The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones)

by M. H. Hawkins

  Fenrir, knowing that his anointed were still on edge and most likely creeping up on Mea, held up another open-palmed hand—to settle them, before they got the idea to start something else.

  Mea stood on the side of the giant stone throne and searched for the appropriate words to make her case. The throne was large and its armrest came up to her chest, and Mea looked two sizes smaller than she really was. The armrest seemed gigantic, wide enough for her to rest her arms on it without Fenrir having to move his own oversized armored arm one bit. So she did.

  Mea huffed again then rose up onto the tips of her toes, leaned forward, and whispered into Fenrir’s ear, speaking as if she was trying to convince him of something. “Do you remember the last time? Do we have to sacrifice so many, again, to save so few of them? Them, yours, if we don’t do anything, they’re going to die. Most—if not all of them—are going to die, again. Is that what you want?”

  Fenrir groaned gruffly. “So your memories have returned?”

  “No, not all of them but…” Mea took a deep breath and gathered her courage. “I’ve seen the Valley of Forgotten Gods. I’ve seen… Have you been there?”

  Fenrir gave her a narrow-eyed, sideways look. He hadn’t, but he knew where she was going with this. Fenrir wasn’t the first wolf-god. There was one before him, and one before that one, and another before him. How many others? He never knew for certain; he wasn’t sure if anyone truly knew. As for Mea, Fenrir remembered at least two of her predecessors, and he remembered them dying. Though he remembered that they died, he didn’t exactly remember their actual deaths or how they died. Instead he remembered that neither one of their deaths was particularly memorable nor noble.

  Fenrir sighed, and while his face was always somewhat cold—even when he was laughing boisterously, at the moment it was mostly sad. His eyes were pale, depressing, blue, soft, and heartbreaking—all at the same time. Sometimes the past, and remembering it, had a way of doing that (making you depressed), and it was the same way with the gods.

  “Fenrir,” Mea said. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen all of them, all of the old gods, the dead gods. And whether we live or die… I saw him, the old Wolf. His statue was polished marble, and his eyes were sapphires. He was surrounded by his pack, and their eyes were polished sapphires too—like his but a little smaller. The smaller wolves had yellow-looking eyes, like they were made of yellow gemstones—yellow topaz, that’s it. Their fangs were like… lacquered ivory, and their tips were sharpened—sharp enough to draw blood. At the very least, you can trust me on that part. That part I know for a fact.”

  Fenrir lightened further and chuckled and remembered the old times with the old Wolf… his father. “His axe?”

  Mea looked half-surprised that he remembered or knew about the axe—the giant, hideous thing that it was. To Mea, her thoughts about the gods were less than inspiring, and they seemed less-omniscient than advertised—more like a thrift-store puzzle with missing pieces than an all-powerful entity. Mea almost forgot—to Fenrir he wasn’t a god; he was his father. “His axe?” Mea said. “Yeah, he had it. it was slung over his shoulder. The, ah… the giant, double-edged battle axe, right? It was silver and almost twice the size of his chestplate and… Wait! That was real?”

  “Aye,” Fenrir said, nodding and grinning. “And thank you—for being so kind. That axe of his, it was quite hideous.” Fenrir snorted. “That giant, damned axe of his. I always hated it. But… just like the rest of us, the gods and our weapons… it might as well have been attached to his tail before he’d get rid of it. But it was a different time back then… before the age of man.” Fenrir looked sad and thought, the wolf-god was different back then.

  He paused and thought about his father, the good memories, and he grinned. “You know, a few cycles ago—I don’t remember which one, but the world was much colder—colder than this one is—even at the poles. I mean, it was colder than you can imagine, colder than this one has ever been. But back then, both the world and the weather were vicious. And the beasts, they were as wild and vicious as the world was—but aren’t we all. The weather… Giant webs of lightning would shoot across the sky and light up the heavens—for miles, it would. And it’d just… electrify the cold winter air. It was the static electricity; it was everywhere. You mix that with the cold, dry air.” Fenrir paused, nodded, and then used his hands to mimic a tiny bomb exploding. “Aye, but when the lightning hit, it’d make these giant, tall, towering crystals—some of them were taller than the buildings of this time. I swear it. Back then the ice came with the wind storms—wild, tortured, howling winds—hungry winds—that tore across lands and the oceans alike. They were icy tsunamis of death. As they passed, they’d just… freeze whatever got in its way. The storms would just… frost over the green foliage of the tall, vast forests. Using the naked trees as scaffolding, the winter storms would turn entire forests into dead, icy fortresses. And the tree lines! Oh, the tree line would become giant walls of ice filled with bark and beasts.”

