THE WOLF KING <FREE>

In a room lit faintly by the moon, Gunnar Hasvic lay in bed struggling to exist, to find his way from an inferno that blazed through his body. A fever that tormented him under a mural that depicted a chaotic world of gods and their angels. A place where no one wore proper attire, only clothes of satin and sheer to cover their nethers. A depiction of perfection amongst the clouds, nearest the sun that tanned neary a skin. Pale and robust bodies fancying touch and brew with glaring happiness and arrogant lifestyles. In the random places there were cherubs and angels that looked down on humanity in disgust, they whispered to each other, pointed and laughed. There was one that once smiled upon him, gazed lovingly towards him in that mural. That cherub's hand now reached out, baiting him with unredeeming, condescending eyes, its grin, deliberate and hateful. On top of black satin, intently laced sheets, he laid under that mural that greeted him every morning. His failing body drenched, while blurred moments of abysmal clarity gave him the strength to reach out his bony fingers in an attempt to accept the cherub’s chubby invitation. Take me with you. He whined, then called out, “It's so hot. Mommy!” “I’m here, honey,” her voice, quiet and tender. “What’s wrong with me? What day is it?” The cold chill in the room rocked Gunnar’s bones, degrading his senses. “Shuush. You will make it through this. Honestly, we don’t know what’s causing your fever. All we can do now is hope the new medicine works.” Hearing her words brought on a deep sadness. A week or so had gone by, and he remained bedridden. His brothers continued to live on without him, their giggling and laughter seeped in through the old window. Playing in the courtyard day after day. Tears puddled in his eyes, full of longing, exerting the little energy he had accumulated to stay awake. “Get some rest. I will be back to check on you again, soon.” Gunnar drifted back to sleep, letting her concern and love for him put him at ease, but an irrational fear held him for the shortest of seconds before he was fully encompassed by darkness. He wiped his eyes. His breath lay warm in his throat, and his mouth struggled to release it. Fluttering eyelashes loomed in his unfocused vision under the glare of the sun. Angels? They sniggered and called his name, Gunnar. The sun shone so brightly from behind them that it seared his skin and taunted his eyes. Where am I? His hands were blurred making him question the existence of his body, yet a feeling so fundamental filled his heart, leaving no doubt in his mind that he was smiling. Following joyously behind the gallivanting angels, who seemed to be playing tag with him, Gunnar felt alive. He squinted every so often, trying to get a glimpse at the extent of their wings, their slender naked bodies. He finally caught up to one, grabbing a feather, and time drew to a halt. The sound of seagulls cawing over crashing waves rang out in the background. Their eyes were devoid of all emotions, staring down at him as the sun began to set on his dream. He attempted to speak but no words came. Did I do something wrong? A male angel, who had one silver feather among many brilliant white ones, leaned in and whispered, “Hell is where you belong.” The corner of his lip curled up in disgust. Before he could take a step back away from him, his skin started to melt from his bones. Screams emptied from the angels' flailing bodies, leaving him in shock, trembling. The nightmarish world began to fade turning into black ash, carried away by an ominous breeze that held a voice. The depth of its tone conveyed death, a crossing over to a darker side. It said, “You will carry the blood of your loved ones to Hela. Penance must be made. When our master visits, you will lose free will. And his madness will prevail.” The moment his voice was finally able to escape, his head popped up from his pillow. The room swirled, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His fever had slightly broken, but, in his heart, he knew it was far from over. His body flopped back on the pillow, and he lay straight as a board, trying to decipher whether he lay in his bed in reality or did he reawaken in another night terror. He closed his eyes to sooth the psychedelic images that danced in his head until he drifted back to sleep. Long blonde hair cascaded into his face, tickling his nose. His mother sat at his bedside gracing his presence with her beauty, which possessed its own medicinal attributes. She patted sweat from his brow. Her beloved child. Under the swaddling of his heated body, Gunnar smirked. Poor misguided mother. He only saw himself as the third copy, less brilliant, missing things that were perfectly printed the first and the second time. The last identical triplet in the set. It saddened him to be the bearer of bad news. He sunk back into a deep sleep, tossing and turning in his bed. Still captured by the unshakable fever, images of the angels melting, flash like strobe lights in his head. After a couple of weeks, his fever finally subsided. Massaging his face, pushing his fingers deep into his sockets. He felt different. An understanding of his meager existence was tattooed. A somber realization, that should have filled him with self-doubt, fanned a grander task. The ominous voice accompanied even the weakest of winds, reminding him of future pains. His brothers were destined to die