More memories—recent ones, from when he was a reaper—came rushing in next. Raven swung around his giant black-bladed broadsword—which was noticeably lighter than the ones in his prior flashbacks. He slashed through an outcast then plunged it into another one. Then he did it again, to another outcast. Dodging the outcasts’ attacks, he cut through them like they were nothing. With him as the killer and outcast as the victims, a hundred more kills flashed before his eyes. One outcast was lying on the floor, dying. Savagely, Raven slid next to him. Cocking his hand back, his hand came shooting forward. His talons tore through the old, dirty sweater that the outcast was wearing and into the outcast’s chest. The dying outcast’s eyes momentarily lit up emerald-green before dimming into a dull, lifeless lime color. He felt the outcast’s life force, their power, draining out of them and into him, through his armored, claw-like hand. The power soaked into his armor then rushed through his veins, filling him with a euphoric sense of achievement… and power.
The shame, rage, and regret followed the euphoria and filled him with pain. Feeling more like a rabid, dirty, little animal than a man or a god, he felt… sick; sick with shame, self-hate, and the emptiness that came with his unforgivable sins. His stomach bubbled with bile and self-disgust. That was how he felt, dirty and disgusting. Though it wasn’t so much the acts themselves but, his feelings of self-disgust came from something even more disturbing. He was disgusted with himself because he liked it (the killing, the power). He was an animal, a savage, and he knew it.
Memories of the other person, Vincent Blackwell, came next. At first mixing in with the others, the memories, Blackwell’s memories, eventually became clearer and less convoluted. Kings of Corporation, twelve in all. In a boardroom of corporate executives that secretly controlled almost everything in the world, he killed them, pulled the trigger and watched them die. He watched as their heads snapped backwards against their executive office chairs, and then he pulled the trigger again. Some of them ran, but with pull of the trigger and with each bullet, another one fell, crumbling lifelessly to the ground. Twelve of them, Kings of Corporations, and he killed ten of them that night. Though the last two didn’t deserve to die, Lilly killed them anyways.
They weren’t the first. Over the eons, Blackwell must have killed thousands of people. Strangely enough though, those kills didn’t bother him. He never felt anything about them, even now. Every kill had a purpose; to punish the wicked, to settle a debt, as payment for a bartered soul. Those murders didn’t bother him, not then, not now. I’ve never killed an innocent person, he told himself, never have, never will. Never.
It was the true enough. As Vincent Blackwell, the god of darkness, he never killed an innocent person—not in this life, the one before it, or any of the other countless ones before that one. “It’s not my job,” he’d say, annoyed at the very mention of it. “Besides,” he’d add, “I don’t need to. Mortals kill enough of their own kind… innocent or otherwise. And I wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes,” the last part clearly being a joke.
He was right. It wasn’t his job, but that wasn’t the whole truth. The truth was: he just didn’t care enough to go around killing mortals for no good reason. In fact, aside from Mea—who was more god than human and who only had a dash of humanity in her at all, and only at the moment, he didn’t really give a damn if the mortals lived or died.
The nameless man snapped back to reality, and he was shocked to see that he was in the same place at nearly the same exact time. Nisha and her wolves were in the same place, and aside from the annoyed look on Nisha’s face, nothing had changed. Him, slack-jawed and confused, he wiped his cheek again and looked at the blood on his hand. Seeing the blood from his wounded cheek again, it happened.
The sight of his blood triggering something else inside him, and the flashbacks seemed to have finally taken their toll. A bolt of anxiety shot through him, feeling like he was splashed by a bucket of cold water, and he collapsed onto a bended knee. Using his free hand to avoid falling over completely, he still managed to hold on to his katana. That was about all he was able to hold onto. His anxiety worsened. Beginning to feel overwhelmed by everything, he started hyperventilating, gasping for air, searching for some sort of relief or even a hint of calmness. Then, over his loud huffing, he heard Nisha’s voice again.
“Your name,” she said. “What is your name?” He’s a strange one, she thought, giving him a cockeyed glance, though he feels strangely familiar. She sniffed at the wind, trying to catch his scent, a hint of who he was and who he is. Faint as it was, the nameless man’s scent filled her nostrils, and Fenrir’s memories pumped through her veins with renewed vigor. Like the nameless man before her, Nisha’s memories began bubbling up inside her, resurrected themselves from both hers and Fenrir’s shared past. When the wind picked up again, she sniffed again, just to be sure.
