The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones)

by M. H. Hawkins

  The blunt end of the glaive changed as well. It melted down and flattened—like candle wax—then molded itself into an identical copy of the thick black blade on the opposite end of the weapon. Then both blades stretched out and became longer, thinner versions of themselves.

  At the center of the weapon, the pole sank into itself and thinned into something shaped like an hourglass, allowing the weapon to be split into two whenever its owner wanted it to. It was quite the elegant weapon. Versatile, quick, and deadly… just like Nisha.

  She leaned back and rested it across the stone armrests, just as Fenrir had done once before her. Nisha gasped when it finally hit her, she was in charge. Below her, the cavern was still filled with wolves. Only now the wolves were waiting on her, sitting patiently and staring up at her, awaiting their orders, waiting for instructions.

  By now, Lilly had had her fill. She rolled her eyes then scratched her cheek. “Yeah,” she said. “So… this has been fun, but I got things to do. So, before I go, ah… do you need anything?” Normally Lilly wouldn’t have even bother asking, but she made a promise to Fenrir, a promise she intended on keeping… at least at the moment.

  Nisha was still in shock and lifted her head slowly and looked at Lilly. She looked back over at the other anointed wolf-gods, the ones she once called brothers—that she expected to call brothers. Not now. Right now they were being as passive as always and were on bended knee bowing to her. The banshees shadowing them were gone, and they no longer needed to be restrained. Cowards, Nisha thought. At the drop of a hat, they surrendered—to Lilly, to Lilly’s banshees, to me. though Fenrir’s blood ran through their veins, they were… they were nothing, cowards.

  Nisha thought about them, her brothers. She knew their type, men and gods with weak spines and poorly groomed fortitude. They lack courage and are always the first to flee, first to abandon the pack. Seven are one? No, we were never that… because of them.

  Lilly cleared her throat to get Nisha’s attention. Now speaking louder and slower than before, she repeated herself. “Nisha, what-do-you-need?”

  Nisha narrowed her eyes then looked at her brothers again. Cowards, traitors. Nodding at her four brothers, Nisha said, “Bring me their hearts, Give the rest of them to the pack.” She turned to Darius. “But not him, just toss him to the pack. He has no heart.”

  Lilly cleared her throat. “Well, you heard the lady.” She waved her hand in the arm, and her banshees did the rest.

  Now, as they had listened to Nisha’s screams, and done nothing to help her, she now listened to theirs. And Lilly’s banshees swarmed them and did as they were told.

  Nisha nodded to Lilly as she took her leave and disappeared into the shadow-soaked ceiling she had emerged from, and then she let out a sigh of relief. Fenrir’s memories were still flowing into her brain, she barely heard her brothers’ screams.

  It’s a whole new world, Nisha thought, then watched as Lilly’s banshees dragged Darius to the top of the stone staircase and flung him into the middle of the throne room, into the sea of wolves. It had to be done, Nisha told herself. It’s a whole new ballgame, and Nisha… Now she was a different kind of animal all together.

  CH 11: My Block

  Two Days Later

  The broken street lights from Mea’s dramatic exit still cluttered the lawns and gutters of the suburban street. And because it wasn’t a particularly rich neighborhood, it was no surprise that none of the lights were fixed. Some neighbors had cleaned up the mess within their proximity, but others allowed the busted glass to remain, expecting someone else to clean up the mess. With all of the lights being busted out, the lower middle-class neighborhood was scarcely lit.

  Tonight was especially eerie. Dark clouds filled the sky, and storm shadows and smog blotted out the stars. Aside from the tampered light from the few lamps that were left on, the moon provided the night’s only light. Though it was hidden behind the heavy, charcoal-colored clouds, it also lit them up like Chinese lanterns, filling them with the golden glow of moonlight and lining their edges in a darker, crisper tone.

  The night was especially quite as well. While there were always at least a few noisy neighbors, tonight there wasn’t. Like a fog of sleep had drifted in to the neighborhood and covered it in sleeping powder, it felt like all the energy had been sucked from it, and all of the neighborhood residents were asleep and dead to the world.

  The neighborhood was about to become less quiet. The lights shining out of the windows of the neighborhood homes flickered then darkened as the electricity died, and the street became deader and darker than it already wall.

