The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones)

by M. H. Hawkins

  Hundreds of years later, after seeing the population of wolves—his brothers and sisters—and their descendants dwindle down to dangerously low numbers and after seeing his father do nothing about it, Fenrir took action. He had to. Though he realized and regretted that he waited so long—too long, he knew—to take action, he knew that he couldn’t wait any longer. He’s my father, Fenrir thought, but our pack, our species, must survive. I have to do it—it has to be done. It has to be me. I have to, or else… or else our species won’t survive the next Cleansing. Fenrir fought with the idea and hoped that there was another way. Then he had another thought: I should have already done it. I should have had the courage to do it before, a long time ago. Forgive me, Father.

  A few nights later, under a thin crescent moon, Fenrir entered the Mountain of Bones to kill his father. That night, the mountain howled with pain, growling fury, snapping jaws, and Fenrir’s regrets. As heinous as it was, Fenrir knew that it was necessary—necessary, brave, savage, heinous and heartbreaking… and he did it anyways. Patricide, he reflected, a dirty word for a vile act.

  Nonetheless, it still happened. After a long tussle within the great mountain, one between a large wolf and an even larger one, it happened. The fight lasted until the sun rose high into heaven’s midday, and the inside of the mountain were forever scared. The cavern walls were tattooed with spit, blood, and swirling claw marks. The floor was splattered and smeared with wolf-blood—from both the son and the father. Aslern’s great bone collection was broken and splattered with red and black blood. It was only when the Great Wolf-God was aerated with too many holes to count and too many slashes that were too deep to heal, death came for Aslern. With his throat between Fenrir’s snapping jaw and his plunging fangs; Aslern finally quit fighting.

  The surviving wolf shrank and folded into his human form. His matted fur melted into his tattered black armor. Giant gashes from Aslern’s claws had left deep notches in it. While the armor had started to mend itself, some cuts were still leaking blood. When the transformation was finally completed, Fenrir remembered that he could still taste his father’s blood on his tongue, and he spit to the side (like Darius had) and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. Fenrir grabbed his glaive, and breathing heavy with exhausting, and with Aslern slumped nearly lifeless against the wall, Fenrir jabbed the glaive into his father. Then he pushed it in even further. Only when it was half-buried in Aslern’s torso and he knew that his father was gone did Fenrir quit pushing.

  Fenrir’s glaive, while its blade was silver at the time, remembered that when he finally pulled it from his father’s belly and wiped off the syrupy coat of his father’s dead, blackish blood; its blade was forever changed. No longer silver, it had blackened into the tone and tint of night—black as jet. Its original color—a sharp silver polished to perfection and smoothed to a mirror-finish—would never returned. The blade was now stained with his father’s blood. Fenrir’s weapon, his beloved glaive, was now forever-tainted with the sins of his father, and it would be a constant reminder of that night. And Fenrir, he was also changed, stained and tainted by his own sins.

  And in a further, sicker sense of irony, the son did as the father had, and Fenrir consumed his father’s body. After resting a moment (as a man) and wiping away his tears, Fenrir shifted back into a wolf and fed. He had to. Because, while Aslern was most certainly insane, there was one thing he was unequivocally right about; the blood of the gods was eternal and held untold power within it. It couldn’t go to waste… and it wouldn’t.

  In his throne room, Fenrir shook off the ironic memory and gazed down on his rebellious wolf pack. Then he looked over at his defiant, newly-anointed children and the sharp spears they held. Perhaps this is the way it is supposed to happen, the father sublimated by his children.

  He looked down at his armored forearm and squeezed his fist, flexing his forearm muscles. Beneath the heavy layer of black armor was another reminder from that night. Beneath his armor, Fenrir’s forearm was covered in scars and mangled scar tissue. That night, during the brutal battle of life and death, Aslern tore a chunk out of it, nearly severing it. Now rubbing it, Fenrir thought, strange.

  That night, when it happened, he had just dodge his father’s massive swiping paw but not the kick that followed. As Aslern charged him, Fenrir put up his arm to defend himself, and Aslern tore into it. The bite lost power. Fenrir saw his father’s eyes—sad eyes, then he hit him. Strange, Fenrir thought, it was almost like he let me go, let me live. Did he? After that, the fight didn’t last much longer.

