Puddled against the wall, Darius hid his immense pain, and punched his tongue into the his bottom lip—his red, newly-split bottom lip. Tasting his own salty blood, Darius grinned slyly and spit out a wad of blood and saliva. Glaring up at Fenrir, he met Fenrir’s look of anger with one of his own. Despite the battering, Darius’s face was mostly intact and remained stern-looking. Though his body radiated with a wide, dense, throbbing pain that hurt like hell and his bones felt like shattered twigs, he didn’t show it. But while he was hiding his pain surprisingly well, Darius was less successful at hiding his anger. And with his eyes narrowed, it was clear that the seeds of defiance remained.
“Yes!” Darius shouted then spit again. “Yes, Fenrir, the great wolf-god,” he snorted with a heavy hint of condescension. “Yes, I would challenge you. When you are wrong and when you show your weakness, I will challenge you! Today, tomorrow, until the end of time, for the survival of our pack—our family, I would stand against you.” Then he spit another bloody wad off to the side.
“Fool,” shouted Fenrir, jabbing his finger at Darius. “You speak of things you do not know of. That girl, the Golden Lion of Elysium, you have no idea what she has done for us, for our family. So, yes, I gave her seven days—that’s it, seven days. A grain of sand in the desert of time. And nearly four times longer than you’ve been a god.”
Still crumbled on the ground and slouched the wall, Darius slammed his fist into the polished marble floor. “So that’s it, seven days? And what about us? You expect us to wait now? If we wait five days, we are five days closer to death. That’s it. Or have you forgotten? The Cleansing is at hand, and we should be out howling, feasting on the corrupt and abominable, growing stronger, strengthening the pack… but we’re not. Instead we’re waiting. What happened to food is power? Remember that?”
“Seven days,” Darius huffed before spitting off to the side again and dabbing at his busted lip. “Seven days, you may as well have given her an eternity.”
Spitting again and now too angry to notice his aching body, Darius finally stood up. His armor was now covered in a static coat of freshly powdered stone—from Fenrir using his face as a sledgehammer, so Darius dusted himself off. “Fenrir, we are not strong enough to survive the Cleansing.” Looking down on the now attentive flock of wolves, Darius went on, his angry becoming more explosive by the second. “Fenrir, if we are devoured in the flames, if we starve until we choke on the ashes of humanity… it will not be because I stood by and did nothing. If—when—that happens, it will be on you.”
Fenrir clenched his fist and did his best to restrain his fury. He’s just a boy, Fenrir told himself—he tried to tell himself. It didn’t work.
“Boy,” Fenrir said through his gritted teeth. Fenrir paused, hoping to cool off, but it was a useless effort. “Boy, you may have my blood, and you may have some of my memories, but you lack any and all experience.” You have no idea what is coming.
“Broken memories from a broken god,” Darius snorted. “I remember enough. I remember what you did.” He turned to his right and looked at his five siblings, snaring at Nisha as he did so. “We all remember.”
Like Darius’s was, Fenrir’s anger was growing too, and he was again angrily waving his hand around. “You are so ungrateful! You are nothing but an ungrateful little… I give you the second life, the life of a god, and this is how you repay me? With defiance?!”
Fenrir knew that newly-created gods were often no different than defiant teenagers. Cocksure and ambitious, they were eager to burn down the old world to make room for their new one… with no regard for collateral damage or the oceans of spilt blood required to build it.
“You are old,” Darius yelled. “Old and archaic, and your ways are… You are weak. You give us your blood, your power, just so you can use us. Is that your intent? No, I will not be your puppet, not any longer. I will not stand by, and watch, while you march this pack, our family, to a docile death of waiting… and to prevent that…” Darius sighed. “To prevent that from happening…” He paused again, measuring his next words carefully. “To prevent that from happening… Well, I will do what I have to do, to stop that, to save our family.”
Fenrir knew what he meant. Darius meant to kill him, his father, if necessary, to get his way. Fenrir also knew that when things got this bad there often wasn’t any going back. He also knew: father or son, one of them would die.
