The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones)

by M. H. Hawkins

  Mea forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah. yeah, you did.” Pausing momentarily, her smile faded. “Ryan, did he say anything else?”

  Ryan looked around at everyone who was still looking at him, and he became nervous again. Instinctively, he looked at his mom for approval.

  Diana nodded. “It’s okay. Go on. Tell them what he said.”

  “He said,” Ryan hesitated. “He said that all would be revealed.”

  CH 23: Hair of the Dog

  Azazel—Asher—snuck out of the apartment while Ryan, Mea, and Diana talked. The humanity, the emotions of everything had drained him. How’d Ryan know? Why was Diana so calm about dying? Why? How? Azazel didn’t have any answers, and his heart was heavy, overflowing with unfamiliar emotions. He had to escape, so he went to the same refuge that Mea frequently used, the rooftop. Stepping onto the roof of the apartment complex for a moment of solitude, Azazel took a deep breath, let the chilly night’s breeze beat against his overheated face, and looked to the stars for answers. They didn’t have any, but a voice inside him did. It said, the boy must die.

  This time, Azazel didn’t like the answer. He huffed and shook his head angrily. Wanting to hit something, he slammed down his fist on the bricked parapet wall that encompassed the rooftop. Stronger than he expected, his fist rippled through the wall like a sledge hammer and left a long tear of broken bricks with smaller crumbles scattered about. “Damn it,” he said, cursing himself. Then, having no idea what to do, he picked up the broken pieces of bricks and put them back where they were. Realizing how futile his efforts were, he huffed and gave up. Letting the broken brick he held fall helplessly from his hand, he thought, can’t fix broken bricks.

  “Can’t fix burnt bridges or shattered wishes,” said someone behind him, a familiar voice coming from the other side of the roof. “You told me that once. You told it to Blackwell at least.”

  Azazel spun around and saw Daikon smirking at him. He said, “Yeah, and apparently you can’t fix broken bricks either, not really.”

  Daikon looked at the tear in the wall and the broken bricks that Azazel had filled it with. It looked like a poorly stacked rock pile. “Not like that you can’t. Azazel, what do you know—”

  “It’s Asher. It’s Asher now.” It’s always been Asher, he told himself. No matter how much I try to forget or how many times I change my name, it’ll always be Asher. I can’t run from my past, from who I was, from what I did.

  Daikon raised an eyebrow then smiled and nodded. “Very well, Asher. It’s good to see that you have done away with your… self-loathing.” Ignoring Asher’s glare from hearing the uncomfortable truth, Daikon continued, “Ever hear of Somerset? What is it? What does it mean?”

  “Somerset?” repeated Asher before sighing. “Somerset? You mean like, the setting of summer? as in Summer’s ending?”

  “You tell me,” Daikon said as he took a seat on the edge of the parapet wall, one of the unbroken sections.

  Asher did the same then started explaining. “Somerset… Thousands of years ago, when the gods still walked with man, and the fallen (angels) lived with them as well, it was called the Age of Summer. The fallen angels, Vandriel’s angels, taught the mortals. They shared their knowledge with them. They never told them who they were, what they were—most didn’t anyways, but they shared their knowledge with them. But when the gods went to sleep, or died, or were killed or… went wherever gods go, mankind blamed the fallen for it. They blamed the fallen angels, Vandriel’s angels, for it, for all of it. They blamed them for the knowledge they shared—the knowledge that their kind misunderstood and misused and… they started hunting them down and… anyways, we began to call it the end of summer, summer’s set.”

  “And then?”

  “And then nothing.” Asher looked down on the ruined suburban street. Red and blue lights flashed atop police cars. Yellow ones flashed from the hood of a flatbed tow truck as the driver did his best to hook up the truck’s wench to June Swiekert’s 1996 Ford Mustang, to tow the wreckage car away.

  The red, blue, and yellow lights flashed and painted the surrounding buildings and cars in blinking, colored lights. The tow truck beeped as the driver pushed a button and started reeling in the truck’s tow cable, pulling June Swiekert’s Mustang onto the back of the flatbed while doing a surprisingly good job of keeping the sagging engine from scraping the street. The policemen were off to the side talking to the neighbors and taking notes. A drunken hit-and-run, the exact cover-up Mea came up with. Asher snorted at the thought and shook his head. Stupid mortals.