The fusion of scents fed her memories. The smell of perfume and honey on your lover’s neck. The musk of a soldier returning from war, returning to his family. The crisp ocean breeze of old friends reuniting. The smell of newborn babies and second chances. She had it, and now she was sure she knew who the nameless man was.
She knew the scent. it was a familiar one, a unique smell for a certain type of… The man wasn’t a man… he was a god.
He’s a god, Nisha realized, at least a part of him is. Vincent Blackwell, the Lord of Shadows. A modernized version of the devil, he was the same god that blackmailed Fenrir and kidnapped his wolves, using them as bargaining chips. And yet, Blackwell was also Fenrir’s old friend, at least a part of him was.
Nisha subtly sniffed the air again and picked up another scent. Not as strong as the first blend, it was still pronounced enough. The stale scent of dry rot, lost time, and regret. The nostril-stinging scent of burnt mercury, betrayal, and good intentions gone astray. The earthy tones of oregano, simpler times, and unforgettable moments. The smell of withering roses, forgiveness, and lost love. The calming, almost-melodic smell of cherry blossoms, naïve youthfulness and fragile, unbreakable nature of hope. The crisp, frigid smell of winter and death. It was a reaper—a reaper, a raven, a scavenger of the dead. There was no doubt about it, he was a reaper—at least a part of him was. The bigger question was: which reaper? Nisha sniffed at the air again and caught the scent—a mixture of cinnamon, sandalwood, and self-sacrifice. Now she knew which reaper, one she had met before.
Raven, she recalled, he called himself Raven. He was the same reaper that Blackwell sent to assassinate Fenrir, and he was the same one that stabbed Fenrir—while he was sitting on his throne, while he was sleeping no less. And he was the same one that Blackwell came to retrieve, the same one Blackwell had bartered with Fenrir for—for Raven’s release. Blackwell had exchanging the twelve heads of twelve kings (of corporations) and the lost souls of Fenrir’s would-be wolves for the Raven’s release. And when Nisha and her wolves tore the wings out of his back—out of back of Fenrir’s would-be assassin, that was Raven as well. I should kill him now, Nisha considered. Kill him, right here, right now, while he’s distracted… before he tries to kill us.
She didn’t. Seeing the man huffing anxiously, slumped over on his wobbly bent knee reminded her of something, her brothers. Unexpectedly as can be, Nisha began empathizing with him.
She couldn’t help it. After the fiasco two days prior, and after she consumed her brothers’ hearts, the memories from Nisha’s brothers flowed through her veins, just as Fenrir’s did. And she felt closer to her brothers now, in death, than she ever had when they were alive. And now, knowing what they know, knowing how they felt, she realized that their traitorous coup—as foolish and ungrateful as it was—wasn’t driven by smite, animosity, hate, or any other expected reason. It was driven by fear—fear of dying, fear of suffering, fear of being weak. Her brothers were lashing out in fear. While she didn’t regret what she did or how they died—it had to be done, and it had to be her, Nisha still missed her brothers… all the same and nonetheless.
While Nisha did miss her brothers, she didn’t miss Darius, not at all and not one bit. Darius got what he deserved, she reflected. Torn apart, consumed, and wiped from existence; Darius got the ending that he deserved. But the others—the ones that consumed Darius… they didn’t (deserve what they got).
The blood is poison, that was what Fenrir told her—just as his father had told him. As it turned out, Fenrir was right, at least partly right, and Darius had proven that the blood of the gods was poison, at least some measure of it was.
The wolves that consumed Darius—some of them at least—didn’t fare so well. Darius—a tainted god with tainted blood, if there ever was such a thing—had somehow, someway poisoned the wolves that consumed him. These unlucky few turned quite quickly, and within a couple of days, they were completely insane. They started fights with the other wolves. Others began digging holes deep into the earth, until they collapsed and for no apparent reason. Others escaped and went after mortals. Though Nisha had them reeled in before they could do any real harm, they weren’t the same wolves she’d known before. Glassy-eyed and insane, they spoke only madness and were mercurially violent.