soon, whether at his hands or by some other fate. Styrkar POV “Wretched creatures, “ Styrkar snarled. They were cindered in darkness, hollowed by Her hands, commanded by One. Servants of his will and his alone. Styrkar stood tall, staring into his eyes via his reflection, admiring his physique. “The day has finally come,” he murmured, then adjusted his large ornate ring, crested with the insignia of his empire. Thirty years was too long and maddening for someone like himself, who sought his place in Odin's keep. How many more wars or bodies would he have to generate to seal his vestige. Styrkar pushed his fingers through his tousled blonde hair. His maids stood in two rows of three next to him twitching and trying their hardest not to lustfully gaze upon him. Of course they love me. “Everything looks good. Leave.” The women scattered, picking up laundry and other needs, then forming a single file line out of the room. “Clove.” he spoke curtly. “Your carriage awaits you my liege,” Clover responded. An average looking man by Njord standards, with an uncanny ability to grab and steal anyone’s heart, including his own, walked light footed beside him. High ceiling engulfed in his image, plated in gold, ladened in painted murals, housed his footsteps. Nearly every breath he had taken on earth was taken in that castle. The people parted and bowed in his presence, waiting for his highness to pass. Every person whose feet pummeled the grounds of Njord belonged to him, even the unsainted. A formidable people who were gifted to his God by his daughter, Hela. They were blessed with form by the moon goddess, Iiyah, and soul by Odin. Styrkar adjusted the tail of his jacket and took a seat in the oversized wooden carriage, then cut his eyes towards the weary Clover. “You have concerns?” His deep voice caught Clover off guard, causing him to jostle the book in his hands. “My liege, my family has followed the philosophy since the beginning,” he paused to find his bearings, “but I am indeed still human, and a lowly beta in high society at that. I would be ashamed not to stutter step into my destined path, especially knowing it can not and will not be changed.” His voice cracked under the weight of Styrkar’ judgemental stare. “Of course. As long as you remember your place,” he scoffed unnecessarily. Clover was a beta male of the highest quality, born from beta parents, alongside three omega sisters. His family was intelligent strategists, who passed down knowledge from the tenure of Odin’s first descendant on the continent of Greenland. Since he was a beta, he would also be the successor. Omegas born from beta parents were given new last names and paired with unmated alphas, to jumpstart their bloodline. Large trees swayed in the distance and cobblestone roads veered from the taken path. Walls of aged mortar lurched into the sky, wearing an engraved emblem for the kingdom of Horvik. They took the beaten road behind the kingdom, out of prying eyes, except for Hers. Hela. Her dilapidated statues were mounted, and hidden, in random places, creating the creepiest displays. An outreached arm from the dirt near a pet cemetery. A single eye that was embedded in crumbled mortar, that seemed to follow any that passed by. Even more unsettling, strewn about was a severed head that bore wide eyes and an ominous grin, as if she was satisfied with your fear, or the value of your prayer. All seemed to follow them on their route to incite chaos. Horvik, once granted to one of the unsainted, was a place of worship for the king of the underworld, unlike Styrkar’ other three kingdoms and the people in the capitol who worshiped Odin. What his ancestors had to pay to stamp Her out would be paid with these people’s souls for eternity. “It’s hard to believe they turned away his blessings at one point. Now look at them,” Clover chuckled. “Be careful. Your human side is showing,” he followed, gently laughing with him. Horvik was run down. Its people lived quaint lives sprinkled with short bouts of starvation. After beheading their duke, who was a humble man, Styrkar had put a more inconsiderate king in his place. A king that only knew his riches and beauty, and demanded taxes though his beta filled kingdom suffered. His eyes wandered from Clover's face, to the old cottage-like mansion in the distance. His throat dried, and tongue stuck behind his teeth. The home looked abandoned, in disrepair. Its disheveled roofing tile and missing clumps of brick made Clover audibly gasp. “Like I was saying, even with these two factions including a hint of chaos in the forms of lustful shapely women was his biggest blessing. Omegas. Why would he include such people in the philosophy?” He paused, rhetorically asking Clover. Styrkar looked back towards the mansion in the distance and continued, “The same reason he created them.” “The unsainted?” “Yes. In order to have perfection, there must be a semblance of organized chaos. Unlike us, they can be fated to someone who is not fated to them. We feel electric shocks, waves of carnal lust. We smell our mate's tantalizing essence. Our mates are significant to our overall happiness, mentally and physically. Yet the unsainted can be mated, lose their mate and mourn them into the afterlife, never being allotted a second chance. Their very being is unsettling.” His grin faded. The carriage came to a halt at the bottom of rugged steps. “They have a purpose, so high that this has to occur every