A/N: Warnings for violence, child abuse, and a little bit of gore. Nothing too graphic. Also please remember to vote and comment as you read.

A memory, like a faint whisper, crossed his mind as the turmoil began.

It transported Mikael back to the magnificent throne room, where the Vikings warriors celebrated their victories and drank in honor of his father, the Great King Stoick. He sat on the floor, by his father's wooden throne, which was adorned with bones from wild animals and fallen enemies, while the King placed a hand on Mikael's shoulder.

"We are all born screaming for a reason, boy." The old Viking King said, carving his hands on his young son's shoulder.

His father was never one to say such things in vain. And so Mikael, with all his nine years of recklessness and scarce wisdom, knew King Stoick was about to say something important.

"All life starts and ends with pain. Yours will be no different, my boy." The Viking warrior went on as Mikael stared at him with wide eyes.

"There will come a day, when you will stand before the Gods, who saw fit to let you exist in this world, and you will have to justify everything you did. Every breath you took and every battle you fought. You will have to account for every beating of your heart, and they will judge you. If they deem you worthy, you will enter one of their Halls. If not..." Stoick laughed. "Well, then my little Mika, you and I shall see each other in Hell..."

With a swift moment, Stoick left a red mark, in the shape of his hand, across his son's face. The King's ring left a deep cut in the prince's cheek. It signaled to Mikael that the lecture had ended. Holding back tears, he got up and made his way to the doorway of the room. But his mother, the Queen Aswar, the Beauty, stopped him.

She smiled so sweetly it was nauseating, placing her hand over the slight cut in her son's cheek. Mikael flinched, trying to step away from her, but with her free hand she held him in place.

Her hands held a strange kind of malice. It always cut through Mikael's heart. Although, perhaps it was simply because her touch, like Stoick's, was always inherently cruel. And Mikael, in his sweet naivety, always expected her to be kind. Are mothers not supposed to love their children, while fathers make them strong?

"Your father is right, my beautiful boy." She said sweetly, her nail softly widening the cut in her son's cheek.

Mikael groaned, tears wetting his face. His father's words terrified Mikael. Yet, he could feel it in his bones that Stoick and Aswar were right.

"You are ours. We made you for us. For this. For Destruction. Nothing else." The Queen added. Her smile widened as she took her hand away from her son's face. A maniacal light shined in her eyes while she watched her work: the wound had grown significantly. Now Mikael's right cheek was covered in blood and salty tears. "Good." She whispered to herself, more than proud of her handy work.

In his heart, Mikael always knew the Queen enjoyed his suffering as much as Stoick did. Yet again, because of his naivety, her cruelty surprised him.

"Run along now, my dear." The Queen said, cleaning her son's blood off her hand. "And remember: We are born. We fight. And we die. That is our way of life."

Mikael cleaned his tears, nodded, and walked out of the room and into the cold winter air. But after all, if such a life was a promise to all the other Viking warriors, why would his life be any different? All he ever wanted was to grow up fierce, so one day he could die fighting. Mikael only ever wanted to impress his father, his mother and his Gods.

Death could never frighten him. After all, why should it, when life always seemed so much worse? Besides, Mikael always knew death well. It was his second oldest companion—only losing to pain, of course.

But his wishes were never granted. Not a single one of them. Life, as he had predicted, was anything but kind. In the end, he should not have been surprised.

From the moment air was mercilessly shoved into his lungs, Mikael knew life would be his ruin. Yet, he also was aware he had a destiny: destruction. The Great King Stoick needed a weapon, not a son, and Mikael was raised to obey his father's every word, without question. He was the perfect puppet and at times, the knowledge he was created to fulfill a purpose was reassuring. He was taught to never wish for anything, and Mikael would have followed such instructions had he not met Esther and Ansel. Had Mikael not wished to be a loving father, he would had fulfilled his destiny.

Only his death could vaguely resemble the sort of End Mikael had dreamed about as a young boy.

But Death was not much kinder to him either. It had beaten him, more than once, in fact. For months, after his death as a vampire, he watched them, his children. He screamed and cursed at them, blaming himself for their pain and begging them to stop their foolish endeavors. He could not bare when Death took his eldest and youngest boys. Mikael had already lost too much. He would not lose them. And so, making yet another deal with Death, he brought both his sons back, leaving them alone, far away from his siblings. Yet, as always, Mikael's deals with Death came at a greater cost than he expected.

No. Death was not a good friend. To be dead, without company, alone with his own thoughts. It was torture. But he expected nothing else from death. It was meant to be cruel and painful. Mikael was not a stranger to torture. He knew what to expect. He was ready for Hell, for Devils and for pitchforks—although he would have been extremely disappointed if the Christians had been entirely right about such things. Overall, Mikael was more than ready for unimaginable pain; the sort of pain beyond all punishments his King and father could ever dream of inflicting upon him. He was sure he would suffer with agony even his darkest thoughts could not grasp.

Mikael was not, however, prepared to feel such immense regret. There had been moments in his life when, looking back, he was ashamed of his actions, thoughts, and words. When his children were still young, Mikael already regretted the kind of father he knew he had to become. He hated his coldness and his sternness towards his children, and, most of all, he loathed himself for seeing no other alternative to his cruel behavior. Even if he had never left scars on his children's bodies, like Stoick and Aswar had left on him, Mikael knew his cruel words had left more than enough scars on his children to last them a hundred lifetimes.

Late at night he would glance at his children as they slept and beg his Gods to allow him to be kind. But what difference would that have made ?

"Soft children do not survive." Stoick's words burned in his mind every time Mikael gazed at his children. Niklaus in particular.

Day after day Mikael would watch his son desperately try to prove himself to him. But time and time again Mikael always failed to tell his son just how proud he was of him. Though, the most unbearable prospect was the fact Mikael forgot to tell Niklaus, and all of his children, how much he loved them. In the back of his mind, it had been his original and mortal sin. His inability to express his love for them alone, already made him worthy of an eternity of torture.

Yet his eternity of pain was about to be over. Mikael only had a few more seconds left. Soon, he would be pushed into existence once again...

A/N: COMMENT IF YOU ENJOYED THE CHAPTER!! Also vote????? Seriously, that helps motivate me and I write faster when I'm motivated (just saying)