  Fenrir looked out and over his extended family, the sea of wolves at the bottom of the stone staircase. They were all listening, listening intently to every word from their old father’s story. They were not the only one listening. Mea and even his six anointed wolves seemed to have extinguished their bickering and animosity and were listening intently as well. In fact the six had been edging closer and were circled around his throne and were completely focused on him—the first time since the ceremony, he recalled. Fenrir smiled and thought: this is a memory worth saving, a good one, and I will save it for an eternity (or for as long as I can). Fenrir scratched his beard and took a second to enjoy it. And this, this reminded him of his father as well, when he would tell stories to Fenrir and all the other young wolves.

  Still savoring the attention, Fenrir nodded to Mea then turned to his other side, his left. Opposite Mea, on his other armrest, were his three other anointed wolves: Ramus, Glenstark, and Nisha. They had crept closer and around his throne, just like the others. Ramus, the runt of the six, was nearest, and his hands were clinging onto the top of the Fenrir’s stone armrest, hanging onto it like it was the top of a bricked wall he was trying to see over. Fenrir smiled at him and lovingly patted the anointed wolf’s runty hand. “Aye, but that was a long time ago. It was a different time.”

  Fenrir continued with his stories. “Back then my father would travel north—far north, where the mountains reached into the heavens and where the storms were the wildest, where they painted the ground in thick layers of snow. Then he went further north, into the icy plains of frost-grass… Ah, frost-grass. It was a kind of winter grass; it would melt and drink the icy snow that it often drowned in, using it for nourishment. The frost-grass… its roots would knit together across the plain and then dig deep into the cold dirt, winding itself into thick ropes. And its roots… frost-grass roots aren’t like normal roots. They’re long and winding, tough—some even get large enough to these giant burrow tunnels beneath them—thick, wide tunnels. They’d dig into the earth—deep down into the dirt—burrowing wide, long tunnels through dirt, stone, and clay; it didn’t matter. And, as if they could feel the heat and the hidden moisture around it, the roots would change directions at time then go back to burrowing in another direction, until they eventually reached some type of warm, underground lake to quench their thirst, to nourish its roots further. Then they would burrow even deeper, through those untouched, underground lakes of crystal-clear water that would never see the sun or the waste of man or beast and dig further still, into the belly of the world, where it was always warm… where other strange creatures lived.”

  Fenrir continued. “But above ground… Above ground, in the far-north, the storms could last for weeks; some even lasted for months. They’d drop blankets of white snow and ice over the fields of frost-grass and the already snow-topped mountains. Back then the snow was pure—almost clear. It was like… millions of tiny crystals sprinkling down from heaven—clear and pure as anything could ever be… But my f
ather, he would go into the far-north and past the mountains until he found a giant field of frost-grass, and he would plant his axe into the ground.” Fenrir paused and chuckled. “That giant hideous axe of his. Aye, he’d plant it in the ground and wait—wait for the storm to come. He’d always say that he could smell it coming, that he could smell the lightning. Maybe he could. But when it came, my father would just wait and watch, sniffing the air and watching as the lightning came and lit up the clouds. You could feel it—when the lightning exploded in the sky. You feel it in your bones. And when it struck the earth…” Fenrir shook his head. “Oh, it would shatter the ground and the trees alike, leaving behind giant craters as the storm passed—aye, they say that was when the first storm dragon was born—during one of those storms. Some storms, the worst ones, were said to be strong enough to crack open the mountains, and some did. But my father—your grandfather, he loved it. He’d just… bask in cold north and stand around, waiting for whatever wild storm was coming. And he’d watch as the sun fell away and the stars rose and snuck into the night’s sky—the Kingdom of Shadows, he called it. But with the storms, the lightning would light up the night in electric waves of green and purple—and ribbons of blue, red, and yellow too. Aye, and the sky would look like an ocean of rainbows…” Fenrir nodded and looked around.