In the end, Nisha had to have them put them down. Though this time she didn’t make the same mistake. Instead of having her wolves consume the rabid, tainted wolves filled with tainted gods’ blood, Nisha had them killed and buried them—buried them in a deep, dark cavern. And in doing so, Nisha had, in essence, started her own collection of bones.
Looking at the broken, nameless man who was part god and part reaper and watching him confused and kneeling in the street, Nisha just couldn’t do. She couldn’t bring herself to executing him. Since we last met, I’ve changed—changed a lot, she reflected, perhaps he’s changed as well. She huffed and shook her head. Now thinking: I’m going to regret this, she huffed again. “Stand up,” she ordered. “I will not kill a man without first knowing his name.
The nameless man looked at the blood on his hand again. Standing and still half-disoriented, he said, “My name?” I’m a killer, he thought. My name is irrelevant.
What is a name? he pondered. What’s in a name? More memories, Blackwell’s again, came rushing back to him. My name? my names? The ancient Greeks called me Thanatos. In India, I was known as Yama, Mot in the ancient city of Ugarit. “My name,” he muttered again. He wiped his thumb across the slash painted across his cheek, just under his eye and angled towards the top of his ear. It was long and deep, but also thin—from the paper-thin, razor-sharp edge of Nisha’s throwing knife, no doubt.
He could have healed his wound, swiping his thumbprint across it and erasing the wound with his touch, but he didn’t. Instead, his swiping thumb crossed over the slash and left a long scar that wasn’t too lumpy or horribly disfiguring in place of the wound. He stood and gathered himself. He grabbed the lapel of his black trench coat and gave it a flap—to knock loose the dirt and straighten it out. He made a sharp swewwing sound and shook his head a few times, regaining some of his composure.
A name, hmm, he thought, perhaps I do need a name. Giving it a few seconds of deliberation, he said, “Daikon. Yes, that is my name, Daikon. Daikon Rythorn.”
“Daikon?”
“Yes,” he said with slightly more confidence. “Do you like it?”
No, she wanted to say but didn’t. Instead she said, “Well, it’s a name.”
“And you are?” Daikon asked. “And what happened to…” Halfway to asking about Fenrir, he didn’t. Between the time, place, situation, and the look on Nisha’s face; he wisely decided not to. Correctly inferring that Fenrir was gone, he gave Nisha a somber nod then put the subject to rest.
Moving on, Daikon turned his head sideways and looked over Nisha’s armada of wolves. Seven columns of wolves, seemingly sorted by size—going largest to smallest. While the furthest ones were only slightly larger than oversized dogs, the ones directly behind Nisha were massive. Their faces and fangs were certainly wolf-like enough, but they were the size of bears and built like werewolves. Their arms and hands looked like a gorilla’s—if the gorilla’s hand had curved razor-edged claws on the ends of it. Their claws were black and peaked out beneath their thick layers of fur.
Snarling at Daikon’s impromptu inspection, the giant wolves clenched their paws against the asphalt street—like a cat clawing at a rug, and their talons revealed themselves further and looked like black crescents. They scraped against the poorly kept asphalt of the city street, dredging deep trenches into it as they did so. Werewolves.
Daikon shrugged and turned back to Nisha. “So, as I was asking, what is—“
There was some shouting from behind him, from Azazel, and Daikon’s hand slid onto the hilt of his katana as he half-turned around, to see what all the ruckus was about. Nisha reacted as well, spinning her glaive around and also shifting her attention towards Azazel. After hearing something about the Lord of Desolation, the yelling stopped, and Daikon and Nisha went back to their conversation.
“So,” said Daikon, “as I was saying, before we were interrupted, what is your name?” Nisha’s immediate answer was only a glare. Daikon must have felt that Nisha was taking too long to answer, and he started up again. “Perhaps you have chosen to go the same route that Fenrir had, taking your name from the old legends and the tall tales of the mortals. Perhaps you are Asena, the mother of wolves—the one of Turkic legend.”
