The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones)

by M. H. Hawkins

  “Hey,” Lilly said softly, lifting Fenrir’s head with her one remaining hand. Forcing a smile and lying softly to him, she said, “They’ll be okay—they will. They’ll get better. They’ll learn. We did.” She scratched the side of his beard, trying to cheer him up. Then she lied again. “They’ll be okay.”

  It didn’t work, and Fenrir struggled to hold back his sorrow. Failing at that as well, he removed Lilly’s hand from his beard and held onto it instead. “They won’t—they won’t be okay. They’re not ready and… they just won’t. There’s not enough time. And then…”

  Emotionally, Fenrir brought Lilly’s hand up to his lips and took a deep breath, breathing in her scent—one of strength, softness, and power. He kissed it and hoped that it’d give him the strength. It didn’t so he let go of it. He sighed. Then, keeping his voice no louder than a whisper, he moved close to her and spoke softly enough so that only she could hear. “Lilly,” Fenrir said, “they’re not going to make it. They’re going to… I’m afraid. I’m afraid for them. As for me…” He sighed and took a deep breath. “Lilly, I’m tired. I’ve grown old and weary, so much sooner than I thought I would, and at the worst time. And I...” Fenrir’s icy blue eyes met Lilly’s ruby-red ones. Both of their sets of eyes filled up with sorrow, and they nodded knowingly at each other.

  Fenrir forced a smile, wrapped a burly arm around her, and kissed the brim of golden-blond mane, where her hair met her flawless sun-kissed forehead. “Lilly,” he said as he ended their embrace. “I have a favor to ask. Will you… Will you watch over them, for old -time’s sake? Please… For me.”

  “I will,” Lilly agreed, touching his cheek softly. Nodding sorrowfully, her chin wrinkled empathetically for him and his dilemma. “I will,” Lilly repeated, “the best that I can. Fenrir, you know… Seven are one—the ceremony, it’s the old way. And once, it worked, when times were simpler.”

  “Aye,” Fenrir agreed, “when times were simpler.”

  “It was a nice try, a good effort,” Lilly said, trying to offer some comfort. “And it worked, when times were simpler.”

  “But now…”

  “Now,” Lilly said, “times are not so simple.”

  “No, they are not, and a divided pack cannot stand.”

  “No, it cannot.” Lilly smiled, a goodbye smile, and nodded again. She paused without saying a word, waiting for Fenrir to object. He didn’t, and Fenrir closed his eyes instead. With that, she knew he was ready.

  “Okay,” Lilly mumbled. She rubbed Fenrir’s cheek again then let out a slow, heavy sigh. “Okay,” she repeated. Then, lightning-fast, she swung around to Fenrir’s back, flung his glaive aside, and slapped her arm across his chest. Her mouth opened wide—wider than anything natural could have opened. Her teeth folded back, and new teeth emerged, sharper ones. They lengthened, stretching into long fangs, then plunged into Fenrir’s meaty neck.

  Fenrir’s blood was intoxicating, and Lilly’s drank deeply. Consumed in the moment, she was also oblivious to everything except the neck she was feeding on and didn’t seem to notice that all hell was breaking loose. The sea of wolves at the base of the stone staircase leapt to their feet. After sharing a half-second of puzzled looks between them, they charged towards the steps, ready to save the same father they were just planning on overthrowing. Sliding to a halt, they faced a new obstacle as Lilly’s banshees rose out of the stairs. Rising up like muffled white smoke, the materialized and created a wall of beautiful pale women in tattered black dresses. The banshees fingernails extended into something knife-like, and the wolves’ avenging charge was quickly halted.

  Atop the elevated platform, more chaos stirred. Arrous and Ramus stumbled to their feet, ready to attack Lilly, but their wounds sapped their strength. They wobbled, stumbled backwards, bounced into the wall, then collapsed.

  Ramus’s face twisted into a mixture of rage, regret, and pain. Trying to push himself onto his feet, his half-healed chest wound opened. He clutched at his chest as his legs wobbled and gave out. He collapsed again and was all but useless.

  Brontus and Glenstark suddenly realized, too late, that they actually cared for Fenrir. They shouted, “No!” but their feet weren’t responding, frozen in fear and too afraid to act.

  Nisha didn’t have that problem. She let out a painful, blood-curling, ungodly scream. Snatching her spear, she charged Lilly.