two hundred and fifty years.” Clover nodded, “For the philosophy,”he whispered, then climbed out of their transport. The crumbling staircase led to a gently opened beautifully embroidered wooden door. A woman peeked from the edges, then yanked the door open. “Your majesty?” She stood elegantly made in the wrong image. Her flowing strawberry blonde hair was entangled with strands of white. “Yes. We have come to see the ill one,” Clover disclosed. “My son?” Her head slowly tilted on her long slender neck. “What is your name?” Styrkar interjected. Throwing her body to the floor in shame, she cited,”Olivia Hasvic, widowed maiden of this estate.” The woman pushed herself back to her feet, readying herself to invite them in. “Mother! Brother is crying! Brother is crying!” Three identical boys screamed in unison. “Please come in. It looks like he has awakened, May I ask why —-” “NO.” Styrkar growled, abruptly ending any further inquiry into the matter. Although the outside of the manor was in shambles, the inside was welcoming and warm. There was a presence that did not need to be defined, he knew whose energy kept him uneasy. He knew whose energy they drew upon. Styrkar pushed out the thought and refocused on the nape of the woman’s neck. His brow furrowed. The unsainted were creatures pretending to be humans. Deceivers of Odin’s light. “Mom, do you want me to start dinner?” A tall boy called out, while walking with his eyes planted firmly in a book. “Lift your head, son! Don’t be rude.” She squinted her eyes as she tied her arms at her chest. When he lifted his head, Styrkar almost forgot again that they were unsainted. The structure of his face, the hazel of his eyes, even the fullness of his lips, were mesmerizing. So much so that it made him angry. How dare they covet such beauty! This boy was not the one, but if Styrkar and the boy were the same age, his looks would rival his own. “Do accept my apology. This is Aric, my eldest triplet,” she said, then turned back. “Please start dinner honey. I will be there in a moment.” “Triplet? Is the ill one a part of the s-set?” A part of him couldn’t believe there were two more that were as handsome as the boy. “Yes. Gunnar is the youngest of the three eldest. As you saw earlier, I have two sets of triplets.” The closer that he became to the room where Gunnar laid, a low humming could be heard. A sound faint but loud enough to cause Olivia’s pace to quicken and her gentle smile to disappear. Gunnar POV With his eyes firmly planted on the ceiling of his room, and his tears wetting his pillow, his mother walked in with a sizable man who touted grandeur and elegance accented with ocean blue eyes. “Ahhhh. You’re awake! Perfect timing! The honorable konungr has come to see you. Isn’t that amazing!” She squealed, but her smile was forced. Gunnar could see the puffiness under her eyes. While her tone was perky, the konungr’s demeanor stayed in business mode. “Give me a moment,” he commanded, without looking away from Gunnar. Within the fourth hour, a konungr, emperor of Njord , king of kings, had come to assess his minion. “I am Konungr Styrkar av’ Odin. My next command may sound weird, but respond to it as best as you can. Nod your head if this name is yours alone. Geri.” He looked into his searing blue eyes, then looked away. The konungr continued, “Do you know the task?” He heard his question, but he had questions of his own. Finding the words had eluded him while in the konungr's presence, the first and foremost being, ‘Why him?’ The brawny man reached out, pressing his palm onto the cap of his head, lightly shuffling his hair. “You will need this.” A small brown bottle knocked against the nightstand, leaving an unsettling feeling in his gut. Something was different. He was different. He could feel an unearthly energy coursing through his veins. What’s happened to me? The strongest man in Njord had graced a piddling prince of no house with his presence. The thought kept him staring at the man’s broad back as he disappeared over the threshold. The room’s silence was ominous. All the shadows that the corners held were seeping out. He turned his eyes toward the ceiling and watched it grow darker, encasing him as his breathing gently slowed, embracing another deep slumber. In the dead of night, he was awakened by brimstone and ember. His neck and shoulders jerked up, leaving his head plastered to the pillow. A searing heat gathered in his skull, then wandered through his innards, causing his eyeballs to throb. His body shook convulsively while he sought to catch his breath. His erratic motions knocked him against the nightstand, rolling the brown bottle on its side. A thick ooze trickled down the drawers. The first drop to hit the floor resounded, bringing the quake that he thought would kill him to an end. Drop after drop echoed loudly, sending shock waves through him, calming and swaddling his ensuing madness. His feet swung out, pushing his head up from the bed in one motion. He stood, letting his feet drown in the overflowing goo. Thump. Thump. Footprints fell in front of him, clear as day under the cover of night. Then another. Hela? He watched the prints step forward like an invisible human was saddled to them. He needed to see her. Go to Her. He quickly followed behind them. When they disappeared, he straddled the tree line of the forbidden forest. A place where people entered and did not return. “The forest of the damned,” he