#fenriswolf

Fenris had been considering, for the millionth time, which end of Odin would be easier to start at when a sound made his ears twitch, dislodging a long-abandoned bird nest from the brush atop his head. His eye caught upon something washed up on the edge of his shores.

Curiosity had his paw reaching for it before he could even consider if it was worth it. His claw caught onto the edge of the item and he dragged it closer, peering at it.

It was a mortal-made basket, woven from fibers found on Midgard. However it wasn’t the basket that kept his attention.

It was the little figure, swathed in a damp blanket and smelling of sodden river plants.

Midgardians were so small compared to the beings he was used to – even if it had been a long time since one of the gods visited his shore – but this one seemed particularly small. It stirred slightly, cooing in such a way that the wolf’s instincts pinpointed what it was.

A pup. No, that wasn’t quite right. Oh, what did the mortals call their spawn? Fenris flipped through his dusty mental archives, seeking the word. When he found it, he victoriously barked, “Baby!”

The rumble and volume of his voice made the little creature stir and whimper. Without further thought, Fenris rumbled softy and brought it closer, carefully licking at their cheeks in quiet apology. The stroke of his tongue seemed to ease the babe and it settled.

How a Midgardian’s spawn got to his island, Fenris had no idea. 

Images of some cruel-hearted human throwing this child into a river or a well filled his mind, his fur bristling at the idea before another thought interrupted the first. Perhaps the baby had come from a sinking ship. If that was the case, would more survivors and victims wash ashore? Casting a baleful look over the frothy waters, Fenris waited for more visitors. His thoughts churned slowly as the baby fussed their way into sleep.

No one else arrived.

By treachery or tragic happenstance, the little thing was now upon his shore. Similar occurrences had happened in the past, though it had been drowned bloated corpses or waterlogged Midgardians stubbornly clinging to life. In the latter case, Fenris never found it pertinent to make himself known. Most humans were so ignorant they never noticed him. They saw him as nothing more than a craggy mound of rock, often climbing atop him to gain a better vantage point. In these instances, the wolf took delight in shifting minutely under their feet and making them tumble back to the sandy beaches of the shore before they attempted to climb him again.

Fenris did not know how the dead bodies, the alive humans, and now the baby washed up on his shore. The river Ván, the island Lyngvi, and even the lake Amsvartnir were not places accessible by normal mortal means, which meant rescue was impossible for those lost on his island. Unless the survivors attempted to swim elsewhere and go beyond Fenris’s awareness, they would perish on Lyngvi.

The bones of those who had stayed, waiting for rescue, lay scattered around Fenris. They were constant reminders of the impossibility of salvation. He had taken to gnawing on the sun-bleached marrow when boredom sunk its claws dangerously into his brain.

Peering down at the Midgardian baby, made to look all the smaller between his giant paws, Fenris gave a low gnarl. Even at his quietest sound of frustration, the tot fussed unhappily. The great wolf heaved a sigh, gently nudging the child with his nose.

“We are both captives of this island, Little One,” the monster whispered, so soft even his own ears strained to catch the words. The baby stared up at him, little hands grasping for his fur as it responded with an almost-questioning burble.

Fenris sighed as the Little One grasped and mouthed at his nose, coos turning to angry vocalizations before realization struck the wolf. The Little One was hungry.

For the first time, Fenris was glad to be born of the shapeshifting trickster deity, Loki. Though his shapeshifting abilities paled in comparison to his progenitor, the wolf morphed a teat atop his nose, ignoring how ridiculous it made him feel. It was the most logical place, with the child already seeking sustenance there.

Milk was a bit more challenging to create, but he managed once he dredged up long-forgotten memories of supping in the halls of Asgard. Getting the Little One to latch was the most aggravating feat of this endeavor, but once the tiny lips found the teat, clasped and suckled to find milk, the tension eased. The Little One slurped greedily and Fenris tried not to wonder when they last fed.

Their belly grew round and, still attached to the teat, they succumbed to satiated sleep between the monster’s paws. After some time, Fenris laid his own head down, keeping the tiny basket in the shadow of his large head, protecting the Little One from the sun and elements until hunger called again.

