They called him many things. You. Small one. Bastard. Dagvulf. That last one was his favorite, though. Day Wolf.
They began calling him Dagvulf because he wasn’t afraid to bite the hand that fed him. He was a wild slip of a boy, teeth sharpened on the fists of his elders. He was used to slightly raw meat, the scraps of a meal hastily prepared. Eating with his hands, quickly, the coppery tang of blood mixing with the dirt under his fingernails. There was never any time to sit and enjoy the taste. Never any time to sit and feel the sun sink into his skin. Often, he was shuffled between hands, forced into small spaces, huddled together with others who looked like him.
Until, one day, the hands didn’t hold metal—but fabric soaked in water, fragrant oils stinging his nose. It hurt his face, his hands, his feet. They dressed him in linen and gave him wooden shoes that were a little too big.
He was more clothed than he had ever been in his entire life.
He hated it.
But when the dark-skinned, bright-eyed boy poked his head around his mother’s robes, little hand clutching the white fabric like a lifeline, Dagvulf knew what his purpose was to be. They called him a friend, which he knew was just another word for property.
Soon, Dagvulf held another name in his hands: Quintus Domitius Julianus Gothulus. Little Goth. He added it to the ongoing list, though Dagvulf remained his favorite.
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AD 326
The sand hurts.
It feels as if it has become permanently slid between his teeth and wedged under his eyelids. Centuries later, it’s a feeling he’ll be happy to forget, but for now, as he trudges across the sea of endless dunes, it’s all he can think of. Dominicus is beside him. Once his owner, now his friend—his brother, he amends—for whom he left the relative safety of camp to wander in the desert in search of some half-spoken treasure. Worse, Dominicus doesn’t need the treasure. He has plenty of familial wealth at his back. But the man seems to live off praise and compliments alone.
He’s gone mad, he thinks, watching Dominicus stumble forward. There’s nothing here but sand and death. Dagvulf stops. “Brother,” he says, but his voice is snatched away by the sand. He tries again. “Brother, stop.”
But the sound is even weaker the second time. He shakes his head, taking another shuffling step forward.
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They are surrounded in rich blue dunes, but they are rich only in number and not gold or jewels. He’s forgotten the difference between earth and sky. They are the same—one golden mass surrounding them, and he and his brother are specks of dust, bandied about by some nameless god smirking down on them. Thin shadows stretch in front of them like dark mocking creatures. The sun is a third brother.
The sound of Dominicus falling hits his ears like thunder. His lips are dry, cracked. His voice is the same. He joins Dominicus, falling heavily on his knees as he presses a hand against his brother’s chest. Still breathing. Still alive. We can do this, he thinks. He grips Dominicus’s arms, pulls him up and over his shoulders, taking the weight with a grimace. Muscles clenched, teeth gnashing against each other, he takes one unsteady step. He pauses, then takes another. The third step is stronger. Steadier.
We can do this.
His spine straightens and he continues, feet sliding through the sand. When he comes across the gaping maw of a dark cave, he takes a few stumbling steps inside heedless of what new dangers it may hold inside. The cave could lead down to Tartarus and he’d be happy for the change in scenery.
Then, all he knows is darkness.
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He awakes with a start. Dominicus is still beside him, sleeping peacefully, though his breath is too shallow, too weak.
The air in the cave is still and heavy. They are no longer alone. He reaches for his knife but finds it missing.
The woman sits in front of him, her legs tucked underneath her. She smiles knowingly and holds up her hand. The glint of his blade is recognizable even from a distance. Moonlight arcs off the steel as she tilts it lovingly. “You are dying,” she says. Her voice washes over him like cool water. She looks past him, at the prone figure of Dominicus. “But he is even closer to death than you, boy.”
He almost laughs at being called boy by a woman who is clearly ten years his junior, but his chest feels heavy with something odd—maybe it’s the hand of death, pressing against his sternum—and no sound escapes his lips. He coughs and tries again. “Please. Help.”
“I can help you,” she says, “and maybe him, if you’d like. But I’ll need a promise.”
“Anything.” The word seems to echo around them, a fourth presence climbing the walls of the cave.
“Tell me your name.”
“Julianus—”
“No. Your true name.”
“Dagvulf.” He swallows, grit scratching against the back of his throat. “And yours?”
She laughs and the sound reaches his ears like the trickle of a river. “I am the Undying.” She shifts closer to him, leaning forward so that her dark hair surrounds them. He can see his reflection in her crimson eyes. Her breath is against his lips, and it tastes sweet, like wine he yearns to drink. “Before I help you, you must say it. Say you will worship the Undying Atossa, who kneels before you.”
The words leave his mouth, though his muscles move with an outside force. It isn’t until she smiles that he realizes what he’s done, when her pale lips spread apart like raven’s wings and the glint of her teeth matches the one on his blade, that he truly understands what her salvation brings.
The mineral tang of blood fills the air, and it reminds him of the ocean.
The sharp gasp of Dominicus reminds him of his promise to his adopted family.
And the sharp fangs of the woman against his neck reminds him that death is the only thing he fears.