It wouldn’t be the first time. The myths of gods killing their parents—and gods killing their children—are common and have existed for eons, and myths of patricide radiate across many cultures. Zeus killed his father Cronus. Before that, Cronus killed his own father Uranus. The Ancient Babylonians believed that Ea (the supreme god) killed his father, Abzu. Etc, etc, etc. And mythical patricide has been used as both a cautionary and anecdotal tale for young and old alike—for parents nurturing their smart-mouthed children, and for those youths who were nurturing their elderly, smart-mouthed parents. It went both ways. And over time the idea of patricide has seared itself into the hearts of men and women all across the world. The most relevant reason of why all that tales of supernatural patricide had survived was that, well, sometimes they were true.
While the tales themselves were intended to be anecdotal and spiritual, they often represented the inherent sublimations found in nature and in rebirth itself. And in this case, it was the subjection of the old wolf-god by one of the new wolf-gods, one that Fenrir had created himself… just two days ago.
“Darius,” Fenrir said, snorting again. Then he sighed, trying to calm his nerves again, and being slightly more successful than last time, and he dared to hope. This doesn’t have to happen, Fenrir thought. There is a way back from this. “Darius, you are just a pup. You speak of things that you do not know of. Our pack, our family, we will eat, and we will grow, and we will survive the Cleansing.”
“Survive,” Darius repeated then spit on the ground. Then, discretely as possible but not discreetly enough, his eyes darted around the room, searching for his spear. Finally spotting it across the raised platform they were on, Darius realized that it was too far to reach, and he huffed.
“Survive,” Darius mumbled again, realizing that—at least for now—words were his only weapon. “Yes, we’ll survive… just like last time, when we survived the great flood.”
Fenrir scratched his beard while he glared at the defiant youth. He’s pushing my buttons, Fenrir realized, on purpose. He wants to see how far I’ll go.
Seeing Fenrir’s hard glare, Darius smirked arrogantly and said, “Fenrir… Once, one time, we were feared. A long time ago, we were the creatures whispered about in legends, but what are we now? Now, well… look at us.” Darius snarled in contempt then continued. “That’s right, Old Man. Your broken memories are now our memories, and we know what happened.”
Darius moved over to the edge of the stone staircase and gazed down on the horde of wolves that were also gazing up at them. The wolves were all on edge, and their fur was spiked up over their backs with anxiety as they watched his and Fenrir’s argument unfold. Darius paused, licked his lips, grinned; and he realized something. If I can win over the pack—or at least a majority of them, Fenrir will be powerless… and I win. Taking in the moment and the realization, Darius grinned even wider and with even more smugness.
And realizing his new plan, Darius addressed the crowd. “Yes, the Old Wolf has given us a second-life, freeing us from our mortal husks, but at what cost? My family, at what cost does this gift come? My brothers and sisters, have you ever asked yourselves that question? What is the cost of this second-life, this gift? Ask yourselves why did Fenrir give us the second-life? Why? Just to die again. Or was it so that we could die for a purpose… for him.
“And what about you all, my brothers and sisters? Where is your gift? While Fenrir, our father, has blessed the six of us up here with his blood, the blood of the gods, you have gone without. He granted us knowledge but keeps you in the dark and ignorant of the truth. He keeps you
in the shadows… like fools. But I… I will tell you the truth, the truth about our kind. Once, a long time ago, our ancient ancestors were strong, powerful creatures—wolves. Dire-wolves, they were called—larger than tigers, larger than lions; we raced across the great plains of the ancient world and hunted where we wanted and when we wanted, without fear. And our ancestors were strong. They’d hunt and feasting upon the great beasts of the old world, all of them—like the great cats of this world do. In those days, for our kind, Cleansings were wonderful. They were a time for feasting, for freedom. The Cleansings were the time—the season—when we took our retribution, when we finally took the justice that we were deprived of in our mortal lives.”
Most of that was lies, all lies. Cleansings were always hard on the wolves, and using the memories that came with Fenrir’s blood, Darius knew it. Nonetheless, knowing the truth didn’t stop Darius from twisting it into something more beneficial, and taking advantage of the false hope and power that came with the twisted truth.
Darius glanced over at Fenrir to see if he’d say anything. He didn’t. Instead, Fenrir only glared at Darius and let out a lowly growl, letting the new-god go on, at least for now.