  Still rubbing his forearm and flexing it again, Fenrir smirked. Life leaves scars, he thought, and I killed my father because he went mad, because I had to. Was Darius doing the same thing? Or was Darius the one who was going mad? Truly, Fenrir didn’t know. All the same, the memories, the questions, they all led Fenrir to his unwavering decision. Insane or not, right or wrong, life or death, even if he has decided to kill me, it doesn’t matter. I will not fight back. I will not kill my son.

  Defeated, Fenrir growled lowly and nodded limply at Darius. Go on. Do it. Kill me. Fenrir’s eyes scanned over the fleeting image of his children marching towards him with their readied spears. He turned his head left and smiled down at the sea of wolves, his family, ascending the stone steps like a rising tide. As they padded up the stone stairs with calculated steps and curled muzzles, Fenrir smiled down at them. My children, he thought, perhaps they are strong enough to survive it (the Cleansing). Finally he turned back to Darius whose smirk was turning increasingly bittersweet with each passing second. His sapphire eyes sparkled brightly, and he smiled lovingly at Darius. I forgive you. Darius, my son, I love you. I love you all, so much. Then Fenrir snorted, nodded lightly, and closed his eyes and waited to die.

  Behind Fenrir’s closed eyelids, the dark seconds stretched out to an eternity. Everyone had turned on him. His entire family had betrayed him and left him to die… everyone except Nisha. Fenrir heard a shout, and his eyes snapped open.

  “No!” Nisha shouted, already moving. A perfect throw and her spear shot out of her hand and into the back of Arrous’s thigh.

  As Arrous screeched in pain and crumbled, Nisha spun around him and retrieving her spear from his buckling thigh. With her other hand, she ripped Arrous’s spear from his suddenly limp hands and didn’t miss a beat. Within her brothers’ half-second of shock, Nisha was still moving, spinning around while twirling a spear in each hand. She wasn’t finished, not by a longshot.

  Ramus and Glenstark observed the commotion and slid their spears away from Fenrir and towards Nisha, and she responded. With a spinning spear in each hand, she swatted away Ramus’s thrust while ducking beneath Glenstark’s hesitant stab.

  Glenstark yanked back his spear and was about to thrust again, but he was too late. Nisha spun around again, and he didn’t even see it coming. Like a sledgehammer, Nisha’s foot crashed into his chest and sent him shooting into the air. Flying backwards, Glenstark grasped in front of him, at the air, at anything. He found nothing, and instead, when he looked down, he saw that he was flying over the stone stairs and sea of wolves flooding over them.

  Glenstark finally came crashing down, clumsily landing and flopping down the sharped-angled stairs and barreling into the wolves climbing them.

  And now, with the recent turn of events, the wolves’ mutiny didn’t seem like such a good idea. And the growling horde of wolves, the ones that were so bravely and boldly ascending the stone staircase, was suddenly less-brave and now easing back down them.

  Nisha glanced down at them and saw that Fenrir’s wolf pack was still remaining neutral. But, like the rest of the wolves, they too were backing away.

  Nisha’s pack wasn’t so easily swayed. In fact, Nisha’s pack hadn’t swayed at all and had remained as loyal and resilient as their leader’s actions were bold. Glancing out into the stadium-sized stone cavern, Nisha saw them, her pack. Somewhere near the dead-center of the throne room, her wolves had formed a circle. Snarling
against the traitors, the fur on their backs was spiked up like angry sawblades and their lips were curled up as far as they could go. Her wolves. Fiercely unwavering, even in the face of certain death.

  The other five treacherous wolf packs had them surrounded and were slowly encroaching upon them, squeezing Nisha’s wolf pack into a tight circle of fur and fangs. Near the front of it, nearest to Nisha, she saw three wolves puffed up more than the rest. Forming a sharp edge of grayscale fur, Nisha could see who it was. The twins, Raja and Sima. Between them was a familiar face, Clyde.