  “What happened to the fallen angels, the ones from Vandriel’s rebellion?”

  Asher shrugged as he flung a chipped piece of red brick off the side of the building. “Who knows. They just disappeared. Some said they sank with Atlantis; some said they went off to live in the mountains, or got sucked into the earth… cast out into the bowels of hell. No one really knows for certain.”

  Asher sighed, fingering at another piece of broken brick. Tossing it at Daikon, he continued with his story. “And then… The lessor gods took the flesh, became like the humans, and it worked… for a little while at least, but you know how that turned out.” Once gods, now monsters. “After a while, they changed, became crueler, started taking power. They became… savages, animals. They killed. They conquered and… they became monsters.”

  Daikon nodded, thumbing at the hilt of his katana. “And they had to be stopped,” he said unapologetically. “Gods or not.”

  After that, Daikon didn’t need Asher to tell him what had happened to the lesser gods. They were all imprisoned or killed. In fact, he was the one that did it—when he was still the Dark One, Vincent Blackwell. He had rounded up every rebellious god, former-god, or monster he could find and imprisoned them in the stone tower… or killed them. They had to stopped. “Mortals weren’t meant to see in to the other realms, our realm.”

  “Yeah,” Asher agreed dismissively, “and maybe we weren’t meant to walk in theirs.” Asher paused again, to sulk in his long history of self-hating self-reflection, then shook it off and started up again. “Decades, centuries later—who the hell knows how long, there was my rebellion. Me, the outcasts—the fallen angels from my rebellion, we… we went into hiding. I… we… we just didn’t fit in, not in Elysium, not with the humans. I mean… They just didn’t understand us; how could they? And we didn’t understand them. So, we just left. We quit trying to blend in with mankind, to live in the world of men, and we just… exiled ourselves.”

  Asher’s face was painted in shame and regret. He huffed. “We didn’t fit in in Heaven, we don’t fit in here, what were we to do? We just… waited. We just sat around and waited… waiting around for the world to end.”

  Daikon pondered the new Azazel, Asher. He was still too somber and solemn for his own good and too empathetic for the world of men. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you rebel in Heaven, Elysium?”

  Asher huffed at the question. “Yeah, rebelled.” Then he chuckled, lowered his head, and then shook it back and forth. Why? that’s funny. “Why’d you build the stone tower? Why’d you maintain order in Irkalla (Hell)?” Asher’s forehead wrinkled, and he shrugged. Why? What about you? What do you have to say for yourself?

  Daikon wanted to say, “for her,” but he knew that that didn’t make any sense, and it wasn’t the right time. For the moment, he didn’t know. He didn’t have an answer.

  Asher did. “Because…” He huffed again and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Because since the creation of the first soul of the first man, mankind was doomed. And since then… You, me, Mea; we’ve done nothing but try to protect them, even if they never realized it. And-we-failed.”

  Angry, Asher squeezed a broken brick in his hand and turned it into a red powder. “Over and over and over again, we tried… and we failed.”

  He stood up and began pacing around the rooftop. “So, why did I rebel? I didn’t. I tried to… I tried reach the Tree of Life and the Guf and…” His sombe
r words became filled with passion. “It was dying—the tree was dying. Even ten-twenty-thousand years ago, it was dying. Its branches were turning more and more leafless by the day. Then they dried and became… nothing more than deadwood, dried and rotted. And its fruits, the seeds of life… they grew withered and wilted.”

  Asher huffed and angrily jabbed a finger at his chest. “And I had watch it! Every day—every day of every year, every decade, there was just… death. More and more dead branches, more withered fruit, souls corrupted before they were planted, before they had a chance. And the Guf, the Treasury of Souls, at one time… At one time, it looked just like liquid gold—just like it. I mean, you should have seen it. An ocean of liquid gold, shimmering in radiance, free of any shadows or the very hint of corruption, it was flawless. And when a soul was created, the fruit would drop from the tree, and it wouldn’t even splash. The Guf would just send out a round of golden, rippling waves. Then, as time went on… It became darker, polluted. The lake of gold… It looked like a swamp. Then, before the great flood, Mea and I, we…”

  Daikon’s memory returned, part of it did. “You sealed it up.”

