This is a work of fiction, all content will not be historically accurate. 

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Ber-ser-kr. 

Noun.

A Viking, a warrior; one who was said to have fought their battles in a wild, trance-like fury.

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The Bjørn. 

Villages far and wide knew of the legend; horrifying stories of the Alpha giant who wore a bearskin across his mighty back. 

Gathered together around nightly bonfires, faces would glow with amber embers and the sweat-laden shine of terror as they told of his power – of his otherworldly ability to cause the devastation of entire farmsteads without a single weapon.

The stories were appalling, terrifying, petrifying. 

But worst of all, the stories were true. 

The land of the Vikings existed under a seemingly constant overcast of rain and dew; mist rolled over the caps of the mountains, and midnight black crows squawked without abandon as they flocked around the grisly sight below them, waiting for scraps. 

The ever-too-familiar, acrid smell of coppery blood drifted up into the nostrils of the Alpha as he squeezed the skull of the man unfortunate enough to fall into his widespread path of destruction. The man screamed loud enough for even the circling crows to hear, frantically kicking his feet as the six-foot-seven giant held his body above the ground by his head alone.

The Alpha did not flinch as the man's brain matter squished through his fingers and a splatter of thick, hot blood coated his blank face and chest. Instead, the man just watched, tilting his head at how his victim's left-over nerve impulses made his legs kick one last time. Then, he simply dropped the body into the mud. 

Chaos raged all around him, metal clashing and villagers slipping on the muddy ground as they ran for their lives. 

The Alpha blinked once as he stepped over the fallen man, a tingle-like instinct making his head swivel to the side. 

He didn't bother wiping the gore from his calloused hands when he approached the rapidly burning longhouse – he never did. After all, they would only become re-soiled with blood again... And again. 

... And again.

Yet another faceless man screamed in a morbid combination of pain and horror as he stared up at the giant who had just caught him in a macerating grip, one that remained incredibly sturdy even as the man thrashed with all of his might. 

"I–It's you!" The man sputtered, teary eyes full of recognition as they flickered to the soulless head of the brown bear that rested atop the ruthless Alpha's brawny shoulder. 

The Alpha did not reply. In fact, he barely heard his latest victim above the constant rush in his ears. He just tilted his head to stare blankly down at the man who he'd just caught attempting to free the villagers who were currently burning alive inside of their thatched home. "... The... the...!" The man gulped, stuttering as if the words were caught on his tongue like a barb. 

The giant could not hear him, but simply watched as the man's lips moved to form two words that he knew all too well.

"... The Bjørn!"

The giant's hands tightened around his prey as he lifted the man high into the air, and – without a moment's hesitation – brought the center of his back down onto his kneecap. 

The man's spine broke with a harsh crack.

Strangled gasps of air escaped the man as he clung onto the very fringe of life, eyes bulging with disbelief at what had just been done to him. Similar to his last brain-crushing encounter, The Bjørn tossed him, too, into the mud. But this time he made sure that it was face-first so that this newly-paralyzed man would soon suffocate on the disgusting sludge, soil sucked deep into his lungs until it replaced oxygen. 

It was certainly a brutal way to die, but quite frankly the Alpha didn't care. Finishing the task was all that mattered.

... It was all that ever mattered. 

The Bjørn was a machine as he moved through the rest of the rapidly dwindling village; snapping necks, gouging eyes, and single-handedly crushing enough skulls to fill multiple pyres. 

Decimating the village alongside the other Berserkrs continued for what could have been minutes or days, quite honestly he couldn't tell. Losing touch with time throughout the past twenty-something years of living like this had become the norm, and the Alpha learned not to fight it anymore. Hell, he didn't even know how old he was anymore. 

But if existing in a perpetual state of dissociation and time blindness was what it took to fulfill his duties, so be it. 

Gray flecks of ash – memories of the fallen – fell like a thick layer of snow over the blood-soaked ground as a thick fist cracked bone and shredded skin, sinking deep into the thoracic cavity of the very last villager left alive. The heart beat fast in his palm when he squeezed it, red spilling from the woman's lips when she gasped, and then he ripped his arm back, tearing the organ from her chest.