Days passed. The sun rose and set while Fenris developed a schedule around the greedy child’s howls and cries. Tending as best as he could to what the little one needed. Feedings and cleanings, keeping the Little One warm and dry.

Fenris found himself speaking, low and soft, to the child. Telling stories or humming once-forgotten lullabies. The Little One babbled in delight, sometimes mimicking the wolf’s cadence in a way that made treacherous flutters fill Fenris’s chest. The mighty wolf found himself planning for the future, considering how to feed the Little One as they grew, how to house them, how to teach them.

There was much he’d have to figure out, but he managed thus far.

Then one day, the Little One sneezed. The next day, they coughed and, against his paw, Fenris felt an unusual heat inside the child. Their condition worsened as the days passed. The Little One’s body shuddered as they coughed and, when they were not coughing, they cried and cried and cried.

Fenris licked their face, changed the milk, cleaned them, tried to feed them something more substantial, but still the Little One sobbed. They sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until their face turned a dangerous shade of red and their voice broke. A lump of helplessness lodged in Fenris’s chest.

There was only so much he could do.

It happened on a traitorously sunny day. Fenris did not notice at first, lulled into a nap by the warmth of the day as the Little One lay blessedly quiet. He had hoped the illness had been conquered as he kept them warm and dry and clean and fed.

It was only when Fenris drowsily woke, realizing the child hadn’t fussed or cried, or awoken him in some other jarring way as it had over the last few weeks, that dread swelled in his stomach. The sun had passed its zenith in the sky, hanging low on the edge of the horizon.

The Little One was still.

“Little One?” Fenris nudged the babe with his nose.

They did not move, did not fuss, did not coo. Nudging again, a little more insistently, Fenris watched in quiet horror as the little body flopped as if boneless. No fluttering eyelids, no smacking lips, no breathing.

Nothing.

Emptiness where there once was life.

Fenris stared down at the little body, pressure building in his chest as reality settled in. Pain built until a howl wrought sudden from his chest, loud and mournful and aching. Worse than any other sound he had made since his captivity.

Roiling clouds crossed the sky, bidden by his cry. They blotted out the sun, turning the world into a grey miserable thing befitting the emotions roiling inside him. Anger and rage rattled the cage of his ribs as the lump of misery coated over his whole body.

Why did the Æsir torment him? Was it not enough he was bound to this forsaken island, forced to watch the world spin on as he sat in isolation? Did they have to let mortals stumble upon him, cover him with hopeless death? Did they have to deliver this Little One to his shores, let him helplessly watch as it passed despite his attentions?

A day and night passed while he sat guard over the dead baby, hoping beyond hope something or someone would retrieve the little corpse. Give them a proper burial among its kind.

As usual, his hopes were unanswered.

Damn the Æsir.

He was not going to watch as bugs and lesser creatures consumed the little one, but what to do? Burying the little body bore the temptation of uncovering them later, watch as decay dwindled the Little One to nothingness. Fenris nervously licked his chops, swatting flies away from the body as his thoughts rolled about possibilities.

One option bloomed over the others, awful and comforting. Delicately, the mighty wolf shifted his maw toward the basket, curling his tongue around the wicker. Not wanting to taste the Little One’s death, he swallowed the basket with the contents inside.

Part of him hope to choke on the little bones. Oh, to have the pain of the Little One being stuck in his throat ache through the malaise of decades. Remind him of everything the Æsir had stolen until the bones, too, turned to dust.

Alas, the bones slid through his gullet and, forcing his body to comply, Fenris housed the expired Little One in his heart. Time passed and the wolf could feel the basket and blanket disintegrate in his chest while the Little One calcified, turning the wolf’s heart into a tomb. On sunny days, as he drowsed, Fenris thought he could hear the giggles of a tiny Midgardian child.

Alone, the Monster of the river Ván remained tethered to his prison, awaiting his escape. He hoped he’d break free on a sunny day. A day when the bones in his heart giggled with delight while he tore apart a world that allowed betrayals, large and little, to go by unnoticed.

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