  Now in the form of a horse-sized wolf with fur black as ether, Clyde was done smoking and all business. His eyes were sharp blades of gold and his fangs were sharpened stilettos. His growling muzzle rattled and was lathered with slobber. More slobber dripped off the bottom flaps of his jaw and splashed into the newly-carved creases in the floor. Clyde’s claws—the color of black steel—had carved deep pockets into the otherwise smooth marble floor. His claws were still out and looked like blackened scythes, ready to slice through any wolf foolish enough to attack his pack, his family. With another angry bark and a snarl, Clyde’s snapping jaw flung around even more slobber and made the would-be attackers take a step back.

  They’re good wolves, Nisha thought. They’ll be okay. They can hold their own, for now. Her wolves did just that. Holding strong and maintaining their circle, her wolves snapped and snarled at any and all of the snapping, snarling, and dissenting wolves that surrounding them.

  Nisha had other pressing concerns, her brothers. With a spear cradled in each hand, she brought her attention back to her treacherous brothers and scolded them. “Traitors!” she yelled, now aiming one spear at Brontus and the other at Darius.

  The muted sound of scraping metal provided a momentary distraction, and everyone turned their eyes to Fenrir, just in time to see a bright flash of purple lightning. Fenrir’s glaive had scraped across the floor, tumbled through the air, and flung itself into Fenrir’s open palm. And Fenrir appeared to have regained his will to live. He stepped nearer to Nisha and spoke past her, addressing his sons. “At least there is one of you who have not lost their way.”

  He slammed the butt of his glaive against the stone floor and sent out a thunderous booming sound that echoed. Boom! Then he addressed the rebelling wolves. “Stand down! Today, there will not be a mutiny. Not today! Regardless of what happens here—up here, I will not have wolves killing wolves, like animals.” Although no one really moved, Fenrir seemed to have regained some control of the crowd.

  Sensing the wolves’ hesitation, Fenrir repeated himself. “I said stand down!” This time they listened, and the wolves calmed down and the infighting stopped. The wolves faced the stage, and with their limp ears folded back, they all sat down and bowed their heads in humility. Nisha’s pack, hesitant to trust the other treacherous wolves, remained alert, but after a little while, they submitted like the others had.

  While the wolves had settled, things atop the elevated stage were not so calm, and neither Darius nor any of his brothers were planning on conceding their mutiny. Everyone watched as Glenstark made his way back up the stone steps. Then everyone watched as Arrous held onto his punctured thigh, trying to stifle the bleeding. While they weren’t attacking Fenrir or Nisha, they—as well as Darius, Ramus, and Brontus—still had fiery defiance beaming from their narrowed sapphire eyes.

  Seeing this, Nisha and Fenrir shared nods of understanding. Let’s see where his goes. Then they returned their attention to the five defiant new gods.

  On the opposite side of the throne room and across from his brothers, Darius—the ringleader—smirked and held his hand out to his side. His discarded spear spun through the air, past Fenrir’s stone throne, and slapped itself into Darius’s open hand. Still smirking, he said, “Five against two? I’ll take those odd.” He shrugged, bent his head to the left—stretching his neck muscles while letting the bones pop, bent his head to the right, then rolled his shoulders and sniffed hard. “Alright,” he said, “shall we begin?”

  Darius’s words suddenly made everything very real, but when Nisha looked around, she saw that her other brothers were as hesitant as she was. And despite everything, they were family. Besides that, they all seemed reluctant to kill each other… everyone except Darius, whose eyes were as cold as can be.

  Nisha still had hope and tried to reason with them. “Stand down. Don’t you remember what Fenrir did for us? Do you remember what our lives were like? as mortals? I do.”

  Keeping one watchful eye on Darius, Nisha watched as her other brothers became more hesitant. Their shoulders sagged, they settled down even further, and their spears hung looser. There is still hope, she thought then lowered her spears as well. “Don’t you remember? Arrous, you were an orphaned beggar, abandoned by your family. You were left to die… until Fenrir granted you the second-life, a life after death. He asked you… he asked you if you were ready. He explained it to you. He asked you if this was what you wanted… and you said yes. I know. I was there.”

  She turned to Brontus. “And Brontus, You—your father… Your father was a monster. He sold into slavery. Your family sold you into slavery, your own family. You worked in that diamond mine until you died. There was no air, no ventilation inside the mine—you were starving. They barely fed you. They worked you until you collapsed from exhaustion and… Four days later, you died. They didn’t even bury you. But Fenrir… after your mortal death, he saved you, like he did for all of us.”