whispered. Nothing had ever possessed him to go in before, but there he was making his way into the most feared place in Horvik. His feet moved as if they had walked that path many times. The darkness was so absolute that he didn’t see the trees until it was time to avoid them. After some hours, his descent into the bowels of hell began. A staircase would take him to her resting place. A smell of oil and soot wafted from the muddied stairwell, unlit and untraveled. Halfway down, words written in characters he had never seen before became clear. Take the bucket. Cleanse your soul. He squinted, unsure that he had seen a foreign language in the first place. As he picked up the bucket, he noted that it was light. He shrugged, he would move forward nonetheless. As he reached the end of the stairs, the bucket's dark contents swirled, becoming heavier before his eyes. He let the oncoming waves of terror wash over him, allowing his lips to quiver, his teeth to chatter, briefly bringing him to his senses. Why do they have to die? His clamoring and exaggerated breathing could be heard far into the depths of the underground tomb. His moment of clarity dissipated and his task sat at the forefront of his mind once again. He wished his feet would move faster. Hela was waiting for him. After passing large statues that held small flames, he finally faced her. Her statue was kneeling with the outside of her palmed up hands pressed together as if she was preparing to drink loose water she had just obtained from a stream. Bathing her in the thick pungent contents of the pail, he not only let it fill her cupped hands, fulfilling her thirst, he made sure it covered her hair and elusive dress. Time to pay penance. He bowed on one knee, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. Her voice rang out into the darkness of the underground. She laughed at his offering, consequently accepting it. Her next words were almost inaudible. He could not discern their meaning. Who is Freki? When he exited the tomb, everything seemed directly in his purview, hyper-visualized, from the sway of the trees that danced in the wind that carried the bird’s songs to the newly powdered snow that covered his bloodied footsteps. With his first step, the snow crunching beneath his feet, all of those sounds ended. The walk back to the small manor was under the hidden sun that struggled to light the day, between slender trees marked with black tar that oozed death. He pushed forward, ignoring the paranormal phenomena that gave the forest its name. Several feet from the treeline still snuggled in the shadow, the smell of smoke shook him. A gloss that tinted his eyesight was retracting. Fire blazed in his home. Wood fell from the roof, crashing inward. His mother's small body was crumpled up on the ground. He could hear her screams. Her crying, reciting all of her son’s names in the calmest moments of her despair. “Gunnar!” She called out. A man rubbed her back, begging her to come with him, but unable to move his grieving mother. He pushed through, allowing the sound of broken tree limbs to announce his arrival. The moment his eyes met his mother's, she went through several emotions. Extreme happiness, almost giddy from excitement, to gasping in disgust. Her eyes, bloodshot red, matched her nose. “Are they gone?” His smiling face asked. While his mother tried to take in the situation, the man asked, “Is that your blood? Are you hurt?” He stood in place, still not approaching him as he stood on the tree line. “It is the blood of the sinner. The liquid that only the tainted can bathe in. Surmise. Riddance. Bountiful penance. Praise Odin!” boldly and unscripted tumbled from Gunnar’s lips. Though the words seemed nonsensical, the look in his eyes as the man stumbled backwards was that of horror. His eye twitched. Why did he say those words? Though he did not see his brothers die, he knew without a doubt, the blood that laced his hands were theirs. He felt their deaths every time the liquid in the bucket swirled and filled. “You are not Gunnar! Give me back my son! You devil!” His mother fell to her knees and the sound of her howling flowed on the morning breeze, washing over his waking body. Her tears poured like a fountain filling the corner of her gaping lips, as her jawline pushed violently from her face. Her shoulders snapped and cracked as her bones jutted upwards, and her knees lunged forward, ripping excessively at the muscles and tissues around them. Before he could take his next breath, his mother stood at a good six feet tall. He and the man stood frozen, as her voice rumbled and gargled. Her anger and despair leaked like gaseous poison from her skin. Her gently bouncing body slowly moved closer to him as she stalked her prey, while softly growling. She saw something in him that he could only feel. He was her last son. Last of the lycan bloodline. His mother’s gleaming red eyes screamed for answers from her ten-year-old son, who she had told many tales of their ancestry. He stared into eyes that were sure he wasn’t her son, but a devil. Her disregard for her own safety and their family secrets, caused his bladder to empty. She was the last female lycan in Greenland and her tormented wailing announced that all hope was lost. Pressing her palms deep in the snow, she readied herself to attack. Gunnar closed his eyes and prepared to meet his God. After a few seconds of still being alive, he slowly opened them.