Darius grinned then when back to his sermon. “Yes, my brothers and sisters. I tell you now, as I stand here before you, those were the days. I mean, back then, there were so many of us—so many different species of us, wolves of all shapes and sizes and abilities—each breed unique, diverse, fearless and… beautiful, just like all of you are.”
“But,” Nisha interrupted, “those great wolves you speak of, those great beasts of the old world, where are they now?” She answered her own question. “Dead. They’re all dead. And while they rot beneath the ground and dissolve to dust, we live.” Nisha beat her fist against her armored chest, trying to rally the pack back to Fenrir’s side. “We live. And those great beasts of the old world, they are not. They hunted, and they killed, and they feasted, and then they did it again. Then they did it until there was nothing left. And now… now they are dead… but we are not. We are alive. Because of Fenrir, we live. With his blood and his mercy, he found us—picked us. Us! He picked us from obscurity and granted us the second-life, a second chance. As we lied dying, our mortal lives fading away, it was Fenrir—our father—that gave us the choice. And he gave us a strength that was beyond our belief, a strength that we never knew existed. He gave us each other. He gave us a family, purpose… something we never knew of as mortals.”
“But Darius asks, ‘why,’” Nisha said, turning to Darius. “Why, Darius? To bring justice to the world, that is why… and apparently—in your mind, at least—to bicker amongst ourselves and play petty political games.”
Glaring hard at Nisha, Darius snickered at her comments then continued preaching to both Fenrir and the pack. “Yes, Sister. You are correct. Fenrir has given us the second-life, a second chance, but again I ask you, for what? to serve? Yes, we will bring justice to the world… if we are not too starved or too weak to do so. And we will have our retribution… but we should do it on our own terms—not out of some implied loyalty to our creator.”
Darius turned his head and glared at Fenrir, still waiting for him to say or do something, but Fenrir didn’t. In fact, despite once again steaming with anger, Fenrir hadn’t moved an inch. Perhaps he should have, but Darius’s words were a scornful reminder of his failures and not entirely untrue.
Darius snorted. “Our creator,” he huffed, “and what a creator he is.” Then he went back to addressing the pack. “Once upon a time, we ruled the world—many worlds and many lifetimes ago. We were large, ferocious, magnificent creatures—larger than bears we were. And over time, that was what they called us. Werewolves. But now… Now where are they? Where are all the great wolves? Dead, dead and gone. Just like the old worlds, they were slept away in the Cleansings of the past… All under our wise father’s leadership, because he wanted to sleep.” Darius paused and let his disdain wash over him like a warm, refreshing shower; letting his words soak into the impressionable wolves that were still watching. “Yes, Fenrir. You wanted to sleep… because it was cold. And now… Now, our descendants—the ones that survived—are nothing, nothing but cowards, lapdogs to the mortals. They are small and weak, and with their ears laid back and their tales tucked tightly between their legs, they beg for scraps from the mortals. The strong wolves—the wild ones, the defiant ones, they are refugees… refugees of their own kingdoms, forced to hide and flee from soft mortals with metal guns.” Changing the fluctuation in his voice, Darius suddenly sounded particularly sad and regretful. “Our descendants, were they not our family as well? before Fenrir abandoned them. Now what are they? Half-starved and outnumbered, they are forced to scramble through the snow and ice-covered forests, constantly running and living in fear, as they scavenge for food, just to survive. What did Fenrir do? As they starved, Fenrir, our courageous father, slept. And now he would have us wait—wait for a destiny identical to theirs, one of starvation and fear With the Cleansing at hand and the beasts of desolation rising, he would have us wait, just a while longer. Though he abandoned them and slept for eons, he would have us wait even longer, seven days. Haven’t we waited long enough? Haven’t they waited long enough? ‘But it’s only seven days,’ he says. Seven days for a starving wolf? It would’ve been kinder for him to have just killed them himself.”