"Einar, my boy!" A pompous voice rang out, and The Bjørn immediately dropped the lifeless body. The still-beating heart fell along with it, ash that had settled atop the mud fluttering up around the woman's body at the impact.

A stout, gray-haired Beta traversed the ground as if it were a minefield, cautiously tip-toeing around the puddles of blood that flowed from the slain as he approached the much, much taller Alpha. A serrated grin plastered itself across his round face as he glanced around, drinking in the sight of yet another triumph. 

He almost – almost – patted the Alpha's arm when he finally reached the giant, but once he caught a proper glimpse of the blood-soaked extremity, a barely-concealed expression of disgust led him to proudly plant both hands on his hips instead. 

"Good lad ye' are, never fail to disappoin–!" The man paused mid-word, squinting as he suddenly pointed a stubby finger at the half-braided bun that sat atop Einar's head. "You've... got something..." He trailed off. 

Einar – The Bjørn – simply reached up, tugging at a particular braid that would release his hair. A cascade of shoulder blade length, dirty-blonde strands with various, braided plaits woven throughout fell upon the giant's broad shoulders, and with it went a fractured piece of skull. 

The stout man stared at the bloodied bone as it tumbled to the ground, and he promptly nudged it with the very tip of an ornate boot as if checking to see if it would somehow jump up and seek vengeance. When it didn't, the Beta breathed a quiet sigh of relief and glanced back up at his serf.

"I always knew ye'd be the best choice," He murmured, lips twisting into an even more noxious smirk, "Such a wise investment ye' are..." he continued as he reached up, seemingly unbothered by the blood this time when he pressed the tips of his fingers to the brand that forever lived upon the left side of the Alpha's chest.

Two circles interlocked into one another. 

The brand was unmistakable, its meaning clearer than even the brightest jewel.

Einar was a slave.

"Alright, get yer'self together then. Finished off the last of these imbeciles, ye' did. Rest of the bond already returned to base. Follow." He turned on his heel, going back the way he came with that same, odd hop-skip-and-dance around puddles of carnage.

Einar followed the order blindly without a single word of protest, shrinking his wide gait to a fraction of its usual length to compensate for his master's much shorter legs.

It had always been like this. 

His master – Guiscard – had once told him that he'd been sold as a toddler by parents who were more desperate for a few gold coins than they were to keep him. So instead of loving parents, the Alpha's earliest memories consisted of a village that thrived on war, on pillaging the highest mountains and lowest valleys. A village that thrived on bloodshed. 

And of course, from the very moment that he could walk, he was conditioned; trained to become a killing machine, an order-following drone whose individuality was scraped out like the insides of a gourd and replaced with anything that Guiscard wanted.

And Guiscard wanted everything.

"Ye' know, I'm feelin' generous today! Ye' scored me such a win that ye' get yer pick of the spoils!" Guiscard prodded, smirk turning suggestive as they approached the base. Einar's master gestured to the short line of about fifteen men and women who wore expressions of trauma, all connected by heavy, rusted shackles on both their wrists and ankles that clanked when shifting position. "What do you say, 'eh? I'm sure one of 'em appeals to 'ye! Take a look!"

Einar only glanced at their faces out of courtesy to his master's ever-so-gracious offer, but the Alpha already knew his answer.

Einar only hurt others out of necessity, out of fear for his own life. Or better yet, what Guiscard would do to make his life a living hell if he didn't obey every single order.

He remembered the first time that he was put into battle at the ripe age of eleven, and he especially remembered glimpsing his reflection in the river on the trek back from the burning village. It looked as if he was covered in more blood than skin, and he'd immediately thrown his measly breakfast right back up, directly into that dreadful reflection. 

Over time his brain had learned to adapt to inflicting such ghastly acts, to become immune, to shut out the reality of the pain that he was forced to inflict on innocent people on a daily basis. It was the only way to cope.

But if it were only his choice – something that he could never hope to have – Einar would never let a single speck of pain be caused by his fingertips ever again.

At least, not for those who didn't deserve it.