  “It was something glorious, it was.” Fenrir smiled and patted the heads of his gathered anointed. Then he patted Mea on the arm.

  “With the stars in the night’s sky, he’d say, ‘Look, little wolf. The angels are invading the Kingdom of Shadows.’ And when he saw a meteor shower, he’d say, ‘Little wolf, look. The angels are retreating. It looks like they lost another battle against the shadow knights. They will have to try again later—tomorrow night perhaps.’”

  Fenrir chuckled at the silly story, but Mea frowned. She couldn’t help but to think of her experiences in heaven: the rebellion, exiling her brother Azazel, the outcasts. But when Fenrir saw her sad expression, he squeezed Mea’s hand and said, “Relax, my little golden lion. It was only a story, just a story for the little ones. And I’d tell him the same thing. I would. I’d say, ‘Father, those are not angels. They are just falling rocks—stones from the invisible sea of mysteries, the same one that hangs over the heads of us all.’ Then I’d say, ‘the rocks glow because they are hot—like the bubbly rock geysers in the south.’ Then laugh and he’d slap me on the back then say, ‘My little thinking wolf, I think that, sometimes, you are too smart for your own good. But one day… one day you will see. You’ll see, my little wolf. You’ll see the angels, and you’ll see new worlds—worlds and wonders that you could not even imagine. And on that day, when that day comes—after you have seen all of these many wonders, this invisible sea of mysteries that you speak of… it will not seem so mysterious at all.’”

  Mea nodded and forced a smile, and Fenrir continued with his stories. “Aye, and this one time, when he went north, I followed him. It was a long time ago, and I was still very young—young and small, like all of you.” Fenrir looked at his six anointed and smiled. Just then, like they sometimes do, a sad memory forced itself into his thought and soured his happiness, burning it into a charred pile of ashy death. They’re going to die; I will have to bury them. How many of them must I bury? How many children must I watch as they die? How many must I watch as they suffer? How many? Fenrir shook his head and shook off the horrible thoughts. He forced a smile and went back to his story. “But I decided to join him too late, and I started north when it was late in the season, much later than he did. And by the time I reached the far-north, the storm had already started. The thunder was rattled my bones, like waves crashing against the great cliffs of the west—the ones that sprouted from the ocean. It hurt, but I knew where I was going, where he was heading, aye—I could smell it. But to get there, I still had to fight through the storm. The snow drifts were wild. They were up to here.” Fenrir lifted his hand into the air, high above his head.

  “That’s the truth. And in truth, I should have turned back but… I was young and stubborn.” Fenrir chuckled again. “I bet that I must have looked a damn fool, waddling through that desert of snow, carving a winding tunnel through it, like an ice-digger. An ice-digger? That was nothing more than an oversized groundhog that went around digging trenches instead of holes—dumb creatures. And they tasted badly too. Aye, when those died out, you didn’t miss much.”

  Nodding to himself, Fenrir shook his head to regain his focus, again. “So I was chasing after my father—for hundreds of miles—through the snow drifts, and I was burrowing though them. I finally got through them, the snow drifts, but the storm was still raging. The wind slapped against my face nonstop, night and day—slapping me like I got caught stealing the family goat.” Pausing to laugh, he said, “I saw a big-eared howler chimp get caught in the wild. It was just… flopping around, up and down through the air, its ears flapping like a flag in a tornado while it howled.” Fenrir made a strange sound—Bwuhuhuhwa, and his six anointed and Mea laughed at him; the wolves below wagged their tales and happily woofed together in staggered sounds, like a terribly sounding choir.