  The electricity and the lights would both return soon enough. Bright yet silent as an assassin, lightning flashed and lit up the sky with a new light and provided the only nearby electricity. The lightning flickered again, like a lamp with a faulty wire, and lined the clouds with a golden trestle of sorts.

  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, in the middle of the street, a flurry of emerald lights appeared. When the lightning flashed again, more appeared. And with each flash of lightning, more emeralds lights joined the ones that were already descending down the suburban street.

  The street was no longer dead, and each flash of lightning was accompanied by more emerald lights… and the army of emerald-eyed men and women grew larger. Marching down the street in their drab, tattered clothes, as the lightning flashes quickened, the army swelled. The asphalt street was soon filled with emerald-eyed outcasts

  In front of them, their leader, a large Asian man with perfectly tussled hair, was swinging around a thick-bladed, emerald-green broadsword—an oversized version of the ones found with the Nebra sky disk, circa 1600 B.C. Though they were much crisper and well-crafted, the swords pummel had similar markings to the Nebra sky disk as well—a sun, moon, lunar crescent, and stars. Its handler, constantly grinning all the while, was still swinging around the large emerald blade without a care in the world, like it was all just a game.

  The seven ranks that flared out behind him were filled with large outcasts. Ratty fingerless gloves covered their hands, and their hands covered the grips of emerald-bladed weapons. Of a similar craft of their leader, theirs were a more motley blend of weaponry—knives, spears, swords, hatchets, and scythes.

  The quietness of the other end of the street was soon disturbed as well. Wolves. They came out of nowhere. Pouncing out of the shadows, racing out from behind hidden corners, dropping out of the trees; it didn’t matter. Wolves were popping out of any and every nearby, dark corner. Glancing at the outcasts, the wolves didn’t give them a second thought as they galloped into the street and took a formation similar to the opposing force. Seven rows of wolves—seven rows that were growing with every batch of new, emerging wolves. More wolves seeped out from between the parked cars that lined the street and added to the ranks.

  Remaining silent, there wasn’t any growling, snarling, or any other sound whatsoever. After briefly glaring at the regiment of outcasts marching towards them, they went back to business and fell into formation, silently as can be.

  In front of them was a woman, their leader—a fierce woman with a long dual-edged glaive. Broken in half, its blades hung over her shoulders like a brutal set of rabbit ears. Her face was covered by a heavy black hood. Her hair dangling out of bottom of her heavily shadowed hooded head, and the black-gray-and-white striped waves swayed and crashed against the top of her black-armored chestplate. Behind her, her black-and-white fur cloak drifted around as well, slapping against her armored calves with each step.

  Nisha flapped back her hood and revealed her face. Her eyes glinted like the almond-shaped sapphires that they were. Beautiful as always, she did looked much colder and serious than before… just two days ago.

  Nisha and her pack continued marching towards the army of fallen angels that was still marching towards them. Approaching each other, each group slowed their steps, but neither backed down. Now close enough to kill each other, about a stone’s throw away, both groups slid
to a grinding halt. Staring at each other, and though the outcasts’ leader was still grinning and Nisha had a look of tempered steel, neither said a word.

  A flapping sound distracted them, and all eyes turned to see the source of the noise, at the Harris’s apartment complex.

  With his midnight wings flared out, Azazel lowered himself on the wind beneath his giant crow-colored wings and drifted down in to the patchy lawn of the apartment complex, caddy corner from both armies. “Well,” he said. “Isn’t this quite the commotion.” Stepping in to the street and further between the two armies, his wings folded behind him and meshed into a black satin cloak. Flapping, they were sucked into two barely-visible slits in his shoulder blades. Wearing an oversized, pitch-black pea coat, the coat’s cuffs stirred. Long, curved blades slid out from somewhere near his cuffs. Growing wider and sharper, they soon took the form of the heads of two dramatically crafted battleaxes. One side held a long, curved edge that was edged in gritty black and sparkling grinding diamonds. The other side held a piercing scythe-like tail. The axes’ long thin handles followed next, sliding down his forearms until his hands wrapped around the leather-wrapped grips of them.