  Two banshees appeared out of nowhere, in front of Nisha. She slashed through the first one and used the second as a pin cushion for her spear. A side kick sent the first banshee into the back of Fenrir’s throne. The banshee’s back slammed into a sharp stone angle of the throne, right where Nisha intended. Nisha grabbed her spear—dragged the second banshee with her as she did so—and flung the banshee across the room. Unintended as it was, the banshee landed between her wounded brothers, Ramus and Arrous. While it convulsed wildly from its injuries, Ramus and Arrous scooted away from it. And Nisha went back to charging Lilly.

  Brontus’s and Glenstark’s seemed to have regained their senses, and after seeing Nisha charging Lilly, they finally decided to act and did the same.

  Ramus and Arrous shared looks of cowardice then found some courage in their shame. Sprawling across the floor, they grabbed their spears. They hobbling onto their feet then limply charged Lilly as well. Now in some strange, unexpected spurt of unity, all of them were charging their father’s assailant—all of them except Darius. Darius feigned the call to arms and began casually jogging towards Lilly, like he couldn’t care less than he already did.

  Their efforts—including Darius’s, nonexistent as they were—were quickly stifled, halted by the shower of skinny, boney, pale hands suddenly lashing out at them. More banshees. Even more banshees appeared behind them and yanked back the young wolf-gods. The banshees’ long, knife-like fingers dug into their armor, and through it, and puncturing their flesh. With that, Fenrir’s six anointed-children were stopped in their tracks, like they were stung by a stun gun. While the wolves gave up as quickly as the banshees had appeared—and twice-as-fast when they were restrained, not all wolves were built the same.

  Again, Nisha was not as easily suppressed as her brothers. Her screams grew louder and shriller before morphing into something that sounded like the growling of a rabid wolf mixed with the shrill scream of a mountain lion. It was only when Nisha’s lungs deflated and she had to take another breath that there was any relief from her painful wailing.

  With the banshees’ digging into Nisha’s arms and legs, yanking them back, her face contorted as she screamed. Her face changed again, darkening and stretching into that of a wolf’s. Then it indecisively switched back-and-forth several times over.

  Despite the hopelessness of it all, Nisha pressed forward, and with each labored, restrained step she took, the banshees’ knife-like fingers dug into her armor. By the fifth step, she could feel the banshees’ talons crushing through her armor and digging into her flesh. And by her tenth step, their ghostly talons felt like daggers, piercing her even deeper, and she could feel them scraping against the bones in her arms and legs.

  It wasn’t enough. By the time Nisha took another heavily restrained step, the four banshees holding on to her began to look labored. Pushing and pulling, the banshees’ grip was failing, and they looked like fumbling furniture movers as they tried to hold Nisha back.

  Nisha had other ideas. She took a deep breath and— more wolf-like than ever—screamed again and ripped her left arm loose, like a football player would. Breaking free of the banshees’ grasp, she flung it over her shoulder then flung another one over her other shoulder. Tossing the last two banshees in a similar fashion, Nisha let out another scream, a ferocious one that was filled with rage.

  She didn’t have time to shift into her wolf-form, and instead it embodied her like a ghostly, well-sculpted fog that was shaped like a giant wolf. As ghostly as it looked, when its giant wolf paw slashed through the air—just in front of Nisha, it tore through the four banshees that were rushing towards h
er. And when the first two banshees scrambled onto their feet and returned, the ghostly wolf snapped up one in its jaws and flung it aside. Nisha grabbed the other by the face. Briefly lifting it into the air, she then slammed it (again face first) against the cold, hard, stone floor. She was charging again.

  Fenrir was no more than twenty feet away, but Nisha would never reach him. Four more banshees melded out of the shadows and latched on to her. Then, like roaches, more appeared out of nowhere and latched on to her too. So far the group had proven themselves more successful than the last one, and they had all but stopped Nisha in her tracks. Nisha’s ghostly wolf, like the smoke from a snuffed out candle, it dissipated into the cool cavern air.

  Nisha was still putting up a fight, forcing herself forward and screaming for Fenrir. After much effort, she managed another step before more banshees appeared to stop her, and they joined the others. The banshees’ boney hands latched on her arms, shoulders, and ankles. Their talons tore more holes into Nisha’s armor. Others carved long trenches in its glossy black finish as the banshees’ razor-edged fingers pawed and prodded at her. Still she pressed forward.

  Again the banshees found themselves struggling to hold onto her, but just as they seemed like they were about to fail again, more banshees appeared and provided reinforcements.

