdouts in a land that saw men in bright armor ride through on behalf a Nazarene that had been declared the son of God.   He took several steps backward to put distance between them.

The vampire hunter had arrogant pity upon the man who cowered in fear.   “Do you realize how many of their kind I have killed already?   I was given a special mission by His Holiness Himself to track down one in particular.   Have ya seen or heard the Original Hybrid in these parts?” The Hunter didn’t lower his voice for anything.  He stood there waiting to see if anyone would answer.   

In the northern part of the bar was a man sitting alone with a solitary cup in his hand.   There was a rich crimson fluid in the cup as he held it.   He had golden hair that fell to his shoulders with brilliant sapphire hues that hid a very deep dark secret.   “You’re seeking sure death thinking you can go after The Hybrid friend. Haven’t you heard all the stories about him?”

“Aye.   They are but stories.  Stories told by pagans in dark hovels away from the light of God’s Truth.” The hunter disregarded the blond man who spoke.  He tipped the bottle up again to down more of the pungent liquid.   

The blond man rose slowly to his feet walking toward the hunter as he spoke.  “Legends and Myth all tend to have their basis in fact.   Aren’t your stories from your Christian Bible just stories told by men seeking to press their truth to a world who already knows it?”. The blond man was standing in front of the Hunter.

“What are ya? You afraid of your own shadow?” He tried to get the other four men in the room to agree with him.   The tavern keeper wanted no part of the Hunter. When no one else acknowledged him, he started to move his hand to the hilt of his sword.  “What in God’s name are ya?”  He asked the man approaching.

The blond man smirked looking at the hunter who was starting to realize he really should have walked by this tavern even in the middle of this horrendous storm. “Some say I am just a man.   Others say I am a myth.” The movement of his right hand had been unseen by mortal man but the sound of his fingers tearing through flesh was undeniable.    He jerked backward pulling the man’s heart from his body.  For the last few seconds of his life, the man heard the words that more were destined to hear.   “I am Klaus Mikaelson, The Hybrid and you are dead.” The still pulsing heart was a bloody pile of muscle in his hand.   The Hybrid's eyes were golden and his fangs bared.   He lifted the heart to his lips and bit it.  He dropped the rest to the ground beside the hunter now dead on the floor.

The room was silent for a moment as the Hybrid took his seat.   “Now little ones.  Time for your feeding.” The four men in the room and the tavern keeper all had eyes that turned black and fangs that elongated.   They moved in toward the fresh kill and rip the body to shreds.   New vampires were always so hungry and easily compelled.

He had taken the Hunter’s whisky for his own and drank it as the baby vampires he’d directly sired had a grand feast.  This was later the first recorded act of the Great Evil Niklaus Mikaelson.

Plenty more were coming.

To be Continued