  Azazel glanced over at Nisha and her wolves. The wolves had politely sat down, and they appeared to have settled, patiently waiting for whatever they were here for. They’re okay, Azazel thought. They’re not a threat, least not at the moment. Besides, he had other problems. Outcasts, his rebellious fallen angels that appeared to have now rebelled against him. The wolves would have to wait.

  Azazel turned towards the outcasts that he once led and addressed their new leader. “Brentiel.”

  “Trevor,” he said, correcting Azazel. His accent was a heavy Scottish one. “I’ve taken a new name. Now, I am Trevor.”

  Azazel gave him a sideways look. It wasn’t because a large Asian man was speaking with a Scottish accent. Outcasts were known for their idiosyncrasies, and they often struggled with their identities. The fact that Brentiel had taken a new name didn’t bother him. Taking on a new name or title was commonplace amongst the supernatural and gods alike. What bothered Azazel was that Brentiel had chosen Trevor as his new name. Trevor, Azazel thought, what an odd name. So weird. Azazel huffed. “Fine, Trevor.” It still sound weird to him.

  Azazel shook it off and glared at the emerald blade in Trevor’s hand then back at him. “I was wondering where I left that.”

  “Left, abandoned,” Trevor said, shrugging. “Matters not, aye. I hold it now. The sword of leadership.” He held up the blade and examined it. “And a shame—it is, or so I’d imagine. To forfeit such a fine-looking blade, and what a fine blade, it is. Aye, but someone had to. You know, when you went missing, got captured, or what-have you; someone had to take charge. So I figured why not me. Aye, otherwise… you know how it is. Everyone starts scattering across the world, or huddling around each other—scared of their shadows and such. But I don’t need to explain that to you, now do I. You know it is, how it goes, don’t ya now?”

  “So you decided to take up the mantle.”

  Bolder than usual, Trevor chuckled. “Aye, that I did. Like I said before, someone had to.”

  “Well, I’m back.”

  Trevor chuckled again. “Aye, that you are. I can see that well enough. We all see that. I can also see that you done-gone and got you a new pair of wings as well—hadn’t you? And what a fine pair of wings, they are. And it must be nice, getting a brand-spanking-new pair of wings.” He glared at Azazel than stared at the ground. “I had a pair of wings once. Aye, we all did. They were nice too, maybe as nice as yours, maybe even nicer.” Trevor shrugged and squeezed the grip of his new sword. “Then we lost them, our wings… because we followed you, you and your faulty ambitions.” Trevor snorted. “Now we all got a nice map of scars etched in our backs instead of our wings, don’t we. Aye, they’re certainly nice enough, they are. Not as nice as our wings were, they’re not—certainly not as nice as your new wings… but all the same, they were ours.”

  Azazel didn’t reply and instead glanced over his shoulder at the herd of wolves behind him. Oddly enough, they were still sitting there, calm as can be. Some panting with their oversized pink tongues flopping around in their mouths. Some licking at their fur collars. Some gnawed at forelimbs, biting at an itchy spot no doubt. But all were still sitting, right where they were minutes ago.

  He turned his attention back to Trevor. Still holding his two black axes, he squeezed their leather grips angrily. Though he made a conscious effort to not move, to not show his nervousness, his hand twitched along with the axes. Trevor saw as well, his eyes shifting over to the axes. When Trevor grinned at him, Azazel realized that he failed in his deception. “Trevor, why are you here?”

  Trevor shrugged and glanced at his emerald sword. “What am I doing here?” he repeated, calmly and incredulously, subtly surprised that Azazel’s stupid question. “You know what I am doing here, what we are doing her. Isn’t it obvious? Taking the initiative, we are. You see, your sister, the Golden Lion—pretty as she is, she cast us out of paradise, now didn’t she… and now we want our revenge.” The outcasts behind him grunted loudly and unison. Trevor continued. “Or had you forgotten, Azazel… the fallen Defender of the Heavens, the Magistrate of the Crystal City, the King of Eagles—the King of Nothing.”

  Azazel didn’t take the bait and instead bit his tongue and bit down on his lip.

  Trevor, on the other hand, with the same cocky impetuousness that Darius had, licked his lips and grinned insidiously.