  Nisha kept fighting and pushed through the mosh pit of pale women in tattered black dresses, but with each of her labored steps, more banshees appeared. And soon the crowd had grown so large that the banshees began bouncing into each other and scrambling for secure footing. Still Nisha pushed forward, through the angry crowd, and the banshees began looking like children pushing on a bulldozer.

  Now clawing and scraping at Nisha’s face and waist and anywhere else they could latch on to, Nisha began to look unstoppable, pushing herself forward, against all odds.

  Her determined, wild screaming looked like something you’d see in the movies, and her hair was wildly thrashing behind her as she screamed again. Wailing like a maniac, Nisha didn’t seem to even hear herself nor did she seem to care.

  Nisha’s eyes were aimed at Fenrir. Her face contorted with pain as she watched Lilly suck on Fenrir’s neck like the one-armed vampire that she was—and watching Fenrir take it without fighting back.

  Fenrir may have quit, but Nisha hadn’t. Through shear willpower alone, she pushed forward again, dragging the crowd of banshees with her while trampling over the less surefooted ones.

  The banshees continued stabbing and pawing at her relentlessly, tearing into her cheeks and neck and grasping at her flailing, thrashing arms. While the slashes on Nisha’s cheeks were healing as fast as they came, with each step, even more slashes appeared to replace the ones that were just healing.

  Ten feet away, that was as close as she’d get. The adrenaline rush that fueled her rage was gone, and her energy waned. Her feet became anvils, and each step became infinitely more difficult than the one before it. Despite Nisha’s strength and determination, she was running on fumes. This is where he charge ended, ten feet away from her dying father. And with no less than twenty banshees on top of her, her knees buckled and the banshees dragged her to the ground.

  As for Fenrir, with Lilly still sucking on his neck like a greedy leach, death drew closer with each weakened heartbeat. The edges of his eyesight dimmed into dark nothingness. He could feel his body deflating, and Lilly’s fangs felt like syringes syphoning away whatever blood they could still find in his sagging veins. His senses dulled. His fingers, toes, and every other one of his extremities tingled with empty numbness. When the tingling stopped, the chills came. That was when Fenrir truly came to terms to what was happening. Death was coming for him, and it was right around the corner.

  Hold on a little longer, he told himself, there’s just one more thing that… His thoughts blurred like his vision had, and everything he saw turned shaky. Nisha’s screams turned into melodic background noise, and her face melted like candle wax. Not yet, he told himself again, fighting to stay alert. It was no use. His lungs struggled for air, and he was no longer breathing, only panting weakly and shallowly. Fenrir involuntarily ceased his breathing, and he noticed that Lilly’s suction had slow down and that he had gained back some of his lucidity. The room began spinning around him, but he tried to maintain his focus on Nisha, staring at the blur that he was sure—almost sure—was her. He kept his eyes locked on to her, just as he knew she was doing herself. Though Nisha was now nothing more than a gray and black blur beneath a slurry of other black-and-white blurs that were spinning along with everything else, he kept his eyes fixed on her all the same—still hoping that it was actually her that he was really looking at. Nisha, my beloved daughter, he thought, I failed you, just as I have failed all my other children. Fenrir’s eyes bulged wide, and he gasped for air.

  Momentarily removing her fangs from his neck, Lilly whispered, “Don’t worry. I’m almost done.” Then she went back to feeding.

  Though she didn’t really have a choice, she was, in fact, almost done—there wasn’t much of Fenrir’s blood left. For her, the whole process was quite exhilarating, and though her heart thumped excitedly with the new blood and she felt like a teenage girl on the verge of her first love affair, she forced herself to slow down and settled her excitement. He deserves better, she decided, better than just being drained and flung aside, like I did to Blackwell (the previous god that Lilly had killed). Unlike Blackwell, Fenrir will get a good death, a respectable one. He’d want it that way—a clean death, one without any of her pain-relieving, euphoria-inducing venom. He’d want his pack to have his remains.

  Pausing again, Lilly removed her fangs from Fenrir’s neck and bounced her eyes side-to-side, thinking, deciding if she was really done feeding. She wasn’t so she sunk her teeth back into Fenrir’s neck and fed. Just a little bit more, she thought, to ensure that he dies, out of respect. As odd as it might seemed, it was the truth. Lilly respected Fenrir too much to leave him as a half-dead, glassy-eyed, drooling version of his former self.