"Thank you, master," Einar finally spoke, the sound deep and crinkly, akin to the crushing of fall leaves, "But I am not worthy." He finished, years of experience with his master's temperament instilling the knowledge that self-depreciation was the only way to convince the man of certain things.

Guiscard snorted, shaking his head as he traipsed over to the horse cart that held a different kind of spoil of war. The stout man lifted a few of the precious items that they'd stripped the village of up to his eye to inspect them while he responded. "What decent man denies the pleasures of the flesh when it's dropped right at their damn feet?! Ye' are one idiotic specimen, Einar." He shooed the Alpha with a hand, fixated on a particularly interesting necklace with jewels embedded into the chain. "Go join the other bonded since yer too scared to be a real man."

Einar blinked, adjusting the weight of the bearskin that sat atop his shoulders before making his way toward the small group of other Berserkrs – slaves that also belonged to Guiscard's extensive harem of servants.

Taking a seat on a free patch of grass, he watched wordlessly while his brethren – just as drenched in blood as he – tied bones, pieces of cloth, and various other spoils of their own around necklaces, waistskins, and bandoliers. To many, it was tradition, a symbol of strength and power to wear the evidence of one's slaughter with an excessive level of pride that Einar could never quite understand.

After all, no matter how much they tried to portray the strength of their physical prowess, it would never change the fact that their bodies – their entire lives – were the contractual property of another.

His bearskin was his only spoil, if one could even call it that. Yes, he'd killed the bear himself, but he only wore the skins to fend off the bitter chill of the night when they slept out in the open on treks back to camp.

As Einar sat, empty-eyed and fixated on a single piece of grass, he pondered Guisard's words.

Pleasures of the flesh.

Einar had experienced pleasure before, many times in fact. Albeit, it had occurred in...less-than-optimal situations.

You see, Guiscard had a tendency to lose himself in the prickly palms of greed. And Einar – with a body built like a battle ox and only a few inches shy of seven feet – was a once-in-a-lifetime find. But even with this rare gem in his possession, the man was far from satisfied.

So, the Beta took matters into his own hands. If he couldn't find another Einar, he would make one. 

Einar had been locked in a barn with a countless number of Omegas during the peak of his ruts, subsequently plunging said Omegas into the throws of heat themselves. 

As much as he hated himself for it, it was an inevitable situation. Every time, he would be unable to resist the core instincts that were written into the very genetics of his being.

He'd breed the Omega.

He'd apologize to the Omega more times than numbers could count. 

The Omega would become with child. 

His child would be born. 

And then – disappointment surmounting at Einar's apparent lack of ability to produce an Alpha and frustrated at the concept of yet another mouth to feed in their village – Guiscard would simply order one of his bonds to 'get rid of it'. 

It.

His child. His children. 

It.

Einar blinked, shifting his gaze to a different blade of grass before he could get too wrapped up in the thought.

After all, he was just a slave. He had no choice in the matter. 

And this was how his life was to be. He would live this way until he got killed, became too injured to fight, or Guiscard decided he wasn't of use anymore in his older age. 

"Get off yer lazy asses, boys!" Guiscard's voice rang out, and Einar's half-braided hair slipped over a shoulder when he turned his head to look. The stout man was getting situated on his black stallion that he loved to look down at his indentured from while one of his personal aides put away the stool that he had to use to mount the tall thing. "We got a two-day trek back home! I'm even bein' generous and givin' y'all a whole day of restin' before the next raid. Ye'd do best to assume yer places before I got time to rethink!"

Pushing to standing, Einar shifted his bear once again when the beast's teeth threatened to cut into his jaw. It was only a short walk back to the horse cart that held the majority of the riches they'd pillaged the village dry of, and – more familiar with this process than with the concept of his own existence – the Alpha promptly secured the leather harness to his chest.

It would be a long two days as he pulled the cart single handedly, but he was the only one big enough – strong enough – to handle the task.

But after all, it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter.

After all, Einar was just a slave.

Hopefully you guys enjoyed this first chapter! I am so excited for this new story!

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Xoxo, Alex ❤️