  Disgusting, Nisha thought. Though neither was paying attention to her, she was watching the confrontation and saw Trevor’s similarities to Darius almost immediately. Though she wanted to sink her fangs into him and rip the flesh from his bones, and devour him until he was wiped from the earth, like her pack had done to Darius, she didn’t. Instead, like Azazel, she said nothing.

  Trevor continued his conversation with Azazel. “We’re here for revenge,” he said. “Aye, Revenge. You remember that, don’t ya, Azazel. That was the package you sold us on, wasn’t it now? oh so many eons ago.” Trevor paused, a long pause, and stared at his sword again. Another grin slowly crept over his lips, and Trevor addressed the elephant in the room. “And the boy…”

  “The boy is a boy,” Azazel snapped back, trying to shut down that topic.

  Not buying it for a second, Trevor wrinkled up in his forehead in disbelief. “A boy? That’s more than just a wee bit of an understatement, don’t you think? That boy is not just a boy, as you well know as well.” He huffed. “And you? What are you doing here? Same as us, I imagine? I would certainly hope so.” While Trevor was using words like imagine and hope, his message was clear. Stand down or we’ll kill you.

  Azazel didn’t answer, but his hands did. They twitched again and the axes in them bounced along with them, and Trevor had his answer. “Azazel, come now. You wouldn’t be betraying us now, would ya? After all these years, after everything you’ve put us through, after we waited oh-so-long with you, you wouldn’t be switching teams again, now would ya? Not when we’re so close to the payoff. Were that so, that’d be quite certainly a cruel act indeed, wouldn’t it be now.”

  Azazel looked over the thousands of emerald-eyed outcasts in their dark, tattered clothing and at their clenched weapons. They were all staring at him, longing for answers, for some sort of peace. Their faces held so much pain, so much suffering. All were his faults, the fruits of his misguided actions and his sins from the past. “I… I was…” Azazel’s voice cracked. “That was a long time ago. And I…” The words got caught in his throat. “I was wrong.”

  Trevor’s eyes bulged with surprise. “Wrong? No, no. ‘twas quite the opposite if I remember correctly. You were absolutely correct in your thesis. The world is corrupt, aye. And heaven is just as corrupt. It was your timing that what was wrong. You were too early… And we were too weak to challenge you back then, but now…”

  Azazel jabbed an axe at Trevor as he spoke. “Damn
it, Trevor. The girl, the Lion, she was the one that cast us out… and it was my mistakes that forced her to do so. You want your revenge? Well here I am. Take it out on me, not them.” He swung his axe to the side and aimed it at the second floor of the apartment building. “They had nothing to do with it. They’re nothing. Mortals. They’re innocents.”

  “Nobody is innocent,” Trevor snipped.

  Azazel snorted, realizing that Trevor was beyond convincing. He shouted over his head, to the crowd. “Stand down. Go home.”

  No one moved except Trevor who gave Azazel another condescending smirk and a shrug. “You see, fearless leader, no one’s listening to you, not any more. You used up all your goodwill with your false intentions. You burnt the bridges of leadership, like the scars burnt into our backs. And, well, you know… times, they-are-a-changing. And now…” Trevor’s words faded as he glanced over Azazel’s shoulder to check on the army of wolves. They were still sitting silently and perfectly patient. “Now it’s the end…” Trevor grabbed his sword with both hands and pulled it apart. Magically enough, the sword split into two identical blades, each one firmly clasped inside Trevor’s hands. As he prepared to attack, his army did so as well. “And gods are dropping like flies.”

  On the other side of the street, the wolves were no longer sitting. Standing and snarling, they were all in sprinter-like stances, ready to charge. Nisha, as cool and calm as can be, was now holding her split-glaive. With a shortened poleaxe in each hand, she gave them a spin, then addressed her army. “Stay ready. Stay on alert. Now, on my command.”

  Trevor glanced over at Nisha and grinned. “Darlin’, there’ll be no need for that—not yet anyways. And don’t be so tense. Stress’ll kill you, or so I’ve heard. Darlin’, Azazel’ll be the only god dying today—and when we’re finished, you can even have the body if you like.” He turned back to Azazel. “Azazel, I have to thank you. While you have taught us many a-valuable lesson, one seems to have taken center stage. At least at the moment, it has. That’d be, don’t put all your Easter eggs in one basket. Aye, good advice it certainly was.”