  And Fenrir took the pain—the last pain he would ever feel—and embraced it, not fighting back in the least. Although, truth be told, there really wasn’t that much pain. Most of his blood was gone, and for the most part he just felt cold. While they were shaking violently and involuntarily, he could barely feel his fingers and toes.

  Fenrir felt Lilly hand on his cheek. Despite the fact that she was killing him, Lilly was also stroking her thumb on Fenrir’s cheek, like a mother soothing an unruly baby. Her hand was caressing his beard. Through the numbness of death that Fenrir felt, he could still feel Lilly’s hand; her soft-as-satin, gentle, soothing, comforting hand. While it wasn’t his last one, it was one of his last memories.

  His last memory would be of Nisha—Nisha and the sad, painful, scarred look that was smeared across her face. Then it was gone, and Nisha’s face became a bundle of blurs. It’s okay, he wanted to tell her, giving her some sort of comfort. Instead his lips only trembled, quivering as they whispered to the wind. It’s for the best, he tried to say, his lips cold, trembling on the cusp of death. In Fenrir’s head the words were as clear and audible as anything he had ever spoken before. In reality they were anything but. His throat was dry and as numb as his extremities were, and the words caught in his throat like a spoonful of salt. He tried again, mouthing the words it’s okay but the results were the same.

  Fenrir’s eyes shook and grew wide, and while his fading brain was shorting out, he was granted some sort of near-death energy burst. In the moment of last-second lucidity, his vision cleared, but he didn’t like what he saw. Seeing Nisha again—this time as clear as day, he saw that she was catching her second wind and was about to start up again. While she was planted on the ground, pancaked and piled on by the gang of banshees, Nisha was about to rise up again. It was like she was the one person that didn’t get it. It was over. Fenrir was going to die.

  Fenrir found the strength to shake his head, just enough, and mouth the words: Nisha, please. P
lease don’t.

  Nisha didn’t listen and instead responded with a loud scream and struggled to break loose. Unfortunately for her it didn’t work. After pushing herself halfway onto a bended knee, the nest of banshees pounded her back on to the ground.

  It was futile, but that didn’t seem to matter to Nisha. She continued fighting against the fishing net of banshees as their hands dug to her armor, flesh, and yanked on her mane of black, white, and gray striped hair. After another bout of exhaustion, Nisha collapsed, and she was finally done screaming and fighting… then a tear trickled out of the corner of her eye.

  The whole time, through the screams, scrapes, and now tears; Nisha’s eyes never left Fenrir as she watched the life get drained from him. His face paled and became parchment thin. His once thick, dark beard thinned as well—the jet-black hair dissolving and graying before her eyes. He seemed to be withering away. Lines emerged over his pale, thinning face. Like untended weeds, bulging vines of purple veins plumped up and grew over Fenrir’s sunken face. Fenrir’s thick, polished, glossy black armor aged decades within a matter of seconds, and it began looking like the faded paint job on an abandoned car.

  More tears came, and Nisha sniffed away the snot trickling out of her nose. She whimpered, “No, please. Please don’t do this. Don’t leave me, Father. Don’t leave us. Father, Fenrir…”

  Hearing Nisha, Lilly’s eyes drifted away from her snack (Fenrir) and over to the rampant wolf-god (Nisha). She really cares for him, Lilly thought, as I do. Glancing down at Fenrir, Lilly took pity on Nisha and stopped feeding. That should do it, she thought. There’s no coming back from that. Fenrir was a half-pint short of empty when Lilly finally stopped feeding. She guided his limp body onto the cold marble floor and stroked his cheek one last time. “There,” she said, “it’s done.”

  Lilly stood up and smiled. “All better,” She exclaimed, examining her new arm that wasn’t there before. It glittered with newness. Though it looked more like latex than armor, her new arm was wrapped in the same glossy black armor as the rest of her. Still smiling, Lilly moved past the armor and went on to admiring her new hand and the new fingernails that tipped them. Just like new—shiny, new, and polished. Smiling, she watched as a red ribbon seeped out of her new wrist and snaked its way up her forearm, swirling around it, like it had a mind of its own. Putting her wrists together, she compared the new arm to the old one. Do they match? She wondered. Sure enough they did, in both color and shape, and Lilly snorted as her new ribbon swayed along with her other one. Dancing around her like gasoline-fed flames of oil fire, the silky red ribbons swirled up each of her arms and over her shoulders and flapped excitedly behind her.