  Asher nodded. “We thought that if the chamber was closed, the corruption would end, that mankind could heal and deal with whatever darkness had already spread across the world but… we were wrong. It was like an infection, the darkness, the evil in the world, it just kept spreading. And then… I was going to sacrifice myself. I was going to sacrifice myself to save it, the Tree of Life, the Guf, to save the world of men but...”

  “And you never told her. You never told Mea.”

  “She… She wouldn’t have understood. She wouldn’t have allowed me to do it, to sacrifice myself. She would have…” Tried to stop me, to help me, he wanted to say but didn’t. “No, I never told her why I did it.” He sighed. “So, she thought I rebelled, that I was trying to take over. And I let her think it. Then, she did what she had to do… the best option in an impossible situation.” She cast me out and torn off my wings.

  Asher gazed up at the stars. “I never had the heart to tell her. I thought I was protecting her, protecting her from the truth.”

  “Perhaps,” said Daikon. “Perhaps we have not given her enough credit.” He sighed, thinking of his own secrets. “Why does it have to be you? If someone else was sacrificed—“

  “No,” Asher snapped back. “No, it’s…” The boy must die. The twisted thought crept into his mind once again. “No, it’s too late.” Asher examined his hands. “I mean, look at me. I’m as corrupt as the thing I was trying to save.” And I won’t do it, Asher thought and finally decided. For the world, for the mortals, I won’t do it. I won’t sacrifice Ryan for my mistakes, for my sins.

  CH 24: Reunited Again

  Daikon thought of what Lilly had told him about Azazel (Asher), he’s breaking, she told him. Give him a reason to keep fighting, to keep living. Daikon watched as Asher curled up on the other side of the rooftop, consumed by and basking in his guilt. At the moment, Asher looked more like a broken man than the Lord of Eagles.

  My old friend, Daikon thought, you are broken. We both are.

  Daikon tapped his finger on the hilt of his katana, thinking. Finding his idea, he nodded to himself then flicked his fingers around, making a piece of paper appeared in his hand. He held it up and blew gently on it, causing it to ignite—parts of it to ignite. The flames engraved charred markings in the thick yellow paper as the flames withered away into thin black and white squiggles of smoke. Daikon followed up by blowing two short, hard puffs at the paper, blowing away the ashes and revealing what was beneath it. A set of letters, some numbers—an address and coordinates. Give him a reason, Lilly had told him. He looked at the piece of paper and thought, here’s your reason, old friend.

  He walked over to Asher and pushed the piece of paper into his hand. “Asher,” he said, pulling him to his feet. “Here. Take them here. It’s fortified. Protect them; protect the woman, watch after the boy.”

  Asher was understandable confused. He unfolded the piece of paper and studied it.

  Daikon nodded at him. “Be Mea’s brother again. My friend… we can’t change the past. We can only protect the future, or die trying. As for Mea…” He reached behind his katana, for the dagger on his hip, but it wasn’t there. All he found was an empty scabbard.

  “Looking for this?” Something squeezed against Daikon’s back, and something else yanked his head back like a PEZ dispenser until all he could see were the stars in the sky. And the dagger he was looking for was suddenly at his neck, close enough to shave with. The night’s breeze brought with it the scent of roses and apple pie, a few stray hairs came with it, slapping against his cheek and felt heavenly, like the last day of school. The hand slapped across his forehead and yanking his head back felt like satin sheets, and Daikon couldn’t help but smile. If I died right here, right now, he thought, I couldn’t ask for a better way to go. He said, “Hello, Mea.”

  The words gave her pause and her hand relaxed a bit—a little bit. That voice, those words. They were nearly identical to Vincent’s greeting, how he always greeted her.

  Daikon could feel the blood dripping down his neck, and Mea noticed the dagger’s silver blade glowing brighter, drinking from the stream trickling from Daikon’s neck. He said, “Can you please remove that blade from my neck? You can keep it. It’s yours, but I would greatly appreciate it if it wasn’t so close to my throat.”