Pausing, Darius took in a deep breath of awe. Though he hadn’t noticed before, this time, when he scanned the throne room, he finally did (notice). His pain was gone, and his courage was bubbling over. And like a public speaker, Darius realized that he had been charismatically moving around the elevated stage, like he owned the place, and the wolf pack below him were eagerly listening to him—like they had listened to Fenrir before, and they were eating up each and every one of his defiant words. And now, the fire inside Darius grew, and his bold words further nurtured his bravery and brashness. Then he knew. He had them; he had won over the crowd and successfully charmed them with his treacherously sweet words. And now, the sea of wolves below him, beneath him, the ones waiting at the base of the stone staircase; they would follow him anywhere. As for Fenrir, his once loyal wolves were gone. Like the rest of them, they were staring him down with their judgmental golden eyes, waiting for Fenrir’s response. And Darius…
Emboldened, Darius smirked and sniggered and stepped over to Fenrir and stood toe-to-toe with the wolf-god, his father, his creator. Being as disrespectful as he possibly could, Darius looked Fenrir up-and-down then arrogantly snorted. “The god of wolves,” he muttered, just loud enough for Fenrir to hear him. Then, staring up at the massive, bearded god with gritted teeth, Darius’s eyes were chiseled with sharp, fiery defiance. “Fenrir, you are no god. You are no pack leader. No alpha.” Being nearly a foot short than Fenrir, Darius rose up onto his tiptoes and tilted his head over Fenrir’s shoulder, moving his lips to Fenrir’s ear. Then Darius whispered more poisonous words to his father. “Fenrir, you may have given us power. You may have given us life… But you are a poor excuse for a father. You are a poor excuse for a god. So… tell me, Father, how many children did you lose during the last Cleansing? How about the one before it?” Darius lowered himself and raised his eyebrows, mockingly waited for Fenrir’s answer.
Fenrir snorted, his nostrils flaring out as he did so. His eyes gleamed like ice, and his face was fire-engine red. He pursed his lips in wrinkled disgust and looked as dangerous as a bucket of shattered steel, and it took all his efforts to hold back his fury. Finally through gritted teeth, Fenrir said something. “Mind your tongue, Boy. You are nothing but a bystander, a book reviewer, sorting through my broken memories, as you so-had the nerve to call them. But your expectations are naïve, and this… coup (d’etat) of yours is foolish. You have no idea what is in store. The fire, the choking on ashes, that comes later, much later. That comes after the pain and death and panic. That comes after your tempered strength and ironclad courage crumble. That comes after you watch your loved ones die, ki
lled because they were following your orders, your instructions—and seeing it happen again, and again. You see, Darius. That is what the Cleansing is really about; pain, death, loss… surviving. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? because those aren’t memories—those are feelings, feelings that only come with pain and experience. But right now, you stand on the sidelines and second-guess my judgement, my decisions of the past, my mistakes… because I gifted you with my memories. I gave you a gift that people would kill for—have killed for… and you would just throw it in my face.”
Fenrir was still staring down at Darius’s steel-cut eyes, seeing that the boy’s defiance was unwavering. He continued anyway. “Aye, but you can do that, can’t you, Darius? question my decisions. You have that luxury. It comes easy with your type, but… if you take away anything from this little charade, let it be this, boy. It is always easier to judge than it is to understand. Understanding takes patience, time, experience—none of which you have at the moment.”
Holding back a chuckle, Darius’s eyes twinkled with youthful bravado. “Perhaps,” Darius sniggered, “but I am not an island.” Still grinning, he held his hand out to the side, gesturing to the crowd. “Nor am I alone.”
Fenrir turned and saw what Darius was smirking about, an uprising of wolves. With their muzzles curled up and their polished fangs gleaming, the wolves snarled and let out a rally of throaty growls. Their yellow eyes had narrowed into angry slivers of gold. The wolves seemed to have made their decision, and they were slowly creeping towards the stone staircase.
Fenrir’s wolf pack, one of the seven that made up the larger pack, was where they normally were, just in front of the stone staircase. They were doing what they normally did, guarding the stone staircase like British sentries. The only difference was that they were now facing off against a flurry of familiar faces, their extended wolf family—who, within a span of hours, had become nothing more than a panicked, desperate swarm of traitorous wolves. Snarling and snapping against the defiant herd of wolves, Fenrir’s pack—larger and more ferocious than the rest—bravely stood against the massive flood of newer-created younger wolves. And like Leonidas and the 300 Spartans that stared down the tsunami of Persian soldiers and defended their home—to the death, Fenrir’s wolves were just as fearless and had no intent of backing down or surrendering.
The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones) Page 18