  Fenrir looked around and wrinkled his brow suspiciously. They don’t believe he, he thought. “Aye, that was what they sounded like. I swear it.” Fenrir made the strange sound again—Bwuhuhuhwa, and again everyone laughed at him. Pssst. He waved his hand dismissively at his side, whatever, then went back to telling his story. “Anyways… the storm got worse, and the wind kept slapping me and pushed me—like it was telling me to go home, telling me that I wasn’t strong enough, that I should just quit. But I didn’t. I fought through the storm and pushed forward, and I finally reached him. But with the snowstorm, I could still barely see him, almost not at all—but I could hear him. Even through the crackling thunder, the evil whistling of the wind, and the ice crunching beneath my paws; I could still hear my father’s bellowing laughter, and I followed it… Aye, I followed that crazed, howling laughter of his and eventually reached him, my father… He was just standing there, smiling, holding onto the handle of his battle axe—half of its giant, double-edged blade was sticking out of the snow. The other half was surely anchored in some fat stone hidden beneath the layers of snow. Picture it: a giant wolf-god howling with laughter—while balls of winter-hail come flying at him, thumping against his armored chest and slamming into his face, like the storm was trying to kill him.”

  Chuckling, Fenrir did picture it; then he burst out laughing. He dropped his head and shook it back and forth as he continued laughing manically—at his story, at the memory. By now he was laughing so hard that he couldn’t talk or breathe, and his eyes were watering. He let out a loud sigh of relief and wiped his watery eyes. Then he continued his story. “I remember that day, clear as crystal—like I’ll always remember your anointing ceremony, as you should, when you go on to conduct your own ceremonies.” Fenrir paused and raised an eyebrow. Then making sure that they heard it, he gestured at each of his six anointed until they nodded at him, acknowledging the lesson. Again he went back to the story. “That day in the storm my father’s beard was nearly invisible. It was covered in long, clear spikes of hoarfrost, and it looked like a thousand icicles were hanging off his chin. And then, there were a thousand more spikes shooting out of the back of him, from the wind and his frost-covered cloak.

  “By now, the storm had been raging for about a week or two. And the stone that was anchoring my father’s axe, it was covered in a thick layer of ice beneath the layers of snow. And I could see the ice creeping up it—creeping up the axe-handle, and most of it was covered in three inches of ice. And my father, he was just laughing loudly and smiling. All the while ice and snow were beating against him. Giant balls of hail were launching trough the arm, bounding off his chestplate and slamming into his bare face. The lightning was exploded all around him. A sheet of ice came tumbling through the air and shattered against his chestplate. The smaller pieces shot up and sliced open his face. Of course the wounds healed almos
t instantly, so he didn’t care, but all the while he just kept standing there… laughing wildly and smiling like it was nothing.

  “When he finally saw me, I was half-frozen. My toes were numb. My tail was covered in ice—I think. But he saw me and waved at me to come over to him. He yelled, ‘My boy! Come, son. Join me! Stand with your father. Let us howl at the storm and stand defiantly against the rages of the world!’ And I did. I went to him and shifted out of my wolf-skin and into my man-form… And I almost blew away—in the middle of shifting, but he reached out and snatched my collar and pulled me in front of him. He hugged me hard, and the ice in his beard—and in mine as well—shattered and blew away with the rest of the world. I held onto his axe handle—at that time I wasn’t as strong as he was, and I had to use both my hands, and all my strength, and my face hurt. The wind was blowing right into my eyes and freezing them, turning them into damned ice cubes. And more ice was flying through the air, pummeling me like it had done to my father.

  “My father was still laughing at me as pulled me to the side of him, partially shielding me from the storm. He made sure that I was still gripping the axe handle, so that I didn’t get blown away. ‘You got it?’ he asked me. Then he’d laugh even louder and say, ‘are you sure?’ And he must have sensed that I was half-frozen, and he yanked off his cloak of wolf-fur and tossed it in front of my. ‘Here!’ he said. Then the storm sent the cloak flapping around, and now it was the one slapping me around. Of course my father thought it was funny and was again laughing at me and slapping me on the back. But I didn’t care; it was cold. So I held onto the wolf-cloak until I my bones thawed out and I could actually feel my fingertips. When he finally took back his cloak, he said, ‘warm enough now, little wolf? Remember, son, don’t mock the stories of the gods—especially when you might need their help.’ Then he grabbed my glaive and speared it into the same stone that was anchoring his axe—aye, he was strong. He moved me over to hold on to my own anchored glaive and slapped me on the back again. He said, ‘Look, son! Look! Look at this beautiful chaos. The world may live; it may die; and we may live, or we may die… But this moment… This moment in time… It is ours forever. It is our moment. And this moment—our moment—it is forever, and it will live on through all of time, for an eternity.’”