  Taking a moment to think about it, Mea pulled the dagger back and pushed Daikon aside. Studying the blade as it glowed and pulsed with light, she watched as it sucked down Daekon’s blood like rainwater in cracked dirt. “Who are you?” she asked him, sharing looks between him and Asher.

  Asher looked at Daekon, who was dabbing at his wounded neck. He still looked like a sad puppy that got caught pissing in the house. He said, “I’ll give you guys a minute,” then stepped away.

  Asher gave Mea a sad, soulful look as he crossed her path then went back to studying the note with the charred lettering that Daikon had given him. “Hey,” she yelled and grabbed at his shoulder with a closed hand. She pushed something into his letter-holding hand, crunching the paper as she did so. “Take this.” Releasing the round metal object in his hand, and with a wink and a smile, she said, “Happy birthday.”

  Asher looked down at what she’d given him, a pocket watch with a golden lion head embroidered on it—the same one given to her from a strange homeless man (an angel) so long ago. Asher asked, “Why?”

  “To go home.” Mea looked at the dagger in her other hand and searched for somewhere to put it. Still wearing jeans and t-shirt, she couldn’t find anywhere good and decided to just fling it at the ground, letting it waffle back and forth like a throwing knife stuck in a dart board. She flung her arms around Asher’s high, broad shoulders and hugged him. “We’ve been hurting each other for too long. It’s time to go home.”

  “And the others?”

  Ending her hug, Mea lowered herself back down, back onto the balls of her feet. She sighed, knowing what he was talking about. The fallen angels, the outcasts. “Yeah, them too. We… We’ll figure out the details later but… We’ve spent too much time grinding axes, trying to kill each other. We just… It’s time that we start fixing things and stop breaking them… while we still have time.”

  Asher nodded, sharing looks between Mea, the pocket watch, and the piece of paper beneath it. He glanced over at Daikon, still looking like a sad puppy. He snorted and smirked. “His name’s Daikon. Go easy on him.” He patted Mea’s shoulder then exited through the already-opened door that led downstairs.

  Mea glared at Daikon as she held out her hand and let the dagger return to her. Again examining it suspiciously, she made her way over to Daikon.

  Daikon, on the other hand, was busy looking nervous and brushing off his clothes, dabbing his neck, and checking his boots—twitching around like a nervous teenager. Afraid to look her in the eyes, he again said, “Hello, Mea,” again so
unding surprisingly like Blackwell.

  She moved closer to him, eying his katana and then the dagger in her hand.

  “Keep it,” he said. “The dagger, it’s yours. But first… may I?” He gestured at the dagger, asking for it back. Hesitantly Mea flipped it around and slapped the handle into Daikon’s palm.

  Like a magic trick, he ran his open hand over the length of the blade and further still. Beneath his opened palm, the blade transformed into a long white scabbard encrusted with diamonds and silver engravings, stretching it out to nearly three times its original length.

  “Here,” he said as he handed the sheathed sword (that was once a dagger) back to Mea. “As I said, it’s yours.”

  Hesitantly and suspiciously, she eased her hand forward to take the unusual, extravagant gift. Grabbing the sword’s hilt, she wrapped her fingers around the grip. It had the feel of unsheathed the blade. The dagger was no longer a dagger and now a flat thin blade of nearly transparent silver. Glinting even in the low light of the night, the blade’s edges looked like that of broken glass and sharp enough to cut through a tomato or a suit of armor. Daikon said, “It’s yours. It’s—it was—a reaper blade.”

  “Raven’s blade?” she asked.

  Daikon paused and measured his words. “That doesn’t matter. It’s yours now.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sliding the sword back into its scabbard. “But who are you?” Studying his face, she was sure that she knew him. “You, you’re…”

  “I am.” Daikon lowered his eyes. “I’m both of them, what remains of them.”

  “What happened to the rest of them?”

  “I killed them. I took their essence and I… I’m whatever was left of them.” He pointed towards the sword. “For that.”

  Mea touched the scar on his face. Still half-confused, she asked, “Why?”