  Brontus dropped his head in shame, and Nisha saw that her brothers were starting to come around. They were until…

  Darius snorted loudly then started up again. “Yes! Yes, Fenrir saved us. He saved all of us… to serve him. Brontus, Arrous, you share Fenrir’s memories—the same as me. And yes, the Cleansing is at hand. But do you want to die like his old pack did, torn apart by the beasts of desolation—the harbingers of the end? Do you want to be enslaved by the other gods? Is that it? Is that what you want? I don’t.

  “Yes, we were given a second chance, reborn as wolves, but for what? To be slaughtered and torn to shreds?” Darius huffed then said, “If that’s the case…” Reflecting on the prospect of death, he stopped mid-sentence. Darius dropped his head and shook it. Finally raising it again, he turned to Fenrir. “If that was the case… then you should have just let us die. If you wanted us to be your slaves, to be your lackeys, you should’ve just kept your offer, that second-life of yours, and just left us alone. It would have been better to a lost soul—a still-human soul—than to live like this, to face the final death.”

  Now Fenrir lowered his head in shame.

  The final death? Nisha wondered. With a wide-eyed look of surprise, her head snapped towards Fenrir, looking for an answer. There was none. Apparently Fenrir didn’t share all of his memories equally with them, and to Nisha, the risk of the final death was news to her.

  Darius saw her face and could tell that this was all new information. Smiling smugly, he said, “Oh, I see.” Then snickering, he said, “You see, Nisha. Apparently you don’t know everything, and it looks like Fenrir didn’t want to tell you, his prized pupil, all of his dirty little secrets. Yeah, breaking news. Gods can die. You can die. Oh! and when we die, we die forever—no reincarnation, no second chance… only death, only the cold, black nothingness of the void.”

  Darius stepped to Fenrir’s stone throne and casually leaned against the broken armrest that Fenrir smashed his face against earlier. It was in better condition than a few minutes ago, and the armrest had mended itself quite nicely. Darius poked his finger along the once-jagged edges of marble. The jagged edges were smooth and were now no more than bumpy flecks of stone. The power of the gods, Darius thought, the blood of the gods—so powerful that even their thrones heal themselves. Darius grinned and thought, I want it.

  Turing to Nisha and as casual as can be, Darius said, “You see, you big dummy, the Valley of Forgotten Gods… it’s real. We die, we’re forgotten. That’s it. Now, today, tomorro
w, a year from now, ten years; it doesn’t matter. When we die, we die. We’re done. You see, Sister, Fenrir lied to us. He tricked us… because he needs us. He needs soldiers. He needs family. Why? That answer is simple, to save himself.”

  Darius turned to Fenrir, mocking him with his words. “So how many were there? Before you, how many wolf-gods has there been? Do you even remember?”

  Nisha looked up at Fenrir and saw that he, once again, looked broken. She wanted him to deny it, to deny that he lied to her, that he knew something that Darius didn’t. Say something, she thought. Say that Darius is lying. Say that he’s wrong. Say anything.

  Fenrir said nothing. His sad sapphire eyes looked heavy as they peeked out from under his drooping eyelids and up at Nisha. He didn’t need words to say anything. When he sighed and looked away, Nisha knew that Darius was telling the truth.

  Nisha deflated and for a second she felt as broken as Fenrir looked. Feeling like an invisible force was pushing her away from him, she took a fatigued step backward.

  Fenrir’s betrayal would have to wait, she decided. Shaking it off, she told herself: he’s still my father. He may have withheld the truth from us. He may have lied… but he’s still my father… and I still love him.

  Darius could sense the dissension between Fenrir and his favorite child and took pride in his psychological victory. Still grinning, Darius snickered. Then, using his spear like a walking stick, Darius pushed himself off the broken armrest and began walking around again, resuming his sermon to the wolves below the stone staircase, like they were his congregation. “You see, brothers and sisters, this has to be done—so we can survive. Fenrir, he is not the great wolf-god he has led us to believe that he is. He is a failure, and this—him… He is the one that is supposed to lead us through the Cleansing? He’s the wolf-god that is supposed to lead us to greatness? No. No, I do not believe that. We deserve better. We deserve to live. Now… let’s kill him and do just that, survive. I said, ‘Kill him!’”