“Mother of wolves?” Nisha looked back at her massive pack of wolves and werewolves then back at Daikon. Nisha shrugged. “An accurate title, oddly enough, but the legends bear false. I have never nursed a broken mortal back to health, let alone have I ever lain with one, and I have most certainly never given birth to wolf-men.”
“Well,” Daikon said, scratching his forehead with the hand that was still holding his katana, letting its blade wobble carelessly behind him, just over his shoulder and dangerously close to his ear. “The legends always have some inconsistencies, depending on who tells the tale. Some stories say that Asena was the wolf—the one that gave birth to the ten wolf-men. Others confuse Asena with Ashina, making Asena into the boy who got saved by a wolf, and by a raven. Others say that Asena was the only surviving son—one out of ten, him and his nine brothers—and that he rose to power and became the leader of the Ashina clan.”
“Yes,” Nisha snapped back at him, irritated. “I know. I know the story. I know the whole damn story, and I don’t care to hear it again.” Nisha did know the story, and it was hard to hear. It reminded her too much of Fenrir and her brothers and how they died. The anxiety that came with the memory stirred inside her and boiled a little bit more with each word of the story. Nisha huffed and muttered, “That damn story.” Louder, she said, “And I know it ends. Ashina’s descendants, a man and a wolf, they get carried away by the gods and taken to some… promised land, or into the heavens, or wherever.”
Daikon nodded. “Very well. Besides, it’s just a story, and like most legends, it’s somewhat sexist and fairly inaccurate.” At the moment, Daikon felt more like Blackwell than he had since he returned, spouting off long winded stories at the least opportune time, it was most certainly something Blackwell would do. But he wasn’t Blackwell, he was a new man, Daikon. He paused momentarily then quipped, “Perhaps you are a she-wolf, like the one that raised Remus and Romulus, the founders of Rome?”
Nisha grew tired of the casual conversation and the philosophical nature of her existence. She rolled her eyes then said, “Nisha. My name is Nisha.”
“Very well, Nisha.” Daikon eyed the army of wolves again then returned his gaze to Nisha. “I thank you for waiting for my... episode to pass and for the pleasant conversation. But now…” Holding his katana to the side, he examined the blade. Its edge had acquired a thin sprinkle of dirt—from falling in the street, from his episode. Using the sleeve of his trench coat as a rag, he slid his blade over it, to get the dirt off his blade.
Edging the ridge of his blade across the innocuous silver edge on the cuff of his coat, the tip of his kata
na sparked. With the momentary flash of light, Daikon again saw the wolves’ eyes glint with a sapphire sparkle. Even more so, Nisha’s eyes lit up as well, though with a more polished azure glimmer. Damn, he thought, this isn’t going to end well.
Though he hid his vulnerability perfectly, he knew that he wasn’t strong enough to win. Since his resurrection, Daikon’s strength was steadily returning, but he still wasn’t at full power. And at the moment, he wasn’t as strong as Blackwell or, for that matter, even Raven. He knew that he certainly wasn’t strong enough to fight the wolf-god and her army of wolves, especially not when they were juiced-up with gods’ blood. Daikon looked over his shoulder at Azazel who was still in his own heated discussion with Trevor. Daikon smirked and thought: Oh well. They’re worse ways to die, I suppose.
He flicked his katana to the side then swept it slightly in front of him. Daikon slid his free hand behind his back—more for balance than anything else, and he finally finished his sentence. “Shall we begin?”
“We can,” Nisha said, sounding overly calm and less than impressed, “but we don’t need to.”
Daikon lifted an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
CH 13: The Other Side
Azazel glanced over his shoulder at the nameless man (Daikon) and watched as he slung his katana onto his shoulder, strutting over to the new wolf-god as casual as can be and with a certain pep in his step. Is it really him, Blackwell? Azazel wondered. Is Blackwell really in there, somewhere? inside that man, inside that… reaper?
Who knows, who cares, Azazel thought. This isn’t the time to mull over such trivial things. He shrugged and stepped in front of Trevor.
Trevor, who was still whispering the first row of outcasts, finally turned around and addressed Azazel. “Oh, you’re still here? I thought you and your mystery friend went off to frolic with the wolves.”
The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones) Page 26